"BROKEN"
Final Part of the Breakable Saga
(Two voices)
Screaming through time.......I dont know if the voice is my own or some one else's.
Headache pounding inside my skull......starlight whizzing by the window like brilliant needles of pain.
Pulled in a thousand directions....pulled in none at all.....reality makes no sense....did it ever?
Hot shower helped, steam rising off my skin quickly drenched with the soft blue robe from momma back home.
I miss Iceland
I miss Minnesota.
Skin feels funny......rubbery.....the vortex of time aging it before my eyes.
I scrunch my nose at the tingle of hot cocoa tickling it. good stuff.
I feel Ancient....I'm only 16 years old......getting younger/older by the moment.
Dropping onto the couch with a sigh I pick up the first PADD on my list of Homework. "STRATEGIC BOMBING AS A DIPLOMATIC TOOL....fun stuff."
The colors sing to me as the time ship goes faster and faster.....slower and slower....does that mean anything anymore?
I click on the PADD, blue light illuminating my freckled face....halfway through the first paragraph the headache is already fading.
My world hits a bump.....tossing me from my chair...I'm falling across the cabin in a tumble that takes a thousand years.
The PADD hits the floor with a bump. Noodle headed fumble fingers.......aw geez it broke....
Whats this....?
Whats this.....?
I slaphard into the ground with a cry of medieval pain, the floor cold and wet beneath my tattered form.....where did the shuttle go......where am I.....when am I?
Is this what I think it is?
My skin steams from the hot/cold, the chamber and echoing darkness of dripping water....Im on a planet?
<calculating>
I was on a shuttle....Oded's Aggravation....skipping across a black hole....oh hopw my skin burns....A noise...I'm not alone.
<calculating>
Hobbling on needled legs I cross the darkness to the single spotlight...the machine at he center of my new universe.....A machine....or a monstrosity...
<calculating>
Oh dear merciful lord......she's still alive in there.....Mika? the Andorian? Dead...alive?
<calculating......complete> .....Oh Noodles they wouldn't dare......
What happened....where am I ....I want to go home.
Bridge to Captain von Ernst.....hello....Captain are you there....This is Panic....Captain von Ernst......
This isn't where I came from .....this isnt how I left it.....
Security to Captain von Ernsts quarters....she's not responding....
Screaming.....
<waiting>
Screaming.....
Security to Bridge......Panic....the Captain....her cabin is empty ma'am.....she's gone.
OOC: While I had envisioned the conclusion of Aristi's tale as a flashback set during her recovery, I hadn't planned on it taking me this long to write. This is supposed to take place a day or two after we leave the Kahru planet, and while we are still en route to the Starfleet Games. My apologies for the backpost.
"I Fought the Mountain, and the Mountain Won"
Flight Officer Aristi Ferguson
Dragon Lady no more
*****
"Owww."
Aristi squirmed, focusing every last bit of what remained of her energy into opening her eyelids.
Push.
Push.
Pussssssssh.
As a reward, bright white light flooded in, causing her to blink rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the sudden photonic onslaught.
"Owww," she repeated after a moment, her eyelids falling closed again as she finally realized that not only was it easier that way, it certainly hurt a lot less.
A few seconds later she heard someone approaching from her left, footfalls echoing softly off the floor. Soon after the footfalls stopped and were replaced by the familiar whirring and beeping sounds of technology; probably a tricorder, she thought.
"Where am I?"
The tricorder sounds stopped, a hand resting lightly on her forearm. "You're in Sickbay, Flight Officer," the nurse, a woman with a smooth contralto voice, told her.
"How?"
The hand removed itself, and Aristi heard the soft scraping of surface on surface, followed by another short beeping sound. A padd? "According to this, you were...retrieved via transporter from a partially collapsed mountain cave."
"Mountain? Whh--? Where?" Aristi turned her head, eyelids fluttering as she struggled to keep them open so she could look at the woman.
The nurse shrugged. "This report doesn't specify. All it says is that your biosigns were detected almost immediately after destruction of a...ah, a dimensional displacement device?"
"Dimensa...wha?" Aristi squirmed again, flashes of memory passing through her mind as she struggled to recall what exactly had happened. The trek through the forest...the room with the drawings...venturing deeper into the cave...the crumbling floor...
The crumbling floor.
The rock cleaved off unexpectedly, sliding noisily forward, taking her with it. Crying out in surprise Aristi fell onto her back, the knife in her hand clattering away as she struggled to grab at something, anything that would stop her fall. Several seconds later (although in truth it felt like it could have been hours), the avalanche of broken stone came to a halt, the cave once more falling into silence as the last few pebbles rolled to a stop.
"Owww," she moaned, one hand automatically reaching for a spot on her leg that was now throbbing with pain. Sure enough, as she dragged her hand across the area, her fingers once again came away wet. Great. Now she really couldn't wait to get out of this cave and back into some decent light, just so she could see how banged up she really was. Maybe someone would give her an award for most non-life threatening injuries sustained in an away mission. That would be awesome.
A short moment later, something even deeper within the cave screeched, the unnatural sound echoing over and over off the smooth stone walls and snapping Aristi's thoughts back to the matter at hand. The few short hairs on the back of her neck that hadn't been swept up into her hair fan stood straight up, and a shiver shot quickly down her spine. Well, if now is my time to die, she thought as she rolled off the rubble, the least I can do is face it on my feet.
And that's when she found the bodies.
To be fair, it wasn't so much whole bodies as it was an unexpectedly large pile of parts, most of which she could tell were partially or completely stripped of skin, muscle, fat, and anything else that wasn't just straight bone. And given the bone size, they were clearly humanoid. But in the dark, even under the low light given off by her pink crystal eye, she couldn't tell if the bones were so clean because the flesh had simply rotted off over time, or if it had been removed by either human or non-human means. She wasn't sure which she would rather it be.
As a fairly accomplished archaeologist, Aristi Ferguson was no stranger to bodies, body parts, mummies, bones, you name it. But in all of her studies, she'd been an impartial observer of the things she'd seen; a student examining the left-behind pieces of a long dead civilization, or a storyteller trying to take what she knew and piece it all together. But now, she wasn't a student or a storyteller; she was a participant. An unwilling participant of course, but either way she was stuck here, actually living this weird series of events as it unfolded instead of studying it a few hundred years after the fact.
Which meant...unless she tried really hard to get out of here alive, there was a very good chance she was going to become the latest addition to that pile of bones.
"Alright," she said to the cave, her voice echoing in the chamber. That sounded abnormally loud, so when she spoke again her voice was little more than a whisper. "Let's get this over with." Then, orienting herself with her back to the rock slide, she once more began to move forward.
One step. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Then the mountain grumbled.
Except...it wasn't exactly a grumble. Well, maybe it was a grumble, if this was what mountains did when they wanted to grumble. She hadn't known many mountains in her day, so she wasn't entirely sure. From her perspective, it felt like the entire mountain was shaking, and vigorously. Aristi froze as the ground vibrated under her feet, and several tiny fragments of rock loosened themselves from the ceiling, gravity pulling them down to join the mess on the cave floor.
Earthquake?
She considered the possibility. Was it really an earthquake? They'd traveled uphill to get to the mountain, and the cave system had felt like it was above the level of the surrounding ground. So then, why did it feel like the rumbling and the shaking was coming from above?
The shaking dissipated several seconds later, and it didn't take Aristi near that long to decide what to do. Forget the dragon, forget the ritual, and most of all forget the glorious salvation of the Kahru. There was no way she was staying in this mountain, and there was no force that could keep her here except for her own inability to climb out fast enough to save her skin. Sure, making it out of the cave alive but without completing her task would definitely raise the ire of Impet and the other Kahru, and they would probably want to kill her for it. But given the option, she would much rather be torn apart by a mob of bloodthirsty cannibals than be crushed to death under millions of tons of rock as a mountain came crashing down on top of her. At least with the Kahru she had a fighting chance.
Now all she had to do was get the hell out of here.
Aristi turned back around, looking up in search of the tunnel opening she'd popped out of only minutes before. "Oh, cock," she muttered after several seconds, finally catching sight of the slightly blacker hole floating about four or five meters up a sheer wall. If she'd fallen that far, how in the name of God was she going to get back out?
But wait...
"Flight Officer?"
The rock floor had partially collapsed and she'd slid down it...maybe it had fallen in such a way that she could climb back up and out? She moved forward, stooping down to feel the position of the broken rocks.
"Flight Officer Ferguson?"
Hmm. It might be doable.
"Aristi?"
"Mmmphwhat?" Aristi mumbled, the repeated calls for her attention snapping her back to the present. She noticed the hand, the one that had touched her forearm earlier, was back.
"Are you alright?" Punctuating the nurse's question was a somewhat quiet, yet still urgent beeping, coming from somewhere above Aristi's head. Aristi guessed it had something to do with the biobed's sensors. "Your heart rate suddenly shot up, as did your blood pressure."
Yep, biobed, she thought. "Just...trying to remember what happened is all. Earth...quake I think, maybe. Maybe not."
"I see." Apparently satisfied by her answer, the nameless nurse and her omnipresent hand withdrew.
Her arms were shaking by the time she climbed back up and into the tunnel from which she'd come, and her bare feet felt like they were on fire from all that scratching against the rough and jagged stone. Thankfully it hadn't taken too terribly long for her to climb up the rock slide and then pull herself up the about three meters to the tunnel, but it had taken long enough. Rolling onto her back on the floor, Aristi stopped to catch her breath and let her tired muscles relax. That probably would have hurt less if I had some calluses on my feet, she mused. Then, she made a mental note to stop getting pedicures at Fifi's Salon once she got back aboard Galaxy. Sure, they made her feet look and feel great, but if she ever had to go through something like this again, Aristi was sure she'd be grateful for the extra-tough skin on her heels and toes.
After at least a couple minutes of lying on the cold stone and wishing her arms would stop feeling like they were made of formless goo, the reality of the situation came crashing back. Oh yeah, I was trying to get out of this mountain before it falls on me, she remembered. No time like the present. Rolling over so she could get up on hands and knees, Aristi pushed herself into a standing position and reached an arm out to touch the right wall of the cave. Now all she had to do was keep her hand on the wall and slowly make her way out.
The wall trembled.
The muscles in Aristi's shoulders tensed as she realized what had just happened, then she tried to deny it to herself. No, no, no, she repeated in her mind, this mountain is not going to collapse.
The wall trembled more.
In response, Aristi began to move faster.
The trembling kept intensifying, the feeling now reverberating through walls, ceiling and floor, and Aristi kept picking up speed. Her heartbeat quickened, both from the physical exertion and the growing fear that this was really and truly the end, and that she wasn't going to make it out in time. How long was this tunnel again? Did it have any branches she'd forgotten? What if she made a wrong turn? What if she got to the anteroom and Impet wouldn't let her leave? And then, just as a wicked little voice inside her brain told her she wasn't going to make it out alive, she saw the pink glow at the end of the tunnel.
The anteroom! And beyond it, freedom!
By now the shaking of the mountain had become so violent that Aristi was finding it hard to stay upright and move at the speed which she was trying to maintain. Not caring that it would probably scrape her shoulder and arm raw she pressed herself against the wall, using both hands to keep herself steady as she pushed forward. "Impet!" she shouted down the tunnel, hoping that if the strange Vulcan was still waiting for her in the anteroom, he would hear her and heed her warning. "Impet, run! The cave is collapsing! Run!"
A few seconds later she burst into the anteroom, already gasping for breath. Her eyes fell on the statue-like form of Impet kneeling at the center of the room just as his eyes fell on her, and she watched as he looked up from his meditative posture, considered her for a moment, then leapt to his feet and rushed at her.
