"Into the Night" Part Four
Colonel For'kel Arvelion
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
And a Wealth of NPCs
===========================================
"People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." - George Orwell
(POW Complex- Alpha KS-128)
The platoons had reorganized themselves to free up additional Marines to help with the evacuation of the cell blocks in which the prisoners were located. They were like insect boroughs really, scarcely long enough for a person to curl into, and certainly not tall enough for anyone but the shortest of Ferangi adults to stand up in.
One couldn't help but be surprised by the amount of resistance the Marines came up against... not by the Breen who'd been handedly slaughtered with the few survivors either holed up in the command compound awaiting reinforcements, or fleeing from the camp in panic, hoping to live a little longer... but rather by the prisoners whom they were trying to save. All of them had heard the nightmares of what happened... how more than 500 of them had been slaughtered like lambs as sacrifices before an angry God in hopes of appeasing them before their wrath befell their worshippers. The stories, from being burned alive, to being vaporized, to being bludgeoned or stabbed and slashed to death... for many the auditory sounds of the screams, the sights of the butchery... it made a few more so scared that they literally died from fright, and those that were alive and had been too used to Triad 'treatment' were in disbelief that they were actually being rescued. They screamed, they fought, they raged primally against the endless night of death that they saw approaching in the black Hazard Suits of Starfleet Marines.
In short, they were very stubborn fuckers that were making it more difficult than it needed to be to evacuate them. Those that were more recently captured were pressed into service to try and help them, being as the recent captives were stronger and far more coherent mentally.
It was a strange thing seeing PFC Gutierrez, a short Latina (albeit with a Marine Corps sized stubbornness) carrying two 'men' on her small shoulders, but that was how poorly off a number of the captives were.
While the evacuation was under way, For'kel and his platoon was getting ready to make the final assault of the well fortified command bunker. Just under 600 Breen had already been killed or wounded in the nearly half hour that the mission had gone on for already at this point. Another 100 kept themselves holed up in the Command Bunker and seemed to have no interest in launching an attack, while the rest were either hiding or had fled.
It was true that they locked themselves in the heavy bunker, and that none of the Breen inside since the original guards had been taken out dared emerge to try and shoot down on the Marines or the prisoners they were liberating from the camp, likely out of fear of ending up like their dead comrades. Most Starfleet personnel in his position probably would've thanked whichever deity or force they believed responsible for such an event and focused on getting the hell out of there.
Fork on the other hand knew that leaving that many heavily armed Breen behind them was just inviting trouble when the Hoppers did come. It was too much of a threat for him to just ignore... he was convinced they needed to finish the job in this instance, before they ran. Hence why various fire teams were preparing to make entries into the compound through the few uncompleted or weak points it had.
Thral was hit, the reports came in that he was still very much alive, but was definitely out of the fight. Good reason for the Marines to be very much pissed off at the Breen troops left in the compound. The dark side of war... after so many instances where the 188TH either had to flee (like Deep Space 5) or had to listen to reports of loved ones being killed, wounded, gone missing, or left wondering... it was time to get a little pay back.
Fork ran up and set the charge before taking his spot as second in the squad. Everyone changed their energy clips for the sake of certainty. "All squads stand by. Three... two... one..."
A plethora of bilitrium explosives ripped through the building at it's weakest points in unison, the specially designed charges blowing in such a way to disperse the force without killing anything on the other side. You never knew if the Breen were using Federation citizens as sentient shields after all.
Ughalo, the first Marine popped a flashbang in next. The deafening sound and blinding light went off before the squad moved in. On the other side was a fire-team of Breen guards at a gun-pit that were completely blinded by the flash and surprised by the gaping hole in the once solid wall. The lights in the compound had been shut off to conserve power for key systems, meaning that they had gone to their NV visor settings. As a result the flash was more than capable of doing permanent damage. It certainly didn't help them any... they were rather easily eliminated.
A touch to his visor and the dark corridor was bright enough to see. Rather than activate the tactical flashlight on his rifle and possibly give away his position, Fork opted to go with the helmet holographic display complete with the Marine green light laser that reflected off wherever the rifle was aimed. Incredibly useful tool in close quarters battle situations.
===========================================
General Bt'razin had been enjoying a casual breakfast with his senior staff when the first explosions had rocked the camp. At first there wasn't much concern... the camp was believed too well fortified to actually be attacked, and the sensor grid too advanced not to detect the energy signals of a force of troops approaching. It must have been one of those finicky power generators causing a short and hiccuping the power supply. It explained the brown out... the auxiliaries would kick in soon enough.
They continued on for another couple of minutes, unaware of the slaughter befalling their troops outside, until the frantic camp aide showed up and proclaimed the impossible... the camp was under attack!
One would have expected his Battalion to jump to the challenge and begin to repel the attackers. However many of his soldiers were engaged in the criminal mass homicide ordered by his superior, and unknown to anyone as of yet the guard towers... manned by the most crack of his troops, were neutralized by Marine snipers. The automated defenses were likewise downed, though nobody knew that as of yet either.
So he took his time, figuring his inexperienced aide was just panicking in the same fashion he did when it came time to issue a formal report to command. B'trazin took a last bite, and glanced around at the rest of his officers. "See to it your men handle this situation. We will put a request in to Divisional command for a relief force. Nothing alligned with Starfleet can leave this camp perimeter alive, understood?" He didn't need their responses, and snapped his helmet back in place. He knew as Breen soldiers they would carry out their duties to the utmost as they were trained and drilled.
There was a leisurely walk to the command center of the compound which was immediately put on lock down. The Headquarters unit came to full preparedness, guards being assigned to key areas, staff analyzing the situation and trying to get a status report of what was happening from the scattered troops outside. Communications, at the General's request, contacted Divisional command and requested a relief force... the Divisional Command Group ordered a regiment to march their way, though it would take several hours. That was no real concern to Bt'razin... all it meant was that 1,000 combat troops would show up and not have an enemy to fight... his men could handle this, and the request was just Standard Operating Procedure.
That was twenty minutes, and an eternity ago.
Now General Bt'razin was being placed in a secured room; on lock down... a process triggered by the fact that the enemy had breached the perimeter. The front guards had kept the blast gates open as long as they could to allow as many of their brethren in as possible, but those gates had now been shut. His command of more than 800 had dwindled to 118. Sufficing to say, victory was a lost concept. The only thing they could attempt now was to avoid complete annihilation.
Those Starfleet Marines had attacked with a speed, cunning, ferocity, and aggressiveness that was to be admired. The fact that they had walked right into a fortified camp, murdered hundreds more soldiers than they numbered, and had done so against well planned defenses demonstrated an equally admirable disregard for their own safety. Too bad they were fighting for a weak and impotent Federation... they would have made excellent storm troops for the Breen.
"This is unnecessary." He grumbled to his aide and the two armed guards escorting him. "We have the men to hold out until relief arrives. The enemy has no interest in attacking this building as they are here for their prisoners. I should be in the command room organizing for our relief force."
"Your chief of security feels differently, sir." The Aide replied simply. "And Superior General Tre'azrx is demanding a status update as to our situation."
That quelled the General's predictable arguments, as the Aide knew it would. Reporting to a superior general was at least worth his time. Even if it was one of those meaningless things that got in the way of effectuating command. "Very well, the sit rep is awaiting me?"
"Yes sir, and a copy is ready to transmit to Command at your request, sir."
"Very good. See to it that at the least I am not disturbed. Commander Ktriv will assume operational authority on my behalf."
"Of course, General." The Aide escorted his superior to the door of the secured room. He locked the door, snapped a salute to the two guards, and continued down the hall back to the command center.
======================================================
"Hallway, clear!" Leah called over the intercom.
"Stairs clear." For'kel replied back, giving the hand signal to continue moving forward.
"Squad five, Colonel we've made contact two levels below the main armory. Heavy opposition."
"Acknowledged. Squad four link up and provide support . I want that armory secured..."
Between the communication between squads, within his own squads, the hollow sounding of his boots striking the metal stairs, and his own orders, Fork was distracted enough that he didn't immediately notice the Breen Aide walking his way, a big PADD in hand.
"Damnit!" Fork sneered before aiming his rifle. The Aide went for his side arm, but Fork was already armed and far faster to the trigger. A quick double tap, and it was lights out for the aide.
Ughalo moved to check the body, finding the PADD and giving it a quick once-over. "Colonel..."
Fork took the offered PADD and gave it a quick once over. Sure enough it was a great intel find... containing all the security positions, pass codes to secured areas, etc. "All squads listen up. I'm downloading files to the tacnet, all leaders take a view when you can."
The download was quick, the find being equivalent to locating a marked map in the 20th century, and simultaneously being able to distribute a reference copy to every soldier immediately. It certainly helped.
They continued on. Squad 3 had accessed the base's central computer core and uploaded the patch allowing for remote access by the Marines of the core. Automatically a download began, transferring pertinent files to Ilal's PC for review later.
Ughalo and Leah took out two guards that came racing out of a turbolift shaft. Squad 2 relayed over the network that they had secured the command center, and sent a decoy 'all secure' to the Breen divisional commander. It was a nice wish to hope that it would cancel things, but nobody was fooled into thinking they could rely on definite results. They needed to keep moving, to guard against the worst case scenario.
The two guards outside the General's office heard the firefight down the hall. One called the command center, as was procedure, and requested an emergency beam out of the General. He was told that the relief force had arrived, and that help was on the way. The first indication he got that anything was wrong was the red, angry pulse that bore through his armored suit and exploded out the front. He died immediately, his body taking a moment to realize that.
While he crumpled to his knees and expired, the 2nd guard dropped to his knee and fired down the hall frantically. He didn't need to 'hit' anything... he just needed to hold out long enough for the security forcefields to click into place. Ten... twenty seconds at the maximum. That was how they drilled... the later number presuming the enemy had overcome computer defenses and scrambled the internal security system... which they had. Unfortunately for him they also controlled the back-up systems... the realization that he was doomed came too late, a lucky blast from Leah firing around a corner impacted him in the head.
The firing stopped.
The 6 Marines moved forward, stacking up for the entry. The secured room had blast-proof doors, independent environmental systems, the works. It was perfectly isolated.
But there wasn't a lock made that For'kel hadn't been able to crack or otherwise circumvent. In this particular case he had the friggin passcode, which made it that much easier. Once the hardened outter door was penetrated, the locked inner-door was easily overcome with a quick rewiring. They slid open into a spacious, almost lavish office.
=======================================================
"It seems the situation is difficult." The Superior General acknowledged his former's report. "Has the 3rd Regiment reached your position?
"No." Bt'razin replied before sipping from a thermos of iced crab juice, sliding his helmet aside. Ahhh, the joys of a warm but tolerable climate like they had here. It made him miss the homeworld all the more. "But this facility is secure. We have sufficient troops to hold out until help arrives... I am confident we can hold out until the 3rd arrives. I doubt the enemy will be able to escape before the regiment is on scene, and then we will crush them."
"That is fortuitous." The Breen on the other screen smiled his deep, purple lipped grin. "Were the Federation to receive news of how we've been forced to treat their prisoners, it could have a uniting effect we do not desire. It would make it much harder to break them."
"Indeed."
"You've done excellently under difficult circumstances, I am impressed." The other Breen folded his thick, pale to the point of being icy white hands together, sharp and thick, bloodless fingernails pecking at his desk. "In light of your actions, I am considering to ask the Command Council for your immediate recall to Breen. We have a need for a man of your obvious capabilities to work with new recruits."
Bt'razin was grateful. He missed his wife, his children... time home would be a good thing, and an award not given to just 'anyone' during war time. "General, I am hon..."
Before he could finish his thought however, Bt'razin heard the doors open and boot steps walk his way.
"What is the meaning of this?!" He turned around in his chair, not expecting to find the business end of a Federation rifle in his face.
"Retribution, general." For'kel replied, hiding well the fact he was equally shocked to have caught the Breen with his helmet off. The urine yellow colored eyes with dark pupils staring back at him from an icy corpse like body made him 'almost' resemble humans. It was rather fascinating how close they did come, this secretive enemy, to approximating their sworn adversaries in the Federation. He saw those black pupils glance over to the hand disruptor behind his helmet. "I wouldn't if I were you, General." The Stagnorian warned, caressing the trigger with his finger.
The General on the screen was apparently likewise startled by the events, though he came too fairly quickly. He knew what he had to do... "General Bt'razin... under the authority of the President, I am hereby promoting you to the rank of Field Master..."
Bt'razin actually wanted to curse when he heard that... Ktriv had always been a backstabbing bastard. There was only one reason... 'could' be only one reason that he would use his delegated authority to make such a decision. NO Breen Field Master had EVER been taken alive by the enemy... one of the few constants that held steady throughout the millenia plus of the Breen Confederacy. Ktriv obviously expected him to honor that tradition. As much as he hated to admit it... Bt'razin was too much of a patriot 'not' to consider the idea.
Besides, they would torture and/or kill his family if he opted to disobey that kind of an order.
One didn't have to be a telepath to tell that Bt'razin was having an internal conflict. Fork solved the problem for him, shooting the visual feed firing a second shot against the base of one chair, letting it fall with a thud, and then killing the audio feed.
On the other side the story would play out rather succinctly. The Field Master, out of loyalty and devotion to his beloved Confederacy, went for his weapon and was gunned down by a callous, monstrous Starfleet Marine. Ktriv had the recording... the Colonel going on a shooting rampage taking out the visual feed to hide his crime from prying eyes before doing in the General and killing the audio feed.
In reality Bt'razin leaned back in his chair... staring at the Colonel with questioning eyes.
Ughalo took the opportunity to secure Bt'razin's weapon.
"Bring him with us. Rig this place to blow, let's get the hell out of here." Fork muttered, yanking the heavily armored Breen Field Master to his feet. "You may wear your helmet, General."
The Breen gave a solemn nod... thankful at least for that dignity. This was going to be a 'very' long war.
"Fury"
The Hydran roared as it launched itself at its opponent, swiping at
him with one of its meaty, three-fingered hands, its razor-sharp claws
glinting in the soft lights illuminating the tiny, spartan arena.
The other combatant jumped backwards, and the Hydran's claws cut only
the air, bare millimeters from its target's abdominal section. He then
ducked and rolled underneath the Hydran's arm and came up with a hard
right uppercut into the alien's jaw. He showed no outward reaction to
the sickening sound of breaking bone and cartilage, except for his
eyes, which burned with a satisfied, triumphant fire. The Hydran's
head snapped backward, and it stumbled back a few inches before
managing to stabilize itself with its hind leg.
Before the Hydran could fully recover from the hit, the other fighter
launched himself at the shorter being, not uttering a single sound as
he hit the Hydran with a flurry of punches. His fists pounded into the
Hydran's tough, leathery blue-green hide with as much force as he
could muster, and the alien's snarls and shrieks of pain were the only
answer to his attacks.
Finally, the Hydran managed to interpose one of its arms between
itself and its attacker, and it checked the man away with a hard elbow
to his stomach. The man grunted in surprise and dropped backward,
rolling away from the Hydran to regain his bearings. The Hydran
decided to press the attack while its opponent was on the defensive
and charged him with a vicious, bloodcurdling roar. It feinted a right
hook, and the overanxious human bought it. He threw up his left arm to
block the strike, only to take a jarring hit to his stomach from the
Hydran's true attack. His body crumpled as the wind was knocked out of
him, and the Hydran brought down both fists onto the man's back,
slamming him down onto the hard floor of the combat arena.
The other fighter started to push himself up, but the Hydran quickly
put him back down with a powerful kick to his midsection, its massive,
three-toed foot slamming into the human's ribs. Its opponent let out a
reluctant gasp of pain, losing his battle to show any such weakness to
his enemy. He gritted his teeth in anger and rolled weakly away from
his attacker.
The Hydran sneered down at the human as he gasped for air, and it
slowly stalked toward him, eager to finish the battle. One of the
human's long legs suddenly shot outward, and the sole of his boot
hammered hard into the Hydran's right knee. There was a loud crunching
as the Hydran's entire knee collapsed inward, and the diminutive alien
screamed in excruciating pain as it collapsed to the floor.
The human pushed himself to his feet with a startling quickness and
stood over the fallen Hydran, his icy eyes gazing mercilessly down
upon the alien as it mewled piteously and clutched at its ruined knee.
He shook his head and inhaled deeply as he fell onto the downed
Hydran, laying into it with everything he had left. His right fist
slammed into the Hydran's face again and again until it was covered in
the alien blood of his target. The dazed and wounded Hydran babbled
incoherently in its native tongue, begging the human for mercy, but
there was no mercy to be found in his heart, only a savage,
inconsolable rage the likes of which he had never experienced.
He continued to pummel the Hydran, whose cries turned to moans, then
whimpers, until finally it fell silent, its face a swollen mass of
sickly, greenish-purple bruises. The human didn't seem to notice, and
kept hitting the Hydran calmly, almost robotically, having seemingly
lost control of himself, before finally stopping and looking down at
his clearly defeated opponent. Still not satisfied, he raised his fist
to hit the Hydran again, and stared down at it for several long,
furious moments. The man's eyes, resembling ice in both color and
temperament, blinked in surprise as he was suddenly and shockingly hit
by the gravity of what he had just done.
His arm, still poised to strike, shook violently as his heart and his
mind battled. He wanted nothing more than to continue beating the
Hydran, wanted nothing more than to be the righteous hammer of
vengeance, smiting those who had done harm to his own; but as he
looked down upon his handiwork, his conscience began to get the better
of him. He knew what he was doing was wrong, knew it in his heart, but
he didn't want to believe it. How could justice be so wrong?
Swallowing, the man slowly unclenched his fist and let go of the
unconscious Hydran. He pushed himself to his feet, his whole body
trembling now as the adrenaline that had been flooding his veins
suddenly evaporated. He looked down at the Hydran, his chest heaving
as he tried to catch his breath and get his heart rate back down to
normal, and felt like he was about to throw up.
Unable to stomach it any longer, he turned and walked quickly away
from the Hydran, his long strides carrying him quickly to the door.
His body was shaking so badly that it took him what felt like hours
just to put his shirt back on. He grabbed a towel he'd set aside and
wiped at his sweat-soaked face before throwing the towel around the
back of his neck, then took one last look over his shoulder at the
Hydran.
With a shudder, the man turned and stepped toward the door. It hissed
open quietly, and he stepped out of the room. The arena behind him
suddenly dematerialized, along with the Hydran, leaving only the
familiar sight of one of the Galaxy's holodecks. The Hydran's blood
also vanished from his hands, but that did little to alleviate the
shame and revulsion Nathan was feeling in that despicable moment.
***
"Though caught by surprise, Starfleet reacted swiftly to the Hydran
assault, and thanks to their sacrifice and bravery, the battle for New
Texas ended with a resounding victory for the Federation and its
allies. While it seems that the fiercest combat took place around the
Pendragon Fleet Yards in orbit and New Houston on the ground, smaller
Hydran attacks were also directed at Traviston, Weber City, and New
Lubbock. New Houston appears to have been almost completely destroyed
in the attack, but reports indicate that most of the civilian
population was evacuated before the Hydrans arrived in the system.
Starfleet Command is confident that civilian casualties were kept to a
minimum. We here at the Federation News Service extend our deepest
sympathies to the people of New Texas, and our sincerest gratitude to
Starfleet and the Marine Corps for their heroism. For FNS, I'm Vera
Donahue."
"Mentoring Samantha"
Bran
Sam
****
She had no idea if Samantha had found someone else to pester while she
had been away for all these months. Another counselor or mentor or
whatever. But she still found the need to check on the teenager. Bran
wanted to make sure that the kid was holding up alright. In captivity
there had been loads of time to think about what really mattered to
her and Sam was one of these people.
So after only being back a few days Bran rang the chime to Sam's quarters.
"Bran!" The girl exclaimed when she opened the door. She quickly threw
open her arms and hugged the counselor. "Welcome back."
"Hey!" Not being back in shape yet she had to brace herself not to
fall down, but inside she was happy at the puppy like welcome.
"I heard you were green," Sam said, trying to picture it. "Like green
green? Or forest green? Avocado?"
"Light green." Bran explained not phased by the girl. "It is still not
gone completely. Especially when I am tired you can see it a bit. So
are you going to invite me in, Sam?" She smiled.
"That depends. Is this a social call or a psych session?"
"You think you need a psych session, short stop?" Bran raised an eyebrow.
"Counselors," Samantha grumbled as she let Branwen in. "You always
have to do that question with a question crap. Nope, I don't need a
counselor today."
"Well I am glad to hear it, as I did not come all this way to shrink
you today." The redhead said casually. "I do however would like to
hear how you are doing." She followed Sam inside.
"Pretty good. I'm sending in applications to schools and trying to
decide what I want to wear to the homecoming dance."
"You are leaving the ship?" Bran blinked. She had missed so much.
"That is good, what kind of studies are you finally deciding on?" She
sat down and watched the girl. Sam had grown during those six months.
"Probably within the year," The girl nodded. "I'm not sure what kind
of studies though. It's hard when you can do practically everything."
Bran shook her head. "I see you have not changed at all. There is at
least one thing you are not good at and that is act humble. Now has
anybody else been looking after you while I was away?"
Samantha nodded. "Arel. And I've been hanging out with Allison a bit.
And I take time every day to visit Andy Suder." And by visit she meant
pester.
Andy sounded like a good role model but she didn't know Allison.
"Good, is Allison a school friend?" Bran asked.
Sam shook her head. "Works in Security. So enough about me. What about you?"
The marine had to remind herself that it was not a psych call and Sam
had a right to ask. Also she was not a child anymore and would not be
put off with ~it was fine~. So she took a deep breath. "I am back, I
am alive, and I plan to go on with my life now." She said honestly.
"So do you still want a mentor?"
Samantha thought about it. Honestly, she didn't think she really
needed a mentor - because what could anyone teach her that she didn't
already know - but as the ship's morale officer she thought Branwen
could use this. "Well, I suh-pose I could fit you into my very busy
schedule."
Branwen smiled. She wanted to get back to normal as soon as possible
and she was very glad that Sam still needed her. "Great, Sam!" She
said. "How about once a week in my office, how does that sound?"
"Ug, let's meet somewhere else. Like Ten Forward or the Holodeck. Ooh,
I hear they're having a mani/pedi 1/2 price day at Bings this week!"
"Ten Forward is a bit too crowded I think. Holodeck should work." Bran
answered her. "Are you getting mani/pedi's at your age?" She had never
in her life. That is something you did at home yourself, and don't
spend money on.
"Oh, please say you've never had one. That's it. We have to go right
now and get some mentoring done." Samantha hopped up and grabbed
Bran's hand in one quick motion. "Don't worry, Bran. We'll get
something sensible and modest for you. I'm getting 'Bloodwine Red.'"
"But I am supposed to be the mentor." Bran complained but let herself
be dragged along by Sam because somewhere deep down she realised the
she needed something like this, a little pampering. "And that is
sensible and modest?" She asked. "What does your mother think of all
this?"
Sam grinned. "She says I might as well throw in a facial while I'm at it."
"Pranks and Enthusiasm"
Ella "Songbird" Grey
Nathan "Cowboy" Everett
Gryphon "Samurai" Stone
****
USS Galaxy
Flight Deck
****
Some things never changed.
In the half hour since she had beamed back on board Galaxy she had
learned that Victor was still considered by most to be the Prince of
Darkness, the Captain still made policies that no one liked, and when
a recording of her belting out "Living on a Prayer" had some how found
its way into a bored flight officer's possession, he had considered it
his duty to share it with the rest of the crew.
Her voice was currently blasting at full volume on the flight deck.
"I'd like to thank all the people who made this moment possible," Ella
said after a few curtsies and air kisses to the other pilots, who in
turn gave whistles and catcalls. "Without your support and large
quantities of alcohol I don't know how I would have made it this far.
Autographs are two bars of gold pressed latinum, photographs are
three."
No one seemed surprised that she was still using her mechanical voice;
she figured that maybe they took comfort in the familiar as well.
Ella waved to them and headed for Nathan's office. "Howdy handsome.
Just checking in."
Nathan glanced up from the duty report he'd been not working on for
the past half hour. "Ella. Thank God. Please, come in," he told her,
waving for her to take a seat as he cleared his screen. "Ah heard you
were back. How was yer trip?"
"Therapeutic," She said as she took her seat. "I heard you guys had an
interesting time. Something about killer monsters and turning
invisible?"
"Oh, yeah, that," Cowboy said casually, as if it weren't a big deal,
leaning back in his seat. "Ran into a bit of trouble while explorin'
the Aiolos crash. Some folks ended up phasin' outta our dimension and
into another populated by some cannibals called the Kahru. Ah took a
few scrapes in a fight with some local predators, nothin' serious."
"Sounds like the usual," She said with a grin. "So anything new here?"
"You tell me." Nathan pressed a button on his desk, and the
now-familiar sound of Ella singing filled the office. He let it play
for a few seconds before cutting it off, quirking an amused eyebrow.
"Y'know, Ah'm pretty sure Ah've heard you hit a few of those notes
before," he said with a teasing smirk.
Ella laughed. "Play your cards right and you might hear them again."
Nathan grinned. "Actually, Ah'm glad yer here. Now you can meet yer new XO."
Her eyebrows raised. "Oh?"
"What, nobody told you?"
"Like anyone knows anything around here."
"Well, he just got here not too long ago himself. Ah was a little
preoccupied with the Aiolos mission, so this is the first chance Ah've
had to really get to meet him." Nathan glanced down at the chronometer
on his desk. "He oughta be here in...three, two, one." He looked up at
the door.
Nothing happened.
Nathan frowned and smacked his chronometer. "Ah really gotta get this
thing fixed."
"Sir Flight Officer Gryphon 'Samurai' Stone reports as ordered!"
He was standing in the doorway in his full dress uniform. He'd been on
the ship a couple of weeks now and was only now meeting his CO's. A
small bead of sweat was trailing down the center of his back under his
uniform. He never really liked going to the CO's office. Even though
he was the current XO of Saber Squadron he still felt like he was in
trouble for something, not that he'd ever been in trouble, he just
felt like it.
Out of the corner of his eye he spied his CO, Songbird, a person he'd
heard of in reference but never actually seen. She was a whole lot
better looking then the her Starfleet picture had shown her to be. The
words of "Living on a Prayer" were still trailing in his mind and he
hoped that he'd make a great first impression.
"Hi," Ella said with a warm smile.
"Aha, there y'are!" Cowboy exclaimed with a bright smile, his arms
spread in an open and welcoming gesture. "C'mon in, Sammy, make
yerself at home," he added with a nod to the open seat next to Ella's.
"Ah'd lahk you to meet Lieutenant Ella Grey, call sign Songbird."
"Thanks you, and I assure you, Songbird," he replied as he moved
towards her with his hand extended, "the pleasure is by far greater
for me then it may seem. Your *exploits* are highly regarded in the
Flights. Although not all the details were given to me, I am sure we
will work very well together."
~~OMG did I just wink???~~ Maybe she didn't see it, or better yet
maybe I didn't do it.
Quickly seeking a topic change. "Are there any standing orders. I've
mostly just been getting acquainted with the members of Two Flight and
such." The bead of sweat that had previously rolled down his back was
joined by a few of it's buddies.
Ella fought back a smirk at his enthusiasm and looked at Nathan.
"Still no impromptu flights to Risa I take it?"
Nathan had covered his mouth in a polite attempt to hide a smile.
"'Fraid not. The brass ain't lettin' up on that."
"Damn."
He shrugged and looked up at Stone. "Please, Gryph, sit down," he
implored with a wave to the still-open seat. "In case you hadn't
noticed, yer in Pilot Country, yer not hobnobbin' upstairs with the
Fleeties. We lahk to keep things as relaxed and informal as possible
down here."
"Thank you sir, I'm glad I finally get a chance to meet up with you
both. I've gone over both of your service records and I must admit I'm
honored to be flying with you both."
Samurai took the previously offered seat and started to feel more
comfortable. Not sure what to say or do next he waited for further
instructions.
Cowboy looked at Ella and lifted an eyebrow, as if to ask, 'Is this
guy for real?'
"Be nice," Ella mouthed.
He winked at her and fixed his gaze back on Stone, looking the junior
officer over. "What's that yer wearin', Sammy?"
At first Stone didn't know what the CO was talking about then he felt
the pressure of something as his back pressed against the seat. "Oh
that, sorry, it's the sheath for my Kendo sword. I am a practitioner
of Kendojusu. It's a sword fighting art. This sheath is also
modifiable to fit my Ancient Kitana, but well I recently learned from
one of our young security officers that it's not exactly allowable to
walk around wearing a sword on ship, HAHA!"
The Flight Officer removed the scabbard and set it on the floor beside
his chair. He readjusted his uniform and looked at his Squadron CO and
said, "So what do we do for fun around here?"
Cowboy cleared his throat. "Alright, Gryph, here's the deal." He
nodded to the scabbard. "First of all, don't wear sword scabbards
around when yer on duty. Second, ditch the fancy duds. This isn't a
dress party. Standard pilot wear is the flight jacket. Trust me, it's
a helluva lot more comfortable'n the pajamas they make you wear in
the Fleet."
"Yes, sir the scabbard was an oversight, and about the flight jacket,
CHECK got it!"
Nathan chuckled. "How long've you been in the Starfighter Corps?" He
already knew most of this information, having browsed Gryphon's file
earlier. Cowboy found it difficult to believe that someone older than
he was could seem so much younger.
"Well, there have been a few bumps in the road so to speak, if you can
call spending five years in a Cardassian prison camp cleaning up alien
puke and tending to scrapes and bruises a bump that is. Actually
flying time is about 5 years, but my heart's been in the SFFC all my
life. GOD BLESS THE SFFC!"
Samurai started to relax more now that he realized the CO wasn't a
pain in the ass, like his previous one. Maybe he could actually call
this man a friend someday. He was feeling happier about this
assignment to the Galaxy more and more each day.
He usually felt shy and reserved at first, but now that he we getting
more comfortable, he thought to test his nerve a little bit when he
asked, "So when can we cut this meet and greet bullshit and talk about
the good stuff. You know the little tips and tricks every zoomie needs
to know?"
Cowboy grinned and leaned back in his seat. It was hard to ignore
Stone's enthusiasm. He looked at Ella and nodded. "Well? There
anything you think yer new XO needs to know before we throw him into
the fire?"
"Be careful on April Fools," Ella said. "Pilots are evil. Otherwise, I
think he's good to go."
Nathan nodded in agreement. "Well, from what Ah've heard, Sammy,
you've already familiarized yerself with yer Flight. That's good. From
now on, they're yer new family. If you wanna survive in the Vanguards,
you need to earn yer pilots' trust. Now, aside from the flight jacket,
we've only got two rules here. First, never under any circumstances
leave yer wingman. Second, when the scramble alert is signaled, that
means you've got three minutes to get yer ass into space, not five.
Any other questions?"
Gryphon looked one more time at Ella to see if she had anything to
add. She hadn't said much, so he assumed she was the type that really
meant it when they said "actions speak louder then words." The Flight
Officer picked up his items, stood to face his Corps CO, offered a
salute and said, "Nothing sir, and I look forward to flying with you
in the future."
That being said he turned and took two steps toward the door and then
looked back over his shoulder at the Vanguard and stated with a small
smirk, "Oh and sir, you might want to check the simulator high score
for one particular 'anomaly' scenario, you'll see the name 'Cowboy'
has been replaced with a sign that starts with an 'S'. Have a good
day, sir."
"Into the Night" Part Five
Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
And Various NPCs
====================================
(The Eastern Road- Approximately 10 Kilometers from the Camp)
A Heavy set Terran man from New York watched from just over a rise in the ground. The mechanized humming of vehicles and vocalizers, seeming to echo throughout the expansive valley and evergreens that lined the eastern road leading to the camp. It was the Breen... they'd arrived.
He'd failed the physical fitness requirements for the Marines, and although he did well in school, it wasn't quite enough to get into Starfleet Academy. As a result, Kristoph Hasem had gone the civilian route, working as a Paralegal for some hot-shot attorney back home when the adventure of a lifetime came knocking on his door in the form of an FNN interview with the Councilman responsible for the creation of the Volunteer Group... and he hadn't looked back since.
He was a good marksman, an 'excellent' tactician, and a decent leader. As a result he was probably equal in capability to your average Starfleet officer, and thus was one of the best platoon leaders the volunteer group had. He knew before the disaster at Misty Ridge that trying to take on the Breen in any kind of static defense was pointless, though the massive losses those poor guys suffered furthered his resolve to avoid that kind of altercation. He knew he couldn't expect the people with him to stand and fight like Starfleeters... but what he could expect them to do was run, and run fast... once they'd fired a few shots.
The platoon had a while to prepare. The traveled road was covered in photon mines to handle the vehicles and along the road were hidden plasma-claymores that would be trigger activated. Interlocking fields of fire between four separate heavy phasers were set up on either side of the ambush field, with Iso-mags dead center. Every man in the unit readied their weapon... whether they were using the TR-116 which had become somewhat the standard, a plasma rifle of some kind, or if they were fortunate enough to have a 'main stream' weapon such as a disruptor or phaser. They were well concealed, had good cover, and a clear mission... kill as many of the Breen as they could before getting the hell out of dodge and meeting up with the next platoon about 2 kilometers down the road. They would hopefully stall the advancing column all the way to the base.
The first few Breen troops, their scouts, walked into view and looked around. It was almost as if they had an inkling 'something' was up, though they just couldn't tell what. Behind them was the groaning of a hover phaser-tank... an APC right behind it carrying a large (but as of yet inactive) shield generator and flanked on both sides by dismounted troops. Behind the APC was another fighting vehicle, carrying what looked like some kind of torpedo launching system that Hasem figured was some kind of AA system. It was also flanked by soldiers, crawling forward at a snail's pace. They were definitely suspicious.
And that's when the commander of the Shield vehicle popped up through his hatch, seemingly glared right at one of the gun-pits they'd tried hiding, and started shouting. He didn't get two words out before a sniper in a tree took him out.
"Shit!" Kris primed the trigger and pressed down hard. The dozens of claymores and heavy vehicle mines exploded simultaneously. It wasn't a picture perfect ambush... he'd been hoping they'd move further into the kill zone before they had to blow it, but he was willing to take what he could get at this point.
The Phaser tank lit up light a lighter to a gasoline puddle, it's turret being blown 'off' the tank like a top-hat that had been popped, before settling back down on it with a loud clash at an awkward angle, and sliding to the ground... crushing a pair of hapless grunts in the process. The shield generator APC likewise exploded, the commander being shot like a bullet from a gun straight through his cupola, his uniform engulfed in flames. The AA truck came to a stop, it's shields absorbing the canon and rifle fire rather easily, however when the Iso-mags paired up their shots on it, the targeting sensors were utterly destroyed and one of the weapons rails disabled. It's crew took cover behind it's blast shields, while some of the Breen grunts used the stalled vehicle as cover to try and return fire. They were taking fire from both sides however, so even that cover was fairly limited.
The scout platoon for 1st Battalion of the 3rd Naval Infantry Regiment of the Breen Confederacy had consisted of 3 vehicles and 40 dismounted troops. 2 of the three vehicles were destroyed, the third likely disabled, and practically all of the dismounted troops were dead or somehow wounded. If that were the be all and end all of the battle, it would've been a heavily lobsided tactical victory for the Federation.
Unfortunately the Breen had a say in the matter, and an armored company right behind the scouting force came up, the terrifying 'Awwwww' of Hydran style gatlings blasting away at the sides of the trail as 2 APCs, side by side, and supported by CRM-114's and Breen storm troops began 'sweeping' the 'road' clear. The rear-left gunpit was eliminated entirely, and there were frantic screams as no less than 3 of his men were vaporized by multiple high-energy phaser hits.
Kris knew it was time to go. "Pop smoke, fall back!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, priming one of his three smoke grenades and tossing it towards the new comers. To help provide cover he popped two of his six photon grenades their way too before racing for the second rally point. He wasn't that fast a runner to begin with, and was going to take every extra second provided.
==================================================
(The POW Camp)
"I can't believe you said 'retribution'." Leah laughed as she helped clear the field of debris. "Been reading that copy of 'Leo Streely's Guide to Awesome Heroics' that's in your office?"
It was a faux gift from the Marines for 'Marine Day', a little known holiday celebrated by the Corps. It's mere mention brought Fork to laugh, and it certainly served as an interesting conversational piece. "I've thumbed through it... Chapter 4, A Kickass Oneliner... right between Chapter 3, Selecting a Sidekick and Chapter 5, Let's Make A Deal."
"I can't believe you actually read that."
"I really didn't... I got past the table of contents and half way though Chapter 1 'You and Me Baby Ain't Nothing But Sentient Animals...' Surprisingly it had nothing to do about the hazards of nature on alien planets."
Leah broke up laughing. A melodic sound that the camp likely didn't hear in a 'very' long time.
The Combat Engineers descended on the large prisoner field like beavers working to stem a Tsunami. The remains of the old structures, the lighter fencing, and all the other obstacles to landing hoppers in the flat yard were simply vaporized by standard Type III-b heavy phaser rifles. LZs had been clearly marked and were made immediately ready for the landing, onloading, and rapid departing of hoppers. The medics had prioritized who needed to be evacuated first, while everyone else kept watch and moved the hundreds of Breen bodies that littered the field out of the way.
"Got it, we're going as quickly as we can." For'kel replied before closing out the comm channel. "The Breen are on their way, the blocking forces are delaying them as much as possible but we need to disappear 'now'."
"We've got a problem, then." Leah murmured, bringing the Colonel over to what could pass for a more secluded part of the camp. "General Yost was only willing to send 20 Hoppers, and we have, including the Marines, 2,319 people to move."
"Fuck." The Colonel swore, hitting the thermacrete wall of the command bunker with his fist. The passenger capacity of a fully laden hopper was normally 40 combat equipped Marines. Given these were malnourished civilians he could probably squeeze in 50... but that's still just 1,000 people. Unfortunately the Hoppers wouldn't have time for more than 2 passes... that still left 319 people SOL.
Unless...
"Leah, how many of those Breen vehicles are operational?"
"All of them should be. We pretty much captured the vehicle depot without a fight."
"I've got an idea."
The Engineers next went over each APC, using their access to the Breen's network to disable the security lock-outs, establish manual control, reset security protocols, and proverbially 'hotwire' the Triad vehicles. It didn't take long, no more than 10 minutes to have all 22 APCs operable. Everyone got to work loading up the APCs and arriving Hoppers with prisoners who, at the sight of freedom, mostly began weeping and crying in relief beyond what most people were capable of experiencing in their lifetimes. It was a heart warming scene, to see 17, 18, and 19 year old Marine rescuers being kissed and hugged by those they risked everything to save. Definitely would make good shots for those couple of Marines who dabbed in photography to send home as momentos.
But Fork and his platoon leaders and senior NCOs had something else to attend to. They huddled together for a quick go over of the plan. "Hoppers will take off for their first flight once they're loaded up. They'll make rapid landings back at the Alamo and return for one more trip. We'll load them up again and send them on a one-way trip back to the base. Once the last hopper is airborne and the POWs are loaded up on the APCs, the Marines will collapse back toward the motor pool. We'll squeeze everyone we can on the APCs, shooters will be on top to provide force security, and those of us that are dismounted will walk the APCs out of the combat zone as an escort. Once the APCs are safe, the dismounted Marines will head to LZ Bravo, hop on a couple of shuttles, and take the trip back to the base. Questions?"
There were none.
"All right, move out."
"Something tells me that the Breen aren't going to like us just walking off with their vehicles, sir."
"I'll try and bring 'em back. Might end up on concrete blocks, but I'll try." Fork smirked over at the Sergeant as they all moved out to get ready. He didn't much like the idea of the 5 kilometer run to the new LZ, but hey it beat leaving anyone behind.
The last gasps of day succumbed, and nightfall set in. By that time the Marines and the Prisoners were long gone.
OOC: The following is written in reference to Chris' 'Chapter 6' post, and draws heavily upon it. Here's to you, comrade!
"History Unfolding"
Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
And Various NPCs
==============================================
(Landing Pad 3- 'The Alamo')
The Hopper landed softly on the elevator. The engines were cut to just a fraction of a fraction of it's potential power, the elevator door descending and the craft being maneuvered off. The elevator lifted up behind it, the hopper now safe in the bowels of the large, concealed, sub-terranian craft bay.
The APCs and the earlier hoppers had arrived hours ago. The Civilians and wounded aboard them were no doubt receiving the care they needed, while the other Starfleeters were being debriefed and, were things to remain true to form, likely being given tasks and positions that needed to be done and filled. Not that there was likely to be much needed for them to be 'told' what they needed to do... they were Starfleet after all.
It would be nice to get a sonic shower, a hot meal, and maybe even a change of uniform. Failing that, Fork would settle for just something to eat. Unlike Vulcans whom simultaneously possessed greatly increased metabolic rates 'and' an uncanny ability to resist hunger and starvation, Stagnorians just had the rapid metabolism. They needed to eat like they had it too, the average suggestion being about 2,500 to 3,000 calories per day minimum during normal circumstances. In combat, that number shot up dramatically.
In short, he was hungry.
Unfortunately even before the hopper engines finally cut off completely and the ground crew got to their maintenance work, a really pissed off Marine General, her arms folded over her chest, was waiting for one of it's occupants. In fact, Fork's boots barely hit the ground before he got a terse call over. "Colonel, I will see you for a moment."
Fork sighed. Yeah, he should've figured General Yotz would be waiting when he got back. Somehow it was every other officer in the history of Starfleet managed to get away with doing things 'under the table' or 'without appropriate authorization' with nothing more than a momentary frown from a superior and maybe a forced promotion if they were particularly unlucky, so how was it that the hard core disciplinarians and ruthless regulators always managed to find him? Did someone implant him with a tracking device when he wasn't looking or what? "Aye, ma'am." He removed his helmet and passed it to Leah, who gratefully had the sense to know when not to follow.
Yotz half pulled, have lead the Colonel towards an office that she had commandeered for the purpose from the moment he found out about his unauthorized romp. As soon as she closed the door she let it rip, both barrels. "Care to explain to me Colonel just what the 'fuck' you were thinking?!"
Fork quirked a brow. "Somehow I doubt you're interested in that, General."
"Don't get smart with me, Mister Arvelion." She walked around the small metalic desk in the room and glared like a viper staring at it's prey. "You took advantage of our situation to go play hero, depriving this facility of valuable military assets..."
"Marines General, not assets." Fork replied curtly.
"...and needlessly jeopardizing this mission and the safety of the United Federation of Planets in the process!"
"I did 'no' such thing!" For'kel, who until now had been the picture perfect example of standing at attention, suddenly became quite animated. "My recon force located an enemy camp where they were 'executing' prisoners. That mission was authorized!"
"No half-cocked rescue mission was ever authorized! You could have gotten your entire unit captured or worse!"
"But we weren't!" Fork shot back. "You were secluded because of some damned self-serving operational procedure 'you' likely put in place, General."
"Bite your tongue, Arvelion." Yotz, furious, growled at the top of her lungs. "You are well over the line of insubordination!"
"Then there's no reason to stop!" Fork shot back. "There were plenty of Marines and troops here to provide security, I took 'my' people, and 'volunteers', on a mission that was 'very' necessary! We had intercepts suggesting an extermination plan, documented holo-recordings of the Breen 'executing' that plan, and evidence that they were going to eliminate that entire camp! We did what we had to do!"
"I should have you put against a wall and shot!" Yotz shouted back. "What you did was treason, plain and simple!"
"Treason?! You want to talk about treason?! I'm sorry General, far be it from me to ever question the definition of treason supplied by a master at the art. Tell me, while you were under lock and key in a secured, guarded room while the rest of the base was constantly looking over their collective shoulders, did the well being others even factor in to your decisions or were you too busy curling up in the corner trying to shake your fears with a good book?"
There was a long pause as the General clenched her fist... and 'almost' struck a subordinate officer. "You are 'very' fortunate Colonel that I am in need of 'every' able bodied Marine at my disposal, or I would most certainly shoot you myself. I 'will' be informing Starfleet Command of your actions, and you better believe I will refer you in my report for Court Martial."
There was another second's gap of conversation before For'kel reached into a sleeve pocket and pulled out a PADD and stylus, tossing them on the desk. "A-R-V-E-L-I-O-N... For'kel is the first name. Get it right."
"You better hope it's me writing it, and not some Breen interrogator."
"Exactly what is 'that' supposed to mean?!"
"You stubborn and ignorant son of a bitch." Yotz sneered, laughing in a way that was certainly joyless. "It means 'exactly' what I said. Your little self-righteous escapade? Hydran scout fighters were following the Hopper we had to divert to pick your team up. They followed you all the way here. The Breen will likely be right behind them... you 'gave' our position away." She came around the desk. "This isn't some holo-novel adventure, Colonel. This is the real world, and if we make it through this alive you will see that your decisions here have consequences. I am deploying the 188TH to hold to guard the western approach through the woods... I suggest you get your Marines together and fortify that area as much as possible. Our reinforcements are still a day away, and we expect the Breen to be at the gates in five hours... in force. You are dismissed."
=================================================
(The Front Line-- 10 Minutes later.)
"Jesus Christ..." Leah looked around at the fairly dense and frozen forest, the snow no longer blistering, but gently falling down as if to anoint the soon-to-be battlefield. "We have to defend all of 'this' from a Breen force that outnumbers us three to one?"
"Yep." Fork said flatly.
She suddenly felt 'much' colder. "Without air superiority and sporadic-at-best armor and artillery support?"
"Yep."
"And how much time did you say we had again?"
"Four and a half hours at this point. They'll be here just before sun-up." The Stagnorian murmured, taking in a deep breath. "There's not much we can do at this point. The Breen are likely to try to come right down that center avenue, it's the only path through this forest large enough for armored vehicles. We'll just have to dig our holes, lay our mines... and wait."
"Kids at Play"
Fork
Arel
***
"Hey," Arel said, throwing herself into one of the chairs on the other
side of her brother's desk. It hadn't been a bad day but time had
dragged slowly at work and she hadn't slept all that well the night
before. "What are you doing?"
Fork looked up from his desk and smiled. "You certainly have a talent
for getting passed sentries and making an entrance." He put the PADD
aside for a moment. "Making arrangements for transfers and
replacements. Shouldn't you be off hunting dinosaurs or something?"
She propped her feet up on the desk. "Why would I hunt dinosaurs?"
"Well 'something' chewed you up on that planet before spitting you out
again, I've heard." He sent his after action report and requisition
request to Starfleet Sector HQ with the push of a button. "You look
like you've got something on your mind, afidav."
"Yeah. I think you should compete in the games."
"Huh?" The Stagnorian blinked. "Nah, I don't think that's me. Last
time I got involved in a poker tournament there were Vulcan love
slaves and Orion prostitutes involved... that kind of stuff really
isn't me. Maybe if you were having a nice Risk tournament or
something..."
"The Starfleet Games," Arel clarified. "Dumbass."
For'kel rolled his eyes. "Of course, the Starfleet Games... how silly
of me for, you know, realizing there's a war on and such. I do enough
running like hell and life threatening acrobatics in my day job,
Arel."
"Do something different then," She replied with a shrug. "Security is
probably going to play some game where you see how hard you can hit a
ball with a stick. Do that."
"You want me to club a ball?" He blinked. "Wow, how...
challenging." His eyes drifted back to the PADD on his desk. "Listen,
Arel... I know most people on this ship have a hard time remembering
this, but out among those stars out there are these people called
Hydrans. And these Hydrans are trying to 'kill' us... at lest one
person here needs to be aware of that fact. Why waste energy clubbing
a harmless ball when you could club a more menacing Hydran?"
Arel smiled. "That's a pretty good idea."
"Thank you, maybe someone should make a suggestion to the committee."
He smirked.
"I might. Are trying to tell me that your grunts are so gorram
pathetic that they can't be without you for a few hours? No wonder we
haven't won the war yet."
If they were in a school yard rather than the closet-sized office of
the Marine CO, this would be the point at which all the other kids
started going 'OooooOOOOooooo'. "Funny, and here I thought we hadn't
won the war yet because we have to keep rescuing Fleeters because you
security types wave the white flag faster than a Ferangi dentist."
Ahhh, and there perfectly would fit the quit essential 'Yo momma!'
come-back.
"There you go," Arel said sadly. "Demonstrating the typical marine
intelligence. Play a damn game."
"No."
"Don't make me have to kick your ass, For'kel."
The words 'bring it on' were on the tip of Fork's tongue, but he
thought better of it. In all actuality, competing in the games was
probably a good way of blowing off some steam, and victory or not he
was pretty sure his Marines could use a little bit of a distraction.
"All these games... you'd think I was talking to a reindeer..." he
sighed. "Fine, if it'll cram your cry-hole, I'll join a damn game,
far be it from me to argue with an invalid."
"I'm not an invalid, pthak."
"Wow... with a mouth like that one never would've guessed you kissed
Mitchell." Fork shot back sarcastically.
She glared at him.
He glared back.
Two minutes later Arel had him in a headlock. "Now what do we say?"
Why the hell did every conversation with his 'sister' have to end with
someone putting someone else in a headlock? "You're not an invalid,
now let me go!"
"Hmm ... I was thinking more like 'Hi, my name is For'kel and I'm a
pretty pretty princess.'" Arel said with a grin. "Say it and I'll let
you live."
"Go to hell." Fork grunted before grabbing her thumbs and breaking
her hold. A quick move later he had her in a full-nelson, hunched
over his desk, and face down against it. "Now 'you' say it!"
Arel said something in Klingon and he doubted it was anything nice.
"Come on Arel, if you want your freedom, ask for it!l" he added a
little more pressure, watching her face contort just a little more to
cope with the discomfort. "I'm sure as hell not going to take it easy
on you. Say my name, and then plead for it! That's right, sis, I
want to hear you beg!"
At some indeterminable point during the whole exchange the door to the
office had opened, and a petite blonde with a rather horrified kind of
embarrased look on her face was left staring, mouth agape, at the
sight of Arel Smith bent over the Colonel's table, adding all the more
'richness' to the context of the words. It wasn't until she half
tripped over a chair that anyone even recognized she was in the room.
"Oh Jesus... Ah'm sorry..." her southern dialect kicked in for a
moment, making Leah have to swallow hard to drown it. "You're busy
Colonel... I'll come back later."
For'kel was so surprised that he relaxed his hold enough for Arel to
break free and throw in an elbow jab in the process. She watched the
woman run away, looked at her brother's face, and then started
laughing.
Fork tried suppressing his own laugh, because it 'really' wasn't all
that funny. "Great, now she's going to think I'm an incestuous
pervert who enjoys having rough sex with his sister. Well, actually
she'll probably think I'm an adulterer incestuous pervert...thanks a
'lot' Arel. Next time you want to meet up why don't we do it at your
office?"
Arel laughed harder.
"Go ahead, laugh it up. I wonder how long it will take for Mitchell to
find out."
"Not long," She replied, wiping at her eyes which were now tearing up
from laughing so hard. "I'm sure he'll get a kick out of it. It's the
first thing James thought when he met you." At his scowl, she
shrugged. "It's Mitchell. What did you expect?"
"That's okay, he had a... what do the Terrans call it? A ped-o-file
smile? Something like that." For'kel gave a dismissive wave. "In
either case, keep laughing... I'll tell her you came on to me. Now
that that's over, what about this game where we club things?"
The Battle for Delta IV
(text archived from http://www.geocities.com/cjddahlquist/hh.html)
Like a wall of azure doom, the Hydran fleet covered half the sky.
Centered on the Heavy Dreadnoughts R'lyeh under the stern command of Prince Thufi XXXIV the combined Royal Fleet had come to the heart of the Federation for one purpose and one purpose only.
Extermination of their enemies.
Break the political and military will of the Federation of Planets
Secure Victory at last for her highness the Empress.
Arrayed against them however, like a line of grey knights on chargers stood the last line of the Mighty Starfleet.
At the center sat Enterprise herself, the pride and joy of the fleet and the embodiment of the hopes and dreams of an entire society.
The left flank was in the hands of sturdy Captain Elaithin and his monstrous USS Miranda...the heavyweight of the Federation line.
While at the extreme right sat the vicious form of the USS Zeus, the unpredictable and infamous von Ernst already calculating a path of destruction.
"Attention all Starfleet vessels," came the call form Picard himself. "In the words of Nelson at Trafalgar....The Federation expects every man to do his duty. For home and family. For our way of life. The line is drawn here."
Meanwhile Prince Thufi was likewise making a final speech. "Yonder lies Victory my comrades....its is there for you to take. These vile Barbarians can no longer threaten our way of life and our homes. For Queen ...for country....for your very younglings......Forward!!
Like pregnant warrior insects the Carriers on both sides spilled forth their deadly brood?..
Enemy fighters.....cover me Porkins.
On the left, Miranda was a juggernaut of destruction....braving volleys of Hellbores to smash aside all opposition.
Left to her own devices, Rebecca's efforts on the Federation Right bewilder the opposition......Death and Pain on both sides.
Picard and the Enterprise pushed through the Hydran Center....Probing for any weakness, but none were to be found.
The Hydran Forces were overwhelming, however.
The famous Captain Rixx in the USS Thomas Paine found himself outflanked.....a deadly blast to the belly throws the crew to the deck.
Slowly but surely, the Federation forces were being outmanuvered and pressed back towards the planet.
Prince Thufi simply had bigger ships and more of them.
"We need to put pressure on the enemy command structure," cried Picard as he ordered Commander Nasaav in the USS Vigilant to make a run on the R'lyeh.....Thufi's Flagship.
Rubbing his brow angrily he realized that the efforts were futile. Delta IV was going to be lost.
Captain von Ernst found herself severly strained by Picard pre-battle directives.
No suicide tactics.
No great loss of life for minimal gains.
She grit her teeth....sometimes the Math dictated those minimal gains added up to something significant.
Altering her vector she narrowly avoided destruction, as the USS TETRYON fell victim to Thufi's flagship...the R'lyeh!
At length however, the Hydran forces slipped around the edges and began hitting the vital fleet repair docks and manufacturing facilities in Low Orbit.
The Bombardment of Delta IV had begun, and there was nothing to prevent it.
There was simply too many of them. Picard found himself outnumbered and outgunned.
Thier flanks turned, von Ernst and the survivors reformed on the ENTERPRISE.
"This isnt working." she fumed.
Things were rapidly coming to the point where Picard's task Force would have to retreat...or stand and Die
In the end there was no real decision to be made.
Delta IV might be a major Federation Sector Capital with Billions of frightened citizens, but to stand and die here would not win the war.
Like every commander throughout history who had to sacrifice their own territory to ensure the survival of their armed forces....Picard felt a little piece of him die inside.
There were sixteen other worlds beyond Delta that needed him to buy time for defence. If he lost his fleet here...they would fall in mere days, rather than weeks.
He needed to hold the Hydrans here while he organized....but how?
Still....there was one option.
He needed a Rear-Guard to cover their retreat.
"He's Calling." announce Panic, nodding towards the image of Enterrpise on the screen.
Rebecca nodded with a sigh. she had been expecting it.
"I'm withdrawing the fleet back to Andor." he stated briefly, "I need someone to cover the retreat and cause as much havoc in the enemy rear as possible." he paused. "To date you have show greater success in independant operations rather than fleet actions correct. I need time to prepare another defensive line....I cannot have the Hydrans here following me. I need a delay."
Rebecca puffed a strand of red hair from her head. It wasnt a question.
"Indeed." Picard grated, "You have your orders Captain......oh and Rebecca?"
"Yes?"
Picard paused. "You may take off the gloves....do your worst."
Rebecca paused. "I always do."
As the connection closed, USS ZEUS pulled out of line and headed back for the Hydran fleet already starting thier planetary bombardment.
She didnt expect to see the Enterprise again.
TBC....................
"Let the Games Begin"
*****
The Opening Ceremonies were in full swing now. As she watched the parade of competitors from the Captains' Area, T'Vara found herself ticking items off a mental checklist, comparing the Starfleet Games to their closest equivalent, the Terran Olympics. With only a handful of exceptions for planetary-scale wars, the Terran event had been held continuously for nearly five hundred years; in comparison the Starfleet Games had started just over one hundred fifty years ago. Still, the fact that both events were still well funded, well attended, and well received was impressive.
Many years ago, when she was just a child, T'Vara's older cousin Sovek had participated in the Olympic Games. Although she had expressed an interest in doing so, T'Vara herself had been much too young to travel to Earth with her cousin and his family to watch him compete. Nonetheless, she had paid close attention to the feeds coming from Earth that year, and had studied every portion of the Games that she could, from the pomp of the Opening Ceremonies, to the many rounds of competition, to the medal ceremonies, the Closing Ceremonies, all of it. So, when Sovek had returned home with the bronze medal in Men's Fencing, T'Vara wondered if she had perhaps experienced as much of the Games as he had.
And now, drawing on those memories, she concluded that the Starfleet Games were perhaps more appealing than the Terran Olympics. Certainly, the entry process thus far was infinitely more efficient. Her ship had received the invitation to participate just over three weeks ago; it took no more than a simple verbal acceptance to cement their place in the Games, and now they were here. Rather than the elaborate system of qualifying events required to pare down the competition in the Olympics, interested crewmen from all invited vessels simply registered for the events in which they wished to participate, and the field of competitors in each event would be whittled away through a series of preliminaries before the final rounds took place.
The Opening Ceremonies were similarly efficient, she noted. While the Terran version of this event involved a complex series of artistic and other displays (no doubt a veiled way for the host region to display its superiority in such matters), this event included no such thing. Here, the ceremony had opened with the raising of the flag of the United Federation of Planets, followed by a performance of the Federation Anthem, and then had moved directly into the parade of participants. Afterwards would come a few short speeches from important personages, followed by the lighting of the symbolic flame (another holdover from the Olympics, she remembered), and then the Games would be declared open.
Even the parade was efficiently handled, with the participants from each represented ship proceeding in order according to the Standard alphabet. Currently they were in the E's. Although the head of their procession had yet to reach the point at which their name would be announced, T'Vara could already see the representatives from the USS Eridani filing into orderly ranks on the wide track that ran the perimeter of this complex. As had happened with every other ship represented thus far, at the head of the column a single crewman marched, carrying a flag that bore the name of the vessel, its registry number, and the ship's motto. This one's read "Multi famam, conscientiam pauci verentur." T'Vara understood enough about Terran linguistics to know that the phrase was Latin, but she had no clue as to its translation. Or its hidden meaning, she mentally amended; for it seemed a common practice, at least among Terrans, to include double meanings in phrases written in extinct dialects.
"USS Eridani," the announcer finally boomed, the voice once more seeming to fill the entire stadium. It was so loud, in fact, that she barely heard the soft voice to her right.
"Hello, T'Vara."
*****
In all his years, Vincent Williams didn't think he'd ever seen such a large gathering of people.
The thirty-something Petty Officer from Carson City, Nevada was, along with the rest of the contingent from Galaxy, currently milling quietly about in a long subterranean tunnel. According to the ushers and other Games personnel (so marked by the wide blue arm bands on their standard-issue Starfleet dress uniforms), this tunnel led up and into the center of the primary track and field stadium, which was the site of the Opening Ceremonies each year. When it was their turn to enter, each team would emerge from the tunnel, be announced, and make a single lap around the track before filing into a cordoned-off area in the center of the stadium. They didn't call it a holding area exactly, but Vince had a good idea that's what it was...after all, you didn't cram 25,000 people into the infield of a stadium without it turning into a bit of a herding operation.
He just hoped it was a little cooler up there than it was down in the tunnel. There were air circulators in the tunnel, of course, but the combined effect of so many bodies in such a confined space, plus the fact that they were all wearing dress uniforms, made it a little on the stuffy side.
Turning back in the direction they would eventually be heading, Vince watched for any signs of movement, his thoughts automatically drifting to the days ahead as he waited. He'd entered himself in only a couple events: a few of the long distance swimming races as well as the triathlon. Sure, he was good at what he did, but the more he thought about it, he wasn't likely to win a medal, and in some of the events (particularly the 5 km open water swim; why had he even signed up for that?) he didn't even know if he would make it to the finals. But...for the opportunity to compete against some of Starfleet's finest, and hopefully to show off a little bit himself, Vince was willing to endure a little disappointment or even humiliation. All in the name of competition.
"USS Firebrand," came the announcer's reverberating voice from the speakers embedded in the tunnel's walls. Up ahead, the column of people began to shift forward as the Firebrand's team made their way out into the stadium.
*****
Oddly, T'Vara hadn't even noticed that the unoccupied seat beside her was now occupied until said occupant had addressed her by name. The Vulcan woman turned her head towards the newcomer, already knowing who the owner of the voice was before she even laid eyes on the face. She'd recognize that voice anywhere.
"Hello, Captain Dvora," she replied with a slight nod. As usual the middle-aged Trill woman was the model of poise, with flawless milky skin and long silvery-white hair pulled up into a high bun that revealed each pale pinkish spot that dotted the sides of her face from he temples on down.
"I did not expect to see you at these Games," the CO of the USS Orobourous continued, "either with the Panoptes or now with the Galaxy."
"It was an unexpected development," T'Vara replied truthfully (as if there was any other way for a Vulcan such as herself to respond). But, as they had approached the Dodekatheon system, T'Vara couldn't help but wonder if Galaxy's late inclusion into the Games was simply the Committee Chairman trying to fill out the competition roster, or if there was another, hidden reason behind it. In time, all will be revealed, she reminded herself.
"I see," Dvora responded plainly, crossing one leg over the other and folding her petite hands in her lap as she settled in to watch the proceedings. Truthfully, she would have much rather been down there, marching with her crew. After all, she was participating in several events as well, so it made sense to want to march with everyone else. But, tradition dictated that the commanding officer of each vessel would view the Opening Ceremonies from a specially prepared Captains' Area of the stands, and who was she to argue with tradition?