"No su-lei!?" he shouted at her, easily closing the distance between them in less than a second. Before she could react well enough to defend herself, Aristi felt his hands at her throat and the weight of his body pressing against hers as he pushed her down, both of them landing heavily on the unforgiving stone floor.
"Dagn-da no su-lei! No su-lei, bring anger of dag'n! Dag'n angry, crush cave! Crush dag'n-da!"
He knows, a voice in the back of her mind said, cutting through the quickly forming fog that was enveloping her brain due to the sudden lack of oxygen. He knows that not only did I fail to kill the dragon, I didn't even try. And now, that means the hope of salvation for his people is gone. The daughter of the dragon has failed. The daughter of the dragon deserves to die.
And suddenly, Aristi felt perfectly fine with that. Maybe it was her rapidly diminishing air supply or maybe it was the ultimate result of the bizarre and stressful series of events she'd been through in the past few days, but now, she just didn't want to fight anymore. All she wanted was a break. A little rest. And if she had to die to fulfill that wish, then so be it.
So, putting out of her head the thoughts of the angry cannibal currently choking the life out of her, Aristi relaxed and prepared for the end. She looked up, and saw that above them on the ceiling, the massive form of the painted dragon stared down at them, its mouth widening in a growing smile. He just wanted everyone to be happy. How nice of him.
Wait, that wasn't a smile. That was...a crack in the rock. And it was growing very quickly.
Oh boy.
Before she could even cry out in surprise, the rock fractured and came tumbling down.
*****
"Oh, cock," Aristi began again. She opened her eyes and looked around.
"I take it you can remember now," the nurse, who suddenly appeared seemingly out of nowhere, responded.
Aristi nodded slowly. "Yeah..." As she looked at the younger woman, something else dawned on her: the pink crystal eye was gone. The desire to know where it had gone flashed through her mind, but was quickly replaced with the need to know something else. Something far more important than the location of a glowing rock. "Impet..." she breathed. "What happened to him?"
The nurse frowned slightly. "This is the one who was with you in the cave?" When Aristi nodded, she explained, "His body shielded you from the majority of the cave collapse. It's quite likely that you would have died if it hadn't been for him."
"But he..." But he was trying to kill me, she thought. Did they know that? Surely his hands had left some bruises, even on a neck as thick and well-protected as hers. "Where...is he?"
The nurse consulted her padd for a moment. "Apparently, he was beamed up with you. And it seems..." The nurse made a slight 'hm' sound, then moved towards the foot of the bed, pointing over her shoulder at something behind her. Aristi turned her head, her one remaining eye going wide as her gaze fell on the occupant of the biobed next to hers. The high, almost severe cheekbones, pale greenish-tinted skin, delicately pointed ear tips peeking out from long black hair...
"...it seems he's right next door."
"Olympic Moment"
Lt Commander Jan Hoffmann Spengler (APC)
USS Brandenburg
The girl he was currently fucking was screaming.
Jan Hoffmann Spengler clenched his fists tighter over the top of the headboard and fucked her harder, his face a mask of boredom.
He was thinking about other things of course to save him from the dreariness. He thought of his duties on the USS Brandenburg…..the upcoming Olympic events in which he was competing….the cool green grasses of his home in Danzig…..
"Oh god fuck me! Fuck me harder! Oh god oh god!!"
~~Shut up you stupid cow!~~ he mentally grimaced, he was almost ripping the headboard right off the wall now as it was.
The bed literally hopping up and down on its legs, would need to be pushed back into position once he was done here.
Spengler fucked harder. The slapping of their flat bellies reaching a furious crescendo….his cruel efforts leaving bruises and cuts and teeth marks on arms and neck where they would be instantly an readily identifiable to the woman and her friends.
Her husband too maybe.
But again his heart wasn't in it. His mind wandered again, re-rolling the events of the day behind his eyes. The equestrian competition looked to be shaping up nicely….Hoffman was a good judge of horse flesh.
Also the first of the many Swimming events had gotten their start today as well. That was where he had picked up this girl….a skinny young thing competing in the 200m backstroke…..what was her name again?
Spengler opened his eyes and looked down at the screaming woman….sweat plastering her hair against the hotel room pillows.
What was her name? He frowned as he slammed again and again into her mercilessly.
She was the one in the blue swimsuit….or was it the black.
~Ach…no matter~ he almost shrugged as he fucked. It was hanging somewhere in the bathroom. He'd have a look when he was done with her if he thought about it.
A higher pitched series of panting brought the German back to the matter at hand.
~Finally.~
In a rapid series of finishing moves involving more harsh slaps and blows, and a threatening creaking of strained furniture, Spengler finally kicked her out of bed.
"Ow…fuck." she grunted, her sweat drenched naked body hitting the floor with a surprised thud. "Holy shit….wow. "
Giggling a bit at where she ended up, she peered over the tangled sheets. "Damn Jan….that was awesome, but a little hard on the dismount. That hurt."
"Ja…I suppose it did." Hoffman was already rolling away looking for his cigarettes.
"Hey there….that was wild." she started to climb back off the floor again. "You were great….."
"Ja…..Someone had to be." there they were…knocked off the bedside table at some time during the night.
"Someone had to….what?" a strange frown crossed the girl's face, she brushed clumsily at a strand of sweaty hair that had plastered itself to her neck.
"I was trying to amuse myself my little sausage girl." the thin blond man was ignoring her, intently tapping his package of smokes. "We are done now yes?"
The only sound was that of her jaw dropping open.
"Sausage…"
"Ja…..I regret I must have drank heavily after the opening ceremonies ja? How is it in said in English? Beer Glasses?"
"B…b…beer goggles." the girl whimpered a bit, suddenly drawing in her thin arms to protect her nakedness….not that he was looking anyway.
"Goggles yes…danke." he reached behind the pillow to find the remote for the Tri-D "The way you squeezed out of that uniform reminded me of something from a extruder ja? You know the way they squeeze the meat into the skins? Very skin tight…always threatening to burst at the seams."
The girl glared at him…her eyes suddenly dark with hate.
"You German bastard. You dirty ass!"
"Yes yes….Prussian actually…and ass….what was it you were asking me to do to yours just now?"
"FUCKER!" she slung the only weapon she had at hand at his face….only a pillow, but it was fueled with hate.
He caught it easily and stuffed it back behind his head, clicking on the Tri-D screen at the same time.
"Danke again. Go now and stuff yourself back into your little sausage skin ja? And mind those bitemarks before you get back into the pool water…very nasty I'm afraid for the other competitors, the blood and all."
In reality…the girl was a swimmer with hardly an ounce of fat on her, but for most females reality didn't matter…the mere suggestion of flab was useful to get them out of the room. Women..so vain.
Spengler punched up the volume a bit to hear the news over the sound of her cursing and the slamming of various doors. He had to stop once to catch a shoe thrown in his direction. One of his Starfleet issue boots, which he simply dropped at the bedside.
In the end he quite forgot to look and see if she had been wearing the blue or the black swimsuit.
When the final door to his hotel room slammed, the Prussian took a long deep drag and exhaled, watching the slow curls of smoke dancing in the light of the television screen. It would be snowing in Danzig now, he mused.
He had neglected to find out what her name had been….but that would have implied it actually mattered
"Swimming begins"
Ensign Alexandra Lee (APC)
Engineer
USS Galaxy
Donned in a blue skin-tight, yet comfortable one-piece swim suit made of the latest material that allowed swimmers to literally glide through the water. Alex was fighting a battle of nervousness, pacing back and forth in front of her chair as she waited for her first event to begin--the 100 meter butterfly. The butterfly wasn't her strongest area--that was the freestyle event, which was scheduled for later in the day. Suddenly she noticed a figure approach her. She turned to see a face she hadn't seen since the academy and a smile instantly came across her face. "Amy! What are you doing here?" she gave her old friend and Academy Roommate a hug.
Amy returned the smile and after the hug explained. "I'm on the USS Orobourous. What about you?"
"I'm on the Galaxy."
"Awesome...though I've heard that our captains aren't on the best of terms. Well, I need to get ready, we can talk later, ok?"
"May the best woman win," Alex called to the woman who was beginning to walk away.
The other woman turned and grinned. "Thanks, I intend to." She turned and began walking again.
Amy was just as good of a swimmer as she was.
The stadium intercom came to life. "Competitors of the womens 100 meter butterfly event, please take your places."
Alex jumped into the water to aclimate her body to the water's temperature and to rinse out her goggles, as did the other swimmers. A minute later, all of the swimmers had taken their places on their assigned lanes, perched on the stand. Bending down and grasping the edge of the platform, Alex let out a slow, controled breath. This was it--she had to do her best to make her fellow shipmates proud and to make a good first impression. Her muscles tensed to the point as they felt like a stretched rubberband. The air horn sounded, causing the rubberband to violently return to it normal position as Alex and the other competitors launched into the water. 'Come on Alex!' she mentally screamed at herself as her arms, legs, abs, chest, and back muscles worked in unison, propelling her through the water in a similar motion to that of a terran dolphin. Her vision focused on the approaching wall, her hand soon striking the wall and her body instantly went into a turn and pushed off. She could not waste efforts on focusing of the other swimmers, just the other wall which would end the race.
"And they're coming to the final 25 meters! And its Amy Jenson in first with Alex Lee in second! Lee is gaining momentum, Jenson and Lee are neck and neck!" The swimmers hit the wall as the horn sounded, ending the race. "And its Lee byone hundredths of a second!" the announcer reported excitedly.
Alex look up at the finishing times and to her surprise saw her name at the top. She raised her arms in triumph as the crowd cheered, along with a few boos, which she was sure came from the crews of the other competing ships.
Alex hopped out of the water along with the other athletes. Amy was in disbelief that she lost to her old roommate. Her mind instantly began to race on how to get even--she would not lose again.
"I love the nightlife"
Starring:
Lt Commander Jan Hoffman Spengler
USS Brandenburg
The first day of Olympic competition was over, and athletes and spectators alike retreated from the field of battle to meet again in the more interesting arena of the local nightlife.
Man vs. his fellow was interesting, but the alcohol fueled jousting between man and woman was far more enticing for all concerned.
This was one of the more liberal establishments on the planet. Starfleet by in large had a habit of preferring the quiet chamber music symposiums that was all the rage in the latter half of the 24th century, but there was still an audience for a more driving beat.
Techno music accompanied by flashing neon lights traced its way across the throbbing crowd of warm bodies, as alcohol and laughter poured out with equal measure.
Black and grey Starfleet uniforms were the norm, but enough locals in their decidedly slinkier and shorter apparel were also out in force, eager to test the whole Officer and a Gentlemen theory.
Jan Hoffmann Spengler pushed his way though the crowded night club unmindful of the press of bodies around him.
Standing five foot nine, the blond haired Prussian was what an old Academy classmate described as 'a damn wiry bastard.'
Seemingly thin, his arms were knots of thick tendons and corded muscle that belied a hidden strength. Infinitely patient, and inexhaustible, he was one of those bastards that could drive the entire unit into the ground after a 10 mile run and still appear fresh.
Short cropped blond hair topped his strong Aryan face, and whatever expression his deep blue eyes might have carried were hidden behind the tiny round John Lennon eyeglasses that he wore for both style and a visual aide.
'Hey buddy watch it….you almost made me spill my drink.'
'Whoa…Im standing here dude.'
Faint protests followed the path of Spengler as he drove deeper into the club.
Most people when negotiating a crowd tend to turn sideways and lead with one shoulder or the other, worming there way back and forth in search of their goal.
Not Jan-Hoffmann.