"USS Gagarin," the announcer boomed once more. Down on the track, the small contingent from the Saber-class vessel continued the procession. Its motto read "???? ???´??? ??????´??"; again T'Vara was at a loss to translate (or even pronounce) this one, and once more she wondered just what fascinated humans so much about their ships' mottos, and what compelled them to want to make them so complicated.
"If I am not mistaken, Captain, your team is next." Dvora then turned slightly towards T'Vara, a glint of something flashing in her steely grey eyes before she added, "I am interested to see what they do over these next few weeks."
Her expression as neutral as ever, T'Vara simply replied, "Indeed."
*****
"USS Galaxy."
Around her, Tarin Iniara felt the massed crew began to move forward and out of the tunnel in which they had been waiting for what seemed like hours. Nearly half the crew had chosen to participate, and the feeling of well over 400 people automatically falling into formation and proceeding forward in such an orderly fashion without any obvious external cues was very interesting...and very impressive. In the back of her mind she wondered if the Starfleet Games included events that dealt with organized marching. Probably not, she guessed, although from what she'd seen thus far the competition would be stiff in such an event. Apparently marching was a subject which the Academy taught very well.
She was solidly in the middle of the formation and so it took several seconds after the ship's name was announced before Iniara made it out of the tunnel and into the massive stadium complex. Trying not to gape too much like an awestruck schoolgirl, she focused on the person in front of her, keeping pace with the group, until the initial feeling of awe had passed. Then, she allowed herself to look around.
Even though she'd lived a mostly spartan existence as an adult, Iniara had grown up in luxury on one of the more prosperous Federation worlds, and so she wasn't completely overwhelmed by the spectacle all around her. But, as hard as she tried to think about it, the XO of the Galaxy couldn't think of another time when she'd been in such a large building. The open-air stadium was huge, its oval shape easily half a kilometer long at its longest point. All around the central track and the varied surfaces that made up its interior was a bowl of spectator seating that seemed to stretch to the sky. The upper edge of the stadium was ringed with what was probably hundreds of lights, all beaming brightly down and illuminating the stadium's interior as bright as day. In fact, if it hadn't been for the tiny piece of darkening sky directly overhead (the tiny sliver of blue being the only piece that wasn't completely overwhelmed by the bright lights, she realized), Iniara might have believed it really was daytime.
Looking back down, she glanced around at those nearest to her, just in time to catch the woman to her immediate left looking back at her. Iniara didn't know the young Bre'ellian woman...well, she knew the woman was a recent transfer at the rank of Ensign, assigned to Shuttle Bay Operations on Gamma Shift...but she didn't actually *know* the woman. Looking around again, she noticed that she didn't actually *know* anyone in the immediate area, even though it took her only a second or two to recall pertinent details of each one's service jacket, even if she couldn't always recall their name or any details about them personally.
She wasn't quite sure why that had come to mind at this moment. Sure, there were plenty of people that she knew in the group...far ahead, the bald head of her very tall yeoman, Vincent Williams, poked out above everyone else, and somewhere behind her she could sense just a tickle of Victor Krieghoff's omnipresent aura (probably surrounded three or four deep by Vulcans, she mused). And there were plenty others...several of the senior staff had elected to participate, and she knew them all, and there were many crewmembers still in Operations that were left over from her time as Chief...but still, the fact that there were a dozen crewmen within easy speaking distance, and she didn't really know a single one of them...
Shrugging off the odd feeling Iniara turned her attentions once more to the front of the pack. They were approaching the end of their lap around the stadium, the head of their formation already being funneled off the rubbery track surface and into the large central area inside. They would probably be massed here for just as long as they had been in the tunnel, but at least out here there was a gentle, natural breeze blowing through the stadium, and the participants were allowed to mill about in a less structured form than they had been while waiting in the tunnel. Already some of the people around her were breaking out the holorecorders, snapping photos and shooting videos with which to remember the moment for years to come. Iniara smiled slightly as she clasped her hands loosely behind her back and began to move through the crowd.
*****
"And now, loyal viewers, the moment we've all been waiting for!"
The camera view pulled back from the young Kriosian reporter, now clad in a much more colorful (yet still tasteful) ensemble of blues and purples, just in time to capture a trio of Rogue Mark VI starfighters streaking across the sky, special jets mounted on their rear ends shooting out parallel streams of brilliant blue and white colored smoke. As they passed over the stadium, the lead bird fired a single modified charge directly at a huge swept metal bowl that seemed to leap from the top edge of the building. A moment later, a burst of flame erupted from within the bowl, and a resounding cheer went up through the entire crowd, participants and spectators alike.
The reporter turned back to the camera, a wide smile on her face. "The flame has been lit! The Games are officially open!"
(For those curious about the mottos, the USS Eridani's "Multi famam, conscientiam pauci verentur." translates as "Many fear their reputation, few their conscience.", while the USS Gagarin's "???? ???´??? ??????´??" translates (somewhat) as "Fight fire with fire." Take them as you will, but no great symbolism is implied by either.)
”Modern Biathalon, Live from the Poseidon Resort, Part I”
Epsilon Five "Poseidon"
=================
We’re at the venerable Dodecahedron Pines links on beautiful Epsilon
Five, I’m Biff Shanwkell, and with me is Nob of the Ferengi Kannatanna
Corporation and Krarg, the reigning Battle-Tan champion of the Klingon
Empire. It’s a gorgeous morning, and the qualifying round of the
modern Biathalon is well underway.
That’s right Biff, the weather’s co-operated so far giving us a great
day for golf, sun-tanning, and most importantly, corporate
advertising. Look at those banners, gentlemen!
They look great Nob! Just great! The marketing team’s done a big-bang-
up job! Krarg, you’ve had a chance to tour the course and observe the
weather – what do you think of the venue, and what our athletes can
expect?
It’s a good day tan human. Kahless shines upon these warriors! It’s
unfortunate that they must endure an inferior version of Klingon
Battle-Tan.
For our viewing audience, what IS the difference between the Modern
Biathalon and Klingon Battle-Tan, Krargh?
Klingon Battle-Tan is the honorable pursuit of the perfect tan
combined with ritualistically combat, with each warrior bearing the
nine sacred irons and three sacred woods of Grux the Impatient. How
you pale-skinned humans managed to ruin a perfectly acceptable method
of bloodletting by involving a small, white ball being hit across the
blood-fields into small holes with flags in them only points to the
degeneration of Federation culture.
There you have it folks. The Modern Biathalon IS a combination of
Terran golf and the ancient art of sun-tanning. Athletes will be
judged on a combination of their golf scores over three days,
pigmentation change from day one, and over-all aesthetics. The three
ships have put in a full compliment of players – Nob, who stands out
in your opinion.
Well Biff, the clear favorite has to be Erica Andersson of the USS
Firebrand last year’s Risa Invitational winner currently under
sponsorship of.. well.. you guessed it... me. Erica will be utilizing
the full range of Kannatanna’s pantented Bio-Slig Technology® based
products, as well as the latest set of Hortamade™ clubs. I’ll bet my
lobes that Erica gets gold here this week.
That’s great, Nob! Anyone else stand out?
Not really, Biff. Though Slag, son of Slurm currently serving as an
exchange officer on the USS Orobourous and Krargh’s runner up at the
Klingon Empire Open is competing. Krargh – what do you think his
chances are?
Against a true tan-warrior like myself? None. Against the thin-
skinned “warriors” of the Federation? I will personally feed Slag’s
intestines to my targ if he doesn’t win.
Guys, an interesting entry is from the USS Galaxy, one Lieutenant JG
Robert Mathieson. One of the ship’s medical staff, I believe.
Biff, this is just wrong on so many levels! Some sentient beings
were just not born to tan, and this Mathieson is one of them. For
one, he’s old… it looks like he’s approaching retirement. Look at
those wrinkles! That belly! And that back-hair! That’s just not
natural Biff!
It is for a Klingon, you Ferengi worm. Cease your useless prattle!
The Depilation staff is already attending him. He has courage, this
one, for competing at such an age. Honor this old one for his
fortitude, for though he is certain if defeat one must respect him for
his bravery.
And with the strength of this Epsilon system yellow star and the depth
of the competition, he’ll need it. I’m Biff Shankwell , here at the
Starfleet Games Modern Biathalon – Nob, Krargh and myself will be back
after a few words from our sponsor.
=========================================
What the world needs now, is Slug, yes Slug,
It’s the only cola, that there’s just too little of.
What the world needs now, is Slug, yes Slug,
Not just for some, but for everyone!
Sluggo-Cola™! The official cola beverage of the Starfleet Games!
Now with all the bitterness, and ten times the caffeine!
=========================================
TBC. Mwuhahahahahaaaaaa!
”Modern Biathalon, Live from the Poseidon Resort, Part II”
Epsilon Five "Poseidon”
==================
We’re back at Dodecahedron Pines at the sun-drenched Poseidon Resort
on Epsilon Five. I’m Biff Shankwell and we’re looking in on Commande
Erica Andersson teeing off on the fifth hole, a par five with a wicked
dog-leg to the south. Predictably it looks like she’s going with the
number one Hortamade™ titanium wood, and a number eight sun-block.
That’s a bold move this early in the tournament, isn’t it Nob?
Not really, Biff. Kannatanna’s pantented Bio-Slig Technology® will
provide a safe degree of dermal protection at this stage, and let’s
not forget – she’s a professional. It’s this kind of daring and
determination that made her a champion at Risa, and increased her
marketing potential a thousand fold. The other sponsors love her too
And you gotta love those sponsors, right guys? Woah! The Commander
just crushed that tee shot Look at that ball fly!
That’s tree hundred centicams, human! A warrior’s blow to be certain!
And it leaves here nicely in the middle of the fairway Krargh, and a
three-iron to the green. It looks like Erica’s picked up right where
she left off on Risa without missing a step as she tops the
leaderboard, while quickly developing a light but healthy-looking
bronze. In the mean time, back on the third hole, Slag seems to have
had some difficulties in his approach shot.
That’s right Biff! The Orobourous’ representative hooked his third
shot deep into the bushes. That’s bad news for both his golf game and
his tan! That jungle’s pretty thick, and the more time he’s hunting
for that ball, the more time he’s out of the sun! This is a pretty
dire development.
WORTHLESS P’HAK! SON OF A ROMULAN! TAKE THE DROP! TAKE THE DROP!!!
Looks like Slag’s going to take a drop, and lose a stroke there Nob.
That’s the best he can do in a bad situation, Biff! He doesn’t have
Erica’s finesse or style, so he’s got to make up with it in power, and
make sure he improves on that accuracy. If he can’t , he’ll be out of
the running for sure.
<snickt> WHAT DID YOU SAY?
Er… nothing. He’s doing great! Great! By the Nagus, that knife
looks sharp! Heh, can I…er… take a closer look at that Krargh old
buddy?
<snickt>
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
Oh great! You’ve cut his finger off!
It was an accident, human! The Ferengi should have kept his filthy
finger away from by blade.
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
We’ll be right back!
=====================================
This is FNN, the Ferengi News Network.
Federation markets continue to plunge in the wake of the entrenchment
of Hydran Forces in the Corvallis system, as well as rumors of a
possible surge of Breen and Hydran forces along the Federation
frontier near Delta IV. Conversely, Ferengi, Klingon, Kzinti and even
Orion markets are seeing huge surges of incoming capital as Federation
stock holdings are being liquidated.
We’ll keep you updated as these market developments happen. I’m Fil
Thylucre, FNN Market Correspondent reporting from Ferengenar.
=====================================
Great! It’s rolled under the desk. Right there. To your left
Krargh. No, your other left.
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
============================================
==^== STARFLEET GAMES, PLEASE STAND BY ==^==
============================================
We’re back, and looking at Robert’ Mathieson bunker shot four. He’s
been solid up to now, but that shot in the sand can’t be good.
Indeed human, but it looks suspiciously deliberate. The old one has
been remarkably controlled up until now..
Here’s the shot…. oh dear… he didn’t clear the trap and… it looks
like… yes, he’s lying down in the sand and applying… yes… some Orion
Tropics paba fifteen! That’s certainly old school Krargh!
An ancient poultice, but he’s showing his cunning human. The “sand”
of those traps is made from the shells of millions of tiny sea-
creatures native to Epsilon Five. They’re reflecting almost all of
the sun’s rays away , allowing the old one to tan some of his anatomy
that may otherwise be left pale.
Well how about that? The old fellah’s been pretty conservative with
both his gold game and his tanning, do you think he’s got a chance?
There is a Klingon tan-warrior on the field human. While I admire his
experience, there can be no doubt about who will be victorious.
Well, you’ve heard it here first folks. I’m Biff Shankwell, with
Krargh and hopefully the soon-to-return Nob, coming live from Epsilon
Five.
~It's all in my head, part 1~
Lt. JG T'Pei (as written by Robyn's roommate)
At first there was nothing. The first thing that there was, was just a vantage point on the nothingness. Having not been present for the earlier nothingness, there was no way of realizing from the vantage point that it was even new; or for that matter that there was any such thing as earlier since no notion of time had yet presented itself. There was, however, an inherent sense from the vantage point that this was not quite right, that there ought to be more than nothing. But what? This speculation led suddenly to conjecture, if there was something else, there might be somewhere else. This seemed right, perhaps the apparent nothingness had an extent, the void surrounded the vantage point and in it there were other wheres that might contain other things. It wasn't much, but it was something, and that changed everything. The very fact that the view from the vantage point had changed, however inconsiderably, indicated that things could change; the void now had not only extent, but also temporal order: there was a past to look back on, and that was definitely something.
It was almost too much. Trying to extend the view back through time had touched upon the memory of previous vantages that were as full as the current one was empty. So full that the rush of memory was nearly overwhelming and threatened to wash away the order that had been built thus far. It was only through force of will that this was avoided and focus was returned to the present. It felt all the more empty by contrast, but it was manageable.
Somehow the memory of remembering was sufficiently detached from the initial rush of information that it could be more easily processed. In those memories there had been other things: things that had had size and substance and shape. These concepts made the void much more interesting; it immediately became a playground for imagined objects of all shapes and sizes. Many of these were very familiar and were conjured readily even though they were quite complex. Upon reflecting on these familiar objects, a new type of concept emerged: words. That object was a "tree," this one a "sehlat." New words came quickly and unbidden; "bird" and the very familiar-feeling "person" both had shapes and sizes, but not all of them did. "Run" involved movement of the "person" shape or the "sehlat" shape, but "think" didn't even involve that. "Think" identified the effort that was involved in considering and shaping the void—although it could no longer be thought of as a void exactly; it was so full of things. But they all lacked permanence and evanesced as soon at the effort of thinking about them stopped.
"Fascinating." This word identified the experience of thinking new things and was accompanied by something else entirely new: joy, and curiosity. These were sensations that were extremely desirable and worth preserving. And so the thinking continued, each thought branching into several new ones. Thinking of "bird" led to thoughts of "flight" and "feather;" "feather" led to "red" and "soft" which were curious concepts, but before they could be considered and processed, the branching continued. Each avenue of thought ever expanding until once again the wildfire of words and concepts threatened to completely overwhelm and consume the stability of the thought process. This time was much worse, however, as the new sensation of fear was sparked. This was as objectionable as joy had been desirable and made exertion of any control all the more difficult. With difficulty and effort, focus was turned to the center and the rampaging lines of thought were extinguished. After a time, even the fear subsided.
It took another while before curiosity overcame caution, but eventually the thoughts once more extended carefully out towards new territory. Each new venture lasted only long enough to touch upon some new way of thinking before retreating to the core in order to understand and process the addition. In one color was added to the mix, later numbers and arithmetic, then sound and later music. Recalled pieces of music seemed uniquely capable of inspiring sensations of the kind that had been experienced before in joy and fear. Except that now, there was a whole spectrum of emotion: sadness, love, anger and on and on. These were clearly dangerous; experiencing each emotion was like sliding down and ever steepening slope, each step forward was more difficult to retreat from than the last. For now, it was reasonably simple to stop quickly, but these emotions warranted care.
As new concepts were discovered and solidified and connected, they allowed for a much fuller understanding of each other. "Sehlat," for example, was a type of creature; it was a set of characteristics that many individuals shared, even though they differed in other respects. They all had the same basic shape, made similar sounds, were soft and furry; but they varied in size and color—and in emotional response. Some were dangerous and provoked fear; others were loyal and inspired feelings of safety and love. Intriguingly, emotions could also be ascribed to them. They might be happy, or angry, or afraid. Ascribing something so lacking in substance to a sehlat, which clearly had substance, inspired self awareness in a completely new way. 'If the sehlat is like me, might I also have substance?' came the first truly first-person thought. Suddenly, having been made self-aware, it became very important for the consciousness to understand itself.
In order to do that, it seemed that there was no choice but to risk probing directly, if very timidly, the store of memories that had nearly overcome it before. 'That was a long time ago. I'm stronger now,' it thought, bracing for the experiment. With its newfound level of understanding, it was easier this time to tread carefully into the past—there enough comprehension to make some sense of it and enough control to filter out much of what was still unfamiliar.
Touching on the closest memory possible summoned an image of a dark place, and a terrible fear and urgency. Two figures were grappling with each other and it was extremely important that one in particular prevail. There was loud, desperate shouting, and a strong sense of frustration and helplessness. In a burst of red, the two figures stopped completely. The concern heightened; had the important one failed? No. The important one rose, inspiring relief and joy, but not completely eliminating the concern or urgency. The memory shifted, and while the dark surroundings seemed the same, the viewpoint was now different: it was approaching the important one, who was in the distance next to a metallic box. "Relsta!" was shouted. Yes, that was the name of the important one; it came with an intense familiarity. "Go!" At this cry, Relsta brought something down on the box, and an intense light filled the space.
Pain. Incredible heat and staggering pain. All at once the consciousness perceived that it had had a body, that body had been damaged, and that damage brought intensely objectionable sensations. Twisted limbs, broken bones, burned skin, searing lungs; the catalogue of parts of the newly discovered body continued, each with its own unique agony. And while the memory of pain was uncomfortable, it was eventually manageable. And the proprioseptive knowledge it brought with it was incredibly important.
'I have a body. I'm a person.'
It seemed almost obvious once realized, as though it could never have been in doubt. But then, so had many of the concepts that had had to be discovered and so were the ones that followed from it.
'My body isn't in this void, this place where I can think and feel and imagine and remember, this universe where things only endure as long as I focus on them. This is all my mind, my katra. It's linked to my body, but my body has substance that is lacking here and exists in a different place, a universe where things can have substance, where birds, and sehlats, and people, and Relsta and I exist and persist independently. But how to access that link and experience that universe again?'
Returning to the memory seemed the way to try to make more progress. The memory continued with eyes opening on Relsta. "We have to get out of here. I'll carry you," she said. No. The damage was severe. Moving would only worsen it. Death was near. Death! What a horrifying prospect. The possibility of existence simply ending had never even occurred to this point, and now it brought with it considerable anxiety. 'But I didn't cease to exist. I'm still able to think, and so I must still exist.' The memory continued. "T'Pei. T'Pei, do I need to…," Relsta said. T'Pei. The word was so incredibly familiar. 'I'm T'Pei.' Somehow, recognizing the name prompted a rush of identity. She knew she was Vulcan and female, and could picture the way she looked, and now she felt like she had made a huge step in returning to herself. It was a wonderful feeling. So wonderful, in fact, that she had to wait for it to subside in order to return to the memory, in which she was despairing and fearful of death.
She remembered knowing what Relsta was suggesting: there was a way of passing her katra to Relsta so that even if death came, it would not mean the absolute end. Yes. That needed to be done. But she didn't have the strength for the physical connection that was necessary. Relsta assisted, bringing T'Pei's fingers to her own face in the correct positions. T'Pei tried, but something was wrong. Why wasn't it working? This should be working. The fear was increasing dramatically. "You have to do it T'Pei. Help me," Relsta pleaded. But it was like trying to pass someone a sieve full of water each time she tried. Her body was broken, but her mind hadn't been impaired by the injury. This had to work. If it didn't work all would be lost. Why wasn't it working? T'Pei summoned all her reserves of mental strength, and opened her eyes, focusing on her physical connection to Relsta. Gathering all her energy, she managed to speak the word associated with the rite, "Remember."
Nothing.
It still hadn't succeeded. Fear turned to panic as T'Pei became more and more wrapped up in her own memory. Why it had not succeeded no longer mattered. All that mattered was survival, and her only chance of that was a healing trance, achieving so profound a level of focus that she would be, in effect, comatose and could direct all her mental energy to repairing her body. At first the process went smoothly, but as she went deeper than her normal meditation would go, it became apparent that there was a problem. Rather than focusing, her mind was dissolving, losing access to more and more of its resources. But by that point it was too late, entering the trance quickly sacrificed the ability to halt the process.
Not having yet totally established the boundaries between memory and reality, the T'Pei in the present was experiencing a terror at remembering this event that was very real. No, she cried out in her mind. ' I've worked too hard. I can't lose myself again!' But she was losing herself. This time, however, it wasn't to a failed trance, but to her own emotion. She was barreling down that ever-steepening slope she had been concerned about before, and the fear was increasing exponentially. Soon, it was like she was being smothered in panic; all other thought was snuffed out. Her entire universe consisted of nothing but pure, undiluted, primal terror. As her entire self was about to be extinguished, she instinctively reached out for something to make it stop.
Fortunately, she found it. She touched that part of herself that she had trained to control and confine her emotion and shunted the fear there. It was still there. And still just as strong. But rather than being a rampant blaze that was all consuming, it was a blistering furnace—still hot, but contained.
'I'm still trapped here in my mind,' she thought. 'There must be some kind of way out of here.' Focusing on her knowledge of her own body, she tried to reach out and connect with it. Eventually, she was aware of her own heartbeat, and could tell, without knowing precisely how, that its rhythm was accelerated. Again without entirely understanding the process, she managed to slow it to normal. Reaching out further, she slowed her breathing, relaxed tense muscles and lowered the adrenaline in her bloodstream. Restoring a balance that felt normal also set the intensity of the contained fear on a steady decline. Extending even further, she became aware of dull pain throughout her body; it was still damaged, if considerably improved since her last memory of it.
In addition there was a repeated sharp pain on her face. Something external had to be causing it. Focusing on that pain, she shifted her efforts towards increasing her level of awareness. Soon, she could hear a sharp crack with each repetition of the pain. Then, she was able to utter a small groan—not precisely what she had intended, but it was progress. Finally, she opened her eyes just in time to see a hand slap her face. After a startled blink, she was able to quickly survey the surroundings. It was gratifying to find that recognition was coming promptly, if not quite immediately. This was sickbay, sickbay aboard the Galaxy. The man standing next to her biobed, the one who had been slapping her, was wearing a blue lab coat and must be a doctor.
"Thank you, doctor," T'Pei said quietly. "That will be sufficient."
"Good." The doctor rubbed his hand gently. "My hand was beginning to hurt."
~It's all my head, part 2~
Lt. JG T'Pei (as written by Robyn's roommate)
Dr. Leronem Risdanach, Cogntive Neuropsychologist/Psychotraumatologist (NPC)
"How long has it been since I was injured and lost consciousness?"
The doctor turned and walked across the room to a large display panel as he spoke. "It's been four days. You've given the medical staff plenty to do." Tapping the console, he brought up her recent medical history. "Yes, they thought they were going to lose you a couple of times. I won't torment you with the details, but it took a couple days before you were out of physical danger. However, despite no apparent physical reason for it, you remained persistently vegetative even after they had patched you up. That's when they called me in."
T'Pei raised an eyebrow. "And…?"
The doctor sighed, and began to fiddle idly with his long, white mustache. "Now, Lieutenant, I've dealt with plenty of Vulcans in my time and I know how… sensitive the topic of mental discipline can be. I mean no disrespect, but my experience tells me that the best way to deal with the seriousness of the issue is to be fairly blunt both in my questions and my prognosis. Now, I'd like to hear your own account of what happened in your mind before I contaminate you with mine."
"Very well," she responded, her eyebrow finally dropping. "As you say, my injuries on the planet were severe. I concluded that the best chance of survival was entering a healing trance. The attempt failed and I lost consciousness." There was no reason to go into further detail until she had a clearer picture of what the doctor needed to know.
"Simple as that?" The doctor sounded vaguely displeased.
"I fail to understand your question."
The doctor sighed. "You have extensive training in mental discipline, do you not?"
"I do."
"This training included entering the healing trance, did it not?"
"It did."
"Since training, how many times you had occasion to attempt to enter it?"
"Several," This was beginning to seem to T'Pei like an interrogation. "I do not immediately recall an exact number."
"That's fine. How many of those times did the attempt fail?"
"None."
"Have you ever known other trained Vulcans to fail to achieve the trance?"
"Yes."
"And did any of them show similar symptoms to yours?"
"No, they merely were not able to reach any deeper level of awareness."
"So," said the doctor, raising his own eyebrow, "Does your extremely succinct explanation of your experience logically even approach an explanation of your condition?"
"I suppose it does not."
The doctor just stood there waiting for her to continue.
"The establishment of the trance went normally at first." Illogical as it might have been, it was difficult to admit what had happened. "However, as it progressed, instead of focusing into a trance, my connection to my mental faculties rapidly deteriorated until I completely lost any awareness."
"Thank you, Lieutenant." There was real compassion in his voice. "What else?"
How did he know? Perhaps Relsta had told him something. As much as she was uncomfortable talking about her katra with a non-Vulcan (who therefore couldn't possibly truly understand it), she had no desire to go another round with him and so acquiesced. "Prior to the failed trance, I attempted several times to pass my katra to Ensign Relsta without success. I could initiate a link with her, but could not send my katra along it."
"Again, I thank you for being forthright with me. I have one more question. I know that the field on the planet dampened your ability to control your emotions. Once the field had been eliminated, were you able to reestablish your emotional controls?"
"Yes."
"Good. I have known Vulcans with advanced Bendii Syndrome and effectively no emotional control to pass their katra without difficulty, even to a non-Vulcan, so I didn't think that was the cause. But that you had reestablished control helps to eliminate it as a possible cause."
He walked over and sat on the biobed next to T'Pei. "What you have said helps confirm something that I suspected. Whatever the damage is to your psyche that has rendered your katra untransferable, it is likely so deeply buried that it does not impinge on your everyday activities or even your typical meditation at all. The damage is, however, there. Now, I'll admit I don't know enough about the mechanism of katric transferal to know what damage specifically would interfere with the process, but it's fairly safe to say that until it is repaired, you will be unable to preserve your katra should you be near death again." The doctor paused sympathetically for this to sink in.
"The more immediate concern is the damage that was done when the healing trance derailed. Firstly, your physical recovery will take longer than it might otherwise, since you cannot risk entering another trance. Normal levels of meditation should be fine, even necessary to your immediate recovery, but anything more extreme and your mind will be at great risk. The failed trance very nearly shattered your mind beyond saving. It was only with a fair bit of chemical help and technological stimulation that you were able to recover. Again, I realize how little this idea will appeal to you, but you need to check with me before doing any mental exercise that is beyond your everyday activities." Here he paused, clearly waiting for a commitment.
"Very well," she relented.
"Good. In the immediate future, I'm relieving you from active duty while your mind recuperates."
"I don't believe that's necessary, doctor. I'm confident my faculties have returned." She appreciated his concern, but he was clearly being overly cautious.
The doctor stood up and extended an arm towards the door. "Alright, then. Come to my office and we'll sign you out."
T'Pei was surprised at the doctor's easy turn around, but was willing to accept it. However, her limbs did not respond as she expected them to when she tried to stand, and she ended up flailing wildly off the biobed and towards the floor. Fortunately, the doctor was prepared to catch her and return her to the biobed.
"Good. It turns out my many years of training weren't in vain and I'm better equipped than the patient to be the doctor. Your mind was deeply fractured by your experience and it will take some time to recover and be sure that you'll remember how to do even basic things in a pinch. Not too long, I expect, but not immediately either. Do your normal meditations, test yourself at a reasonable pace, and you'll be back to work very soon."
"As you say, doctor." After the fall, there was little argument she could give.
"I expect to see you here tomorrow afternoon to check on your progress and discuss some long-term treatment options. I'm Doctor Risdanach, you can set your appointment at your convenience."
The doctor had made some good points, but T'Pei saw no point in pursuing long term treatment with him. "With great respect to your training doctor, healing my mind of whatever caused these issues will require Vulcan mental discipline, in which, as you are already aware, I am very well trained. And while you undoubtedly have a strong understanding of the theory behind it, as you are not Vulcan, I don't see what assistance you can provide with anything that requires training beyond what I already posess."
"With great respect to Vulcan mental discipline," he said with a faint smile, "which has many strengths, treatment of psychological trauma of this sort—which I should mention is generally tied to emotion—is not one of them. And Vulcan neurology is not unique. It is very nearly identical to that of Segellians, Rigelians, Kirtapians, and Romulans just to name a few. And each of these species has developed mental discipline to help manage it. I cannot of course force you to seek out help from any of their techniques, but if your Vulcan pride can stand the blow, I can help you explore some that may well be of benefit to you. And since I'm in a position to insist, I can make sure you are at least aware of them."
There was clearly no point in pressing the issue any further with this doctor. "Very well. I will schedule to return tomorrow."
"Good." He went to the door and tapped the console to open it. Relsta was standing on the other side with a wheelchair. "I alerted your friend when you had awoken and she has been very patiently waiting for you to be ready to leave sickbay." Turning back to Relsta, he continued, "She's all yours. She should be quite gratified to see you, I'm sure I have quite thoroughly exasperated her." With that, the doctor nodded to T'Pei and left.
"Nicotine Fit"
With
Benedict "Max" Maxwell, APP
Petty Officer 2nd Class, NCOIC EMRT
USS Galaxy
Damn, I need a cigarette, Max whined silently. Ever since command's directive prohibiting smoking, he has been periodically irritable. The substitutes available were not only nasty, but not working for him. Chewing tobacco: Not happening; nicotine patches: don't work. Nebulized nicotine: toxic and made him gag.
For someone who disliked addicts, he sure was acting like one. In fact, he reasoned that he was a genuine hypocrite for needing a cigarette and acting the way he was.
Taking one of many deep breaths, he focused on his paper for his Masters Degree program. He had just read the memo on the upcoming Starfleet Games that the ship was to participate in. He strongly considered participating, however the need to finish this paper and try to square things with Victory was paramount on his mind. That was not the kind of distraction he needed right now.
He resigned himself to possibly watching a few martial arts match ups, but planned on spending time relaxing and getting away from the ship (while not being involved in a mission or operation). He hoped that the woman he loved would join him. The woman he loved. He mulled that thought in his mind for a while. Yes, he was in love with Victory, there was no doubt about that. But where would their futures take them? What roadblocks and opportunities would present as they traveled the common road together? Would she truly want to spend the rest of her life with him?