His shoulder were square on, and he strode a path as straight as an arrow not yielding an inch, tiny glasses reflecting the dancing neon lights around him.
Those that bumped him in the process struck a solid posture, unyielding in its resolve, unrepentant in it passing. HE spared not a glance to those that he pushed through.
Until….
His left shoulder struck a dancing woman quite jarringly, causing him to misstep and sending her to the floor with a 'yelp'
"Jeeez….watch where you're going man." she chided from the floor, more surprised than hurt. "Frazz…you made me drop my beer."
Hoffman would have ignored her and continued on if not for the meaty hand that landed on his shoulder spinning him around.
"Yo dude….what the hell….apologize to the lady okay?"
Lifting his eyes slowly, Spengler looked up at the big man in a Starfleet uniform and a red face flushed with too much alcohol.
"What are you deaf? …apologize." the man poked him hard in the chest with a thick finger. He outweighed the German by at least 50 pounds.
Not saying a word , Spengler merely glanced down to where the man poked him, as if inspecting for stains.
"Whoa hang on Ronny…." the woman was helped back to her feet with an 'oof. And sought to intervene. "I'm not hurt, and we're supposed to be on best behavior here during the games okay…the guy's a fellow officer and probably just tripped….besides its crowded in here."
She raised an eyebrow at Hoffman as if offering him an easy way out.
'Ronny' the big guy glanced at his girlfriend doubtfuly before turning back to stare deep into those prissy little round sunglasses. "Right whatever…..brother Starfleet officer right?" he nodded towards Spengler. "Lt. Ron White…USS Devonshire. That lady you knocked over is Amy….she's our Tactical Chief. How about you just buy her another beer and we'll call it even right?"
Face unreadable, Spengler thought several moments before reaching out to take the empty glass mug from the lady's hands.
Bowing slightly, he looked over the top of his glasses.. "For Certain Herr White. " his voice was smooth and soft, barely audible over the driving music, "I must apologize profusely for the inept clumsiness your fat cow of a Tactical officer has displayed in rubbing herself against me. I would like to say that perhaps she has already had enough to drink, but then I must consider the fact that you are intentionally getting her drunk so that you two sad specimens can go off to fuck your fat selves until you wake up in a drunken pile of piss and shit ja?"
He paused cradling the empty mug in his hands looking from one shocked face to the other. "That was the plan for tonight yes? " his thin lips twisted into a knowing sneer.
Open mouthed shock melted into red faced rage. "Why you sorry German asshole!" Hit a little too close to home, the bigger man decided to settle this the old fashioned way and reeled back into a windup.
With a drunken yell he swung with all his might at the skinny European prick that had just insulted him.
However, Hoffman's hands moved slightly, and instead White's fist met the hard glass of the empty mug, shattering it and most of his bones in the process.
Spengler's sneer never wavered as blood and beer sprayed his face and eyeglasses, the big man reeling back cradling his shattered paw.
"OH FUCK MY HAND….HOLY SHIT HE BROKE MY HAND YOU FUCKER!!!"
Hoffman lifted the shattered mug handle still held gently in his thin fingers. "Nein. I merely parried ja? Did you wish for me to apologize for this stupidity as well?"
Ron White's Blood dripped from the rim of Spengler's glasses.
"MY HAND MY HAND….GET 'IM ….Get that bastard!!" the big man was howling and gesturing to his nearby shipmates. Large glass shards were still imbedded in his wretched hand.
A scattering of chairs and tables around him told the thin Prussian that indeed there were many of those shipmates there willing to avenge the big oaf. Six men at least…..
Spengler's sneer deepened and his grip tightened on the handle of the shattered glass mug….it no longer need be used defensively alone.
It was going to be a wonderful night for Jan Hoffman Spengler….just the thing he needed to unwind.
"The Next Step"
J. Andrus Suder, APC
Samantha Widdlestein, NPC
****
Epsilon Five "Poseidon"
Amphitrite Beach
****
The sun was warm, the waves were soothing, there was some kind of
alcoholic beverage in his hand, and no one was trying to kill him. By
all accounts, Andy should have been a very happy man. Instead, he was
thinking about steps.
Brooding, actually.
Relationships were all about steps; he and Brian seemed to be flying
through them. First came the dating and the amazing sex, check,
followed by the drawer/closet space and the security code to the
quarters, check, the declaration of Imzadi, check again, and finally -
the requisition for new quarters.
And this was where he was a bit stuck. He was pretty sure he wanted to
move in with Brian but did Brian want to move in with him?
And how did you ask such a thing?
And what if Brian didn't want to?
And why would it be such a big deal if he didn't?
And who the hell was blocking his sun?
Andrus looked up to see Samantha Widdlestein - clad in a surprisingly
modest bathing suit - staring down at him. "Thought that would get
your attention, Mr. Frowney Face."
He didn't even try to fake irritation anymore. Like Commander Smith
had told him, once you got past the urge to kill her, Samantha was a
likable kid. "Hi, Sam. What are you up to?"
Sam placed her eye-blinding blue Electric Mayhem towel next to his and
layed down. "Just taking a break from my commentator gig. Whatcha
thinking about?"
She'd just pester him until he gave in anyway. "Asking Brian to move
in with me."
"Oooh," Samantha practically squealed. "Can I help decorate?"
Her vision of their new quarters flashed in his head and Andy tried
not to shudder. He'd never been a fan of pastels. "I haven't decided
if I'm going to yet."
"Oh," She said, a bit deflated. "Why not?"
He shrugged. "It's a big step. I'm not sure we're ready."
Sam nodded. "You're too chicken shit to ask him. Got it. Well, you
could try hinting that you're ready. I personally find subtlety a
waste of time but I hear it works for some people."
Andy glared at her.
Samantha clapped her hands. "I know, let's role play! I'll be Brian
and you practice what you want to say."
"I'd rather not."
"AHEM ... Oh Andrus, my love," Samantha said, totally ignoring him.
"What sweet nothings do you have for me today?"
"Sweet whats? And what's with the accent?"
She rolled her eyes. "Work with me here, Romeo. Hello, Andy, my sweet
stud-muffin!"
Andrus sighed. "Hi, Brian."
"Was there something that you wanted to ask me, Pookie?"
He cleared his throat. "So there's something I want to talk to you
about. I was ..."
"NO!!!!" Sam screamed, sitting up and emphasizing the exclamation with
hand slashing gestures.
He sat up too, his first thought being that killer alien bees were
attacking her. When Andy figured out she was just being dramatic, he
laid back down. "What's wrong with that?"
"Dumped women across the universe are turning over in their
heartbroken graves," Samantha said. "You NEVER start with 'we need to
talk.' It's like a death sentence for a relationship. You really are
socially brain dead, aren't you?"
He thought he might have been overly generous in labeling her likable.
"Well, how would you do it, Miss Know-it-All?"
"Like a bandage, dude. Just go for it."
Andy took a deep breath. "Hi Brian. Want to move in together?"
Samantha took a moment to consider. "Hmmmm ... I don't know, Darling.
That wasn't really romantic of you .. Nope, I choose the bachelor
life. Game over. Don't give me that look, Andy. You have to be
prepared if he dumps you on your ass."
"I've BEEN preparing myself for if he says no!" He said through gritted teeth.
"And that's very responsible of you," Sam said consolingly. "Fine,
I'll make it a half way kind of answer ... AHEM ... Um, gee, I dunno,
Jake. It's an awfully big step."
"Who the hell is Jake?"
"J. Andrus isn't your real name, is it?" Samantha said. "Oh, come on.
Genius sitting right here. I figure the 'J' is important and you don't
really look like a John or a Jeremy. And there are way too many James'
so please, please don't say it's that." She waited a beat. "Here's
where you tell me your real name."
Andy smiled. "Dream on."
She harrumphed. "Does Brian know?"
"Yup."
"Awww," Samantha instantly cooed. "Giving up your real identity. Now
that's true love. Can I be the flower girl at your wedding?"
"So what's this commentator thing you're doing?" He asked, flying past
the marriage topic at warp speed. There were steps to take, after all.
"Oh, it's nothing really," She replied. "I'm going to be covering some
of the events.
"And how did you terrorize your way into that one?"
Sam pouted. "I'm adorable."
"Your idea of adorable is everyone elses idea of terrifying."
"I can't help it if people are stupid."
"Officer and a Gentleman"
Lt Commander Jan Hoffman Spengler
USS Brandenburg
Spengler was smoking in bed again.
Exhaling slowly he watched the fine blue mist dance lazily upwards…higher and higher until it was caught by the slow moving blades of the old ceiling fan and scattered to nothingness.
He was naked, the fine sweat from recent sexual activity shining on his steely tendons. Not muscular. But damn wiry.
He exhaled again, making a half hearted attempt at a smoke ring, trying to time it in order to miss the fan blades.
Unsuccessfully alas.
A soft moan from his left drew his attention to the naked female ass not a few feet away.
Whose was it this time?
Reaching out with thin fingers he squeezed it cruelly, eliciting a protesting yelp.
Ah yes…Amy from the bar.
After breaking her boyfriend's hand and putting three of her shipmates in the infirmary he'd dragged her back to his hotel and fucked her brains out.
Fortunate it seemed that he ran in to her so to speak.
If she noticed the still wet swimsuit in the bathroom from his earlier conquest she did not say….she surrendered any right to indignity when he forced her to lick the speckles of blood from his face from her boyfriends shattered fist.
No….she didn't deserve common decency at this point, and therefore he ignored her.
Snapping on the news again, he shoved one hand behind his head while idly flicking ash with the other.
"Mmmmm….sleeping….turn it off." the woman protested lazily.
He didn't budge.
>>…..REPORTS INTODAY FROM THE WAR FRONT REGARDING THE RECENT FALL OF THE DELTA IV HOMEWORLD TO HYDRAN FORCES. MILITARY SPOKESPERSONS REFUSED TO CHARACTERIZE THE EVNET AS A DEFEAT SAYING INSTEAD THAT STARFLEET WAS MAKING A TACTICLA REDEPLOYMENT OF FORCES TO THE REAR ECHELON…….<<
>>….DELTA IV, HOME TO 6 BILLION FEDERATION CIVILIANS IS A MAJOR SECTOR CAPITAL WITH SHIP REPAIR YARDS AND SUPPLY CACHE'S FOR THE SURROUNDING SYSTEMS. ALL COMMUNICATION IN AND OUT HAVE BEEN CUT SINCE THIS TIME YESTERDAY, AND THE CURRENT STATE OF AFFAIRS THERE ARE UNKNOWN AT THIS TIME…..FOR FNN NEWS, IM CHUCK LUCAS…SAN FRANCISCO…..<<
The woman had her head up now, staring at the screen. "Shit….Delta IV…I had a friend stationed at the repair docks there."
"No longer it seems." Spengler replied lazily, pulling off his little round eyeglasses and examining them for flaws. She'd licked off most of the blood, but it still left troublesome streaks.
"No longer?" she whirled on him, "That's pretty fucking cold."
"Ja." He wasn't even looking at her.
Amy O'Connell, Chief Tactical Officer of the USS Devonshire considered the blond haired man laying next to her. Suddenly her own nudity no longer felt sexy and alluring….it felt……..just naked….vulnerable.
She felt violated.
"You're a pig." she spat, attempting to cover herself. Pretty vain considering what they'd been doing for hours now.
"Ja…maybe." he readjusted his glasses and looked over at her slightly.
She could see his cold blue eyes behind the tiny round lenses covered with her saliva and the blood of her friends.
And she knew shame.
She'd violated herself it seemed.