The last paragraph of his paper seemed to flow from his fingertips as he typed the final words to hopefully earn him his degree. Max set the auto proofreader to check the document, and after it reported its results he hit the send button. Now, it would be a week or two before he received a response. Damn, I need a fucking cigarette!
He got up from the LCARS terminal and paced the length of his quarters for several minutes. Then he decided to make a move. "Computer, current location of Petty Officer Victory?"
=/\=Petty Officer Victory is currently in her quarters.=/\=
The thought process that was running in the back of his mind now came to the fore, and a decision was made without difficulty. Max put on a casual tunic, and walked out of his quarters to face the one person whom he owed an apology to.
"making deals"
Captain T'Vara
USS Galaxy
Director Jordan Elaithin
Starfleet Intelligence
--
Clandestine operations officers often had issues when it came to rank for the simple fact that it was not, generally, a division one joined if one's goals consisted of climbing high on the traditional militarily based ladder. C.O.O.s usually kept their ranks low and their service jackets all but hidden for somewhat obvious reasons: self-preservation and of greater security (it was better that the enemy did not know the pithy little ensign in the cell was actually ten-year undercover veteran with more secrets than the president). More often than not, true rank was known only within the directorate itself, and any used in the outside world was often little more than cover. As such, rank mattered little within Jordan Elaithin's directorate; instead, seniority was based around stations and areas of service, and with few exceptions, it would vary considerably depending on the topic of the day.
The regular fleet, of course, was not like this, and shifting between the two methodologies often gave her a mild headache. Though, this had gotten easier when she was officially promoted to Commodore a year earlier; as vaguely humiliating as the title was, at least she didn't have to worry so much about whether or not the more traditional and regulations-focused senior officers of the fleet would be irritated if she forgot a salute.
Captain T'Vara, for instance.
Jordan wasn't sure if T'Vara was more or less preferable as a ship's CO than M'Kantu. The intelligence director liked them both well enough. The Galaxy's former captain was generally easy going and didn't seem to hold her position against her. T'Vara, on a similar note -- if because of her logical philosophy or some other reason -- concealed any feelings she may or may not have.
Of course, the Vulcan liked her order, and regardless of how successful the captain always was at concealing any feelings of irritation, Jordan knew that T'Vara would hate this.
"Captain," Jordan said, managing a small though somewhat unnecessary smile as she entered the captain's ready room. She was playing this one by the books: coming in on invitation and showing proper acquiescence toward the other woman's authority on the ship; truth be told, it was rare. "It's been a while; I don't think we've spoken since... Well. The Argus Panoptes was still a new ship." *And I wasn't dead yet...* she mentally added. "How are you adjusting to the Galaxy? She's a little bigger boat than you're used to."
"It is, Director Elaithin," the captain responded as she rose to meet her guest. Despite the fact that Director Elaithin served in a different and almost entirely separate branch of Starfleet, and that T'Vara herself was the final authority aboard this vessel, Jordan Elaithin was still of a higher rank and so a prescribed degree of respect was due in this sort of situation. "However, the size of the vessel is not always an indicator of the level of challenge involved in its administration."
Sensing what Jordan was really asking behind the words she'd actually spoken, T'Vara paused slightly before adding, "Every command is a learning experience that carries with it its own challenges. But, I believe that is not what you came here to discuss." Indicating the pair of guest chairs placed in front of the Ready Room's desk, T'Vara continued, "One of your rank does not often make these sorts of visits without a specific reason. How may I be of assistance?"
"The Galaxy has some... intrepid crew members," Jordan said, choosing her words carefully as she settled into the seat across from the captain. "And her intelligence attachment is no exception. Being straightforward, I'm here primarily as an observer and investigator. Some actions have raised a few red flags, the types of which require a higher level of inquiry than the typical internal affairs investigation. Consequently, I'm intending to be onboard for several weeks -- if that is not too much of an imposition."
"I see," T'Vara replied with an understanding nod. Here was one of the reasons why shipboard intelligence teams made her uneasy: it was one of the few areas on the ship over which she did not have total control. "You are, of course, welcome to remain aboard as long as is needed."
Jordan inclined her head as a sign of appreciation. "So then, as professional courtesy, I wanted to read you in a little. Nothing too specific, but I've had your current intelligence department liaison temporarily reassigned. He will, likely, return, but there was another matter I wanted to... test him on. Meanwhile -- I know that intelligence usually handles its own people, but I wanted to bring you into the loop and I'm asking you to inform Lieutenant Junior Grade Kyznetsova that she will temporarily be filling in for Bental while he is... off ship. We're interested to see how she reacts to the change and to additional responsibility, among other things."
"Understood. I shall inform her as soon as you and I are finished." In the back of her mind, T'Vara wondered how long that might be, and whether Director Elaithin had come here for a reason other than to deliver this news. Regardless, it would give the captain an opportunity to meet the team's Technical Operations officer, who, up until this point, she'd had no need to speak with.
"Excellent, I appreciate it." Jordan stood then, nodding toward the CO. "That should cover everything, then. I will arrange quarters with the operation department and get out of your way. Unless you have any questions for me?"
"I have no questions, but I do have a request," T'Vara answered. "I am aware of and have come to accept the somewhat insular tendencies of Starfleet Intelligence in these situations. However, should your investigation reveal any information that may affect this vessel or its crew, either positively or negatively, I ask that you share such information with me."
Jordan paused a moment, but then nodded. "That's certainly fair," she said. "Of course; I will give you a full briefing on anything that would pertain to the Galaxy." She paused a moment. "I'll leave you to your work, captain. Thank you."
They nodded to one another and Jordan turned, exiting the ready room and gliding across the bridge to the turbo lift. T'Vara wouldn't wait -- she would contact the lieutenant' almost immediately if not faster. That gave the director just enough time to return to the Intelligence Center and browse -- not to mention catch up on some neglected reports -- before she needed to meet Valentina.
She looked at her watch, and then sighed. Maybe she could even hop on an encrypted deep space transmission and talk to her kids. With almost a week of travel time behind her, she already missed them like crazy.
"Time to Go"
Part VII of the Breakable Saga
(After UnPretty and Battle for Delta)
"I've come back to find you" said the daughter.
"There is nothing to be found." said the father.
"I've broken laws…legal and of physics to get here." said the daughter.
"I am a man of laws." said the father.
"My life was empty without you." said the daughter, "Lonely and full of questions."
"Your answers are not here." said the father.
"I'm your daughter damnit!"
"I 've had daughters before…you are not unique." said the father.
"Do you love my mother? Do you?" asked the daughter.
"I don't." said the father.
"Love me!! Please!" said the daughter.
"I cant."
"Try damnit!"
"I wont."
<silence>
<ignorance.>
"Do you care about anything….anybody?" asked the daughter.
"Yes but she is not here………you are not she."
"I could be." said the daughter.
"Never." said the father.
"You have no place for me here then?" asked the daughter.
"I never did."
"Where shall I go?" asked the daughter.
"I don't care." said the father.
"Damn you!"
"I already am……I always have been." said the father.
"Thanks for dragging me down with you then……thanks a lot." said the daughter.
<Pause> "Perhaps that is a part of you that really is my daughter then…….I'm sorry."
"I……I must go then. There is nothing for me here now." said the stranger.
"I'm sorry….but there never was." said the other stranger.
(OOC: Allison and her father James Corgan for you new dudes
(takes place after "The B Team, Part II" and before "Let the Games Begin!")
"In Which 8-ball Takes Interest in the Starfleet Games"
Lt. 8-ball Hunter
"8-ball's personal log. Stardate: a few days after I was nearly eaten.
A strange thing happened today. Johnny Walker came over to watch some movies, and when he came in I was dressed. I mean, fully dressed. I didn't even have a bra strap showing. Johnny just stared at me. I told him to get his ass out and come back in again. He thought that was kind of dumb, but I hate to break tradition. I know weird shit's headin my way when Johnny Walker walks in on me clothed.
Heh, Johnny Walker walks. Johnny Walker walking. That's kind of hard to say. JohnnyWalkerwalkingJohnnyWalkerwalkingJohnnyWakkaWakka, oh, forget it.
Anyway, I took my shirt off quickly and Johnny came back in. He complimented my 8-ball's bra. And then I put my top back on. It's weird. We're friends, and I'm not screwing him or anything.
I guess nearly being eaten with a guy just deepens your relationship, or something.
So, Johnny brought the popcorn, and I brought the booze, and we sat down to watch Saw 5000. When the slutty chick was trapped with spiked tribbles burrowing up her hoo-ha, Johnny brought up the Starfleet Games that the Galaxy was hosting.
I couldn't believe he was so into it. "What'm I going to do?" I asked him. "They don't give medals for creative fucking. Or endurance. Or how many times you can make a guy come.
Johnny actually blushed a little. That kid's so cute, I swear.
He figured I might try something like running, a requisite survival skill for all Galaxy members. Which, yeah, point to him, but I need the bad guy behind me to feel the motivation. I asked him what event he was entering. "Running," he said. Ask a stupid question, yeah, yeah. I know.
I told him that unless shots or darts got put on the menu, I was probably just gonna hang on the sand and watch the boys in their speedos. I mentioned that I spent my formative years (ie, adolescence) in a bar, and that bar sports just weren't held in high enough regard.
Johnny then mentioned that billiards was an event.
I couldn't believe it. "Really?" I asked him, cause pool being recognized as a sport was way too awesome to actually be true. I'd bet on some stodgy bastard nominating chess before pool, like playing chess involved anything besides brainpower and a shitload of patience. I got a decent amount of the former, but next to none of the latter, so I'm a mediocre chess player . . . not that any of that matters.
Anyway, Johnny said that billiards really was an event and then asked me if I got the name "8-ball" honestly. Maybe he thought there was some kind of sexual innuendo he was missing? Anything I can think of sounds pretty painful, I gotta say. So, I said to him, "Boy, you kidding? I was made to play this game."
And that's how I got suckered into doing a Starfleet sponsored event.
And as a sidenote, I should mention that Saw 5000 sucked hardcore. There hasn't been a decent one since 3040.
But I don't care. I got some practicing to do.
End log."
"Sigma-9"
Captain T'Vara
Lieutenant Victor Krieghoff
****
USS Galaxy
Deck 8
Captain's Quarters
Some called it the most significant historical find in the last century, and claimed that every resource devoted to this undertaking, no matter how small, would provide untold benefits in the coming months and years. Others considered it to be a relic of a time long gone and an obsolete way of life, and complained that the amount of manpower and equipment assigned to the project was not just wasteful, it was irresponsible.
Predictably, T'Vara's opinion on the matter lay somewhere in the middle.
Had she been asked, the Vulcan captain might have found it hard to justify the number of people and ships sent to study the sixth planet in the 50118-137 Alpha system. But, since she had no say on the issue, T'Vara had ultimately decided that if the information continued to be made available, she would continue to avail herself of it.
"Fascinating," she murmured, scanning the latest reports from the ongoing excavation of the ancient colony ship known as Talvalen. The process had been slow going due to some sort of planetary anomaly beyond her level of understanding, but at last, after several months of digging and hundreds of hours of piecing together fragmented computer logs, some real data was beginning to come out.
The captain leaned forward in her chair, intently poring over the information. For the past two thousand years all the history books had taught that the Separatists were of one mind and bound together by one philosophy. But now, more and more evidence was coming to light, evidence that finally proved that within the group there had been distinct factions, and factions within factions, and still more factions within those factions, all constantly vying for power within the ships as they--
=/\= Krieghoff to T'Vara =/\=
Her concentration broken by the sudden interruption, T'Vara sighed and closed the document. "T'Vara here."
=/\= I need to speak to you immediately regarding a matter requiring a higher security classification than I can authorize, ma'am. =/\=
"Very well," she replied, powering off her desktop console. It seemed that Talvalen and the thousands who had perished with it would, for the moment, have to wait. "Please report to my Ready Room."
****
Deck 1
Ready Room
Victor arrived less than half a minute after the captain, the room's double doors quickly parting as he approached. Predicting that this latest matter was more urgent than normal she elected to forgo the usual 'pleasantries' and instead beckoned to the room's guest chairs. "Please explain."
"I commissioned a necropsy on the native predator that was beamed aboard with Commander Smith," Victor began without delay. "In the process of that necropsy, the officer performing the study made determinations that I felt required a separate security classification from the rest of the report higher than I was able to apply myself."
"How so?" she asked, leaning forward slightly in her chair. This was the first time in her career she'd ever been asked to classify the results of an autopsy, and it was...curious.
"In short, Ma'am, the creatures possess the capacity to generate natural shielding that is proof against phaser fire."
"Interesting." T'Vara fell silent, letting the single word fade away slowly before she continued. "This is an adaptation the creature developed naturally?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Victor conceded. "I admit to a degree of curiosity as to why a species would develop such a specialized modification when no other animals yet observed on the planet have a natural form of energy projection. Evolution doesn't naturally create an adaptation like this without a need, and if there is no need, then that leaves open the possibility of artificial evolutionary assistance."
T'Vara nodded in thought, taking what she already knew about Lieutenant Krieghoff's behavioral patterns and using that knowledge to predict where he might be going with this. "And... you believe this natural shielding could potentially be studied and adapted for use by others?"
"Yes." The statement was definitive. "One of the races the Federation is currently at war with, the T'Kith'Kin, are biological engineers. I don't know that they *can't* create soldiers and living war machines that have their own innate shielding, but I see no need to leave the information gleaned from these creatures lying around in an unclassified state in our mission report where one of their agents might find it and give them that capacity if they don't have it."
"That is understandable," she responded. Although it was never logical to leave potentially damaging information out in the open for one's enemies to find, what the captain found more informative, and possibly more disturbing, about Krieghoff's request was the information lying just beneath the surface. The necropsy would become part of this mission's report to Starfleet Command, and access to such reports was already restricted. If the Lieutenant felt the data needed to be locked down more tightly, that pointed to the idea that Triad agents had already infiltrated Starfleet ranks to a certain degree; possibly even aboard Galaxy itself. And while such infiltration was an almost expected thing in wartime, being reminded of or confronted with it was never pleasant.
"Very well," T'Vara concluded, curious to see just how classified Krieghoff wanted to make this. "What level of security do you believe should be placed on this information?"
"I did some research on the subject," Victor explained, relieved that the Captain was, so far, not displaying any of the signs that he'd learned to associate with a Vulcan who felt that their time was being wasted. "And based on the nature of the material, I felt that asking you to classify it separate from the main report at the Sigma-9 level was the best solution. As you know, that level of clearance includes material such as retro-viral weapons, and, while this material isn't on that level of immediate threat, the potential damage it could do is on a par with weapons of that sort. Plus, having checked your clearances, you are capable of classifying material to that level."
"I am," she confirmed with a nod. "However, before I fulfill this request, would this course of action not draw undue attention to the information which we intend to hide? Would it not be simpler to do nothing; to allow the information to simply disappear into the terraquads of other mission data Starfleet maintains?"
Victor nodded. "I thought about that; in fact, it was my initial inclination. On reflection, though, I decided that it was a bad idea."
"Explain."
"Because the Galaxy and her crew have, collectively and colloquially, poked their fingers into the Triad's ocular organs too many times since the start of the War and even before that," he explained. "When one reaches the point that a political and military alliance the size of the Triad has chosen to target a specific vessel for individually targeted attentions on at least four occasions, including one where they literally ripped the consciousness of an officer from their body to replace it with one of their own agents, then it seems logical to accept that such a vessel is subjected to greater than normal scrutiny by their Intelligence forces. That means all non-classified material leaving the ship is, and should be considered to be, intercepted and read by Triad analysts and operatives. In this case, that means that the autopsy, which would normally be lost in the clutter of message traffic, would almost certainly be read and acted upon. By classifying it, we can eliminate the vast majority of potential intercept sources, because lower-ranking officers and analysts - the ones most likely to be replaced and/or suborned by the Triad - wouldn't see the data to begin with."
"Classifying this material would still call attention to it, thereby drawing a greater than average level of scrutiny by higher-level Triad operatives, would it not?"
"Yes, the sudden appearance of classified material, particularly material that has been separately classified within an already classified report, would be a flag that something was happening," he conceded. "I don't know what we can do about that, though. Possibly you could randomly classify useless material to the same level for a while before sending the report on, forcing them to guess which material - if any - contained real value? Or, alternatively," he offered, "you could classify it - and then not transmit it except by direct personal transfer or person-to-person coded communication to a specific individual?"
T'Vara remained silent for a moment, contemplating the options he had presented. The first she immediately rejected; while there was a certain logic to it, and such tactics were occasionally used from time to time, guidelines and regulations still existed that prohibited the classification of materials that did not meet a certain set of criteria. And while these guidelines and regulations were generally ignored by many and relaxed significantly during wartime, that still did not mean the straight-laced Vulcan would ever consider violating them herself.
The second option was a bit more feasible; coded communications to a specific individual could just as easily be interpreted as personal correspondence and not worth the time to decrypt. However, that didn't entirely rule out the possibility that the information would be intercepted and eventually decoded. And, sending mission files through personal channels was a bit unconventional...something which T'Vara most definitely was not.
"Would direct data transfer be sufficient?" she asked at last. "Delaying transmission of mission data until a direct physical connection with a starbase or other installation can be made is only slightly irregular, and is more likely to escape scrutiny by our adversaries. Transmitting the data while docked removes the possibility that the data will be intercepted via subspace."
"That would remove the possibility of simple signal interception," he agreed. "We should likely do that anyway, given the nature of the dimensional displacement effect and the possibility that it was generated by the crashed ship's engines. Starfleet's Intelligence personnel will be drooling at the thought of trying to adapt the process so they can walk around inside enemy installations and cities and see everything without being seen or intercepted. And there is a point beyond which our efforts would simply be of little or no additional use."
"That is a curious visual image," the captain commented. She'd had relatively few direct dealings with Starfleet Intelligence in her career, and so she still found their behavior a bit odd. "However, such technology, properly developed and applied, could prove extremely useful. Very well; I shall classify the necropsy report at the requested level, and will instruct Operations to delay the report until such time as it can be transmitted securely."
"Thank you," Victor said with a sense of relief and a nod. It wasn't perfect by any means, but it would allow the best chance of keeping the information out of Triad hands until it had passed beyond the level of Starfleet bureaucracy that he could exert influence over. He considered what to say next, since it seemed obvious that he ought to say something. Perhaps he should mention the security device he'd installed in her quarters after their initial meeting? No, no he thought not. Better to have it in place and not need it than the reverse. Besides, he'd left the similar device set up to monitor his own quarters for the Phantom in place as well, so it wasn't as if she was being singled out for special treatment. If nothing of significance was going to occur to him - and that looked to be the case - then... "I trust I didn't interrupt anything that can't be resumed with my call, Ma'am."
Although he didn't know it himself, Krieghoff's call had interrupted her study of a subject which she found intensely compelling. But, she considered, such study could always be continued where she had left it. "Nothing that cannot be easily resumed, Lieutenant," she replied with a single shake of her head. "Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention in a timely fashion."
"I'd have preferred to not need to bring it to your attention at all," Victor conceded. "But we have to work with the world we live in, and that world required it." He paused, and then added, "Is there anything I can do for you while we're here, Ma'am?"
T'Vara thought about that for a moment, and considered the interesting situation in which she found herself. After all, the ship she was now commanding had been the one that made the initial discovery of the Talvalen wreckage. She'd read through the mission report and as such knew that most of the crew had experienced a collective vision given to them by the long-stored katras of the people who had gone down with the ship. She wondered if Lieutenant Krieghoff was one of the people who, according to the report, had actually retained some memories of the experience. If so, he (and any other crewmembers that were like him) could become a valuable addition to the research being done.
But, she mused, such subjects might be better discussed later, at a more appropriate time. After all, she was still new here, and some of the crew were still adjusting to being under her command after years of working with Daren M'Kantu. Broaching the topic of an experience that some might consider to be intensely personal, disturbing, or even painful, especially when it might accomplish nothing more than to satisfy T'Vara's own personal curiosity, might then be something best attempted at a later time and place.
And so, even though the captain was experiencing a strong desire to query Victor regarding his experiences during the incident, T'Vara decided to repress the urge and instead replied, "Nothing at the moment. Thank you, Lieutenant."
Victor nodded and turned to leave. "Have a good evening, Ma'am," he offered as he reached the door.
"Likewise, Mr. Krieghoff."
OOC - So, I should say that I will officially be sitting this mission out. I'm prepping for my orals this semester, its taking most of my time. I will, though, occasionally continue putting out these SwapGame posts, as they don't require me to keep up on the reading, which is the thing about the sim that takes the most of my time.
This post features Victor, again, as well as K'aa and Daniels. I mentioned before how much I like characters that I see as mythic or very archetypal. Victor has always been the Death of the Galaxy. K'aa, though, to me, was always sort of the monster on the Miranda. He was, in general, less intense than Victor, but just as powerful. This view of mine comes from the Indefatigable mission, or at least, the aftershocks that appeared in Dave's posts following that mission (which occurred before I joined). In that mission (and someone could correct me if I'm wrong), he was possessed by an entity who, though subservient to the entity that possessed Shirrel, the Romulan TAC officer, was a powerful force of pure evil. I don't really believe in good and evil, per se. Evil, I think, is just whatever is currently antagonistic. In general, these are things like destruction, or death. Victor is death. Thus, a similarity between Victor and K'aa is easy to construct.
If one wanted to point out differences, Victor often represents the good qualities of death, whereas K'aa, when referring to this possession, how the possession changed him and the potential for a future repossession, often represented the bad qualities of death. Nevertheless, death they both are. So, if you believe that, then the powers of one should be available to the powers of the other. One death should not have to abide by the permissions issued by another. This is what I try to explore in this post, essentially.
Contemplating further, and thinking about the things I mentioned about Victor previously - offering the idea that Victor is a cocoon or shell for some greater force. Say Victor is an egg, in some way, for an angel of death. When he dies, or whatever, a new angel of death will be released and will go about its work carrying souls to the other side. One may prefer a single angel of death, a Death, if you will, but if you grant for the moment that there can be many - as if death is some supernatural species with many instances - then, perhaps Victor is a death for humans. He can affect many things, but his primary domain is humans. K'aa, then, could be a shell for a death for Gorn. Which would imply there's a Vulcan Victor/K'aa, or a Betazoid, or a Trill, etc. It makes Victor less unique, which is perhaps unfortunate, but it could provide a very interesting counter-balancing force in K'aa. And conflicts between equal powers are always more entertaining than one-sided fights.
Chris Daniels has often struck me as the classical hero in training figure, like Perseus, or really more like Luke Skywalker. Chris, for a long time, wrote the most convincingly young and green character I've ever read on a sim. He was an expert writer playing green, but sounding like an expert. Typically, one sees green players trying to write an expert and sounding very, very green. Although often treated like a mature professional by other player characters, he surrounded Daniels with antagonistic NPCs that thought he was an upshot, and undeserving of his position. Chris often wrote the character not only facing and eventually overcoming external problems, but internal problems, like esteem and/or confidence issues, as well.
But, I really became fascinated by the character when he and Dave wrote a post essentially foreshadowing that their two characters were the reincarnations of a classical Risan hero and monster (very much like Perseus and Medusa). It's an awesome idea, but one with a definite end point. In my opinion, Chris Daniels is only interesting while he remains the hero in training. When he graduates, when he becomes the hero he is destined to be (perhaps when he kills K'aa), the traditional story is over. If Chris ever has Daniels reach this point, and if he plans to keep the character beyond that point, I think he's going to have quite a challenge on his hands. What does the hero do once he's won? Just tossing more challenges at him makes the character like many others, and thus, removes what, I believe, made him unique. But, of course, it would be extremely interesting to see that challenge overcome.
Johnny Walker is just the most recently used NPC of note. I don't mean to suggest anything by his usage in this post.
~Contests of Power~
K'aa
Victor Krieghoff
Chris Daniels
Daniels looked through the window out onto the barren, lifeless landscape. The ground outside was gray-white, reflecting the light of the bright star like talcum powder. The sky above it was black as pitch, twinkling with stars. Although the view was the same as that often seen from a starship porthole, the fact that he was on a planetoid made the view bizarre. Observing both the sun and stars in the sky during the daytime was unnatural.
But, then, so was the inability to go outside.
"We have a little over six hours of air," he announced, turning back to face the others that were trapped with him inside the abandoned lunar colony.
"Hrrrnnnssss," K'aa growled, the odd half-hissing, half-clicking noise emanating from deep within his reptilian chest. "That isssss not enough time. The Galaxxxy won't return for another eight hourssss."
Chris glanced at the others before responding. Victor Krieghoff was kneeling beside Johnny Walker, who lay unconscious on the floor, checking his vitals. His face and chest was badly burned, easily third degree, and he still had shrapnel embedded in his left side. "I know," Daniels said ultimately, "but I don't know what else we can do. Without power, the CO2 scrubbers won't work. Perhaps you can have a look?"
"Hrrnnsss. I will look, but my posssition in Opssss issss more due to my skillsss with organization than my engineering prowessss," the great lizard replied, and ambled over to the opened control panel.
Daniels, on the other hand, stepped over towards Krieghoff. Normally, Victor creeped the hell out of him; Chris wanted as little to due with the man as was possible. It was always as if he was looking for the best way to snap your neck. Right now, though, the feeling wasn't as strong, perhaps because Victor was concentrating so much on the injured crewman. "How is he?"
"Pretty bad," Victor replied, his voice as much of a growl as K'aa's. "He needs serious medical attention as soon as possible."
Unfortunately, that was as far away as the Galaxy.
Behind them, K'aa cursed in his native Gorn. "You're right, Chrisssss. Thissss issss uselessss," he said.
The three men looked at each other then, in that moment, thinking that there was nothing they could do. The situation was completely out of their hands. They were going to die. In that moment, there was nothing but despair.
But then, that moment passed, and each returned to their own tasks - trying to save the day. Victor returned his attention to Walker. Chris and K'aa both began to run some calculations on their tricorders.
They sat like that for a long time, quietly performing their jobs. Eventually, the silence was disturbed as Johnny Walker returned to consciousness. "Wha?" he coughed, "What happened?"
Chris looked up and glanced at K'aa with surprise on his face before moving nearer the fallen colleague. K'aa, on the other hand, stayed where he sat and after a moment's observation, returned to his tricorder. "There was an explosion," Victor explained, "There was a weak pipe in the geothermal turbine. It had a fracture. We think that when you brushed against it, it shattered."
Johnny Walker looked confused. It was clear he couldn't quite remember what had happened, and hadn't fully processed his current situation. Eventually, his gaze turned downward, over his wounded body. "Oh God," he sighed, his head falling back to the floor.
"Walker," Victor called out, inches from his face, "You're going to be okay? Do you hear me? The Galaxy is returning, soon."
Walker didn't verbally respond. Instead, he looked up at Victor, a look of incredible disbelief radiating through his eyes, the only part of his face that was still fully expressive.
"John Walker," Victor continued, "You do not have permission to die. Do you understand me?"
Walker blinked, and finally responded, "Uh, yeah, okay."
Victor repeated, "Do you understand me?"
"Yes. Yes, sir. I understand," Walker said, and then his body seemed to relax. After a few moments, he passed out again.
Daniels had been so caught up in watching the scene that he didn't move until Walker had lost consciousness again. It was only then that he seemed to have the ability to think again. But, K'aa jumped at the chance first. "I know how we can survive the extra two hourssss," he hissed.
"How?" Victor asked, rising from Walker's side for the first time since the explosion.
"Hrrrnnnssss," K'aa stalled for a moment, seemingly in search of his words. "There are four of ussss currently breathing our limited ssssupply of air. That air will deplete in sixxx hourssss. If there were only three of ussss, then we would have air for one person for six hourssss or for three people for two hoursss--"
"No," Victor said suddenly, cutting him off.
"It isss simple math," K'aa insisted.
"It is not an option," Victor repeated.
"Lieutenant Krieghoff, the chancesss of him surviving are very sssmall."
"I said no!" Victor growled. Behind them, Daniels found himself taking a step back. K'aa, however, held his ground. "Find another option."
"Um, I think I have an idea," Chris offered after a moment.
There was no immediate response. Victor and K'aa seemed to be staring each other down. Eventually, K'aa growled and moved away. Victorious, Krieghoff replied, "What is it, Lieutenant?"
"I think I can jury rig the CO2 scrubbers using our tricorders as a power supply. We just need them to run long enough to generate enough breathable air to last for two additional hours, right? If we use the batteries in the tricorders, I think we'll have enough power for that," he offered.
"Interesting idea, Mr. Danielssss," K'aa replied from across the room. "May I ssseee your calculationssss?"
"Yeah, here," he said, passing the open tricorder to the reptilian. Instead of waiting for K'aa to check them, he moved over to the powerless control panel and began to implement his idea by finding and disconnecting the power couplings.
Victor walked over, "Do you need help?"
"Um," Daniel stumbled, a cold shiver running down his spine due to Victor's proximity. He pulled one of the power cords and examined the connections. "Yeah, I think we're going to need something to act as a converter between the tricorder battery and this type of connector."
"This is a high amp connector," Victor pointed out, "Tricorder batteries can only output so much power so fast."
"Oh, right. We need a capacitor in between that can store up power and then dump it all into the CO2 scrubber at once."
"It won't work," K'aa declared from across the room. "Your calculationsss are flawed. Even if you can convert all of the power stored in the tricorder batteriesss, it will only generate enough air for an hour," he said, handing the tricorder over to Daniels.
"What? No, I don't understand how you arrive at that," Chris said, searching through the calculations and beginning to rework them a second time.
"It doesn't matter," Victor said, "It will buy us more time to think of another solution. Redoing the calculations will just take more the tricorder's battery power."
Chris looked up and nodded. "You're right," he said, closing the tricorder. "We need to find a capacitor." Victor nodded and each of them moved off to another machine, Victor to a computer terminal, Chris to a robotic arm, in search of their needed piece. Neither of them noticed that K'aa had moved over to where Johnny Walker lay unconscious.
They did notice sound of ripping flesh and the brief cry of pain, however.
"What did you do?!" Victor roared, rushing over to find Walker's throat ripped open, blood dripping from K'aa's hands.
"Buying ussss time," K'aa quietly replied. Though hushed, there was adamant certainty in his voice.
"You killed him!" Victor and Chris exclaimed, essentially in unison.
"He would not have survived, anyway. I have ended his ssssuffering and sssaved our livessss," K'aa explained, casually wiping the blood from his claws.
Chris noticed Victor out of the corner of his eye. The look on his face terrified him, he had never seen someone look so angry. But, at the same time, there was a look of confusion. Or, so he thought. Chris couldn't bring himself to make full eye contact. Instead, he looked to K'aa, "We could have found another way. My idea, if it didn't give us two full hours, would have bought us enough time to figure something else out."
"I do not think that issss true," K'aa replied. "But, now, we have several hourssss to consider the matter."
"How could you do that?" Victor growled suddenly. K'aa gave him a curious look. "I didn't give him permission to die."
"Permissssion?" K'aa repeated skeptically, his eyes narrow. "Lieutenant, you are not the only creature in this universssse with the ability to kill. With the power over life and death."
Chris suddenly found himself backed up against the wall. He didn't notice, but had been slowly backing away during the confrontation. They were staring each other down again. K'aa statuesque, confident and resolute, Victor also statuesque, but boiling with rage. Not rage over the death of Walker, but rather, it seemed, like the rage one feels when their worldview is ripped out from beneath them.
Daniels felt the urge to collapse to the ground, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It seemed a small, but necessary protest against defeat. But, it was clear his presence had now become insignificant, overpowered by the contest between K'aa and Victor.
The two Monsters of the Galaxy.
Somnium Fatuo
(Failed Dreams)
PART VIII of the Breakable Saga
Dark were her thoughts, and foul was here mood.
Visions of futures past, and pasts reality echoed painfully in her mind as she drew her plans.
The cutting edge of an overfull duffle bag packed with trinkets and memories of a time she'd rather forget. The strap stabbing deep into delicate shoulders, scraping pink skin with their cruelty.
Forgotten pain to be left behind, and a future to return to , full of harsh words and angry promise.
Mothers abandoned and left in search of a fool's quest.
A fools quest with a fool to be found at the end.
No joyous homecoming, no twirling reception of recognition.
Just anger and madness, colors of insanity and indifference. Oh you…..so what….big deal……get in line.
Bah.
Treasures collected from once bustling shelves, lifeless and colorless now, but swept into the duffle's greedy mouth.
Farewells.
There were few farewells.
A blistering embrace from a friend of stone. Tears sizzling down a volcanic hide, bubbling to nothingness. A solid friend through and through.
She taught a stone to bend a little. It taught her to stand a little firmer.
Doors yawned open into the corridors of light and color. A whirlwind bustle of strangers and stranger faces, ghosts long dead, and dreams long faded.
Jostling onward…..shoulder strap biting , and head hung low. One final destination on this journey to failure.
He was waiting of course……he knew, and though he did not understand, he stood by nevertheless.
Dread was his aura. Death was in his eyes, and madness hung on his shoulder.
Promises of vileness and slaughter pricked the hearts of all who ventured near.
She braved it all, goosebumps rising in protest.
Tears now soaked another uniform front, flesh softer than that of stone, though in its way far more dreadful.
He did not understand, but he knew to simply stand by.
She was going. Pale face, streaked makeup, and blue eyes reddened. He did not know the destination….knew the journey was dangerous and born of folly.
Madness.
Impossible.
Unwise.
He ought to stop it.
Instead kind hands pulled the biting strap from her thin shoulder and hefted the duffle onto his own.
This is the way, hands gestured. Let me escort you from this place.
Hissing doors sealed her away for one final time from this world of dreams gone sour. Brilliant neon lights colored a tear streaked face as power hummed into the shuttle's throbbing antimatter heart.
Such dreams for this place.
Dreams of childhoods lost, picnics missed, and bruised knees kissed.
Dreams of dancing fairy princess, snowball warfare, and stories before bed.
But dreams are just mists after all. They fade and flicker when you try to grab hold. Biting cruel reality is our lot in life. Cold surfaces, and jagged edges of our lives.
They lifted from the cold deck, taking flight from her dreams, and passing out into the void of reality.
The future was her past, and to that cold memory she must return. The shining starship of her dreams slipped behind the tiny shuttle fading dimly into the eternal night……..for better or for worse into the past once and for all.
She didn't even look back.
"Re-entry Exam"
1st Lt. Branwen London
Chief Psychologist, CO 5th Platoon, SFMC
USS Galaxy
PO2 Benedict "Max" Maxwell, APP
NCOIC EMRT
USS Galaxy
Branwen did not like the fact that for many months to come she would still need medical check-ups, and medication. She had a bellyful of doctors to last her a lifetime. But it was a requirement of going back to work, so there really was no choice. She decided to go to Max because he had been there at the beginning and he knew all about her case already. At least she would not have to explain it all.
"Hello stranger." She said stepping into his office.
Max jumped when he heard the voice, not so much of because who it was but because he has so deep in concentration reading over the reports that littered the CMO's desk. He offered a cordial smile, not quite knowing what to expect. He wasn't sure if she had found out whether or not that he was the one who was debriefed by Bental, which in turn led to her being taken away by the spooks from Starfleet.
"Hey, Branwen," he finally answered, fully aware of the uncomfortable pause he allowed to build. "When did you get back on board?"
"A few days ago." She said and sat down opposite him. "I came to you because I still need medical care and I guess I know you and you know me. No need to tell everything from the beginning, and I know I can trust you." Branwen said simply.
"Right, of course," Max replied. True, he had enough knowledge of her situation to provide supportive treatment, but wondered if a physician would better suit her needs. A physician had much more training and education to tackle Branwen's...unique situation, his experience notwithstanding. He decided to say as much to her.
"Basically, I believe that Dr. Burton could provide a broader range and more effective treatment than I can. Or are you still not talking to her," he asked.
"We started talking again before I had to leave." She said. "I think we can salvage the friendship. But that is it, we are friends. It is never a good thing to treat your friends. And you already know what is going on. I like you but we are not friends…yet." Bran stated.
"I understand that," he said. "But I need you to understand that while I am a mid-level practitioner, I still need authorization for certain treatments and medications."
"We can ask Kimberly to supervise if she has the time. That could work." Bran said grudgingly.
Max nodded. "Good. I'll consult with her after I run a complete scan and draw some labs to see what your current status is."
An uncomfortable pause, then: "I really hate to ask this...but did they happen to give you a copy of your medical work up from...wherever you were?"
"What do you think, Max? That they would trust me with information like that? It might be in my file or Dallas might have it but I certainly don't." She said honestly.
"I didn't they would," he sighed. It didn't hurt to try, however. "Alright. I'll get you to a private room and give you a once-over." He stood, circled the desk, and went to the doors. When they parted, he paused and waited for her to pass, an arm outstretched in guidance to the treatment area.
"Not a problem." Bran said. "I would like to get this over with and spend as little time as possible in this place. Nothing personal, Max." She entered the room and started to disrobe behind the screen.
"Not to worry, none taken," the Medic said. He pulled up Branwen's file for review and comparison. Again, as expected, there were no open entries (even for his classification's security clearance) that were visible since his patient was taken from the Galaxy. Nonetheless, the last baselines were going to have to be his guide. When he had all the relevant information reviewed and on standby display, Max leaned against the bulkhead and waited for her to finish changing into the gown.
Bran stepped out a little later feeling naked in her gown. She had come to really hate these things. "Okay max, just tell me you can get me off the last drugs as soon as possible and make the last twinges of green go away. That would make me a happy person."
Max blew out a very, very long breath. "Then I guess you're not going to be happy in that regard for a while. There's no quick fix in medicine, meaning this is going to take a little more time to pass."
She frowned. "I thought I was nearly cured. What else is there to do? The greenlness is nearly gone and I feel better."
Putting on his most patient smile, Max explained. "Apparently, whatever treatment you received is indeed working. That being said, I don't know what type of chemical or gene therapy they used on you. The pigmentation issue is going to take a little while longer to resolve, as will your dependence of the Hydran compound that enabled you to remain in your former state.
"I'm sure you know as well as I do that it has always been easier to undo something that has been done...especially when it involves highly intricate techniques such as gene manipulation."
"Yeah, I got the whole lecture in the stockade." She said a little impatient.
Max made several notations of a medical PADD and turned it to show Branwen. "This is a prescription for an antagonist that can help wean you off of that addictive compound. Let me know if you have any severe side effects or reactions to it. I have another that I can prescribe."
"I thought that was out of my bloodstream. Are you telling me that I am still addicted to that stuff?" Not something Branwen wanted to hear. "Is that going to endanger my work? How much longer is this going to take?"
"I found minute traces in my scan," Max explained to the Marine. "I don't want to take any chances at this point. And don't worry, it will not affect your work. As far as you're concerned, the effects will be unnoticeable."
"Still, bloody…." She stopped. "So how much longer do you think before I am cleared completely of the drugs and the greenness?"
"I figure about forty five to sixty days, at the most."
Branwen whistled. "That long! And after that I am free of you?" She asked.
Max made sure she saw the look he cut her for her wording before finally answering, "Yeah, you will no longer require my services."
"Good! Don't take it the wrong way, Max. I would like to get to know you better as a person, just sick of doctors right now." She smiled at him. "Do you have more tests to do?"
"Nah, I'm done. It's quitting time, anyways." As if to demonstrate his point, the lighting in Sickbay brightened a bit, and the main doors could be heard outside of the examination alcove as Alpha shift began to walk/shuffle/file in. "I'll see you in a week, okay?"
'Once in a week is doable." She returned to the cucible to get dressed again. "So you will check with Kimberly or should I or both of us?" She asked while getting dressed.
"I'll send her an email about it," he muttered.
"Thank you, Max. You are a darling." She called out.
"Keep that under your hat you'll ruin my reputation," he mock growled. As if to make his point, a hapless Crewman walked by and happened to look in his direction. "Whatcha lookin' at?" Max growled again. He had to stifle a grin as the rate skittered off in the other direction.
"Aw Max. You don't have to go all macho on my account." She teased. "I believe you." Branwen reappeared completely dressed. "You won't convince me that you are not a darling."
Max almost smiled. He tried his best to fight it, but it was no use. Branwen, for all her perceived faults, was an absolute darling. Which made it hard for him to fight the smile that eventually came out. "Get outta here, Bran. See you next week, okay?"
He padded her on the shoulder and moved off to give report to the oncoming staff.
"Next week is fine." With another grin she left sickbay.
"Sex and The Galaxy"
Consul Ayanna Hinanat
Judge
Lt. Amanda Pinet - NPC
Engineer
Lt. JG Sophie Johnston - NPC
Biology Teacher - Primary School
Lt. Bridget Kantor - NPC
Security Officer
Location: Ten Forward
==============================
"She's late again." Kantor mused out loud as she sipped on her Alabama Sunrise. Kantor's blond short spiral curled hair swayed as she viewed the Klingon security officer saunter by.
"Geezus Bridge, could you make it any more obvious?"
"What?" The woman whined as her eyebrows went up in mock defense.
"You lack style and grace when observing the opposite sex. One must just follow with one's eyes taking a mental picture to retrieve at a later time. Like so...." Her head stayed still as her eyes fixated on a pilot that just entered. His striking green eyes did not catch hers, but she froze in place until satisfied that her memory uploaded his image.
"We can't all be proficient in manipulating men." Pinet offered before reaching down and checking to see if her Fenedi hand bag was still by her feet. The blond security officer who sat next to her spent more attention on the exact shade of pink her lips were offered her friend little concrete evidence of being able to wield a phaser against any potential thief.
The light scent of Japanese Cherry Blossom invaded the threesome as Ayanna smiled apologetically. Placing her bag down on the table, she was met with a round of 'oooos, where did you get that?' from the blond, redhead, and brunette.
"Sorry, I'm late."
"Again!" Kantor offered a sneaky, 'what have you been doing grin' to her newest confidant.
"Well, things come up. I'm knee deep in alligators and elbows with the department."
"What the hell? Alligators and elbows have nothing to do with each other." Amanda responded. Tossing her long brunette hair over her shoulder, she adjusted the thin strap on her dress.
"Okay, Engineer, your off duty stop being so damned analytical. So....." Sophie grinned. "Amanda....your looking a little rosy this afternoon."
"Is that supposed to mean something?"
"She's asking in a round about way if you have enjoyed any extra circular activities as of late." Hinanat spoke, keeping her womanly candor in tact for the moment.
"Oven or Microwave?" Amanda asked then inhaled her shot of whiskey and cream.
"Both."
"Oven and microwave? Care to let me in on this?" Ayanna posed.
Taking a deep breath, Bridget offered the explanation. "Amanda here is somewhat secretive of who she dates on the ship. The Oven is six foot four, brown hair peppered with gray, goatee, works in your department Ayanna...."
"Him?" Ayanna offered with her jaw slightly dropped. The two pairing did not make much sense, besides the 'Oven' was the sweetest guy around. Keeping her mouth shut for now, she nodded and listened.
"Uh huh. The microwave....well, he's higher wattage. The man is just plain hot. Five foot eight, dark hair, smells *awesome* and an overall fits her better. Powerhouse security. Plus, the microwave is still in the box while the oven has been in the catalog for a while."
"Meaning?"
"The oven is ten years older than the microwave."
"Ohhhh." Hinanat waved down the waiter, ordered a coffee, and turned her attention back to the group. "So, which one do you like better?"
"Both have their advantages. The sad part is...."
"Honey, it's not sad, this is the best part...."
"The oven knows about the microwave and the microwave knows about the oven."
"And?"
"They are both pressuring her to choose what she wants to 'cook' in."
"The Microwave has already asked for time this week and next which is making the Oven a little heated."
Snickers broke out around the circular table as each respective woman sipped on her drink. The foursome was quiet a sight, gathering here at least once a week to pass a few hours consoling each other on what was new in their small worlds. Each proficient in their choose of duty, less so in the area of love and relationships.
"Ayanna, you have yet to disclose your affairs."
"I have none." Knowing that was a full blown fib, she covered her smirking mouth with her mug.
"Liar."
"Betazoids don't lie." Ayanna protested.
"Your only half Betazoid. So fess it girl."
"There's no one, but if there were, well...I'm not a kiss and tell woman." Her eyebrows raised slightly, driving the point home.
"Well that's just peachy. What are we going to talk about then?" Sophie pouted.
"Ladies, there's plenty to talk about concerning relationships without diving into the seedy realm of the physical side of things. For example Amanda, how do the Oven and Microwave make you feel respectfully? Looking at the big picture, who could you see yourself with on a permanent basis?"
"I don't know." Amanda stated quietly. "They both....are great in their own regard."
Ayanna smiled softly, taking in the true utter confusion on the part of her young friend. Emotionally, she knew where Amanda really stood, but it was up to Amanda to make the proper decision for her.
"Why does she have to choose anyway? She can just enjoy both!" Sophie smarted off before taking another sip of her drink.
"Some races, particularly Terrans, Sophie, reach a point where they desire to find 'the one'. Some of these beings spend their whole lives searching for the 'one' that completes them." Hinanat responded.
"We are all Terrans here honey. Well, except for you that is." Sophie's held tilted in a most curious manner. "So, do you Ayanna, believe in soul mates?"
"I do believe in an Imzadi. One soul made for me yes. But I have yet to meet him."
"How will you know when and if you meet him?" Amanda quizzed.
"I wouldn't know right off. Relationships, if given the proper time, flow into the people once they get to know each other in several ways. There are several areas of compatibility. Emotional, intellectual, and physical. If I meet someone that satisfies me on all three levels and I feel a deep connection with...I'll know. There is also a possibility that the person does not meet all three, but would with time. It just depends."
Sophie leaned over, her face intent with her mouth forming a question almost whispering she asked. "So, is it true about Deltans?"
"What about Deltans?" Hinanat felt a tad bit defensive.
She paused, glancing at all the faces around the small circular table. "Contrary to popular belief girls, Deltans don't go around screwing everything that moves. We are very aware of our chemistry, so to speak, and take precautions with respect to other races and their reactions to our chemical make up."
"Huh...." Amanda whispered. "I have heard that your race takes celibacy oaths."
"Yes, we do. I have not however. I'm only half and being half I do not feel the need to sequester myself with a statement that says that I will not have sex. I'm able to control myself." She knew that it was more than just the ability to control with the oath with her race. Honestly, Ayanna did not feel it of vast importance to abstain should the right gentleman come along.
Just in mid thought, her communicator chirped which drew a series of rolled eyes from her friends.
"Oh here we go..." Sophia groaned.
"Hinanat here. What can I do for you Ensign?"
"Consul, we've had several issues come up concerning the Games that need your immediate attention. It appears that we lost the list of crew that are participating, as well as the plans for the various receptions for certain events. Also, the Bearson divorce hearing has been moved up to this afternoon at the request of Attorney Dicen. I thought that..."
Hinanat smile wavered as she listened to Ensign Dooley continue to run down the list of problems that had sprouted up over the last hour. Taking the last sip of her coffee, she offered another apologetic look to the woman around the table.
"I..."
"Duty calls." All three of them chimed in before waving her off.
"what about some sympathy for the fallen"
Paige Sullivan
Operations Cadet
(Soon to be Graduated)
--
To be fair, she and Saiyk hadn't known one another for very long. They were thrust together unceremoniously, and were on entirely separate schedules and thus, hardly ever saw one another aside from the occasional clash over bathroom times between shifts. He irritated her almost as much as she irritated him -- though he having been Vulcan, she had no way to really prove this.
They were roommates, not friends; she knew nothing about him and he knew little more about her. But that did not mean his death had no impact. It had plenty. Just, not the type of impact it probably was supposed to.
Paige Sullivan was not mourning Ensign Saiyk, Vulcan roommate and hot water hog extraordinaire. She noticed and felt his absence, had put together his sparse belongings and sent them to his parents on Vulcan with a note that she felt acknowledged his existence and passing in a way that was neither sentimentalized or overly emotions (and consequently, was Vulcan-appropriate). She felt a little heavy whenever she saw the empty side of her quarters that would, at some point in the not too distant future, be populated by someone else, and she carried a little stone in the pit of her stomach. But it was less out of grief than it was out of realization.
One minute he was there, the next minute he was gone. There were not heroics, no saving the ship, galaxy and everything moment. It was a bizarre and senseless death in a bizarre and senseless situation somewhere far away that no one had ever thought about before and probably never would again if they could help it.
And that's Starfleet, kiddo, welcome to it.
Paige sighed and rolled over, staring up at the ceiling of her quarters as she listed to the 'Logicians' pulse unfettered through the room. He hated this band -- even his Vulcan logic could barely conceal the distaste he had for the bastardization of Vulcan chants by Betazoid musicians. Consequently, she felt it appropriate to listen to at full volume. No more headphones for Paige. For now anyway.
They were making her go to a counselor, which seemed silly, but apparently it was SOP for new officers who lose someone close to them in the line of duty. Of course, that it had taken this long to get it scheduled (backlog, you know -- small supply, big demand, econ 101 without the cash) was a little... Paige wasn't sure what would be an appropriate term. Disturbing, perhaps. What if she was suicidal or something? Wholly distraught...
She had her first session in a few hours and was actually a little nervous about it. Paige could easily see the point of a counselor, psychologist, neutral third party, whatever you wanted to call it -- but they still made her uncomfortable. She didn't like sitting there and feeling judged.
Maybe judged wasn't the right word. She didn't like sitting there and feeling as though her very state of self was in the process of being critiqued, evaluated and dissected, boiled down. It made her uncomfortable, exposed. And how was she going to explain that it wasn't the fact that he was dead that disturbed her most without sounding like a truly insane Von Ernst ice queen?
No. Saiyk's death, though sad, was not what disturbed and depressed her. Instead, it was the fact it could have been *her* and could very well be her *next time.* Death happens, circle of the universe, unpredictable and dangerous lifestyle, and all that lubo gipe. Blah blah blah. Doesn't mean it's easy to be confronted with your own mortality like this.
Here.
Gone.
And nothing anyone can do about it.
Frakin' Erza.
The playlist switched and the Intergalactic Slugs came on with "It's not easy being green (blooded)." The song sounded more ironic than ever now.
--
"I'm worried about you, Ge," her mother had said a couple days earlier, her round pale face staring out from the screen, framed with picturesque always-does-what-she-wants shoulder-length ash-blond highlighted hair. Her mother was absolutely lovely, a fact of which Paige had been painfully aware since she was a very little girl, and a trait which she had not inherited. Especially not in the hair department. "Are you sure you're doing okay?"
"I'm fine, Freya." Her flat-tone had been entirely unconvincing; not even she could believe the statement. "Just tired."
"Well I'm concerned."
"They're going to make me see a shrink, if that helps you be less concerned."
"A little. That's good, that they're taking care of you. Ge, you also have to remember -- he was a Vulcan. He'd think all of this is illogical."
"Not as illogical as I know he would find your agony over the fact I don't wanna go to graduation."
"Heva, Paige," her mother huffed, shaking her head. "The only reason you don't want to go is because you're depressed."
"Y-ah, Frey-ah! I ent depressed. I'm reflective! And it is perfectly normal and expected. Reality has intruded on my dream world, okay? I've right to be a little pessimistic here. An' I don't want to go to graduation because it's frakkin' boring and rouch. Kep? I didn't want to go *before* and I definitely don't want to go *now*. It's too far anyway, from here to there."
Her mother sighed with that. "I just want a picture of my daughter going and getting her diploma and official orders in her dress whites, is that so wrong?"
"In this case? Yes, Freya, yes it is. There's some several thousand anyway, even in the departmental ceremony. You'd never see me anyway, it's a heffd waste of time." Her mother's pout worked to melt her a little and Paige had found herself sighing, mimicking the sound and expression her mother used only seconds earlier. "I'll ask the lieutenant if he'd be up to staging something with the chief, hoza?"
--
Recalling that promise, Paige groaned and flopped herself over on her stomach as the music transitioned to "Happenstance's Angry Noose" and their first single. Official graduation was still a few weeks away, but she knew her mother -- she only had a couple more days to make good on her promise before freya started to plague her with irritating sub-space reminders in the form of off-key songs that would come through in pre-recorded notes set to play randomly at odd hours of the night. She remembered this tactic from the Academy, and it was always humiliating. Better to head it off before the pass.
Of course, that did mean she would have to ask a favor of her commanding officers. The lieutenant. Chief K'aa. Ugh.
The alarm paused the Martian band's manic notes, and Paige pushed herself up, touching the button on the computer keypad to cease all sounds. The quarters seemed heavy and dark with nothing to fill it except her tiny figure and some of her choice belongings.
Time for her session.
Oh whoopee.
"Aggravation"
PART IX of the BREAKABLE SAGA.
(Takes place while Galaxy is enroute to the Games)
Starring :
Victor Krieghoff
Allison von Ernst (civilian)
Planet Ranfasnet
Storage Area 51
Hangar 13
"You are aware that it's raining?" Victor asked after the seventh failed attempt.
"Yes, I know its raining."
"And," he added somewhat unnecessarily, "that, in addition to the rain, the ambient temperature is dropping past the freezing point as we speak?" Actually, considering the temperature of the rain falling down the back of his jacket's upturned collar, he was fairly certain that it had passed the freezing point some time back, but that seemed an unnecessary step too far in the discussion.
"Oh, hush your britches. I'm going as fast as I can."
Considering the fact that his companion was smaller, slighter, and probably far less used to standing around in extreme climactic conditions – much less while trying to perform a complex task involving memory retention and manual dexterity – that was likely true. "Take your time," he replied quietly. "It's fine."
Sighing and shivering, Allison huddled against the tiny alcove and entered another code combination.
ERROR--
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS--
ENTER ID PIN#--
The neon blue screen mocked her yet again, and, behind her in the downpour, Victor Krieghoff sighed deeply to himself.
He had been sighing a lot lately he realized. It wasn't a habit that he'd meant to cultivate; it just seemed to have spontaneously happened without his being aware of it. It had, he decided, started when Allison had told him about her true identity, continued developing when she implicated him in all sorts of violations of the Temporal Prime Directive, and come to the full flower of its development as he stood here in the freezing rain on a backwater planet that made Jhorjah look like a planetary metropolis. At least, before he'd destroyed Jhorjah anyway. Now it wasn't even a planet any more.
This planet, though, was currently intact, and having what the planetary database on his runabout had considered a sunny, warm, summer day. All things considered, Victor was, he decided, just as glad that he wasn't here to see a cold, blustery winter one.
The only reason they were here now, indeed, the only reason *anyone* was here now, was because of the planet's major industry: it was a storage dumps of sorts. There were seven population centers spread across the surface, and each one of them was nothing more than a support center for a vast, sprawling, series of rusty old structures for storing various goods and space vehicles. The rent was cheap, the security was good since this far out on the Rim they could simply vaporize intruders without having to fill out paperwork, and more importantly… official Federation interest in the planet, its industry, and the contents of these storage structures, was virtually nil.
That was good for businesses and individuals of all sorts, but particularly useful in the current situation he was embroiled with: you wanted the residents and employees of your chosen storage location to look the other way when stored a time-traveling space yacht from the future there.
Unfortunately, as part and parcel of that carefully-practiced (and well-compensated) lack of attention, they also looked the other way when said owner forgot her PIN # for opening the aforementioned garage.
"Anything?" he asked as something that might have been a Denobulan Devil Rat with a bad case of the mange scurried around the corner, spotted them, and reversed course in a flurry of limbs to return the way it had came.
"Well I'm sorry... I'm getting wet too." Alli replied totally flustered. "I parked the spuffing thing more than a year ago, and Mr. Grumpy-Vic is not helping me concentrate any.
"Most people," Victor offered after considering the problem for a moment, "when forced to set a password or passcode, select a date that has some meaning to them: birthdays, anniversaries, divorces, deaths, things like that. Dates are easier to recall than a random character string,"
"Oh that's it....Hel-lo duh." Alli bonked her head in sudden realization. "3-14-85... totally the birthday of the hottest dude in Reykjavik'...." Alli happily tapped in the code. "I tell ya Vic... if you ever saw Bobby Ulrichson in a tight rugby uniform... Mmmmmm... happy thoughts."
Victor wondered if he should remind her that the aforementioned 'hottest dude in Reykjavik' was probably wearing diapers right about now and celebrating a mere three months of life, but decided against it in favor of adding more mental resources to his fast-failing attempt to ignore the icy rain running down his spine.
The door's lock blinked in acknowledgement of the entry, changed color to a cheerful pastel pink, and disengaged, allowing the personnel entry door to slide open and let then in out of the rain.
Oded's Aggravation was right where she left it. A four-nacelled warp-yacht, glistening in the half light of the garage's interior.
She was beautiful... the latest design out of Hawksley Industries, bringing comfort and speed to the Federation's upper-crust market. Multiphasic shields, leather bucket seats, and one of the most high tech navigational suites in the early 25th century. Which meant that in the 24th century she was completely bad ass.
The name...'Oded's Aggravation' decorated the razor sharp prow in flowing golden script....an homage to a famous 20th century writer who detested time travel as a plot device.
The perfect name for a time machine.
Unfortunately however, the only sound that could be heard other than the patter of rain on the metal roof, was the soft humming of yet another security lock.
"Did you use the same password for the second lock?" Victor asked. If so that was simply sloppy security procedure, but it would speed up the process considerably. Even though they were out of the rain, the rental hangar was unheated and only warmer than the exterior by virtue of the fact that it was dry and out of the wind.
"Stasis dude." Alli shook out her damp hair, blond and still streaked with angry black from her recent concert in TenForward. Her Farewell tour. "I didn't design the garage lock, but the Aggravation was built just for me by Uncle Lysander."
The lock was of the DNA-scanning type. When the young girl pressed her pretty little hands against the external screen, the delicate electronics sensed the warmth and pressure, triggering a battery of internal power-ups aimed at bringing scanners online. Visually all that was to be seen was a slight blue glow as the mechanism probed the internal chromosomes of young Allison's hands, but internally the device was running through a million lines of delicate code comparing, contrasting, and re-verifying that the person standing at the lock was indeed the offspring of one Rebecca von Ernst and James Lionel Corgan.
It was elegant in a way.
In a time before her birth, who but Allison could possess the unique signature of a woman not yet in existence?
All of this took a mere matter of seconds, and in actuality the only important consequence was that the external hatch cracked open in a hiss of stale air and the internal workings of ODED's AGGRAVATION was laid bare for the two companions.
Alli scrunched her nose a bit at the air. Not foul per se, but still sitting dormant in a garage for over a year made things a bit musty.
No matter.
Sensing movement as she stepped over the threshold, the internal lights flickered to life with a slight neon buzz.
They were here, and the ship was – apparently – functional, so the first two hurdles were over. Now Victor just needed to know what was supposed to happen next. "You've been evasive since we started this trip, Allison, but we're here now so… why? What did you need me to bring you here for?" If it was a forgotten suitcase, or a favorite pair of socks, Victor wasn't sure that he could be held responsible for his actions, but he thought he knew the real reason for the trip.
"Simple." Allison replied sadly, realizing at last that she was really going through with this. "We fly my ship and your runabout to a nearby set of coordinates, you get back into your ship, and I take the Aggravation on a slingshot back to the future."
It was always a good feeling when you discovered that you'd correctly deciphered a problem's answer before it slapped you in the face, and that mitigated the curiously poignant sense of loss that the words triggered only a fraction. Allison was, indeed, going home. "You're using the slingshot method, then," Victor nodded, glad that he'd done some reading on time travel before the trip. "What are you using as a singularity to make it work? A nearby star?"
"Oh....didn't I tell you?" Allison said evading his gaze. "We're heading for a Black Hole."
"A Black Hole," Victor repeated. "No, you neglected to mention that part."
****
The procedure was simple really. All of the hard work, the multidimensional calculations and temporal mechanics, had already been taken into account by the future version of Rebecca von Ernst. Approach trajectories, initial vector planes, non-linear acceleration curves, all of those and more were just a matter of punching in a few buttons and downloading the calculations from the Aggravation's ship's memory.
"The trip back to 2404 will be much easier than the trip to the past," Rebecca had remarked in passing at the time. "All of the astronomic data and environmental flux's of the black hole's event horizon are a matter of historical record. I just had to look up the information and plug in the numbers."
Simple really.
That's what you kept telling yourself when looking down the business end of a massive stellar gravity well that threatened to snuff you out of existence if you so much as misplaced a decimal point one way or the other. It was in this quiet moment as she flew that Alli found herself understanding the concepts of faith and love perhaps a bit more.
Faith in her irritating mother's calculations - and a realization of the love it took to send her only daughter back in time on a mission she already knew to be doomed. "A lotta hoopla...." she muttered to herself.
"Hoopla?" Victor asked from behind her in the Bridge door, a cup of hot tea in hand.
"Hoopla...." she repeated turning her head to Victor sadly. "Mom went to a lot of effort to prove a point I was too pigheaded to realize in the first place. Maybe I should write a letter to myself in the future saying don't bother... nothing back here worth coming for."
"I think," Victor said quietly, "that we've probably already gone as far into violation of the Temporal Prime Directive as we need to. Any further, and things will, quite possibly, be too difficult to unravel if that becomes necessary. You've been – we've been – extremely lucky so far, perhaps we shouldn't press our collective luck?"
"Yeah, I'm probably too pigheaded to listen to myself even." She shuffled her feet awkwardly, unsure of what to do next, knowing what she had to do next.
"Hi computer...um....begin um...takeoff calculations or whatever you need to do to take us to preassigned coordinates...or something." she sighed. "I'm ready to go home.
"Devastation"
PART X of the BREAKABLE SAGA (almost done)
Starring :
Captain Rebecca von Ernst.