"Fucker." was all she could manage as she rolled of the bed searching for her scattered clothes. Most were ripped and useless, and this cheap hotel didn't have a decent replicator to supply some new ones.
She'd be going back to the Devonshire in tatters….uniform askew, bruises and bitemarks on her neck. The very image of a dignified Starfleet officer.
He watched her for a moment. Curious at her attempt to get dressed and cover herself at the same time. It made for a clumsy effort.
This bored him though, and before the bedroom door was slammed on him for the second time that day, Jan Hoffman Spengler was staring at the ceiling again watching the lazy fan blades scatter his smoke.
He didn't have to compete in the games for another few days…….What then, should he do tomorrow?
"Assume the Position"
Captain T'Vara
LT (JG) Kyznetsova
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn't often that Valentina had visited the command center of anything. Being a lowly Lieutenant (Junior Grade) and an Intelligence Officer meant she technically had little to no reason to visit the bridge during the course of her normal duties. Add Technical Operations into her portfolio and the chances of her coming to deck 1 were reduced to near zero. This was her first time, and if she had said she wasn't nervous it would have been a lie. As it was she hadn't come up for personal reasons. She hadn't even come up because she had some important tidbit of information. Instead she had been summoned, and by none other than the Captain herself. As the turbolift doors slid open to reveal the bridge, Valentina easily hid her curiosity, and nervousness. It was almost too easy to fall into her passion-deprived, automatic personality she'd started out with years ago. Eyes straight ahead, back straight, chin up. Ringing the chime on the panel set into the ready-room's door frame was almost too easy.
"Enter," came the expected reply from inside.
When the doors swished open the Intelligence Officer marched in, coming to attention at the regulation prescribed distance from the captain's desk. Being able to visually measure the distance from door to desk edge and adjusting stride to take her in even, equal steps was admittedly showing off a bit. First impressions were important, however. "Lieutenant Kyznetsova reporting as requested, Captain."
T'Vara remained silent for a moment as she examined the oddity of an officer standing before her. Although she'd never met the Intelligence department's Technical Operations officer, the Vulcan captain knew everything about the somewhat petite, deceptively young-looking woman. Well, almost everything, she reminded herself; certain details surrounding the events of Lieutenant Kyznetsova's recent past remained unclear, although, as she had learned, that was usually standard operating procedure for members of the Intelligence community.
"Please be seated," the captain said at last.
Val took the seat in front of the desk, as requested.
"Ship's logs indicate your return to this ship on stardate 60806.03 at 0204 hours; six weeks, seven hours and thirteen minutes ago. Is this correct?"
"Yes Ma'am." Valentina didn't particularly care to remember that night. She still had the sensation of his hand on her breast fresh in mind, despite the length of time that had transpired since.
T'Vara nodded once. "Daily reports since your return indicate a regular pattern of attempting to enter the Intelligence Center, followed by a lengthy period of time in either personal quarters or an available holodeck. Furthermore, away team logs indicate you participated in a short mission on HD 189625-D with Cadet Artemis Bancroft and Petty Officer Third Class Victory, and again were included on the teams tasked with retrieving our dimensionally displaced crew members."
"Again, correct."
"However, when you first returned to the ship, you were removed from the active duty roster by Lieutenant Bental." T'Vara paused, waited for the expected nod, then continued, "Lieutenant Bental did not supply a detailed reason for this course of action. Perhaps you can explain?"
"I can only speculate as to Lieutenant Bental's purpose for my removal from active duties." Damn, this was going to hurt. There were always some things you just didn't want to remember. "Upon my return to the USS Galaxy, I submitted my resignation from Starfleet to Lieutenant Bental; he refused it. After a discussion with him he told me simply to "Get out of here." I assumed he meant his quarters, so I returned to my own. The next morning I found myself restricted from the Intelligence Center with no explanation given. Hails and messages directed to Lieutenant Bental went unanswered or returned unread. As to the holodeck access, it was in the pursuit of refining prospective project ideas for such a time as I am reinstated into a duty position."
"Go on."
"Captain, I tendered my resignation, yet it was refused. I attempted to report for duty. I was refused. I have sworn an oath to defend the Federation from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Until such time as I die or am no longer authorized to wear this uniform I will continue to do as is seen fit to fulfill my oath." Ok, that didn't quite come out as Valentina expected, but it was the truth. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, personal courage ... these were things you couldn't program into a person. She'd also somehow managed to sidestep just exactly how she'd come back on board without sensors reporting a transporter signature.
"Indeed," T'Vara responded as she mulled things over. As was often the case with humans this situation was not completely straightforward. Lieutenant Kyznetsova was a fine officer and one of the more dedicated aboard this vessel, so for Lieutenant Bental to remove her from active duty without a stated reason meant one of two things: either Bental was not operating logically, or certain pieces of the puzzle were still hidden from her view.
"Lieutenant Bental has been temporarily reassigned to a project taking place outside the confines of this vessel," the captain stated, carefully watching the woman before her for any sort of reaction. T'Vara herself had been less than pleased when she'd received the news, but again, one came to expect it from Starfleet Intelligence. "His sudden reassignment leaves the Intelligence department without a leader," she continued after an almost imperceptible pause. "Lieutenant Kyznetsova, as you are the next ranking officer within the department as well as the Intelligence officer with the next longest period of service aboard this vessel, you shall be returned to active duty immediately as this vessel's Acting Chief of Intelligence.
Valentina nodded. "I am unaware of what authority your position as Captain will have when issuing clearances into the Intelligence Center. As I understand it, even you are required an escort past the reception area, Ma'am. I cannot even enter the reception area with an escort."
"That is correct," the captain conceded, "however, the order is not mine. Director Jordan Elaithin has already made the necessary arrangements; I am simply delivering her message."
Again Val acknowledged with a nod of her head. "Very well. If there is nothing else, Captain, I have work to do." An understatement, if there ever was one.
Pleased with the young woman's response, T'Vara inclined her head slightly and concluded, "There is nothing else. Dismissed."
Valentina stood and exited as quickly as grace and decorum would allow. Her pace and features remained the same as she exited the ready room and entered the nearest turbolift. Once inside and the doors were closed, Val let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding as she leaned against the side of the car. "CIC," she commanded, eyes closed. 'Why me?' she asked herself as the car hurried along it's way.
FNN
Hi, I'm Dorega Arevlir of the Federation News Net, coming to you live from the Galaxy Games!
Yesterday we witnessed the Opening Ceremonies, where we were introduced to those personnel who will be competing in the games, representatives from each of the starships present. The USS Galaxy is, perhaps, the most unique among the Cast and Crew participating in the Starfleet Games, specifically because their introduction formation bore no Starship Standard. Rumor has it that Commander Victor Kreighof has been surounded by a contingent of vulcans, not because of his rumored 'Aura of Death' but more along the lines of the fact that each and every vulcan is one of his Security Officers, set in place with the express purpose of restraining the officer should he go berserk at a moment's notice, simply because he did not give the USS Galaxy's Standard permission to die. This peculiar arrangement within the Galaxy's formation is further coroborated by the placement of the ship's Executive officer, Commander Iniara Tarin, just ahead of that Vulcan Buffer and exactly infront of the potentially rouge security chief.
"And in other news, in the Women's Rowing event ....
"Freestyle...and revenge"
An engineer from the USS Orobourous handed Amy Jenson a small vial. "This should cause some embarrassment for that former roommate of yours."
Amy took the vial and raised her eyebrow in curiosity. "What is in here? I don't see anything."
"Nanites. Programmed to destroy fabric. In this case, I assigned them to destroy fabric that contains DNA strands they first come into contact with...and they are quite fast at their work. Once their job is sufficiently done, they will deactivate, making it very hard to find any trace of them."
Amy produced a grin which grew in size. "I like it. Thanks, Jackson."
"Anytime."
Amy stood and headed over to where Alex was sitting. Alex smiled brightly. "Great race in the one-hundred meter butterfly, Amy. I wasn't expecting to win. How have you been?"
Amy hid the small vial in the palm of her hand as the hugged her former roommate. With a flick of the finger, the lid opened and thousands of microscopic nanites invisibly landed on Alex's body and began their work. With another flick, the closed the top, hoping they all were deployed as the again hid the small vial in her palm, braking the hug. "Yep, you did great. I almost had you. Lets see how long your luck holds," Amy grinned.
"Yeah."
"Well, I had better get going. Good luck, Alex."
A few minutes later, Alex shrugged as her suit felt loose somehow, yet looked solid as she took the stand. Soon, the horn sounded and her body for the second time in the day launched forward into the water, using her legs to propel herself as far as possible under water before surfacing into the breaststroke. At 50 meters, she hit the wall, pushing off with her legs. At the 100 meters, something felt different...she could even hear a rise the volume of cheers from the crowd. She ignored it and focused on the match, as she began to fall slightly behind. As the race came to a close, she came to the wall in disappointment as she finished third. Lifting her goggles, she glanced down and saw why the crowd was cheering with a few whistles thrown in--she was completely nude. Her eyes widened with fear and embarrassment. She looked around frantically for her suit but found nothing. "Throw me towel or something!" she screamed at a nearby attendant.
The man searched his nearby area and found a towel and tossed it to Alex, who immediately wrapped it around her body and rushed towards the locker area. Amy and several other competitors laughed at the spectacle. It had worked better than she had expected.
After the event, Amy found Alex still by her locker. "What happened?" she asked.
"I don't know, Amy. I can't go on. Theres no way I can show my face again after what happened."
"Oh, it'll be ok. Maybe there was some sort of flaw in your suit."
"Obviously! I exposed myself to over a thousand people and cameras."
"Well, maybe this will work out for you. Maybe you'll get an invitation from Playboy."
"This isn't a joke, Amy! I could be kicked out of the Games for this!"
"I know...and I'm sorry. I need to get back to the ship for awhile...perhaps I'll see you around the town tonight?"
Alex simply shrugged her shoulder. "I doubt it."
"I hope to see you tommorow if not later this evening. Take care until then, Alex."
"Yeah...you too Amy."
A red-haired woman in business attire entered the locker room. "Ms. Lee. I am April O'Reily, Starfleet Games Committee Chairperson. "The Committee is not happy with what happened out there, and a full investigation is being launched. However, we do not believe you were behind this...stunt due to your reaction. But your equipment and competition attire will be thoughly inspected from now on. We are allowing you to continue to compete, but only in the upcoming relay and butterfly events. You are being removed from the 400 meter freestyle due to what happened. Hopefully nothing else of this magnitude will happen again. Do you have any questions?"
Alex simply shook her head. "No."
O'Reily nodded. "Very well, Ms. Lee. Good day to you." April turned and exited the locker room.
April sighed and zipped up her warm-up top and also headed out of the locker room.
"Time to Step Into the Ring"
2nd Lt Cora Dobryin
*****
Cora had attended the opening ceremonies. While they were enjoyable her main
focus was not on the celebration but the actual competition itself. First up
she had karate. The event after that Cora had entered the Military
Pentathlon. She looked forward to testing her skills in another way. Cora¹s
first round of sparring in karate was scheduled for tomorrow morning.
After their last mission Cora needed a break, however on this night she went
to bed with a lot on her mind. She let herself visualize a perfect
performance. No matter what Cora never allowed nervew to prevent her from
getting a decent night¹s sleep.
Given the schedule Cora awoke early the next morning. She wanted to be at
her assigned venue early. For the moment she was still dressed in her warmup
suit. After checking in, Cora went to change then headed for her designated
warm up area. Her sparring division wasn¹t first up which helped.
It allowed her time to stretch and properly prepare for the competitive
sparring match. Cora glanced up as a familiar voice greeted her.
³Well its good to see you again Cora. Its been a long time,² Gavin replied
with a smile.