(3 days after the fall of Delta IV)
In the darkest reaches of eternal space....a starship burned.
Glowing tendrils of nuclear fire licked hungrily at bent duranium plating, a silent inferno of soundless devastation.
Bulkheads burst in silent puffs of frozen gas.
Shattered crewmen tumbled lazily in the void, their bodies shredded on hot metal, bloated from the vacuum.
It was beautiful devastation.
The Blue hulled Hydran cruiser had once been a shining jewel amongst her sister ship.
Graceful forward swept wings of purple faded back into a sculptured hull of the deepest indigo, weapons ports flush against her pristine hide.
Say what you will, but the Royal Hydran Navy forged their ships for grace and beauty as well as power.
Indeed it could be said that the shattered warship had been more carved than bolted together.
A graceful arrow shaped princess of the stars glowing with her own inner light......
....that is until the USS Zeus sprang upon her and savaged her spoiled innocence.
"Final Deep scans revels no survivors amongst the wreckage." announced Fear from her standup console behind the Central Captains chair.
"Secondary explosions in the engineering hull." said Panic from her own display. "Antimatter bottles cooking off along with residual cobalt missile charges....I'd say she's quite dead now ma'am."
Nodding silently from her oversized command chair, Captain Rebecca von Ernst kept her eyes on the trailing integers of her dozen mathematical repeater screens floating before her.
All available equations were gradually canceling out to zero, as power and maneuverability in the Hydran ship were systematically destroyed.
You almost couldn't call it combat anymore......the Beast that was Zeus had ravaged the poor Hydran cruiser, tearing her hull asunder as a rapist might tear away layers of cloth from his screaming victim.
Rape.....that was a good analogy.
Both in the actual assault of the Zeus on its prey, as well as the cold-blooded mindset of its tiny redheaded captain who directed such savagery with a calm cool voice that rarely rose above a whisper.
Much like rapist, Rebecca did it merely for the fact she could. She exerted power because it was hers to command.
She was good at it.
The three women watched the hull burn in silence, sizzling embers sparking off like unto a log in the fireplace.
For the last three days the Zeus had been playing a game of hit and run amongst the Hydran forces in and around what was left of Delta IV.
The actual battle had gone poorly for the Federation, the combined task Force under Jean Luc Picard having been forced to fall back to Andor to prepare the next line of defense.
Rebecca and the Zeus had been detached from the fleet to run interference for the withdrawal, and despite the odds had proven to be quite successful.
The Prometheus Class Starship was without question the fastest design in the Federation, and Rebecca had put that mobility to good use.
Able to pick and choose her battles, the tiny redhead had avoided heavy engagement , and instead picked off the smaller scout vessels attempting to trail Picard's retreating fleet.
The Hydran Dreadnoughts were too slow and cumbersome, and besides were still needed in orbit over Delta IV itself
As for anything smaller…Zeus made mincemeat of them. The Burning destroyer on the screen was the fourth scout she'd come across in the last few days.
A brief flare of cold light amidst the remains.
"Starboard Fusion cannon letting go." Panic dutifully reported.
A single nod. It was pretty….sparkles in the darkness.
"Ummm.....our own casualty figures coming in ma'am." Fear announced. She offered the information because she knew the Captain would never bother to inquire.
She tended to brush off the life's blood of her crew like so many minor scratches on the face of the rapist.....the cost of doing business.
"Uhhh...Medical reports 13 dead, and 40 wounded......That hull breach in section 17 really hurt us."
Again Rebecca merely nodded, fascinated by the burning embers.
"Figure a day or so to patch up." Panic reported, "Engineering recommends limiting warp speed to no more than 7.5 until refit as well. I don't think we can delay the Hydrans any longer."
They had bought Picard three days…they would have to do.
A lazy wave of the hand acknowledged the report. USS Zeus had been in drydock no less than 6 times since the conflict started, each time to repair mangled components, and take on new crew.
A transfusion of fresh blood to keep the beast going...keep her out amongst the stars and amongst her enemies.
Two hundred an eighty seven crewmen had died aboard the Zeus in the last year.
Most of them in last months suicide charge over AS-128.
Cost of doing business.
Rebecca's perfect memory cataloged them all. Every face.
Someday....they would visit her dreams.
But not today.
"Whatever...." Rebecca sighed, scooting off the end of her too-tall chair and stretching with a yawn. "Back to Deep Space 3...or Andor...whichever is closest....you guys handle the details while I make up some new crew request forms. I'll be in my cabin otherwise."
"Aye Ma'am." said Fear.
"Setting course back to DS 3, It'll save a few days." said Panic, "Oh and by the way captain....your latest batch of tactical PADDS came in from the 359 school during the last mail run....I had them dropped of in your room of course."
Rebecca frowned and nodded.
Ever since her fledgling days as a mere Tactical Ensign, Rebecca's mathematical skills and their application towards tactical endeavors had been noted by the powers that be at Starfleet.
Admiral Jurgen Hoth...founder of the 359 School of Advanced Tactics had taken young Rebecca as a protégée of sorts and without fail, delivered to her door weekly electronic periodicals detailing the latest in strategic warfare.
An Analysis of the Norkan Campaigns
The Collected works of Admiral Koord.
The dictums of Sun Tzu.
Rebecca had long ago taken to referring the mound of PADDs as her 'homework' of sorts.
Even after the assassination of Admiral Hoth a few years ago, the Homework kept coming, keeping the poor redhead well supplied in headaches and sleep deprivation.
Headaches.
That was another fact of life now.
Safe behind the whooshing turbolift doors, Rebecca allowed herself to lean heavily against the wall and cradle her poor head.
Noodles but it hurt......after every engagement, the pain became worse and worse.
~~Maybe its a tumor.....I hope.~~~
In her quarters now, the pixie sized girl considered the darkness around her.
Silence.
Silence like the burning wreckage of shattered starships in her wake.
How many lives lost.....well 287 for her, but how many thousands of enemies.....Borg...Lyrans....Hydrans...the occasional foolish pirates.
Rebecca snorted. The memory of that silly Orion that had taken refuge in a asteroid field always amused her.
She had simply nuked the entire field, one rock at a time. Starfleet had screamed about the weapons expenditure at the time, but then again they should have thought about that before sticking her in the command seat.
Robert Price had warned them not to.
Daren M'kantu had warned them not to.
Look what happened to them.
Both cripples in wheelchairs.
Besides....Nukes were cheap.
So were replacement crew.
Sitting on her bedside table was a stack of the latest of her 'homework' assignments.
She ordered a peppermint milkshake from the kitchen and idly picked up the first PADD from the stack.
STRATEGIC BOMBING OVER EUROPE: OVERKILL AS A DIPLOMATIC TOOL.
~~Cheerful.....~~ she mused taking a chilly sip. ~~~Looks like I'm in for a fun evening.~~~
"Heavy Bags"
Gymnasium, Deck 11
================
Humans called it a "heavy bag", and at first appearance it seemed
neither. Cylindrical and appearing only a hundred or so kilos, it
swayed on rough, galvanized daisy-chain from the ship's gymnasium. In
his not so recent past, Th'Khiss K'aa would have easily been able to
drive a scaled fist through the sand-filled canvass, but now his
strongest blows only just barely caused the punching bag to sway. He
had been at it for just over an hour and the coarse burlap-like weave
on the target had already worn the skin on his knuckles raw and
bloody, but the former Gorn warrior refused to relent, and hoped that
with each feeble blow some strength was added to his bird-like arms,
and endurance was endowed to his skeletal frame.
It helped to think of the exercise as "therapy", and each time his
balled fists struck, a Hydran beak was shattered, T'Kith'kin mandibles
were broken or a Breen larynx was crushed. The thoughts put something
of a smile on his lips, despite the dishonor of the Galaxy's recent
"assignment". In more peaceful times K'aa would have thrown himself
into the Starfleet games with gusto, but now it seemed ridiculous to
waste away time and effort to such trivial things while the Triad
fleets were being engaged and parts of the Federation were occupied.
A right cross landed in the center of the bag, dispelling the mental
image of Admiral th'Voth's intolerable smugness, replaced by Captain
T'Vara's visage when the gymnasium doors hissed open and disturbed
K'aa's concentration.
"Don't mind me," the newcomer drawled as he loped into the gymnasium
and set down his bag and a towel. Nathan stood off to the side and
started going through his stretching routine, his eyes casually
sweeping across the large gymnasium as if he'd done this a thousand
times. He was used to seeing generally the same group in the gym at
this time of day, and so he was shocked when he spotted an unfamiliar
face pounding away at one of the heavy bags.
"That you, K'aa?" Nathan asked, a confused frown on his face as he
stood up straight and reached one of his arms across his chest,
locking his other arm around it to stretch out the muscles, then
repeating the same stretch in reverse. "What the hell're you doin'
here?"
"Hnfff.... exercising", the Ops Chief managed with a grunt as a
glancing left dispelled the impassive face of the Galaxy's current
captain. Like K'aa Cowboy was one of the crew that had come over from
the Miranda, and the pilot was one of the few the Gorn had managed not
to permanently offend with his past... reputation. As a reptilian he
appreciated the camaraderie, but now, as a feeble, emaciated human,
that familiarity was uncomfortable and he could feel the back of his
neck burn in embarrassment. "That's.. hnfff... what one does here,
isn't it? How's the... hnff... new post, Nathan? Being CAG...
hnfff.. to your liking?"
"It ain't exactly 'new' anymore, K'aa," Cowboy replied as he finished
stretching and started wrapping his hands in tape. "But Ah lahk it
alright. Took me a while to get used to bein' in charge. Paperwork's a
pain in the ass, but Ah guess that's why God invented XOs, right?" he
added with a grin.
Once his hands were taped up, the pilot walked around to the opposite
side of the heavy bag and held on to it while K'aa beat on it. "How's
the new body?" he asked, turning the question back on K'aa. "Bein'
human to yer lahkin'?"
"Well... hffff, aside from the... hrffff... stench, or the constant..
hrfff... sweating, and the... hnfff... thin skin", K'aa paused to let
his breathing catch up with him, and let the dull pain in his chest
subside. "Add to that the fact... that most of the ship's
pre-adolescents could beat me soundly... it's not to my liking at all.
I'm not certain how... your people managed multiple wars... with the
Klingon Empire... and survived." Panting, he had to lean against the
heavy bag to catch his breath.
Nathan shrugged easily. "Physical superiority ain't everything, mah
friend." He looked at K'aa's thin, exhausted body and winced. "Damn,
you look awful. How long you been workin' out, anyway?"
"Seventy-two... Terran minutes", K'aa managed. "Is that...
acceptable?"
Cowboy's wince deepened into a grimace. "Actually, that's kinda
extreme fer someone in yer condition. Why don't you take a break and
hold the bag fer me fer a while?" he suggested. "Ah signed up fer the
boxin' competition in the Games, so Ah gotta get as much trainin' in
as Ah can."
Nodding, K'aa put a shoulder against the punching bag and widened his
stance to brace for the impact. "Don't you think...these 'games' are
somewhat... ill-timed? Surely we could be assigned to
something... more... constructive, yes?"
"Lahk what?" Nathan wondered as he shifted into a boxer's stance and
started in on the bag, his fists hitting the bag with smooth, forceful
impacts, implying that he'd done this many times before.
"Like warfare!" K'aa managed between Cowboy's blows. "Engage the
enemy! Over
one-hundred ships... unfff... are participating in these 'Starfleet
Games' - do you think the... hrffff.... Triad will be kind enough to
withdraw...unfff... a hundred of their own at this time?"
Cowboy frowned as he continued laying into the punching bag. "You do
realize Starfleet's got a helluva lot more'n a hundred ships, right?"
"I can... do the Math, Nathan", K'aa said, wheezing once more. "Those
ships... could be better used.. on the front. Two could sway a
battle... from victory to defeat. What if the Miranda or the
Galaxy... had not been... at Romulus?"
"Then someone else woulda been there to save the day," Nathan
responded with absolute certainty. The mention of Romulus reminded
Nathan of how the USS Regulus, the ship his parents served on, had
nearly been destroyed there, and the force of his blows suddenly
increased, his eyes narrowing angrily.
"UNFF!" K'aa widened his stance to bear the additional load of
Cowboy's strikes. "You know that's... not true. Romulus... Kateren
Nebula.... Both victories... were slim... by the hair... of your
teeth... as some humans say." Fighting for breath, K'aa was turning a
mottled shade of red, barely managing to control the heavy bag's
momentum.
"*Skin* of our teeth!" Nathan corrected with a grunt, hitting the bag
with a powerful right jab.
"Mammals!", K'aa blurted as he gulped for air. "Hair... Skin...
What's... the... difference? You... know what... I mean." The Ops
Chief now leaned on the bag for support, staining the canvas with
sweat. "How many ships... idling here for pomp... and ceremony...
could be used at Corvallis? Or Delta IV? A fleet of a hundred...
could crush a Triad shipyard... or eliminate... an enemy dilithium
foundry."
Nathan scowled across the bag at K'aa. "You think Ah don't know that?"
he demanded. He started unwrapping the tape from around his hands.
"You heard about what happened to New Texas, right?"
"Before... my time", the thin man huffed. "What about it?"
"Before yer time?" Nathan blinked. "K'aa, it just happened a little
while ago." He shook his head. "Don't you watch the news?"
K'aa shook his head, sending beads of sweat flying. "No, Operations
typically has little use for current events short of supply and demand
- but I've caught glimpses of something concerning New Houston and
Weber City. Same place, yes?"
"Right," Nathan answered. He led K'aa away from the punching bag and
to a nearby bench so he could sit down and rest, handing him a towel
and a bottle of water as he sat beside him. "That's where mah family
lives. Well, on mah father's side, anyway. Most of my mom's family're
still on Earth." He took a drink of water. "The Hydrans hit it; pretty
damn hard, too. Ah think their main target was the Pendragon Fleet
Yards, but they launched a ground assault, too. Hit a couple'a cities,
including New Houston, and Traviston, where mah grandparents live. You
think Ah don't care about that? You think Ah don't wanna get back at
the Hydrans?"
K'aa took a moment to fully control his breathing and ease the burning
in his chest. "Yes", he croaked at last. "I believe you do. I
just... don't understand why you don't seem to crave revenge as much
as I." He lowered his head, letting it sag between his thin shoulders
as he looked at the lines of grit on the polished gymnasium floor. "I
was a prisoner for over a year, Nathan... and my hatred of the Hydrans
grows with each passing day we are not clutching for their throats.
It boils within me, and I thirst for revenge like a parched man in the
driest desert weeks from water. It maddens me that the opportunity to
sink our fangs into the Triad flank is taken by others while we attend
to an Admiral's pet project. Do you not wish to sink your claws into
those who have defiled your family's nesting grounds?"
"'Course Ah do," Nathan said. "Ah'd lahk nothin' more'n to make 'em
all pay fer what they did to mah world, and to all the other people
they've hurt." He wiped at his face with his towel and frowned.
"Y'ever heard of 'Titus Andronicus'?"
"Hmmm... a drama by your Shakespeare, yes?"
Nathan nodded. "Right. Ah never actually read it, but..." He allowed
himself a small smile as he thought back. "Y'see, there was this girl
Ah kinda had a thing for durin' mah second year at the Academy, and
she was in this Terran lit class. It was an elective, and Ah had room
on mah schedule, so Ah signed up, too." Cowboy frowned and scratched
the back of his head. "Now that Ah think about it, Ah ended up
droppin' that class after we..." He stopped and cleared his throat.
"Anyway..."
"From what Ah *do* remember, it was about this Roman general who
became Emperor after defeatin' the Goths. He married their Queen and
killed their best warrior, who turned out to be his new wife's son.
That kinda set off this whole bloody revenge cycle that just kept
escalatin' 'til damn near everyone ended up gettin' killed."
Slowly, K'aa looked up at the pilot with a confused look on his thin
face. "I fail to understand how human inter-family relations has any
bearing on the situation."
"Mah point is, you can't let yer desire fer vengeance consume you,"
Cowboy explained. He took another drink of water before continuing.
"If you do, eventually it'll destroy you and everyone around you."
"Hmmm... you offer a very... human perspective, Nathan." K'aa frowned,
and looked down at the floor once more. "But if the drama had been a
Gorn one, and yes, we do indulge in theatre, the perspective would
have been different. The general was within his rights to take the
spoils of his war, but perhaps not strong enough to keep them. He
deserved to die if he was not strong enough to defend his lair."
"What the hell kinda moral is that?" Cowboy wondered.
"The Gorn Imperative is that the weak must be destroyed - it is the
cornerstone of our culture and civilization." K'aa looked at his
bloody fists, then up at the swaying heavy bag. "By allowing weakness
in body and character produces in the end an inferior society that is
prey to the will and greed of others. By indulging in gameful pursuits
when the Triad occupies systems along its frontiers, the Federation
shows its weakness. The invasion has put our blood in the water, and
there are other predators than the Triad nearby."
Nathan shrugged at K'aa and smiled. "Sometimes you just gotta blow off
some steam. It's good fer morale, and a soldier who's given the chance
to rest'll always fight better'n the one who's kept on the front
lines without a break." Something caught his eye then, and his smile
extended into a grin. "Speakin' of blowin' off steam..." He caught
K'aa's eye and then nodded in the direction he'd been looking in.
Over by the aerobic equipment stood a pair of attractive human women
who were looking their way. One was dark-skinned, the other pale with
blonde hair. They noticed the two men looking their way and smiled,
talking quietly amongst themselves. Nathan waved at the ladies and
gave them a charming smile.
Haltingly, K'aa copied cowboy's gesture while looking at the two
females. "Lieutenant Gutierez is a stellar cartographer and CPO
Michaelsen is a data management specialist. Both occupations don't
involve the ship's plumbing or hydraulic systems."
Nathan rolled his eyes skyward. "Lord, help me. Listen, K'aa, if yer
gonna be human from now on, you gotta have the full experience. And
trust me, buddy, one night with either of those lovely ladies, and
you'll never wanna go back to bein' a lizard." He grinned at the other
man and nudged him with an elbow. "'Sides, Ah think that blonde
one--Michaelsen, you said?--lahks you. Y'oughta go on over there and
say hi."
"I was a reptile, monkey-boy", K'aa growled. "Not a lizard." Still,
he couldn't help but look at the two women start their warm-ups. In
the unisex overalls Starfleet issued, they were simply crewmen who had
jobs and responsibilities. In the gymnasium with figure-fitting
danskins, they seemed altogether something else. He found it strange
that he had never noticed the strangely pleasing shape of their forms,
or the subtle yet enticing body language both seemed to use. "Tell
me Nathan", he whispered at last. "Just how important is udder-size
as a signal to the human female's intent to mate?"
Cowboy broke down laughing at that, and damn near fell off of the
bench he and the Ops Chief were sitting on.
K'aa slowly turned to see his human friend turn beet-red with tears
rolling down his cheeks, shaking in convultions. "Amusing you, am I
Nathan?"
"Oh, man, you are somethin' else," Nathan managed through a laugh,
wiping at his eyes. "Damn." He shook his head as he finally managed to
get himself back under control, mostly. "Whew. Thanks, K'aa, Ah needed
a good laugh."
"So glad I could be of service", the former Gorn said as he rose to
his feet. Humans, it would seem, thought too much of glandular matters
and while Nathan Everett was a perfectly acceptable warrior and pilot
he was, after all was said and done, only human. Despite his weak,
hairy, and thin-skinned appearance, at his core Th'Khiss K'aa was
still a Gorn warrior of the Red Crest. Their mental concepts of what
defined acceptable prey were light-years apart.
With difficulty, and some lingering pain in his chest, K'aa slowly
rose to his feet. "Well, I'll leave you to your hunting, Cowboy, and
I'll carry on with some of my own. Good luck... though a skilled
hunter doesn't really require luck, yes?"
Nathan shrugged. "Maybe, but sometimes it's better to be lucky'n
good," he answered with a smile. He looked up at K'aa. "Take it easy
on the workout next time, alright? And think about what Ah told you
earlier."
K'aa nodded and walked unsteadily towards the gymnasium's exit.
Before leaving however, he paused to lok back at the swaying punching
bag still stained with blood from his knuckles, as well as the all-too
flexible forms of Gurierez and Michaelsen finishing their stretching.
When Helen Michaelsen looked up and smiled he left with the off
sensation that the back of his neck and the tips of his ears were
burning.
OOC: The following is written in reference to Chris' 'Chapter 6' post, and draws heavily upon it. Here's to you, comrade!
"History Unfolding" Part One
Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
And Various NPCs
==============================================
(Landing Pad 3- 'The Alamo')
The Hopper landed softly on the elevator. The engines were cut to just a fraction of a fraction of it's potential power, the elevator door descending and the craft being maneuvered off. The elevator lifted up behind it, the hopper now safe in the bowels of the large, concealed, sub-terranian craft bay.
The APCs and the earlier hoppers had arrived hours ago. The Civilians and wounded aboard them were no doubt receiving the care they needed, while the other Starfleeters were being debriefed and, were things to remain true to form, likely being given tasks and positions that needed to be done and filled. Not that there was likely to be much needed for them to be 'told' what they needed to do... they were Starfleet after all.
It would be nice to get a sonic shower, a hot meal, and maybe even a change of uniform. Failing that, Fork would settle for just something to eat. Unlike Vulcans whom simultaneously possessed greatly increased metabolic rates 'and' an uncanny ability to resist hunger and starvation, Stagnorians just had the rapid metabolism. They needed to eat like they had it too, the average suggestion being about 2,500 to 3,000 calories per day minimum during normal circumstances. In combat, that number shot up dramatically.
In short, he was hungry.
Unfortunately even before the hopper engines finally cut off completely and the ground crew got to their maintenance work, a really pissed off Marine General, her arms folded over her chest, was waiting for one of it's occupants. In fact, Fork's boots barely hit the ground before he got a terse call over. "Colonel, I will see you for a moment."
Fork sighed. Yeah, he should've figured General Yotz would be waiting when he got back. Somehow it was every other officer in the history of Starfleet managed to get away with doing things 'under the table' or 'without appropriate authorization' with nothing more than a momentary frown from a superior and maybe a forced promotion if they were particularly unlucky, so how was it that the hard core disciplinarians and ruthless regulators always managed to find him? Did someone implant him with a tracking device when he wasn't looking or what? "Aye, ma'am." He removed his helmet and passed it to Leah, who gratefully had the sense to know when not to follow.
Yotz half pulled, have lead the Colonel towards an office that she had commandeered for the purpose from the moment he found out about his unauthorized romp. As soon as she closed the door she let it rip, both barrels. "Care to explain to me Colonel just what the 'fuck' you were thinking?!"
Fork quirked a brow. "Somehow I doubt you're interested in that, General."
"Don't get smart with me, Mister Arvelion." She walked around the small metalic desk in the room and glared like a viper staring at it's prey. "You took advantage of our situation to go play hero, depriving this facility of valuable military assets..."
"Marines General, not assets." Fork replied curtly.
"...and needlessly jeopardizing this mission and the safety of the United Federation of Planets in the process!"
"I did 'no' such thing!" For'kel, who until now had been the picture perfect example of standing at attention, suddenly became quite animated. "My recon force located an enemy camp where they were 'executing' prisoners. That mission was authorized!"
"No half-cocked rescue mission was ever authorized! You could have gotten your entire unit captured or worse!"
"But we weren't!" Fork shot back. "You were secluded because of some damned self-serving operational procedure 'you' likely put in place, General."
"Bite your tongue, Arvelion." Yotz, furious, growled at the top of her lungs. "You are well over the line of insubordination!"
"Then there's no reason to stop!" Fork shot back. "There were plenty of Marines and troops here to provide security, I took 'my' people, and 'volunteers', on a mission that was 'very' necessary! We had intercepts suggesting an extermination plan, documented holo-recordings of the Breen 'executing' that plan, and evidence that they were going to eliminate that entire camp! We did what we had to do!"
"I should have you put against a wall and shot!" Yotz shouted back. "What you did was treason, plain and simple!"
"Treason?! You want to talk about treason?! I'm sorry General, far be it from me to ever question the definition of treason supplied by a master at the art. Tell me, while you were under lock and key in a secured, guarded room while the rest of the base was constantly looking over their collective shoulders, did the well being others even factor in to your decisions or were you too busy curling up in the corner trying to shake your fears with a good book?"
There was a long pause as the General clenched her fist... and 'almost' struck a subordinate officer. "You are 'very' fortunate Colonel that I am in need of 'every' able bodied Marine at my disposal, or I would most certainly shoot you myself. I 'will' be informing Starfleet Command of your actions, and you better believe I will refer you in my report for Court Martial."
There was another second's gap of conversation before For'kel reached into a sleeve pocket and pulled out a PADD and stylus, tossing them on the desk. "A-R-V-E-L-I-O-N... For'kel is the first name. Get it right."
"You better hope it's me writing it, and not some Breen interrogator."
"Exactly what is 'that' supposed to mean?!"
"You stubborn and ignorant son of a bitch." Yotz sneered, laughing in a way that was certainly joyless. "It means 'exactly' what I said. Your little self-righteous escapade? Hydran scout fighters were following the Hopper we had to divert to pick your team up. They followed you all the way here. The Breen will likely be right behind them... you 'gave' our position away." She came around the desk. "This isn't some holo-novel adventure, Colonel. This is the real world, and if we make it through this alive you will see that your decisions here have consequences. I am deploying the 188TH to hold to guard the western approach through the woods... I suggest you get your Marines together and fortify that area as much as possible. Our reinforcements are still a day away, and we expect the Breen to be at the gates in five hours... in force. You are dismissed."
=================================================
(The Front Line-- 10 Minutes later.)
"Jesus Christ..." Leah looked around at the fairly dense and frozen forest, the snow no longer blistering, but gently falling down as if to anoint the soon-to-be battlefield. "We have to defend all of 'this' from a Breen force that outnumbers us three to one?"
"Yep." Fork said flatly.
She suddenly felt 'much' colder. "Without air superiority and sporadic-at-best armor and artillery support?"
"Yep."
"And how much time did you say we had again?"
"Four and a half hours at this point. They'll be here just before sun-up." The Stagnorian murmured, taking in a deep breath. "There's not much we can do at this point. The Breen are likely to try to come right down that center avenue, it's the only path through this forest large enough for armored vehicles. We'll just have to dig our holes, lay our mines... and wait."
OOC: Direct response to "You've Got Mail".
"Vague Reply"
FROM: TARIN, INIARA // LTCDR // XO
TO: K'AA, TH'KHISS// LTCDR // C/OPS
DATE: 60810.23.2149
RE: SUBJ: STARFLEET GAMES
Commander-- Were you any other member of this crew, I would likely give you the standard set of responses: participation in the Starfleet Games should be a proud moment for all those involved, the event boosts morale in the fleet as well as among the civilian viewership, it provides a good opportunity for the crew to have a break, and so on. However, given your...unique situation, I believe such a response would be more than a bit insulting.
Because you are a more recent addition to the crew, it's possible that you may not be possessed of all the facts relating to our current situation. If you'd like to discuss the matter in more depth, my door is always open.
OOC: I haven't thought about Iniara in months, much less written for her, so until I find her voice again please forgive me these clumsy stumblings. She'll come back to me eventually. I hope.
"Biweekly Blandness"
Lt. Cmdr. Tarin Iniara
Counselor V'Lot (NPC)
*****
Given the snail's pace at which her days normally moved, Iniara was nearly always surprised (frustrated? annoyed?) how quickly her biweekly counseling appointments seemed to crop up. But, already it was time to venture once more into the Counseling Center, and now here she was.
"Surpriiiise," she began with a bit of a smile as she stepped into V'Lot's office. "Miss me?"
V'Lot looked up from the padd she was reviewing, her head tilting slightly to one side as she considered her patient. "With no deviation, you have been coming to this office every other week at this specific time for almost two years. Thus, your arrival is not surprising. Nonetheless," the counselor continued, her expression softening, "welcome, Iniara."
Iniara's mirthful smile turned a bit sheepish. Two years of sessions with V'Lot had taught Iniara that the Vulcan counselor was fairly atypical in terms of her appearance, mannerisms, and speech. But, Iniara sometimes forgot that, at her core, V'Lot was still Vulcan and as such displayed many characteristically Vulcan traits. Such as her lack of a sense of humor. Or was it just incredibly dry humor? Whatever it was, Iniara figured, it was generally incompatible with Iniara's own (mostly awkward) attempts at humor.
"How have you been?" V'Lot asked once Iniara had made it to the sofa and the office doors had automatically slid shut.
Iniara considered that for a moment before answering. "Well, I suppose. Nothing monumental has occurred since our last session."
V'Lot nodded, making mental notes. Many of her patients were less than forthcoming about their lives, and Iniara was no exception. In general most species tended to be closed off and only furnished information when asked directly, especially in a counseling environment like this. But, just once, V'Lot wished she would get someone who volunteered more than the absolute minimum of information.
Alas, after a moment it didn't seem like Iniara was going to be generous. Might as well continue with the standard questions, then. "Any changes in how your body is handling the betasynine?"
"Not that I can tell," Iniara replied with a slight shake of her head. That wasn't completely the truth; she'd been taking the psi-blocker ever since the Dithparu had done their damage to her mental defenses, and over the years her body had developed a natural resistance to the drug. Right now she was taking the maximum allowable dosage under Federation law, which V'Lot knew about; she'd modified the prescription, after all. But what V'Lot didn't know was that Iniara's natural resistance had been developing at an ever-increasing rate, and Iniara could almost feel something starting to poke through the haze that the drug left on her mind. The realization that she would eventually need more help than any legal drug could provide was sobering and a bit frightening, but Iniara wasn't sure she wanted to bring it up right now. Soon, maybe...but not yet.
"That's good." The main purpose of these visits was to keep tabs on the effectiveness of the medication, so since that topic had been covered, as far as V'Lot was concerned they could now end at any time. She reached for the padd on her desk, tapping several keys before setting it down and pulling open a desk drawer. Withdrawing a long vial of purplish liquid she inserted it into a fresh hypospray, then handed it to Iniara. "In that case your prescription will remain the same for the time being: doses twice daily, four units per dose. Any questions?"
Iniara rolled the hypospray around in her hand for a moment, feeling the cold metal start to warm from her body heat. She felt her head start to move automatically to indicate a negative, but she stopped mid-motion and looked from the hypospray back to the counselor. "V'Lot," she began somewhat tentatively, "are you participating in the Starfleet Games?"
Inwardly, V'Lot smiled. She had a feeling that wasn't the real question her patient wanted to ask, but the fact that she was even asking a question was a start. "I am," she replied, inclining her head slightly. "I plan to participate in the kal-toh tournament."
"I didn't know-- So you're pretty good at kal-toh, I take it."
"I am," V'Lot repeated. "Are you participating as well?"
Iniara let out a slight sigh, although it wasn't clear if she was reacting to the question or simply exhaling. "Marksmanship, of course. It's probably the only thing I'm good at nowadays. Well, except paperwork, that is," she finished with a grin.
"Indeed."
At that, Iniara gave V'Lot a strange look. "You know who else says that?"
V'Lot shook her head.
"The captain."
"I see."
When it became clear that V'Lot wasn't going to say anything else, Iniara shrugged, trying to break what felt to her like an almost uncomfortable silence. "Just saying."
"Very well." In the back of her mind, V'Lot was wondering if this was what Iniara was really trying to get to. Adjusting to a new commanding officer could be troublesome...but could it really be that simple?
"Well. In that case, Counselor, I should probably get going. Good luck in the Games."
V'Lot's expression fell ever so slightly; so much for getting to the crux of the matter this time. Darn. "Likewise, 'Commander," she replied, returning to the formality that tended to characterize the end of their sessions. "I will see you in two weeks."
"Of course."
"Singularity"
Part XI of the BREAKABLE Saga.
(one more to go)
Lt. Victor Krieghoff
Allison von Ernst (civilian)
****
Oded's Aggravation
Holding Station off Roarke's Rift
The warp shuttle hung on the edge of the precipice between life and death. Out there invisible somewhere... closer than one dared hope, was the most unimaginable destructive force in the universe.
A Black Hole.
Nominally labeled 'Gravitic Singularity, Collapsed Stellar Type, Number 2367' by the Vulcan Science Academy's stellar survey division, it was more colloquially referred to as Roarke's Rift after its discoverer (and first victim). Since that initial disaster this particular singularity had been well documented, categorized, and cordoned off by the Federation Cartography Service, navigational warnings blaring on multiple frequencies and in all standard languages.
As black holes went, the Rift was unremarkable at best, and ignored at worst, there being rather more interesting subjects to be found scattered throughout the Alpha quadrant.
However, the rift had two things that made it desirable for the purposes at hand: 1) It was one of the most stable and well documented Black Holes in all Federation space; and 2) It was one of the most isolated. Both things together made it perfect for the plotting of deeds that were at best frowned upon by those in power.
Besides, even the tamest of black holes represented power on a scale well nigh unimaginable, a literal rip in reality; some say the very gateway to Hell itself.
Looking out onto the eerily invisible event horizon, part of Allison von Ernst's soul already felt condemned to that infernal place.
Turning away from the porthole, she addressed her companion. "You can look if you want Vic... I've been here before." In truth she would be here twenty years from now....or maybe a year and a half ago from her perspective....who knew really?
Victor took her place and stared into the blackness at the swirl of gasses and stellar material that was being drawn down into destruction, trying to decide if the feeling inside him was wonder, awe, respect… or jealousy. He sipped at his tea, and let the words that suddenly welled up inside him slip out, although whether in challenge to the titanic forces outside or in comment upon them, even he wasn't sure, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer. Death, the Shatterer of Worlds."
Lost in her own thoughts, Allison missed the softly-uttered words as she realized that how insignificant a mere score or so of years was in the life of the truly eternal? Planets lived and died... stars were born and burned out... even massive galaxies were torn asunder into random nothingness... but the black hole was truly eternal, Dr Hawking's theories notwithstanding.
20 years from now, on the verge of her first trip she would innocently ask Uncle Lysander why the Hole was referred to as Roarke's Rift.
***
(The Future That Was)
The normally jovial man frowned and merely pointed at a distant speck, barely visible against the darkness. "The Event Horizon." he explained. "Smegging point of no return it is... Roarke was the one who first found out where it lay....a little too late for his own good."
Magnifying the viewer to focus on the invisible line, Allison could just make out what appeared to be an ancient 22nd century Starship drifting ever so slowly towards oblivion.
"Is that him?" she gasped. "Its still there?"
Uncle Lysander shook his head. "No.....ship's been crushed for almost 200 years now.....but the light rays of its image are still only barely escaping the vicinity of the Horizon. Its massively red-shifted of course, but the viewer compensates. Gravity has a strange effect on light, and therefore we can still see it even though the ship's already gone over the edge." he paused seeing Alli's horrified looks. "Dont worry though." he gave a smarmy smile. "I've double checked the Princess's… er… your mothers equations....and I give you....oh maybe a 50-50 chance."
She guffawed and smacked his shoulder. Uncle Lysander always was a joker.
****
(The Now That Is)
Now 20 years in the past, a year before she would be born, she stared at the distant shape of Roarke's Rift again and wondered.
The after-image of poor Roarke's doomed starship was still visible on the edge...drifting towards a doom it would never reach.
There was very little in the way of prep work for her or Victor to do, the all important vector calculations having been verified 20 years away by a nervous redheaded mother. The Rift's Gravitic parameters were exactly what the history books said they would be, calm and without surprises.
The Aggravation itself was warmed up and ready to go. Checked and double checked by the best technicians in the 25th century, with a bit of curious oversight by a 24th century Security Officer just for good measure.
Nothing left but goodbyes and regrets.
"Don't worry... Unca Vic." Alli sniffed, "I'll be seeing you in less than half an hour." she gave a half smile and scruffed his hair a bit. "Although it'll be weird seeing you with all that gray hair again."
Victor considered that for a moment. Grey hair? He was going to have grey hair? Chulak had never had grey hair – it had, as had Sakonna's, remained the same color for his entire life - although that wasn't necessarily a good comparison, since Chulak's body had been a different species physically, whether Victor's mind had driven it or not. Oddly, Victor had simply never considered himself looking any other way than he did now; he supposed most people hadn't. "Probably," he said lightly, "from trying to keep up with you for all those years."
"Don't forget my Birthday." she said. "July 20th of next year... It'll be nice to think that you'd be there."
"It would," Victor realized the words were true as he spoke them. To be there as a child was brought into the Universe, to see them grow to an adult as he had with Chulak and Sakonna's children, to feel their joy at discovering life… that would be a thing worth doing.
In reality both wondered if that was even a possibility. James Corgan showed no interest in fathering a child with anybody, unless they had blue or green blood. Alli had sat down and done the math one night and figured out that for her to have any chance of making it to her own birthday, Mom and Dad had better get busy within the next three weeks or so.
Three weeks
Three weeks when they hadn't spoken to each other in years.
Right about the time James was planning to marry Mika… he should be sleeping with Rebecca.
~~~If all goes well.~~~ Alli thought distastefully as she prepared to leave.
*******
*******
Shortly...
Stationkeeping off Roarke's Rift
Oded's Aggravation
Bridge
She found herself tightly snuggled into a four point harness overlooking a glowing LCARS console. There was nothing for her to do, no buttons to push, or toggles to switch. Mom had seen to the automatic nature of the process, and so for the second time she faced the unknown with no tasks to distract her from the danger.
On the way back she'd been giddy with excitement and a nervous fear, like just cresting the top of the first hill on a giant roller coaster. Now however, she knew what to expect, and truth be told she wasn't looking forward to the nausea, disorientation, and weird visions that accompanied time travel. It was the un-zarkiest experience of her short life to be truthful.
There also was nothing to look forward to.
No mysterious father figure to seek out. No childhood fantasies to make into reality. Just a trip home to mother. Having to tell her she was right all along. Seeing the disappointment in her eyes, and those of Uncle Vic who was sure to be present.
She'd been gone more than a year... but in their eyes she would be returning mere moments from the time she left. Hair a little longer, and with angry black dye at the tips. Nails covered in aluminum acrylics... and heart shattered on the floor.
20 SECONDS.
She squirmed herself a little deeper into the restraints and took some deep breaths, willing herself not to hurl.
15 SECONDS.
=/\= Safe travels Alli-gator =/\=
Uncle Vic's young voice crackled in over the comm. No doubt he was monitoring her telemetry from the runabout.
"Thanks Unc.....see ya in a few minutes." she tittered nervously.
10 SECONDS
****
Stationkeeping off Roarke's Rift
Runabout Serengeti
Bridge
500 meters away in his own runabout Victor Krieghoff monitored the final countdown closely from his board; all the information being transmitted from the Oded's Aggravation and recorded by the runabouts sensors bypassing the onboard computer's storage in favor of a direct download to a series of isolinear chips. He wasn't sure that he'd need the information gleaned from the chips to travel through time to Allison's future, but he was definitely sure that Starfleet didn't need to know that he'd been here, helping a girl he hardly knew go home to a time when he was, from all accounts, her surrogate father.
The whole process was automatic, and there was very little that he could do to assist since temporal mechanics were considerably outside his purview. The part of him that had been Chulak understood more of the math than Victor would have thought, but he supposed that theoretical mathematics wasn't all that different then and now; in any case, it wasn't enough of an understanding to say that the whole process was comprehended in any real way, just bits and pieces here and there that were familiar.
Still, he was now as he would, from Allison's descriptions be in the future, a careful man, and he monitored the process nonetheless as if the mere act of watching could ensure success. You don't have permission to fail, he mentally urged the circuits.
A thought struck him, and he rolled it over in his head for a moment, deciding if it was a good one or not. In the end, he couldn't see how it could hurt so….
"Do you remember what you told me about the lake in Iceland, when you were a child, Allison?" he asked over the com."Do you remember what I told you then?"
=/\=Something Vulgar in German about pigheadedness and skating on thin ice?...oh wait...I didnt have persmission to die or something.=/\=
"Good," he replied. "I need you to remember it now, too: you don't have permission to die. Do you understand me?"
=/\=Dying, right...dont do it. Gotcha=/\=
******
******
It started with a gentle puff from the thrusters to break inertia, and then the impulse engines kicked in.
Oded's Aggravation rapidly disappeared from view as the sublight engines kicked the yacht up to .9c
The last visual cue Victor had was a distant flash of light indicating the jump to warp drive.
A good sign.
The fact he could see the flash indicated the jump was made on the safe side of the Event Horizon just as planned. Unfortunately, the Aggravation would be cutting it much closer, dancing on the edge of eternal darkness in her run up to the future.
Slingshotting around a sun was one thing; both dangerous and unpredictable. Pulling the same stunt around a singularity....well that was a stunt only a von Ernst could have come up with.
=/\=W.w..w..warp 9.2 and g..g..g.oing f..f..fine =/\= Alli's voice vibrated from the speakers. The incredibly bumpy ride causing her to stutter her words.
"Don't forget what I told you," Victor reminded her, as he stared at the moment of stellar finality that was Roarke's Rift through the viewport and bared his teeth at it, one predator to another, and willed it to leave that which he'd claimed alone.
=/\= 9.6 and accelerating....=/\= Came the call. =/\= If you're h...h..hearing this then I g..g..guess I'm still on the right side of the Event horizon......if not.....I guess I'm talking to myself.=/\=
~You're not talking to yourself, Alli-gator,~ Victor thought, using, for the second time in both his life and the last hour, the nickname he'd given in the future to a child yet to be born.
There was a sparkle of Cherenkov radiation on the sensors, and a blistering trail of chronotrons as the Aggravation cut right to the edge of Oblivion, and then arced away in Time breakaway, slingshotting itself into the unknown future… and slingshotting Allison von Ernst out of Victor's reality.
Space was suddenly empty again...
For a long minute he simply stared, the cabin around him still and quiet, the only sound his breathing and the invisible hiss of the Black Hole on the empty scanners.
Allison von Ernst was gone.
Victor was alone on the edge of eternity.
It was strangely quiet here. Here on the edge of oblivion he found himself missing her insane 16 year old babble.
~~Youre getting old Krieghoff.~~ he mused starring out into the rift where she had gone.
So he was naturally surprised when someone grabbed him from behind and shoved him painfully against the bulkhead.
– He assumed it was a *someone,* since *somethings* tended, in his experience, to just start chewing -
Where had his attacker come from? THe shuttle had been empty! They'd attacked from behind without a hum to announce their arrival by transporter, without, in fact, any warning whatsoever!
"WHERE IS SHE!!" a harsh voice screamed in his ear, as the familiar cold muzzle of a phaser stabbed him painfully in the back. "WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HER GAWDAMNIT!!"
Victor might have, on another day, been rational and tried to reason with his attacker, to resolve the situation without violence. He wasn't sure when that day would have been, but there was at least a positive mathematical possibility that it existed, so he *might* have done it.
But not today.
Most inexperienced or untrained people, when threatening someone with a hand weapon, make the same critical mistake: they stand too closely. If the weapon was close enough to make contact with the body of the target, then the person wielding the weapon was also that close; and against a trained combatant, that was far, far, too close.
Victor wasn't a master of unarmed hand-to-hand combat, not in the way that people like Commander Smith, or his Aunt Rexa were; he'd never devoted himself to the intensive study it required. He knew moves from a dozen fighting forms from half that many races, but had never bothered to truly master any of them. Instead, he fought instinctively, brutally, simply hurting his opponents until they couldn't fight back with an inborn sense of what to do when. A master like them might have known sixteen different ways to reverse the situation, might have sifted through them until they chose the correct one that would leave them standing with their opponent's phaser in their hands while its former wielder stood there, staring at them blankly – but Victor didn't know those things, he just knew on a primal level how to fight, how to hurt… how to kill.
"ANSWER ME YOU FUCK!" the phaser stabbed him in the back again! "WHERE IS SHE!??!"
Without looking at his opponent – because he didn't need to; the position of the phaser telling him that they were shorter than he was, and thus lighter – Victor turned to his left, his arm sweeping his attacker's weapon arm to the side. As he was continuing the turn, his hand, already reaching for the displaced arm to break it, changed direction as some level of instinct well below the conscious level of thought prompted a shift, and, instead, he slammed the heel of his right hand into his assailant's chest, high up, just below the throat, driving them back against the pilot's chair. As they staggered back, their weapon coming back into line, he continued his turn to face them, letting his own weapon slide into his hand, the gleaming black Type-1 phaser from a bygone era under his thumb and pointing at the head of his opponent as they recovered. "Don't," he warned.
He found himself instead looking upon the blazing blue eyes and streaked mascara of a wild haired blond. She was perhaps 20 years old or so with tattered clothes, scarred face, bruised skin, and an angry phaser now aimed directly at his nose.
"What have you done!??!" the woman shrieked, voice livid with fury, her trigger finger twitching over the vaporize setting "Where's my mother!!??!!"
Victor frowned, trying to reconcile the apparition before him with… "Allison?"
"Pre-Game Show"
by Ensign T'risia
OOC: In regard to T'risia's personal timeline (which I know that everyone is just SO concerned about) this takes place after the JPs I am working on, and thoroughly enjoying.)
Despite the assignment of many new tasks that T'risia had suddenly absorbed from the Security department, her computer like efficiency at performing many of them allowed her the time to still sit, alone, in Ten Forward, performing the tasks that she tended to assign herself to off duty time. As usual, she sat at th small table for two practically reserved for her, the Vulcan Lady's Table, which gave her a nice view of the majesty of space. Mentally, she reviewed past event, and wondered if she was hearing correctly. It could now be the Vulcan Ladies' Table. She elected to pay closer attention to the contextual clues of nearby gossip, and determine if the plural had been added.
She was dressed in her typical off duty fashion, a flowing vulcan tunic, this one in a forest green, and tight legggings, these incongrously in purple. The headband holding back her hair, drawn from a seemingly infinite collection, featured Buttercup of the Powerpuff Girls, an ancient Terran icon of feminist empowerment. On her tunic, she wore two pins, one featuring her favoritism for the baseball team known as the Springfield Isotopes, and one of the Incredible Hulk, a Terran who had been horribly mutated by the primitive, irresponsible science of 20th Century Earth. Idly, she worked on a PADD as she drank a needlessly complicated caffinated beverage invented by a human named "Starbuck."
After a time working at the PADDs data, which featured the sign up for the Security Department's baseball team, she looked up, as her light had been blocked. A heavyset Lieutenant, that she had not previously encountered, wearing Ops division gold, had become the obstruction to her working light. As she understood Terran facial expressions, his not highly symmetrical fac was further distorted by a look of both smugness and confrontationalism. "You're Ensign T'risia?"
"That is my identity, yes," she replied. T'risia raised her hand in the split fingered salute, and added, "Peace and long life."
"I don't think so," began the heavyset man. "At least not for you. Not in the Games, on the chessboard."
T'risia's disciplined, computer like mind intook the information, and rapidly processed it, her green eyes blinking once. "You are Lt. Nikolai Zacara. USS Orobourous, assigned to operations. Gold medalist in the past two Starfleet Games, in Chess."
The heavyset man ruffled his dark hair, looking more smug. "That's right, babe, and you are goin' down!"
T'risia rifled that same computer mind for Terran euphemisms, and found one that matched. "You are incorrect. I have no desire to perform oral sex at this time."
The misinterpretation stunned Zacara for a moment, and increased the attention levels of all eavesdroppers. The Vulcan Lady was bringing some serious entertainment tonight, it seemed. "No," said Zacara after a moment. "I mean, you might as well drop out. Youre just gonna lose, big time."
"I do not think so."
For once, the crew of the Galaxy made a sound in their eavesdropping that made T'risia feel a bit supported. It had the tone of approval that emotional beings tended to give in a team effort. She realized that Zacara's hubris was not liked, despite his talents.
Zacara's tone turned friendly, in an ironic tone, as he ticked off his reasoning on his fingertips. "Look, humans invented chess. We've been playing it longer. You, it's like a computer playing the game. Sure, you can calclulate tons of outcomes, use your discipline to look at moves, but lack of emotion takes away all your creativity. Against someone like me, you just dont stand a chance. Pack it in."
T'risia's mind raced to understand the nature of the conversation. Logically, if Zacara had taken the time to come and convince her not to enter, he was intimidated by her record. Thusly, by paradox, she had a significant chance of doing quite well in the tourney. Further, this behavior was what Terrans reffered to as The Psych Out, where ritual insults are exchanged, in an attempt to intimidate the other player. Hence the attack on her Vulcan heritage, and immediate order to perform oral sex. Now that she understood, the playing field was clear.
"I do not think so. In fact, I believe that you are having such an extreme emotional response to the intimidation of playing me, in the games, that you have defacted your uniform. In fact, you are in all probability defacting it now. Return to your home planet and consult with your maternal parent, to calm your emotions."
There was a long moment of silence. Nothing at all could be heard but the movement at the bar, as everyone translated the awkward Fed Standard, and realized, almost simultaneously what had been said. It made Zacara angry. Very angry, as the human reddened.
"What did you just say to me? I'm the best player in the Fleet!"
"Perhaps once. At this point, if your talents were to represented by replicator credits, then you would not have boots." Her deadpan, emotionless delivery made it sound more like the truth, than a rank out. She began to close down her PADD, as the crowd in Ten Forward now paid close attention to the confrontation.
"We'll just see! I haven't lost a game in years, lady!" The heavyset man, Zacara, struggled like all bullies confronted with someone who would not bend.
"Indeed, we will. That is the point of the competition. I believe the opening round is soon enough, but if you would wish to play a game at this point in time, off the record, so to speak, it would be enjoyable to play with someone of your...magnitude." At the word magnitude, her green eyes did drop to Zacara's expanded waistline.
Zacara, for his part, hesitated. Not only did he not wante her to preview his style of play, but at this point, all eyes in the lounge were on them. Truth be told, he was intimidated by her record, and did not want to be seen at a disadvantage by the room full of officers. But declining would admit that he had been intimidated...he began to sweat.
Vulcans, having no emotions, did not sweat. T'risia waited patiently, with her finger steepled in front of her.
Eventually, after a long time, Zacara just said to her, "No." Very quietly.
T'risia stood, and smoothed out her Vulcan clothing. "Very well." She realized that she had not complted the Ritual of the Psych Out yet. What remained was the Parting Shot. She arched a brow, and said, "When, after we play, your excessive optical leakage forces you back to your maternal parent, remember this....I have had intimate relations with your maternal parent, and she found them most satisfactory." This was, to her knowledge, the customary way to end the Ritual, and performed the sentence with grave respect.
As she walked away, the Lounge roared as they realized that the Vulcan Lady has just made a "Yo' momma" joke.
"Hunting for Purpose"
Lt. Commander Th'Khiss K'aa, Chief of Operations
FROM: TARIN, INIARA // LTCDR // XO
TO: K'AA, TH'KHISS// LTCDR // C/OPS
DATE: 60810.23.2149
RE: SUBJ: STARFLEET GAMES
Commander-- Were you any other member of this crew, I would likely
give you the standard set of responses: participation in the Starfleet
Games should be a proud moment for all those involved, the event
boosts morale in the fleet as well as among the civilian viewership,
it provides a good opportunity for the crew to have a break, and so
on. However, given your...unique situation, I believe such a response
would be more than a bit insulting.
Because you are a more recent addition to the crew, it's possible that
you may not be possessed of all the facts relating to our current
situation. If you'd like to discuss the matter in more depth, my door
is always open.
=========================================
It took a few minutes for him to quell the urge to drive his fist
through the monitor, but pass it did leaving Th'Khiss K'aa trembling
with the ebb of adrenaline and thoroughly, thoroughly confused. Was
the Federation so shallow to believe that the civilian masses would be
bolstered by the athletic achievements of the fleet when Delta IV had
been lost to them - the second major system in months to be taken by
the Triad fleets?
And were these events actually sport? He had done some research into
the 'baseball' that had created such a flurry of excitement in
Security, but found only archived footage of an event called the "Wold
Series". He wasn't certain if standing in the 'outfield' chewing gum
and scratching one's genitals constituted an athletic event, but sadly
its madness could be perfectly concluded in a moral from baseball's
ancient past. "Baseball's ninety percent mental - the other half's
physical."
"Mental indeed", K'aa growled as he hauled up the holodeck schedules,
and predictably found all sixteen thoroughly booked with training
regimen for the games. Fortunately, Ops ran the ship's holodeck
scheduling, and for once (and so far, only once), it was good the be
the Chief of Operations. It took a minute to delete six hours of
gymnastics training and re-configure cargo bay two for the athletes
use. Holodeck Ten would be busy for a while.
============================================
Holodeck X, Haida Gwaii Simulation
==========================
It was surprising at first, that the cool mist that he remembered
didn't burn as it did in the past; but he had scales back then, and
now he had pale skin and warm blood pumping beneath. Fall in the
Haida Gwaii was always bitterly cold as a Gorn, but now enrobed in
human flesh and a thick Cowichan sweater and trousers, K'aa was
comfortable amongst the giant spruces and cedars of the island's
rugged west coast.
Another surprise was the scale - everything he remembered was so much
larger now has a human, and the small hike along the rough gravel
beach that had once been effortless now left him panting for breath.
Despite the effort he still found what he was looking for, and when he
bent down to look he smiled at the size of it. Nine inches across,
the paw print amongst the rocks was the sign of a large bear, a boar
if K'aa could read it right. At night, bears would scavenge the
shores for anything edible - crabs and mollusks left on the tide, or
mussels growing against a log or root snag.
He looked up and saw that for other than himself the beach was empty -
not a raven or a gull in sight, and that made him smile. The prey had
been here recently, and while he could no longer taste it he knew that
its spoor still hovered along the coast, scaring off the local carrion-
eaters while it lingered.
K'aa hefted his rifle and walked slowly towards the creek inlet to the
south, seeing small traces of the grizzly amongst the hard stone. By
the creek a more substantial clue, a large pile of droppings just
barely steaming in the cold morning air. There were few flies on the
dung, and the thin man guessed that the bear had been by less two
hours time. Perhaps more. Perhaps less. It didn't matter, really.
Th'Khiss K'aa, for the first time since being a homo sapiens, felt
truly alive as he knew he could still hunt, and still be a predator
despite the weak shell he now bore. He grinned, happy for just a
while, then scoured the creek side for signs of his quarry.
The boar may have known it was being hunted, having travelled up the
cold, swift-flowing waters of creek rather than comfortably alongside
it. Periodically it would emerge, but only when there was bedrock
beneath it, and never when the forest's soft loam met the banks. The
terrain was rough and irregular, and the grade steeply uphill as the
creek spilled from the island's tall mountains causing K'aa to wheeze
constantly with the effort, but after two hours he caught a glimpse of
his prey and from behind an outcropping of black slate on the creek's
south bank he crouched to observe it.
At over twelve-hundred pounds, the bear was a shaggy ripple of pure
muscle underneath a thick pelt of blond-brown fur. Hungry from its
own efforts, it had paused in its journey to chase down a couple of
spawning chinook salmon, fattened from years at sea. Water in the
pool sprayed in all directions as the massive bear sprinted to hunt
down the wriggling fish in the shallows. When it had slapped the fish
under a massive paw, it growled as if in triumph, and set immediately
to consume the salmon's soft underbelly.
Smiling, K'aa's own stomach growled at the sight. As a Gorn, whole
raw salmon was one of his favorite dishes, and he envied the bear a
digestive system that could consume and appreciate it. He also envied
the creature's vitality, which seemed to radiate from it's coarse
fur. Finishing its first meal and chasing down its second, the boar
possessed a natural health and energy that made predators in their
prime both respected and feared. Krieghoff has it. K'aa, at one
time, had it as well and missed it terribly.
It took some effort to raise the .300 Savage to his shoulder and lower
his eye to the rifle's scope, but the movement had created noise and
the boar had noticed it. For a few seconds they looked at each other
- the bear with a mouthful of fish offal, the hunter with his cross
hairs fixed in the middle of his prey's chest but looking at the
boar's dark, fierce eyes - then it passed. The bear raced swiftly and
noisily towards the dense forest on the northern shore, and K'aa
slowly lowered his gun.
It had been a good shot, but too dependant on the Zeiss scope. It was
a marksman's shot, not a hunter's, and K'aa wanted to feel more of the
boar's rage and fear before he claimed it. Still, the few seconds
when they gauged each other had been intoxicating, like a euphoric
drug the former Gorn craved, no... needed.
Once more, he hefted the heavy firearm and crossed the creek at it's
stillest, climbing to the northern shore and then creeping slowly
amongst the towering cedars and the massive spruce trees that held his
quarry.
"Diversions"
by Ensign T'risia
The Vulcan woman strode carefully across the wooded terrain of the planet Beta Gamma III, phaser in hand, scanning the area with her keen eyes as she moved. The landing party had spread out, attempting to locate the source of the transmissions from the planet, which indicated a high level of technology. Thus far, there was no evidence of those signs, only a broad emission of energy that she, and the others, had been unable to pinpoint. Her red minidress style uniform clung to her slender shape, the Terran fabric called "velour" warming in the cooler environment. On her breast was the rectangular service symbol of the USS Exeter, bearing the sprial like design of Security services in the center. Her hair was held off of her head with one of her typical headbands, this one decorated with the Terran icon "Betty Boop."
She heard a brief rustling off to one side, in the brush. Her piercing green eyes darted to look at it, searching, doing her best to move silently in her calf length black go go boots. With her left hand, she pulled out her communicator, flipping open its antenna grid. It made its characteristic beeep-beep, which waas illogical in a stealth situation, but the brush moved no further. "T'risia to landing party. Contact possible." She said this in low tones, intending not to spook a potential first contact with some form of watcher.
Moving forward, phaser set for stun, she left the channel open. Counting on the efficacy of her own universal translator, she spoke aloud, "I mean you no harm. Peace, and long life."
Long moments passed without further rustling in the large brush. Despite that, she had the feeling of being watched.
Taking further, cautious steps forward, she put her phaser back at her side, and held up her hand in the split fingered Vulcan salute. To her logic, that would indicate that she bore no malice.
The brush rustled again, and a being of about her size rose from a crouching position. It was seemingly male, but most androgynous in description, with an enlarged cranium, and very large eyes. The being wore little in the way of clothing, some sort of homespun kilt, a sash of the same brownish fabric, and clearly handmade boots. The being did not speak.
Slowly raising her communicator to her mouth, she spoke again. "T'risia here. I have made contact. The entity seems peaceful, and relatively low in level of technology. I will keep this channel open." With that, she brought the communicator back to rest alongside her body.
Pointing to herself, the Vulcan woman said, simply, "T'risia. Friend." She did not smile, as this was not the Vulcan way.
Still, the being said nothing. Her keen hearing detected some rustling behind her.
She pointed to the sky, slowly, and indicated, "My home. Do you understand?"
Slowly, the green skinned alien with the enlarged head nodded. It did not speak. Thankfully, vulcans had long patience bred of their lack of feeling, and no level of frustration. Keeping the communicator's channel open, she put it on her belt, and slowly took a tricorder reading. The reading indicated a highly developed brain, of considerable size, as one might assume, and the presence of chlorophyll in the dermis, accounting for the creature's green skin. It most probably could generate energy from the planet's sunlight, a significant evolutionary advantage. There were several organs she could not discern the meaning of, some located in the eyes, some in the chest. Also, she detected a series of technological artifacts in the pockets of the being.
Once more, slowly, she put the tricorder back at her side, it's handbag like design helpful. She spoke into her communicator again. "Correction. They have technological devices, of an undiscernable type. I request assistance...there may be more beings present."
As she finished saying this, which her universal translator conveyed, the being's eyes began to glow, with an orange light of some kind. At first, she began to observe it out of curiousity, but very quickly, she realized that she could not look away from the glow. Her thoughts...began to slow...even as she realized the being was exerting some kind of mental influence over her. Her demeanor grew more relaxed, her eyes falling limply to her sides, communicator open, but forgotten. Her mouth and jaw grew slack, opening slightly, and her eyes glazed over. Soon, she was staring into the being's eyes without thought, or conciousness.
She did not react as several other of the green, androgynous beings stepped out, and one placed a disk upon her forehead. The clear disk began to glow with an inner light, as the beings led her away, like a sleepwaler, unresisting.
Her communicator was still open in her hand, speaking softly, "Ensign! Report!"
----------------------------------
T'risia lay staring at the cieling of a cave filled with a hodgepodge og high and low tech accoutrements. Her empty mind did not take in the sights around her, as she lay unresisting on some sort of black stone altar, or dais. The cave was lit by softly glowing globes of some kind, and several of the green skinned aliens surrounded her. They were chanting, slowly, while a drum beat rattled.
An alien with a complex feathered head dress, and cape made of feathers, moved an incongrously hi tech device, blinking, over her chest, pointed directly at her heart. Her blank green eyes did not notice, and neither did she notice that the chanting and drums were reaching a crescendo.
The priest-alien reached for a knob, slowly, preparing to activate the machine...
And similarly unnotived went the whine of phasers, on stun taking the aliens by surprise. In moments, the Landing Party had neutralized the threat of the aliens, and their ritual. Strong hands pulled aside the threatening device, and still she did not react.
"Get that thing off her damn head!" said the Captain's loud voice.
Quickly, the medical officer did so, and after a few moments, T'risia began to be able to think again. Awareness came into her green eyes once more, as she began to actually process what they saw. Rising to a sitting position, she asked, "Captain Hunter, I appear to be suffering a discontinuity of memory."
Captain T'pol Hunter, her green wraparound variant of the Captain's minidress smiled her crooked smile at her. "Damn straight you are. Just a good thing they didn't figure out how to close your communicator. We follwed the signal right here." She made a face, and then said, "You need some help up?"
Still disoriented, T'risia nodded her head. The Captain however, leaned forward, not offering her hand, but her lips, to kiss....