³So I hear you¹re now a Marine.²
Briefly Cora nodded, ³Yes you heard correctly Gav. I made the switch a while
back. Are you competing or just watching?²
³This event just watching I¹ll be competing for the men¹s Military
Pentathlon. I noticed your name for the women¹s as usual. Good luck today.²
Cora replied, ³Thanks.² After he left she continued to stretch and practice
for a final time. She then put on her Gi top and belt. Once Cora was
satisfied with her uniform she grabbed the bag with her sparring gear and
put that on leaving her mouthpiece out and helmet off.
Heading to the designated ring as she heard the announcer. Part of the
actual announcement turned into a blur for Cora as she focused on the task
ahead.
³Next up have the Women¹s Black BeltŠdivision. First up we have 2nd Lt Cora
Dobryin, representing the USS Galaxy. Her opponent is Lt Commander T¹rel of
the USS Onyx. ²
OOC: For those of you wondering what the Marine Challenge games are going to be like, I'm modeling them on the real life 'Best Ranger' competition some of our military inclined might be familiar with, adjusted for the times ofcourse. It made sense :-p
"On The Fields..."
Colonel For'kel Arvelion- SFMC
Commanding Officer
188TH Starfleet Marines Detachment
================================================
"On the fields of friendly strife are sewn the seeds that on future days, on future fields, will bear the fruits of victory." -General Douglas MacArthur: United States Army
(Fork's Quarters)
"Hey buddy!" For'kel smiled proudly as he pulled a dark gray pocketed undershirt on. There was no better way to end a sonic shower after a hot dinner of beef stew than to look at the face of little Koren who was apparently trying to figure out the best method by which to pull his father through the screen in front of him. It was a relief to see a smiling face for once. In fact despite the doom and gloom news involving the loss of Delta IV and the high costs of New Texas' defense, the morale among the Marines of the 188TH was quite high. They had helped annihilate a larger enemy force on Alpha KS-128, ejected another enemy force from Alpha KS-129, and had slammed shut the fortress doors to the center of the Federation on the toes of the Triad.
They'd done their job... their after action report something of an oasis of victory in a vast desert of set backs.
And it was showing. The 188TH had lost more 20% of it's strength in the long Alpha KS campaign, and the names read aloud as they were added to the memorial wall on the drill deck brought a somber ceremony to an end. However there was no longer that sense of inevitable defeat that seemed so pervasive elsewhere. Hell, they'd beat the Triad once... they would continue to do so until peace... one way or another... was restored.
It was evidenced by the mysterious appearance of what he heard Leah refer to as 'bumper stickers' all over Marine Country.
"Focus solely on the colored uniforms, avoid fighting the Marines." - A Klingon General, 2372
"We're here to fight." - General 'Chesty' Puller
"Once a Marine, Always a Marine." - MSgt. Paul Woyshner
"Retreat? Hell, we just got here!" - Captain Lloyd Williams
Leah's personal favorite... "Sometimes it is entirely appropriate to kill a fly with a sledgehammer!" - Major Holdridge
The one on the podium at the main checkpoint for entry into Marine Country... "A ship without Marines is like a garment without buttons." Admiral David Porter, USN
And the one on his door, his own personal favorite...
"When the Federation is in trouble, they call on Starfleet. When Starfleet has an emergency, they send in the Marines!"
He had a sneaking suspicion Leah knew far more about who was responsible for the stickers than she was letting on, but he had no particular desire to remove them. They made for good conversation pieces at the mess hall. Besides, his attention was focused more right now on the two year old on the holovid screen being coaxed into sitting down by his grandmother and grandfather.
"Da-da." The Toddler laughed before pressing a big sloppy wet kiss to the screen, one that was instantly returned by his proud daddy. It was a bittersweet moment in retrospect... For'kel had been torn away from his wife for more than half a year now, and from his son an equal amount of time... perhaps during the most rapidly formative years of his life. Fighting a war sure wrecked havoc on one's family life for sure.
"You got big... what's sematir feeding you?"
"Ap-pull..." Koren responded, showing his daddy a slice of Al'Klei'shan green apples.
"Oh, yummy."
"Want?" The baby pressed the apple towards the screen.
"No thanks buddy, daddy's all full."
"Throw away!" Koren shouted with practical glee before chuckling the bit somewhere off screen.
"No baby, don't do that!" His grandmother chided, taking his seat.
Off in the background a man could be heard asking "Who put an apple in my cereal?"
Berilyn would likely have been mortified that her son ruined someone's breakfast... but being a Dad For'kel couldn't help but take a certain amount of pride in the fact his son had a good throwing arm. It was a difference in perception between the genders.
Fork's Mom quickly plucked the little toddler up before taking her own seat at the console. "So I hear your ship is participating in the Olympic games?"
"Starfleet games, afidav. Not Olympic games... there's a difference." For'kel smirked. "How did you find that out?"
Le'lei dipped her head slightly as if to acknowledge a mistake before continuing. "Whatever they may be called, I understand your ship is participating in them. We receive FNN broadcasts routinely my dear son, this isn't the backwoods world you remember as a child." She chuckled. "I was thinking, since you won't be near the front lines... a visit might be arranged?"
"I'm not going to be able to get off ship until..."
"I meant 'us' coming to visit you." Le'lei smiled.
Fork blinked. "Matir, how would you pull 'that' off? There aren't any starliner routes..."
Before he could finish the matron of the Arvelion family simply held up her hand. "No, there isn't a starliner route heading to your locale, but there is one stopping at the New Baltic colony on the other side of the border on it's way to Bolarus IX. We have passage on a Federation merchanter heading to your system. Starfleet in it's infinite generosity has scheduled a transport departing Bolarus to carry family to the games."
He almost fell over, and in fact needed to take a seat on his sofa's arm. It was an incredibly kind offer. Granted one would expect that kindness from their parent, but it didn't make it any less meaningful. "Are you sure you want to do this? It's a long trip and I don't want to inconvenience..."
"It's no inconvenience at all, my dear." Le'lei chuckled and smiled. "Your father and I have been looking forward to some... alone time... and I know being apart from Koren is hard on you. Besides, how could we not cheer on our son the olympian Marine war-hero?"
He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't say that much."
"Which is why you have a mother, my dear." She winked. "We have preparations to attend to, and I'm sure you have your own. Could you make appropriate arrangements on your ship?"
"Absolutely."
"Good, then we'll see you soon." Le'lei held up Koren. "Say buestana patir, see you soon. You'll let us know what event your participating in?"
"Of course." Fork responded without thinking.
"Buh-bye da-da, bwes-tona." Koren replied in a mangled mix of the Federation Standard his Mom had spoke in so often and the Stagnorian Universal he was engrossed in now.
"Bye bye, buddy." For'kel watched as his toddler and Mom waved good bye before the screen went dark and was replaced by a split screen display of the symbols of the CAW and UFP.
He sat down and sighed. Shit... now he had to find something to participate in.
===============================================================
(Marine Drill Deck- 16 Hours Later)
"Attention on deck!" Leah called out as she entered the deck, followed by the Colonel. She wasted no time in taking her position at the end of the first squad, first platoon.
"Okay ladies, gentlemen, and other sentients..." For'kel slapped his hands together. "As I'm sure you're all aware the USS Galaxy has been selected to participate in this year's Starfleet games. We'll be taking our place along the side of other starships in friendly athletic competition. Many of you have voiced desires to be apart of the games, I'm sure you've all gotten the Captain's message regarding the events offered."
He walked over to the main display screen and activated it. "Business always comes first though. There are going to be a lot of people coming and going, and the symbolic importance of the games likely makes them a prime target, especially during a war. Therefore this unit will, at 'all' times, be prepared for emergency rapid deployment. No less than 12 Marines will remain aboard ship at all times to provide command functionality in the event of an emergency. Starfleet security officers are in charge of seeing to the safety and well being of all competitors and visitors, however 'this' unit will maintain at least one platoon in deployable condition on the planet to act as a rapid intervention force if necessary. I've worked assignments out as best as possible to guarantee we meet that minimum standard, and you're all allowed to compete or observe the events you've opted to. I've also maintained deference to the buddy systems you've already established. Remember, your safety is paramount."
He pulled up a rotational schedule. "That said, feel free to look over this chart once you're dismissed to verify I got it right. I'm not perfect, I screw-up like everyone else, so if I made a mistake let me know. Also, for those of you who are interested... in the spirit of these games and to honor our unique heritage as Starfleet Marines, I've taken the liberty of designing our 'own' event. The Marine Challenge Competition, hopefully the first annual of it's kind, is going to be an endurance test and competition based on what I remember going through basic training back home, and what I've managed to dig up in terms of events from the various traditions of the peoples of the Federation. The event will last seventy-two standard hours, and conclude concurrently with the closing ceremonies. In fact, I think the way it's scheduled is that we end about three hours before the closing ceremonies are set to begin."
He punched up a sign in sheet. "Rules are that you will compete in pairs. All pairs must finish each event together. You won't know what events are included until we're in the system. At that point I'll make the announcement so you can all begin personally training for the events, but you can fairly guess what they'll involve. Finally, while en route, our unit will continue CQB drills, boarding repulsion and boarding actions, and counter-terrorism scenarios for max preparedness when we enter the system. Questions?"
Nothing.
"Alright Marines, get on with it. Dismissed, and good luck!"
"His own way of doing things…"
Lt. Commander Adrian An'quinsos- Counselor
Maxim An'quinsos- Son
*Holodeck 1: At the foot of the Hamar Mountains*
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply the smells around him and smiled,
mostly in reflection of a thousand and one memories that trickled into
the fore with every breath he inhaled. The land was imbued with the
scent of raw, primal creation; thunder echoed in the background
heralding the sounding of approaching storm and the wind began to pick
up while flashes of lightning covered the sky. Dust was kicked up from
the near-barren landscape hit him, staining the black, tight-fitting
jumpsuit he wore in dark red. Eyes of deep, story blue opened, fixed
on the majestic, snow-capped peaks swallowed in the grayness of
clouds. To the left and right of the peaks he scanned and then looked
around him; it would sometime yet before the rain would fall, but that
was all he needed. The bat'leth was brought up before him; a mere
moment of mediation took place before the kata began…
Originally, Adrian An'quinsos had elected to sit out the games. He had
done this every time they reared their head; predominantly
competitions of brawn and brute strength the El-Aurian remained on the
sidelines, cheering, observing, or listening. This year however was
different, much different than any other year, for you see he had a
son; an eight-year-old that very much looked up to his father.
Therefore when the mention of the games surfaced, and a padd was
delivered to their quarters, Maxim got more excited, and more than a
little ahead of himself and… the Assistant Chief Counselor was added
to the roster of athletes. By the time word got back to Adrian, there
was a message requesting the events he would be participating in, and
a certain eight-year-old whose father was very unhappy with…
It started slow; the bat'leth moved from the left to right hand,
inwards and outward, feeling it, hearing the movements it made through
the air, and listening to the song it sung. This was no weapon passed
from generation to generation, only a momento from a fight on the USS
Miranda when a group of Klingons attempted to take over the ship. He
had gotten his hands on one in the middle of a smaller skirmish and
when they attacked on the secondary bridge, made no illusions as to
his capabilities of wielding the blade. Between energy blasts and the
clinging of swords, six of them fell to his blade before it was over
with. The blade was kept; the blood cleaned from it, and placed in a
special location in his quarters, near a pair of twin, crystal swords.