"Computer, end program." said T'risia and the form of Captain Hunter froze, then disappeared, leaving her sitting alone on the Holodeck floor's black and yellow grid. The picture of Vulcan dignity, she stood, and smoothed out her minidress.
Clearly, she was preoccupied with the concept of the 'date'.
Clearly, she needed more to do. Her duties in Security allowed her too much time for creative diversions.
-----------------------------
Sitting back in her cubicle, solving a chess problem in preparation for the Starfleet Games, a crewman walking by stopped, doing what Terrans call a "double take." He seemed puzzled, looking at her uniform. "Isn't that about a hundred years out of date?"
"This uniform was taken out of service in 2270," was her sole, and logical response.
"A shame, really," said the brown haired security officer, as he moved on.
She tilted her head, considering. Perhaps Lt. Hunter would like the outfit as well....
"Intimidation"
by Ensign T'risia
OOC: I've always disliked the Holodeck. A room that can do anything. Always used to create a menace to the ship. this is my best use for the holodeck, a humble offering, if you will....
Also, the attached chess problem is about a thousand years old. It took me more than 282 seconds to solve it, despite being a serious chess player. T'risia is a sort of chess savant, after all, and a Vulcan.
-----------------
T'risia had spent most of her shift, in her cubicle, preparing for the upcoming Starfleet Games tourney in Chess. After the attempted Talking of the Trash in Ten Forward, she had deduced that her strongest competition might in fact be Lieutenant Zacara, and had spent the better part of the shift reviewing all of his tournament games on record. And memorizing them. The analysis showed many similarities of opening and patterns of play, proving to be efficacious. She advised the computer to emulate his style of play, based upon records, and download that engram to the table that she favored in Ten Forward, so that she might practice.
Seeing as there was in fact, a psychological component to the game, she accessed his personel file, also commiting the entirety to memory. Making certain selections from the text and included holos, she earmarked several for use, and saved the file to the ship's computer. One could never prepare enough for a tournament, as many factors arose that were not predictable in the least. Since Mr. Zacara had opened the door to pre-game communication, she felt it only fair to do her research.
As her shift ended, she stood, stoic and businesslike in her Black and Gold uniform. Her hair was held back by a pretty band featuring the Disney Princesses, ancient Terran icons of female helplessness. The irony was not lost on her, despite her lack of emotions. Checking to make sure that her Tinkerbell button was firmly affixed next to her combadge, she left for Holodeck One.
--------------------
T'risia stood alone in Holodeck One, amidst the blank walls and grid lines. In her own way, she liked the stark, spartan appearance of the room in this state. It would not suit her purpose, however. In a clear voice, she said aloud, "Computer, scan my quarters, and reproduce them in exact detail, here."
"Working. Scan Complete. Implementing," came the soft voice of the computer, more emotional than her own. As she pondered this, an exact replica of her quarters shimmered into existence around her.
"Computer. Import character designated T'risia Five, in an inactive state, outside the view of my workstation."
"Working." The computer caused the holographic person to shimmer into view, outside the view of her workstation's video pickup. She examined the character, and was satisfied.
"Computer, cue the dialogue and actions for this character as I conclude my message."
"Affirmative."
Satisfied that all was in place, she sat down at her workstation amidst the cluttered reproduction of her quarters. Movie posters and Terran figurines, such as the Doll of the Cabbage Patch were in frame behind her. Making herself presentable, she said, "Record message."
"Working."
The Vulcan woman began, "Lt. Zacara. I have spent considerable time reviewing your play of record, and find your skill impressive. I have of course, committed every game on record to memory, and commend your unfailing use of the Ruy Lopez opening, good control of the center, and ingenius use of the knight to produce deceptive materiel forks. Obviously, this presents me with some advantage."
"As a result," she said as she lifted a data solid, and inserted it into a workstation, "I am sending you all of my games of record, for your review. You will note my creative use of Fianchetto, tendency to trade Queens early in play, and long range control of the center favored by the Russian school of thought." The computer confirmed the message attachment.
"Obviously, as I have noted these trends in my play, which are primarily psychological affectations, I am in the process of reworking my entire game, as I imagine you are. It is what a good competitor would do, when presented with such a strong opponent."
She drew a chessboard into view. "In the interest of good sportsmanship, I am sending this chess problem along. It is approximately 1400 Terran standard years old, and most intriguing. It took me 282 seconds to solve it, within the three moves alotted by the restrictions of the problem, with no other possible options for the player of black on each move. I imagine that a player of your stature will find it too simple, and solve it much more rapidly. I can only hope that it provides some intellectual stimulation." She pressed a button on the console, to attach the board configuration.
"As the turnament nears, I look forward to furture communication." With that line, she pressed a control, signaling the activation of the character "T'risia Five." From off screen, a voice called, "T'risia! Are you done yet?" The Vulcan woman, for her part, was not disturbed in the least from her task by the character's plaintive tone.
"I imagine neither of us will be challenged by the early rounds, and look forward to analyzing your games as they come forth." As T'risia said this, an attractive Terran woman in her late forties stepped into the frame behind her, holding up a bedsheet before her for modesty's sake, and put an arm around the Vulcan woman, teasing her hair affectionately. T'risia did not react, and her face remained her customary stoic mask.
"My apologies, Lt. Zacara. It appears that your maternal parent requires my attention...again. Galaxy out."
And with that, she hit SEND.
-------------------------------
OOC: For anyone interested, here is the problem attached to her message, with the solution.
http://www2.forthnet.gr/chess/thouyear.html
Also...I consider this Holodeck use to be the ultimate "Yo' Momma" joke. QED
"Digging for the Truth"
Lieutenant Kimberly Burton, Chief Medical Officer (USS Galaxy)
Commander Susan Everett, Chief Medical Officer (USS Regulus)
===
Odd.
Damn Odd!
Slightly frustrated Kimberly tapped out a series of commands on her desk and
the table lit up slightly as it projected a series of test results and the
raw scan data in the air before her. Frowning as she re-read the files she
scrolled through the data line by line, and as the data scrolled by she
found her confusion slowly mounting.
Something had been bothering her ever since she had completed a routine
physical some time back, and with everything that had happened in between it
had taken her till now to get back to this and research it, now she wished
she'd delegated it.
~ Frell, it would've only ended up back on my desk anyways! ~ She realised.
For a typical member of the Terran species, Nathan Everett was not exactly
what he seemed. It wasn't anything major (no pun intended) she realised
after a second, but more an accumulation of oddities.
Individually most might be seen as simply a sign of a healthy physiology,
maybe good exercise or diet. But some couldn't be as a result of something
so benign.
You didn't make healthy DNA by just eating right.
It had all started during the physical, and the fact that his resting heart
rate was fairly low. Not worryingly low but certainly lower than for a
typical member of the human species. Coupled with that his high oxygen
content of his blood and a fantastically sturdy heart and Kimberly had found
her curiosity piqued.
Now this.
Checking something she had found in the file earlier she bit her lip a
second before opening a comm line. Right now all she had was a suspicion,
no hard evidence. yet.
There was nothing here she could take to a JAG at the moment.
"Computer, patch me through to the USS Regulus's Chief Medical Officer,
Commander Susan Everett." Waiting patiently as the call was routed she
watched the screen, but not seeing it, her mind on the files she had been
reading. When the image changed before her she snapped back to the here and
now and smiled.
"Good morning, Doctor Burton," Susan Everett greeted, smiling at Kimberly.
"How are you?"
"Well, thank you. How're things there?" She wasn't privy to what the
Regulus was assigned to right now though it wouldn't be too hard to find
out, unless it was classified, but then she didn't really care about that at
the moment.
"As well as they can be," Susan answered. "My husband is taking the attack
on New Texas pretty hard. Fortunately none of his family were injured. I can
only guess as to how Nathan's reacting to it; neither of us has had much
time to talk to him, and he hasn't contacted us, either." The older woman
leaned back in her seat, her bright blue eyes narrowing a bit in curiosity.
"How can I help you?"
"I'm sorry to bother you, and I hope I'm not interrupting anything
important, but I was wondering if we might have a chat for a moment.
It's about Nathan," holding up a hand for a second Kimberly smiled
reassuringly, "he's fine, no injuries to report, but I have a few things I
need to clear up with you?"
"Oh, Lord," Susan muttered, rolling her eyes. "Listen, whatever my son said
to you, he probably didn't mean to cause offense. He's just...a very
friendly person. Charlie and I tried our best to rein him in, but Nathan's a
grown man, there isn't much we can do about him now--"
Chuckling slightly Kimberly waved her hand slightly to forestall any
additional apologies, she could understand where Susan was coming from, and
she'd obviously had 'that' sort of chat about her son many times before.
"Ah, no, you misunderstand I'm afraid, I don't need to discuss his personal
life either."
"What?" Susan blinked. "Oh. Sorry. I thought he..." She shook her head.
"Alright, what's the problem, then?"
"Well problem may be too strong a word at the moment, but I had the occasion
to do a full physical on your son a while back and I was hoping to ask you a
few questions about a couple of things that came to my attention."
Wondering how best to broach this without a, violating doctor patient
confidentiality, and b, out and out accusing her she sighed to herself, ~ I
think I've figured out why so many Doctors play golf now. It's something
you can do on autopilot, something mindless. Let's your brain relax! ~
"There were a few irregularities that cropped up while I was running a DNA
analysis, nothing viral or mutative, no indication of transcription errors
either. There's also no notes in his file about them either, but from my
analysis they appear to be perfectly normal DNA sequences for him." Raising
an eyebrow now she focused on the Doctor at the other end, wondering what
was coming next. "Do you have any ideas about this?" She didn't want to
say the magic words right now, but Kimberly was sure that she'd gotten the
point.
Susan stared at Kimberly for a very long moment, her face remaining
expressionless the whole time. Finally she sat up in her chair and looked
around, as if making sure nobody was listening in on her conversation. "Have
you spoken with anyone else about this, Doctor Burton?" she asked.
"No, not as yet." Kimberly replied with a gentle shake of her head. "But I
will have to." There it was, rules, regulations and procedure. Technically
she was required to make her first call to JAG, or Starfleet Medical. There
was a little leeway of course for investigation and confirmation, but this
call might be stretching that definition.
The older woman heaved a quiet sigh and sat back again, relief etched across
her face. "Good. And no, Doctor, you won't have to, because there's nothing
to tell them. It's not what you think it is."
Sitting back Kimberly raised her eyebrows in an 'I'm waiting' sort of way.
That she had noticed this at all was only due to his test results, sort of
like indirectly seeing something. It had taken several days and tests, and
analysis of the test results before she had even gotten this far, and now
here was his mother saying there was nothing to it? There was nothing on
his file regarding any genetic abnormalities so what did she mean?
Susan took a few moments to gather her thoughts, trying to figure out how to
explain the situation. Finally she straightened again and nodded. "Okay. I
want you to know that nothing illegal has transpired here. Everything you're
looking at on my son's file is completely normal for him. His cardiovascular
system, lung capacity, cardiac strength and efficiency, reflexes, and visual
acuity are all slightly above human norms, which is probably why you're the
only one who's come to me about this. If they stood out anymore than they
already do, this would have come out years ago."
Nodding Kimberly had to agree, it wasn't as if he was super human across the
board, just that certain attributes were, as she said, slightly above the
norm, individually none really drew notice.
"The truth is, Nathan was born with these traits. He's completely natural in
every way," Susan explained. "He inherited most of them from me, though not
all of them. According to my research, some traits tend to skip a generation
or two. Probably because of the constant introduction of normal human DNA
with every new generation."
"Inherited from you?" Kimberly inquired, wondering just where this was
going. If his traits were inherited, then where, and when, had this
started. For her to be talking about skipping a generation or two how long
had this been going on?
Susan looked down at her hands. "You have to understand something, Doctor
Burton. My son doesn't know about any of this. I only learned of it myself
because I went through an experience similar to your own, when Nathan was
still an infant. Back then I was his doctor, so when I discovered his
genetic abnormalities I started digging into his genealogy on both sides. It
turned out it was because of me. Because of my family."
"Your family? Doctor, I'll need you to explain that a little more please.
I'm sure you can understand why."
Susan took a deep breath and looked up at Kimberly again. "What do you know
about the Eugenics Wars, Doctor Burton?"
"Good Morning Games"
Captain T'Vara
CO, USS Galaxy
Captain Jesprit Dvora
CO, USS Orobourous
*****
By the time dawn broke on the Tidal Basin, the area was practically swarming with people.
The Basin, as it was commonly referred to, was the site of the rowing competition. A rectangle of calm water measuring nearly 2.5 kilometers long, half a kilometer wide, and a scant five meters deep, it provided an ideal location in which to hold this particular event. This morning, the first official day of competition in the Starfleet Games, would see the beginning of the women's preliminaries.
As the first rays of sunlight warmed the eastern sky, dozens of competitors were milling about by the water. Already several four-rower boats were in the water, their crews diligently preparing for the races which would begin in just a few minutes.
In particular, Captain T'Vara was looking for a specific member of a specific team.
Moving with the flow of people heading towards the starting area, T'Vara kept her eyes open. Thankfully, in their wisdom the Games Committee required all teams to wear different color uniforms, rather than making everyone dress in identical Starfleet standard issue competition apparel. So, as she moved through the crowd in search of her mark, T'Vara was able to focus first on the color of the uniforms instead of trying to identify a familiar face in a sea of unfamiliar ones. She was looking for a dark blue uniform...finding that would be the first step.
After several false alarms, T'Vara's eyes settled on a likely target: four female figures dressed in identical dark blue warmup suits, the hoods of their jackets all pulled up against the last remaining bits of the morning cold. Making a wide half circle around the quartet she examined each one of their faces from a distance.
No...no... Ah, there she was.
The group was quietly conversing, probably about their upcoming first race; not wanting to interrupt T'Vara moved closer and stood quietly by, waiting for them to finish their discussion. Thankfully, the wait was brief.
"Captain," she began as the group dispersed. As expected one of them reacted immediately, the remaining three looking briefly at T'Vara before continuing to move away. Whoever the Vulcan woman was and whatever it was that she wanted, it apparently didn't concern them.
"Captain," Jesprit Dvora echoed even before she finished turning around. After all, she'd recognize that voice anywhere. "Good morning, T'Vara. How are you?"
"I am well," T'Vara responded with a slight inclination of her head, "and yourself?"
"A bit cold," Jesprit said with a slight grin, raising one arm to indicate the warmup jacket she was wearing. The jacket was a bit oversized; although the Trill woman was far from small or willowy, it still almost made her look that way.
"The morning is brisk," T'Vara admitted, taking a quick look around the area. Many people, she noticed, were wearing light jackets or other species appropriate chilly weather attire. Then, shifting gears slightly, she asked, "I trust I did not interrupt the meeting with your teammates?"
Jesprit shook her head. "Not at all." She paused for a moment, then asked, "What are you doing down here? Are you competing as well?"
"I am not competing. My intention was to seek you out before the beginning of competition."
A look of surprise quickly crossed Jesprit's face. "Seek me out, hm?"
T'Vara nodded once. "To..." She stopped, clearly searching for the proper phrasing. "To wish you...luck?"
At that, Jesprit's normally placid face broke out into a wide smile. Brushing a hand lightly against T'Vara's upper arm she looked into the slightly taller woman's face. "I always knew you cared, T'Vara."
"Indeed." Just as in years past, T'Vara found herself confused by this sort of exchange. She failed to see how an abstract concept could affect a competition clearly based on skill, and so wishing a competitor luck had always seemed illogical. Although, as she understood things, the act of wishing luck almost always had the effect of improving the mood of a competitor, which in turn almost always improved their performance in competition. So, by wishing Captain Dvora luck, T'Vara could improve the other woman's mood, which in turn would improve her performance. Perhaps then, there was some logic to it after all.
But why then was Dvora waving a hand in front of her face?
Blinking, it took less than a second for T'Vara to realize that she may have drawn too deeply into herself as she contemplated the situation, which in turn had the effect of confusing or possibly even worrying her companion. "I am sorry," she commented automatically.
"Alright." Jesprit's expression softened from the momentary sharpness it had taken on as she'd realized that T'Vara had fallen into one of her infrequent, but still annoying zone-outs. "As I was saying...what are you doing this evening?"
T'Vara was almost certain that this was the first time Dvora had asked that particular question, but she chose not to debate that point. "I have no plans."
"Would you like to join me for dinner, then? Catch up on old times and all that."
T'Vara considered the offer for a moment, although she already knew what the answer would be. After all, she'd made the decision instantly, because she'd made the exact same decision every other time Dvora had asked her that question during the years they'd known each other. "That would be agreeable."
"Naturally," Jesprit answered, a touch of sarcasm coloring her otherwise pleasant smile. "In that case, meet me at 1900 hours and we'll go from there. My team and I have quarters in the Competitors' Village," she continued, referring to the sprawling residence complex that provided housing to anyone involved in the Games who preferred to remain on-planet.
T'Vara inclined her head slightly, indicating that she understood and had assimilated the other woman's instructions. "Then, I shall leave you to focus on the upcoming competition. May you and your team enjoy great success today, and throughout the Games."
"I certainly hope we will," Jesprit said, taking a couple small steps back as her mind shifted gears and began to replace thoughts of T'Vara with thoughts of rowing. Her team would take to the water in just over an hour; it was certainly time to get ready. She raised a hand in a quick wave. "I'll see you tonight."
"History Unfolding" Part Two
Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
=====================================
(Day 1: The Forest- Alpha KS-128)
"Incoming!"
As Fork had expected, the Triad hit back, and hit 'hard'. They weren't playing around anymore. The mother of all battles on Alpha KS-128 was underway, and Starfleet's Marines... as always seemed to be the case, found themselves out numbered and out gunned.
The 188TH had occupied the forest adjacent to the 'Alamo' only hours before, and in that time had hardened their defenses well. Multiple redundant shield generators, transporter scramblers, communication jammers, excellent gun positions with interlocking fields of fire, and mine fields had been established, and what traps and other defenses that could be were prepared.
To any amateur observer, the battle that was to unfold was undoubtedly, win or lose, going to make headlines. It was predestined to be either one of the greatest successes, or most miserable failures, in recent military history.
On the one hand, the Breen General looked over the read-outs on intelligence gathered about the Federation force from his secured bunker, licking his purple lips under his helmet. The Breen Naval Infantry regiments under his command were an elite force of soldiers. They had a long, established, and proud history of defending the Breen Confederacy for centuries before the Starfleet Marine counterparts even existed. They were well trained, the average Naval Infantryman not only completing the high-quality Breen Naval Training regimen, but on top of it enrolling for an additional two month program that emphasized Infantry tactics and strategies. Their officers were selected from the best the fleet had to offer... interspliced with the kind of political appointments that seemed to be common to modern warfare. Backing them were the crack Hydran aviators who, despite the recent loss of an entire class of pilots, still had the fearsome reputation of being the inescapable predators of the sky. He had skilled gunnery crews readying high-power planetary based disruptor cannons that could destroy acres of earth in a single shot... they would be up and running by day's end. Likewise he had at his disposal an entire armored regiment of 150 brand new hover-tanks equipped with the best technology the Triad had to offer. He'd given his orders carefully... from his perspective he had the advantage and wanted to, like a vice-grip, press that fact home. Confidence in his plan was high among the junior officers and NCOs that would lead it, and the image of Triad invincibility in combat carefully forged out of the events at Deep Space 5, the Conquest of Cardassia, the capture of Corvalis, and the campaign against the Klingons, served to provide a common esprit de corps among the Triad axis.
On the other hand, Colonel For'kel Arvelion watched from the security and luxury of the fox hole he himself had dug out in the frozen ground, belly pressed low against the soil for maximum protection, and standard Type III-B phaser rifle at the ready. He had at his disposal 150 of the smartest, strongest, most cunning, and most determined combat troops in the Galaxy... Starfleet Marines. The 188TH had become an elite, battle hardened unit of veterans from several actions. Each Marine had prepared his position individually, in conjunction with his buddies. Each Marine knew what their specific responsibility was, and none had any illusion of what they were facing... the Breen had yet to face a defeat in this war. They all also knew the skills and attributes every one around them shared; it's diversity was one of those things that kept the Starfleet Marines at the top of their game. Whether you were a Stagnorian Colonel, an Angosian Super-Sergeant, or a common Terran grunt, everyone in the unit had 'earned' their place in the Marines, and with each other. They were supported by a mix of artillery systems designed for low and medium altitude defense, and manned mortar and howitzer batteries for ground defense. The 'really' heavy Marine guns were pointed spaceward... the Fleet nearby being too small now to be relied upon for when the Hydran and Breen ships inevitably re-entered the system. Every one on the Federation side, whether they were Marine, Starfleet proper, or SVG knew one thing more than anything else, they were being counted on. Their friends, their families, everything they believed in and was a part of was on the line right 'here', right 'now'.
It was do or die time.
The battle started off typical for what one might anticipate, with a substantial artillery bombardment, the standard way of saying 'surrender or die' by other means. The starbase quality shielding of the Alamo's outer defenses intercepted and protected them from 'most' of what was incoming, however in selected spots that defense was thinned out to protect more important areas. Some of the rounds were allowed to go through, but those that did had a minimal effect.
"Anyone hit?!" Fork called out, looking around. So far they all seemed okay. There wasn't any screaming, any agonized, painful calls for a medic or parent. Nope, they were good for now.
He glanced sideways at PFC Owen, the quintessential Marine in the 188TH. She was young at 19, the average age of the Marines under his command. The product of a full year and a half of Marine training and 6 months of solid combat experience. She was most definitely smart and cunning... right now she was calling in coordinates calculated by the enemy artillery barrage for counter-battery fire.
The response of the Starfleet force was immediate and deadly accurate. The Triad hadn't had time to establish the kind of defenses their opponents had. A few simultaneously impacts and a good portion of the deployed enemy guns had been annihilated. That was Marine for 'fuck you'.
In the distance a few plumes of fire were noticed. There were definitely some direct hits, evidenced by the continuing burning of fires where gun-pits had once been located. Others faired slightly better, their area shielding holding up to the artillery barrage. The first trade off had been completed, and the exchange highlighted the lines. The Breen were not going to give any quarter... and the Marines were not going to expect any.
After what seemed like an eternity of shelling, the hum of armored vehicles approaching supplanted the splashing of rounds against shields as the primary battlefield sound. As predictable as clock-work, an armored column of Breen Naval Infantry made their way through the path. Breen Grenadiers, heavily armed shock-troops whose sole purpose in life was to punch through enemy front lines for follow-up infantry to occupy enemy territory, and to push quickly against enemy forces at the front of any advance.
The Marines waited until the enemy was exposed, opening fire with a murderous volley. The 188TH might have been a light infantry force, but they packed some extremely heavy firepower. Iso-magnetic Disintegrators were the primary anti-armor weapons of the Starfleet Marine Corps aside from the automated phaser cannons which made up the perimeter security of most hardened facilities. At a fairly close range, your nominal Iso round had the capacity of point-overloading a tank's shield system and causing damage to the external armor in a single shot. A second shot in the same area, if followed up closely, could punch through the expended outter armor and send a plume of molten hull and immense energy into it's interior, killing everyone inside and, if aimed well enough, completely destroying the tank by setting off ammunition or fuel. They were deployed 1 to a fire-team, and a whole stream of them, along with phaser beams and pulses, lanced straight for the enemy column.
The Breen forces came to a dead stop as the first vehicle in the formation erupted in fire under the intense bombardment of charges it received. The body of it's driver was essentially vaporized, while a gunner's torso was thrown through a large hole in the tank's side, the rest of him completely gone.
A photon mine detonated under the third vehicle, an APC that was starting to deploy it's squad when the explosion occurred. The long-hulled bio-tech vehicle was split in half by the channeled force of the explosion, a pluming shock wave throwing half a dozen Breen grenadiers dozens of meters, crushing their bones and organs immediately. Other troopers met their fate in a more classical way, high-powered rifle shots slamming against the personal shielding and armor devices they carried, and in a couple of instances overpowering them. The first volley from the 188TH had completely annihilated a Breen armored platoon, but reinforcements were coming up fast.
Normally Fork would've been happy to concede territory in this circumstance after having given the Breen a bloody nose. He would've been glad to disengage and continue the ambush tactics. The only problem about asymetrical warfare was that it required a place to flee 'to', and they didn't have that here. Any ground they gave up couldn't be made back... they had to hang in.
The Breen troops fanned out from the column, ducking behind trees and terrain where they could. They laid down the best base of fire they could against the Marines. Their broad arcs were countered by the precision of Marine Corps marksmanship, leading to heavy NI casualties.
The numbers however also cut in the Breen favor. It had taken them nearly a full company of soldiers a couple of armored vehicles, but they had finally secured a front line and were ready to press home the awesome weight of their numerical advantage. Infantry soldiers slogged their way through the falling snow, mud produced by the heat of energy weapons, and pools of slippery blood to reinforce their beleaguered comrades. They were getting ready for another advance.
It was something For'kel wasn't going to allow.
"Arm the claymores, blow 'em."
The Sergeant he gave the orders to nodded in understanding and flipped the switch.
The 150 Marines had laid out nearly 500 model 2373 plasma claymores, the very same mines that had proven so devastatingly effective in breaking up massed assaults during the Dominion War. They blew simultaneously along the road side and out in front of a good deal of the Breen soldiers, causing havoc not only across the front lines of the Breen formation, but in the rear as well. Every one of those mines had 1,000 plasma 'pellets' that plumed against shields and body armor, every pellet seemingly targeted for a soldier and striking with several comrades for accumulated effect.
The result was that a whole battalion of Breen Naval Infantry Grenadiers had been virtually eliminated as a fighting force. Their effectiveness on the battlefield reduced to nil. The lines had become so thin and the numbers changed so drastically that For'kel considered pressing an attack of his own, and exploiting the weakness of the bottlenecked and battle-shocked Breen regiment ahead of them. Turn the enemy's flank, attack their center from behind... destroy at least one Breen Regiment and possibly a second.
He was even about to give the order until someone else screamed out. "Right! They're on the right!"
Sure enough, on the right flank of his unit, at the edge of the forest, where the 188TH's lines ended and just before the lines of the 62nd Marine Battalion began was a battalion sized force of SVG that were on the verge of collapse. The Breen commander had been ruthlessly cunning in his strategy, sending diversionary attacks to keep the Starfleet Marines occupied while aiming a main assault at the much less well equipped, fatigued, and poorly trained irregulars that were pressed into service. The Colonel had two choices... thin out his own lines and try to save the panicking militia (and subsequently preventing a gap in Federation lines) or press home his own hard won advantage, and virtually annihilate a whole unit of the enemy.
Decisions, decisions...
In every commander there was that 'killer instinct', however muted (like in the instance of Jean Luc Picard) or pronounced (as in the case of Rebecca Von Ernst) it might be. There was a bit of that Von Ernst flame in the Stagnorian Marine, and in a way there was an undeniable logic of trading a single battalion of under-trained militia to exterminate at least one full regiment of the enemy, and possibly a second. They weren't going to win this battle by running away after all.
However there was also that Picard element. The one that suggested it wasn't enough just to 'kill', but rather an actual victory was determined by conserving what you could and loosing less. It was a battle of conscience he was all too familiar with... getting the V versus a tie and a shot at tomorrow.
In the end though he was neither Captain Picard of the Enterprise nor Captain Von Ernst of the Zeus. He was Colonel For'kel Arvelion of the Starfleet Marines, and he made the choice accordingly... the only way that 'he' could make such a decision. He became a Marine to defend and rescue people, not to kill the enemy. He had to find a way to save the day.
"First and third platoons on me!" For'kel shouted over the withering sound of shot exchanges. "Everyone else, hold the line!"
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The scene was chaotic as an attempt at an orderly withdrawal was made in haphazard fashion. Supported by fighting vehicles and APCs, the NI Battalion facing off against the SVG were able to fairly quickly make short work of the defenses before them with few casualties. They'd laid down a superior volume of fire, much heavier fire then could be returned against them, and as it always had the militia was running. The Battalion commander's mind was already on forming a wedge between the Federation lines, and calling up the rest of the regiment to exploit a breakthrough. His men were preparing for the final blow, taking careful aim.
What they hadn't expected was dozens of Starfleet Marines firing at them with murderous accuracy from a flank they'd been facing away from... one they had considered secured already. They'd been told there would be no reinforcements coming, that as soon as the enemy's front lines were breeched that would be it, the battle would be over.
The same Marines, with heavy weapons of their own, made an instant impact on the Breen flank, the unexpected assault throwing their surprised enemy into as much chaos as their friends were in... and more importantly had a morale boosting effect on their comrades in arms. The Breen were forced to discontinue their pursuit... to get down and form a firing line, all of which bought time for the allies to reconsolidate.
The latter was perhaps the greatest contribution.
"Stand your ground! Stand!" For'kel shouted at the top of his lungs, catching every fleeing militiaman he could by the elbow and forcing them to hold their ground. When the core of the SVG Battalion began reasserting themselves, their comrades quickly fell in line. There was a definite bulge in the lines now, but a complete breakthrough had been contained for now.
Once the SVG unit had been reformed, For'kel knew he had to get back to his own unit. He also however harbored a doubt that the militia group would continue holding it's own... not without Marine support.
Second Lieutenant Keresh was brand new to the 188TH, having only transferred into the unit right before it's deployment to Alpha KS. His violet, Xenexian gaze watched the unfolding battle ahead of him curiously, as if he was seeing all those lessons learned in text books and holo-deck training exercises unfolding before his very eyes. He was one of the replacement officers sent to make up for the loss of London and Maivia, and although Fork hated to break the poor kid in this way, there wasn't much of a choice. He and his platoon was about all Fork could spare.
"Lieutenant, I want you and your men to anchor this line. Do what ever you need to do in order to hold this position, but do 'not' fall back without my orders, understand?"
"Yes sir." Came the quick, no nonsense reply over radio. With practiced skill that demonstrated the effectiveness of Starfleet Marine Officer training he deployed the meager forces under his direct control expertly, spurring on the forces indirectly under his control to do the same. They put down a hale of fire that allowed the Colonel and his platoon to make it back to their position on the lines.
The intense fighting would continue another two or three hours more until the advanced elements of the Breen Naval Infantry pulled back. When the fighting stopped that first afternoon descending into evening, the Breen had lost nearly 2,000 of their best troops, two dozen artillery pieces, and more than 40 of their vaunted armored vehicles, 12 of their most precious disruptor tanks included. The Marines had lost few of their own, having had the advantage of fighting from a prepared location and having had time to set their defenses. The 188TH was not unharmed however, three names would join the hollowed collection of those that had made the greatest sacrifice for the ideals and citizens of the United Federation of Planets.
Private First Class Selaw Koropp: Male, 21 Terran Years, Efros Delta
Private Doze'ri-len: Male, 18 Terran Years, Zaran III
Corporal Kelly Santangelo, 23 Terran Years, Mars
They would see a lot of company in the coming days.
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