What rustiness had been present in Adrian's foot or handwork vanished
in the first few seconds of handling the blade. Graceful movements
ended in calculated slashes, strikes, and dangerous looking jabs. They
were clean, intended, and above all, powerful, with undertones of
fluidity in the movements as the weapon moved between hands. The
bat'leth was not just a weapon; it was an extension of yourself and
apart of you both externally and internally. For the El-Aurian, it was
the equated representation of his spiritual center. If his that was
off, then the blade's movement would be wild, the strikes imprecise,
and the blows dull, no matter the applied strength. If he was
balanced, then this would be present within movements- as they were
now.
Adrian gradually sped up; patience was a virtue and that being the
case, he took his time, building up his speed, challenging the forces
of (holographic) nature to stop him, until he seemed like a whirring
dervish amidst a crackling storm. Ranging from narrow to wide arcs,
clean strikes and enough Mok'bara to make any Klingon Warrior proud he
would have looked like rage personified had his face not appeared no
calm and unnaturally peaceful. Perhaps when he was younger, when he
first arrived on QonoS, such expression would have been evident. But
now… now all was calm and peaceful and he was but the eye of a
gathering storm fixed above him. One last strike was initiated and
then he went still and the thunder above him died away, typically
leaving cloudy skies.
"Wow," Came a voice, disturbing his reflection. "That was incredible!
You were so intense and… it was fantastic!"
"Thanks," He dusted himself off, reflecting on the events he had
signed up for, and continued without missing a beat. "It still won't
get you out of being grounded, but it was a nice try nevertheless…"
The program was ended and Adrian left, son and bat'leth in tow. There
were others probably at the gym, sparring and what not. Him, he had
his own way of doing things, and for him, those ways worked out the
best…
"Tough and Gamey Part 1"
Consul Ayanna Hianat Judge
Ensign Charlotte Dooley NPC
Lt. Michael Dicen
Attorney for the Plaintiff NPC
Lt. Jennifer Pandora
Attorney for Starfleet NPC
Lt. JG Christopher Bearson
Security NPC Plaintiff
Location: Conference Room C Liasion Department-USS Galaxy
====================================================
The conference room wept for it's old appearance. In the last week, it had been transformed to house the newest floating courtroom per Hinanat's specifications. Judges were unique in Starfleet in several regards and this was so with Ayanna. Her new workspace reeked of an antique courtroom. The wood was not actually wood, but a modern day synthetic that gave the room an air of pretentiousness that screamed it was the home of the Galaxy's legal beagles.
Her bench sat higher than the rest of the courtroom. Mahogany in color, it's dominance was something to behold. Beside it sat a witness box, much similar in design and wooden color. Maroon carpeted steps that held the pattern of the Starfleet insignia cut out of their fibers led up to Ayanna's workspace. To the left of the stairs on the lower level, a single flag of starfleet rested against a singularly pole secured into the deck plate below. Behind the bench, wood pillars crept up the wall behind her framing a large mural of the USS Galaxy in her full glory. It was the personal touch that she desired and she was overly satisfied at it's appearance.
In front of the bench rested two tables separated by a large walking space. Behind the tables, three chairs graced the area. Behind the chairs, a wood separator that kept the 'normal' crew from the 'elite' legal teams. Ayanna enjoyed the presence of people in her courtroom and once word had gotten out that certain cases were open to public spectacle the grew started to show up in various numbers for the opportunity to see the legal system in action.
Dicen was the first legal person into the courtroom, followed closely by the Plaintiff in this case. The brooding Klingon security officer dwarfed the greasy small attorney as Dicen parted the gate and took his place on the right side of the courtroom. Flopping his briefcase down as a blatant show of 'toughness', Michael nodded to his charge telling him to sit in a round about way in the chair next to his.
Bearson rolled his eyes as he attempted with success to squeeze his overly muscled ass into the chair that was not constructed for a Klingon, let along a larger Terran being. Shifting in an desire to get comfortable, his eyes followed Ensign Dooley as she made her appearance into the room. Her attention went to the table on the left hand side as she pressed a singular button, a lcd console raised out of the table. With a flicker, a well groomed female attorney's image formed. Clearing her throat, she glanced up and smiled at her competition. She had a good breakfast, felt on her game, and was ready to invalidate the request to participate in the Starfleet games.
"Short and sweet" Ayanna muttered to herself as she zipped up her robe in the back room adjacent to the courtroom. The speedy expedition of this was due in fact to the games actually already starting. Truth be told, the request to participate in the present Starfleet games from the plaintiff had been sitting on what was Zamora's desk for months now. It was making it's way to the proper circuit judge, but now that the Galaxy had it's judge on board, the case was rocketed to the front of the judicial line. In the back of her head, she already knew what her judgment would be. However, making a judgment so quickly without hearing out the plaintiff would be enough for a questionable judgment and she would not have that on her conscious.
"All rise." The call was heard from Charlotte before Ayanna stepped through the door. Somethings were kept in strict tradition, and respect to a judge was no exception. Dicen stood, yanking the plaintiff up by his overly starched Starfleet collar. All others in the observation benches did the same as Hinanat stepped up the platform and took a seat behind the bench.
"Please, be seated." She announced. Glancing sideways, she nodded at Dooley.
"Judge, this is case 24383-98 on today's docket."
Fingering through the information on the screen to the left hand side of her, she brought up the specifics of names and preliminary information concerning the case at hand.
"Have the parties been sworn in?"
"Yes, your honor." Dooley reported in truth before turning her attention to the tables before them.
"Very well. Now, according to this information, I see that Plaintiff Bearson is propositioning the court to permit participation in the Starfleet games. Is this correct?"
"Yes, Judge."
Dicen's squeaky voice cut through the reverent silence of the court room.
"And, I suppose Starfleet has a problem with this obviously?" Her attention turned to the LCD screen.
"Yes, your Honor, we do and here's why…"
TBC:
"Baseball Friendship"
Lt. Victor Krieghoff
Ensign T'risia
****
USS Galaxy
Deck 39
Victor Krieghoff's Office
Victor surrendered and closed his eyes, stopping staring at the
evaluation forms on the screen in front of him when the words on the
screen in front of him swam around like microscopic organisms on a slide
and started to rearrange themselves into new words. Words that, if he
looked at them long enough through the lens of his headache, he was sure
would be telling him to do things.
Bad things.
The act of not looking at the forms on his LCARS actually seemed to help
the headache, which was a relief. He'd been afraid that he'd acquired a
cranial parasite that was growing inside his head and displacing his
brain on the last mission, or something similar. An Alpha Centauran
crewmate that had died that way back when he was an Ensign on the USS
Delaware, with tentacles erupting from her mouth and eye sockets. Not a
pleasant image, even after all these years of seeing things that most
people shouldn't, much less wanted to, see.
Also unlikely, since he'd had himself checked for parasitic infestation
after the fight with the predators - they were calling them
'Nighthunters' in the reports - in the shuttle on planet.
Which meant that what he had was almost certainly just a simple headache
- no matter whether he thought that 'simple' was a word that belonged in
the description or not. He leaned back, took a breath, let tension slip
out of him, and wondered idly if he could simply unscrew the top of his
head and equalize the pressure that way. Or, better yet, just stop
looking at the damn reports.
"Computer," he ordered without opening his eyes. "Close door and access
background sounds file Krieghoff Seven-Three-Seven. Place contents on
numerically-ordered loop until a stop request issued."
Seven-Three-Seven was a collection of ancient Vulcan music, recreations
of pieces that had been popular during the time that Talvalen had been
on her journey. They weren't exactly correct - Victor had, as Chulak,
heard the originals after all - but they were very close; close enough
that sitting and listening to them relaxed him just as the originals had
when Sakonna had played them for him. And he needed that right now or he
might really see words telling him to do bad things appearing in the
reports.
Now if no one would...
His LCARS beeped.
"Computer, save and close open files, and open incoming message," he
said, eyes still closed. "Read message aloud."
Several soft electronic sounds followed the order, and then the voice of
the ship's computer obediently bean to read. =/\= To: Krieghoff, Victor,
Lieutenant, Acting Security Chief. From: Iniara, Tarin, Commander,
Executive Officer. Glad to see that you're getting into the spirit of
the games, Victor, but would you consider opening the baseball team
you're assembling up to individuals outside Security? Think about it.
Iniara. Message Ends. =/\=
Well, that was simple enough. "Computer, send message to Ensign T'risia.
Message begins. 'T'risia - Please see me at your convenience with
regards to the baseball team. Thanks. Victor.' Message ends."
=/\= Message sent. =/\=
******
T'risia arrived with considerable haste, leaving immediately the
recreational activity that she had been engaged in. Not exactly a
recreational activity, she had been ordered to organize a team for the
Security Department, to participate in the Starfleet Games. She had
endeavored to do so, having suggested the Terran Art of Baseball as a
valuable team building exercise that would allow her to utilize some of
her collection, and her expertise.
She had been in hydroponics, negotiating with the botanists there that
they accelerate a clonal cutting of a tree for her, and transport it to
the Holodeck. The scientists didn't seem to understand why she needed a
real tree, and in fact a holographic tree would not do. T'risia
attempted to explain that it was important that the tree be struck by
lightning, so that she could forge a legendary Bat out of the
electrically charged fragments, but despite her emotionless Vulcan
demeanor, things had gone poorly after the mention of lightning strikes.
Her combadge alerted her to the message, and she excused herself to read
it at a nearby bulkhead terminal. T'risia did not frown, nor show any
outward emotion besides her arched eyebrow. Mr. Krieghoff, who had not
in fact deployed her for anything useful other than the Rescue Operation
and the Baseball Project, was summoning her.
With haste, she took herself to his Office, not stopping to change along
the way. Thusly, when she appeared in his doorway, she was attired in
one of her flowing Vulcan tunics, and tight leggings, but over the Tunic
she wore an early twentieth century Dodger's Jersey, as well as a
Baseball Cap bearing the logo of the ancient team. Both looked as if
they were legitimate antiques, and her combadge was pinned to the
jersey. In addition, she bore a right handed baseball glove, and the
requisite battle sphere within it.
"Lt. Krieghoff. You require my assistance?" Despite her eccentric
appearance, the Vulcan was all business, rather pretty, and undisturbed
by Victor's Aura.
Victor took a breath, let it out - along with some more of the stress
the music had been bleeding away, and opened his eyes. "I do," he
agreed, trying not to stare at the ensemble his subordinate was wearing.
"One moment, please." Turning his attention to the computer he issued a
command to pause the selection in progress and then turned back to
T'risia. "How has the response to the baseball team been so far?" he
asked. "Have there been many takers?"
T'risia arched a brow in response, draping her arms behind her back. "It
was presumed that the Baseball team was an order from you, sir. Thusly,
the security department is set, if unenthusiastic. Many have claimed
unfamiliarity with the rules of the game, and thusly have logically been
discounted as both unmotivated and lacking technical competence. We lack
a full complement."
"I ask, because the XO messaged me and asked that I consider opening the
team up to more than just Security personnel, which would change the
makeup of the team markedly. If we had a full team already, that might
have been an issue, but, as we don't," he nodded, "it obviously isn't."
T'risia once again arched a brow, considering. "It is your team, sir. I
assume then, you wish to take direct control of managing the team? It
would be presumed, I imagine, since you are the ranking officer." The
Vulcan's control never slipped, her face an icy, emotionless mask, but
some part of her overall posture made it seem as if she had been
slighted in some fashion.
"Manage the team? Me?" Victor shook his head. "Oh no; I think that you'd
do a far better job than I would at that. Another lesson for the list:
Know when to let those with the proper skill set do the job, T'risia.
I'm going to have to spend some holodeck time just to get to the point
where I don't embarrass the team."
T'risia arched a brow again, somewhat perplexed by the statement. She
chose to do as she had been told, and indeed, file away the "lesson for
the list." She seemed to think it highly relevant to her task as the
team's manager, as she would be forced to select positions for the
group. "Very well, sir. Further, there are tasks that we must attend to
besides staffing and training the team. A creative individual must be
enlisted to design the uniforms, as well as select a mascot. These
things are highly traditional within the concept of Baseball. Often, the
team is named after its mascot, obeying the form of geographic location,
mascot. To wit, the 'Detroit Tigers.' They are named for their location,
and a mascot, generally selected for ferocity, or intimidation. Often
whimsical, sometimes a native animal or person." She concluded the
lecture on the nomenclature of Baseball Teams without any change to her
facial expression, obviously considering the matter as serious as a Borg
invasion.
"I wasn't aware that mascot selection was so important," Victor mused
after she finished. "I'm not sure who would be good for that; Samantha
Widdlestein, perhaps? She's certainly got the imagination for it. You
might talk to her and see. As for the uniforms, I can ask Angelienia to
design them if you like - she's very good at designing and making
clothing and I know she'd love to do it - but she'll need to talk to you
about traditional designs and the like. Are you free this evening? If
so, you can join us in the holodeck for dinner and some baseball
practice, and talk to her then."
T'risia was unsure how to respond to, "Are you free tonight?" Typically,
most of her off duty time was free of any kind of social entanglements.
After all, she had no friends on board. At this point in time, however,
she felt that she might have to check with Lt. Hunter, regarding her
free time. T'risia was, as ever, about certain subtleties of
socializing. "I imagine that I am free, indeed. I do not have friends as
such. I will consult with Lt. Hunter, to be certain that I do in fact,
have the level of free time that I assume. Perhaps she would like to
join the team....I will suggest it. She is certainly a creative and
outgoing individual."
Steepling her fingers, the Vulcan security woman thought out loud. "Have
you ever in fact played Terran Baseball, sir?"
It took a moment for the importance of T'risia's words to sink into
Victor's conscious mind. "Lieutenant... Hunter? T'Pol? Ah... yes, she
certainly is. Outgoing, I mean. By all means, invite her if she'd like
to come." If T'risia wasn't friends with 8-Ball, then why was 8-Ball
someone she had to check with about free time? Was there, in fact, an
explanation that didn't involve things he'd rather not envision?
"And..." he continued to block those visions "...as for the baseball
question, I haven't played in years, since I was a child." He considered
that last part, and added, "Because I'm... what I am... most team sports
were things that I didn't participate in."
T'risia nodded, back on very firm ground intellectually. "Indeed, sir. I
have much the same problem with the play of team sports. At the academy,
I found that at least my organizational skills and athletic ability
tended to warrant others including me, in the interest of success, if
not camaraderie." She recounted the memory with her usual placid,
efficient manner.
"There's where we differed - at least with respect to team sports,"
Victor nodded. "No one wanted me there for any reason at all. Which," he
added, "has had me thinking about where I can be the most use to the
team, given the effect that I'll have on the rest of my teammates. I was
thinking that catcher might be the solution - it keeps me far enough
away that none of the rest of the team will be affected by my presence -
but ensures that any batter fielded by an opponent will be."
T'risia nodded to this, and gave the matter further thought. "The
Catcher needs to communicate well with the Pitcher. It is the Catcher
who determines the tactical needs of the throwing portion of the game,
such as whether the Throwing of the Heat, or the Slider, or the
Legendary Curve of the Bernoulli Effect will be required to nullify the
effectiveness of the batter. Do you believe that you can study these
matters, and decide them rapidly after that study has commenced?" As an
afterthought, she added, "In addition, you must be able to catch this
spheroid," as she held up her worn baseball, "at extraordinarily high
velocities."
Victor nodded. "As long as the Pitcher is more than three meters away
from me, the communications with them shouldn't be a problem. The
tactical theory... that I'll start studying on now. There are some
training programs already in the holodeck's selection, but if you know
of, or have access to, one that you consider superior, then I'll start
using it. As for the actual catching part, that's primarily a physical
skill, and I tend to do well at that sort of thing. I would, however,
appreciate any advice or constructive criticism that you can provide."
"Communication is done by a series of hand and finger signals, sir. It
would be best to add that to your listing of things to memorize. I will
review my Terran collection for any works by the Great Manager Titans of
Earth on training methods and motivational tools that might be of use.
Lord Steinbrenner of the New Yorkers was well known for his motivational
methods, and they seem greatly aligned to your personality and
attributes, sir."
T'risia draped her hands behind her back, her jersey fitting snugly
across her Vulcan clothing. "Furthermore, I was envisioning that I play
the Base known as 'Third'. The diagonal that it describes across the
Playing Diamond is the longest regular throwing distance in the game, as
the ritual known as, 'Throw out the Runner to the First' is performed,
often on a type of hit known only as 'The Grounder.' Given that the game
is played in Terran gravity, my proportionally larger strength quotient
would allow me to cover the throwing distance with greater acumen than
most. Sir."
"That seems logical," Victor agreed. "Plus, I'd think that your superior
knowledge and experience with the game would be an asset there as well.
As manager, how would you prefer to deal with the additional personnel
that might apply? Should we have a 'try-out' day in the Holodeck? Would
you prefer to meet with them individually? And, is there anything I can
do to help speed things along?"
T'risia shook her head. "I would think that a mass meeting, where skills
may be appraised, is the proper directions. The ancient Terrans called
this holy time the 'Training of the Spring,' which was followed by the
'Drafting of the Major League', which was a cohort of elite Baseball
forces. I do not believe that breaking with tradition would be a wise
decision, as the ancient Terrans had developed them through the
evolutionary process of competition."
Victor was uncertain, but thought that that there was possibly something
awry with T'risia's understanding of baseball - or not. Certainly the
concept of a sport as religion or religious observance was something
that he'd encountered before. "Then that's what we'll go with. I, for
one, certainly don't want to break with tradition."
Unsure of how to broach the point, T'risia pushed forward with a
request. "Furthermore, I require that the Botany Department move a real,
living tree into the Holodeck. They have my specifications, but are
reluctant to rapidly grow one and transport it. Your rank would be
appreciated, sir."
"A live tree?" Victor thought about that one for a second. "Is there a
ritual that requires a living tree?"
"Preferably," said the Vulcan woman with a deadpan expression. "I wish
to have the tree struck by lightning, and then, manually produce the
Baseball bat from the remains. I have viewed a Terran documentary on the
subject, and seemingly, this is the ideal way to produce the Baseball
War Club."
"Struck by... lightning?" Victor had to admit that it did sound mythic
enough. "I have to admit ignorance as to the origins of that tradition,
but if you think it's important..." He considered the problem. "Would it
be better if we simply located a living tree on a planet we were passing
and arranged for the lightning strike there? It would be in a natural
surrounding, struck by natural lightning that way, not artificially
generated."
"I do not believe that the artificiality of the lightning strike is a
relevant factor. In truth, I would prefer to err on the side of
convenience, if possible, sir. We have many tasks, as it is."
Wood... Well, Victor had access to that since his family still used wood
for many of the stocks and fore grips of the guns they made. He even had
some wood aboard in storage. "How recently should the wood have been
struck by lightning?" he asked. "Is it critical that the formation of
the bat begin immediately after the strike? And is there a specific type
of tree that is preferred?"
T'risia looked slightly upward as her computer like Vulcan mind recalled
the documentary, entitled, "The Natural." Recalling the vital potion,
she replied in her crisp manner, "Preferably, the making of the Club
should be as soon as possible after the lightning strike. That is at
least the manner that is historically recorded. Of course, not all of
the Clubs need to be produced in this fashion. It is merely appropriate,
I believe, to indulge tradition as much as possible. As for the type of
wood, I will look into that which is most preferred; if it seems that
you might provide options, sir."
"All right," he nodded. "If you can tell me what kind of tree we need,
I'll see what I can do about getting it ready and struck by lightning.
If worst comes to worst, I'll personally go do a Level 4 Security
Preparedness and Threat Analysis in the Botany Lab until they agree.
They normally take six days to complete, but no one's ever lasted two
with me doing it. It shouldn't take going to that extreme, though." He
considered other plans. "I do have some samples of wood aboard that was
grown organically - not replicated - and is non-replicatable if any of
it turns out to be suitable for the manufacture of additional bats.
You're welcome to that if it will help. There should be enough for..."
he consulted his memory "...at least five bats, possibly seven if we
need to make a bat for a crewman of less than standard human stature."
With a curt nod, the Vulcan woman replied, "Ash or Maple are the most
commonly used woods, sir."
"I don't recall any Ash in the wood I have, but there are three Terran
Maple blanks and two Terran Walnut ones," Victor offered. "Plus a pair
of Terran Mahogany blanks, one Andorian Steelwood blank and a few
Halthorian Ebonwood blanks - I just don't know if they'd be good to use
for bats. They're all solid woods that don't splinter and take rough
treatment well, though." His father would probably have a stroke if the
blanks all wound up as baseball bats, though - especially the Ebonwood
given the trouble they'd had growing it.
"That offer is most generous, sir. I believe that we can replicate most
of the bats, however, sir." T'risia tilted her head, observing her
superior's demeanor. "There is a secondary, but perhaps more important
matter I would wish to discuss with you, sir."
"By all means," Victor returned agreeably. "You can't solve a problem by
keeping it to yourself. What is it?"
T'risia arched her brow, her typical expression of either interest or
irony, on an otherwise immobile face. "I hope then, that you are capable
of taking your own advice, sir. You are overwhelmed with administrative
tasks, and not delegating them to staff. I had offered my assistance in
the ordering and filling out of such paperwork, but since that time, I
have been merely sitting in my cubicle. You could radically reduce your
stress levels by sharing some of your more mundane workload with me."
Her hands draped behind her back, wearing her pseudo baseball uniform,
she completed her statement with, "Vulcans are well known for skill at
logical organization, and lengthy patience. I am ideally suited to be
your assistant in these matters."
Victor thought about that for a moment. Was he trying to do everything
without delegating? Was that why his head felt like it'd been used as a
punching bag by a pair of mugatos all the time? "Perhaps I am doing too
much," he conceded. "It didn't seem this bad the last time...." He
stopped, deciding that discussing his life as Chulak - a life that
hadn't been reported to Starfleet - wasn't going to make things anything
but more complicated. "The last time I sat down and looked at things,"
he continued. "Looking at it now, I suspect that you're probably right,"
he admitted, as the litany of the paperwork he still had to do ran
though his mind. "I should be delegating some of this."
She nodded her head, relieved that her superior could see the logic, and
for that matter, the wisdom in the suggestion. "Yes, sir."
Victor nodded. "All right then, here's what we'll do: rather than just
dump it all on you and leave you with no time to handle the baseball
team or anything else, tomorrow morning, I'll get you and Shelley in
here and we'll sort out what I can delegate to you, what I can delegate
to her, and what I need to keep to do myself. It may take a little
fine-tuning, but by spreading it three way, that ought to leave the
three of us with enough time to handle our normal duties and still have
enough time to deal with extra-curricular activities."
T'risia tilted her head. "As you wish. You may in fact, 'dump all of it'
on me. Vulcans have little need for sleep, and I have few social
interactions. I am also well suited to dealing with you for guidance,
while others seem uneasy in your presence. I do not know the others, so
I cannot speak to their reactions."
"Let's try it this way first," Victor decided. "Just because you don't
have an established social life at this moment doesn't preclude the idea
that you won't, at some point in the future, establish one. Speaking
from experience, it's good to have that extra time available in the
event that you discover there's someone that you want to spend time
with, or some recreational activity you want to take up." He shrugged.
"Angelienia and I dance almost every night for example. Ballroom dances
from Earth, traditional dances from her culture and others. She finds
joy in sewing clothing for her friends, giving them something that was
made by hand expressly for them, not replicated. Neither of us had
planned on those activities becoming so important to us... they just
happened. I'd like to leave you the room to have something 'just happen'
as well."
"Indeed, sir. I understand your intent, although, at present, it is not
an issue. I appreciate the gesture. Do not hesitate to call on me should
the need arise. Like most Vulcans, I value the elegance of
productivity."
She paused for a moment. Victor Krieghoff was the closest thing that she
had to a friend. This was her third conversation with him, and he did
not make Vulcan stereotypes at her. "If I may then ask, sir, since I
have no friends to inquire with... do you have any advice, that might be
deployed on what Terrans call a 'date'? I have one quite soon, and much
of the archived information in the database seems inaccurate. For
instance, to my knowledge, Terran males have never been segregated to
Mars, and the planet Venus would not be habitable to Earth females."
"Dating?" Victor considered that for a moment. *Did* he know enough
about dating to actually say anything to her that would be helpful? No,
what was he thinking? What he knew about dating would have trouble
filling a 1-square micron container. But he did know someone that knew
everything that he didn't.... "I don't know that, given my own
experiences in the field - or lack thereof - that I'm the one to give
you advice on that topic," he admitted. "But," he added, "Angelienia, on
the other hand, *is* the correct person to do so - and I know that she'd
be glad to answer your questions." He paused a second before adding,
"And while I'm not an expert on the whole friendship thing either, I do
think that asking someone for dating advice probably qualifies as
something only done between friends."
T'risia tilted her head. "We have had a handful of conversations, all
about security issues. It would stretch the definition of friendship to
make that assertion. However, I have had more contact with you, sir,
than anyone else, hence the inquiry." The Vulcan woman paused, and
considered the matter..."As for 'Angelienia, I do not know her at all.
It seems illogical to consult on matters of a personal nature."
Victor smiled. "Friendship isn't always logical, T'risia, nor does it
always follow a standard definition; it's more fluid than that. I'm not
an expert by any means - ask anyone - but I know enough to know that.
Sometimes it just happens; a few words, a shared experience, even
something as simple as handing someone a cup of coffee at the right time
can trigger the kind of bonding that gets labeled friendship.
Conversely, sometimes it has to be cultivated like a garden, with
careful steps and measured attention before it flowers." He gestured
with a hand, indicating first himself and then her. "If I had to guess,
I'd say that you and I were leaning towards that first process as
opposed to the second. As to what level and duration our friendship
might ultimately take, that I can't tell you. Predicting the future is
something best left to con men and mystics, and I'm neither of those.
And as for not knowing Angelienia, that's easily remedied; she's
dropping by to drag me out of the office and have lunch in a few hours -
she happens to agree with you about my trying to do too much by the way,
and she'll be overjoyed to hear that I'm going to be passing some of
this off on you and Shelley. I'll check with her and see, but I'm
positive she'd love to have you join us."
There was little for T'risia to say in exchange, so she left matters at
a succinct, "Yes, sir."
“The Journeys Home – Part I”
“The journey home is never too long, when open hearts are waiting there.
The journey home is never too long, there's room to love and room to spare.
I want to feel the way that I did then, and think my wishes through before I wish again.”
Corporal Cianán Tierney
Combat Medic
USS Galaxy
The stars shifted outside the protective window in the transport vessel James J Hill. While many of his comrades from the Galaxy would be attending and even competing in the Starfleet Olympiad, Corporal Cianán Tierney was making the journey home.
Home is an odd word. Home connotes a place of warmth, comfort, and affection, none of which Cianán attributed to Angosia III. In fact, Cianán spent almost as much time orbiting Angosia III in a moon-prison than walking on the planet. His family didn’t consist of a mother, father or siblings. It consisted of needles, drugs, and torture which left strong memories and physical scars.
Funny that it was family bringing him home.
As part of the reunification and entrance into the Federation the Angosian Government worked hard to reintegrate former soldiers back into civilian life. Many, like Cianán, were able to be reintegrated through the help of powerful physical and psychological therapy. Some were never reintegrated and found themselves rotting in institutions half conscious, half dead. Unfortunately reintegration wasn't always so smoothe with families. Cianán would be a functional member of society, but family-less.
Even so, Cianán’s father was dead.
At least the person he was told was his father was dead. Cianán’s memory had long been wiped clean and only recently had pre-enhancement memories begun to surface themselves.
Cianán wasn’t sure he made the right decision. He made it alone. He was alone. The marine considered his only confidant, the Galaxy’s Chief Counselor, a liability. Being around Brian was like adding fuel to fire for Cianán. He couldn’t accurately process the mixed emotions Brian caused in him. Not to mention that they served together on two away teams and on two away teams the Counselor became unstable. Cianán became jaded to the Betazoid’s own sanity. The marine purposefully double-booked himself against a session with Brian and he still plotted to wrangle out of further interactions.
And then there were the marines. Were they a family? In some sort they were. He was growing more apprehensive of the marines when he was asked to be in charge of a team a few away missions ago. It turned out well and he bonded with his comrades, but it still left him uncomfortable...particularly fighting along side a psychologist.
Regardless of his recent discoveries almost every fiber of his being wanted to remain. Cianán cursed himself for being weak. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t like the changes occurring – it was like experiencing puberty but without the funky side affects like voice changing and hair growing in weird places. Like the eventuality of becoming an adult. What the hell was he going to become? Some Joe the Plumber average Federation citizen who supports his government and ideals?
It was a nightmare from which he couldn’t wake. It was more clichés than he wanted to admit. The last thought caused a smile to cross his lips. At lease he still had his humor.
“Where you heading?”
Cianán didn’t want to be disturbed but acknowledged the voice. “Angosia.”
“Sssss,” it was the sound of sucking air through teeth. “Nice planet but not the first place I’d pick for a vacation.”
Cianán finally turned his head to look at the voice. It was a humanoid, a Bandi of all races. Traders and merchants at heart, the Bandi were the Ferengi of the Federation without many of the drawbacks. “I’d venture its better than your desert you call a planet.”
“You got me there, friend.” Without being invited the Bandi sat down. “Ah, you’re Angosian. An Angosian soldier. Never met one of you before.”
“Congratulations, you’ve met one.”
“Oh, and an attitude to go with it. You’re quite the stereotype.” The woman smiled widely. She was pale, calling her white would have been like calling a Klingon tan. She was so pale she was ashen gray. Her white hair shot straight down her back and looked to be made of silk.
“I’d hate to disappoint anyone.”
“An Angosian soldier marine. That’s almost as obvious as a Betazoid counselor, Vulcan science officer, Klingon security guard, Bajoran chaplain, Ferengi…hmmm…Ferengi crapper cleaner.”
Cianán smiled. “I guess it’s my lot in life.”
“Au contraire,” the Bandi said sitting down. “You can recognize the subtle signs that only a counselor would recognize. You’re a walking science experiment. It wouldn’t take too much for you to snap someone’s neck. I’m sure you’ve been tested so much in this life all you have left is faith.” She continued, “and as for latrine duty – well I’m sure you’ve cleaned up shit before.”
“Why are you here?” Cianán asked. He was mildly annoyed and mildly fascinated. The two were so close together it was at times hard to distinguish between them.
She raised a glass she was holding and waved it in front of her. “Best view from this vantage point. Besides, it looks like you needed some company.”
Cianán raised an eyebrow, “what makes you say that?”
“Oh I don’t know. Brooding I guess. Makes me think you’re on a quest, a mission, a journey.”
“Hah! The journey home.” Cianán said dryly.
“Oh, the journey home.” The Bandi nodded. “Carrying a little baggage back with you I see.”
“Are you a psychologist?” Cianán asked with disdain.
She laughed, “oh my no! Just good at reading people.”
Cianán studied her for a moment. She was a stranger that he’d probably never see again. “Father’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Cianán shrugged. “I didn’t know him.”
“So why’re you going back?” The Bandi took a sip from her drink.
“I don’t know. Seems like I should I guess.”
“Well there’s your reason.”
Cianán raised an eyebrow.
“Sometimes you just do something because you have to.” She retorted. “When’s the last time you were home.”
“I’ve never been HOME.” Cianán said. “I don’t have a home.”
“Well, when’s the last time you were on Angosia?”
“Who are you?” Cianán felt like he was in a session. “What are you doing here?” He felt as though he was being set up.
She shrugged. “My name is Airika and I’m bored. I saw you sitting here, a handsome marine, seemed like you’d have an interesting story to share with me.”
“You want a story?” Cianán asked.
Airika sat back, ready to listen.
To be continued...
"The Contract, Part I"
Introducing:
Mr. Siebur, The Assassin
After his meeting in Moscow, the man now known as Mr. Siebur, was already on Starbase One, waiting for his ride to the 40447-003 Epsilon system. Apparently, at least one of his targets was confirmed on board the USS Galaxy which was taking part in the Starfleet Games. Perfect. Mr. Siebur believed that it shouldn't be too hard to get Suder alone, and make a quick and hopefully clean kill.
Then the assassin got a hold of himself. It was a small fallacy of his, getting overconfident. He has seen first hand too many times what happens when a so called professional gets to cocky. Those so called professionals are now professionally pushing up daisies. Not him, though. He was hired because he was careful and very discreet. He was one of the best, hardly ever made a mess, and was reasonable about his prices.
He sat in a lounge that he had sat in many, many years ago, in another lifetime that he could barely remember at times. Today, he was one Lieutenant Lorne Siebur, Security Officer, reassigned to the USS Galaxy. A plain service record, no major decorations, no major reprimands. Just another face in the crowd, serving in the best fleet in the Quadrants. He exchanged pleasantries with a couple of young Ensigns, presumably preparing for their first assignments out of the Academy. Siebur didn't quite lie about his experiences; they did indeed happen...just not in the time frame that these young kids might have imagined that they did. And it didn't matter what Siebur really said; after this assignment, he would have a new name, and a new face...and another target.
A FNN newscast began to play, reporting on the upcoming Games. He paid no mind to it, as he truly had no interest in those types of activities. He briefly thought about actually competing in the Games, but that would leave too many opportunities for questions, scrutiny, etc. Getting on board and acting like a legitimate crew member would suffice for his purposes. His escape was already planned through third party contracts with...persons of interest to the Federation.
After about another half hour of boredom, his 'ride' finally showed up in the form of the USS Kentwood, an aging fast cruiser that was relegated to ferrying out supplies and personnel to various points in the reaches of Federation space. After having his credentials verified, Siebur boarded and headed for the guest quarters that he was assigned. He only had a duffel with the standard issued gear that most 'Fleeters took with them from assignment to assignment.
Within a week, he would be within strangulation distance with his first target. His heart quickened with excitement for a brief moment, then returned to its regular rate. Patience, he thought silently to himself, as he now laid in his bunk. First, Suder. Then he'll find that little spy fuck Bental. He kept in mind that there were actually many contracts out for that agent, and hoped that he wouldn't have to bump off anyone else in the process of earning his keep. As his reputation clearly showed, he liked to keep things as clean as possible.
TBC..........
"Protein Pack"
Cmdr. Arel Smith
****
Epsilon Four "Demeter"
Ceres Mountain Range
Wilderness Survival competition, Day 1
****
You're given a canteen of water, a compass, and a map, told to make it
to Location B by dusk on the fourth day, and then are transported into
the wild.
You think: Give me a real challenge.
There's not a lot of people who have spent three years living in a
primordial jungle so you figure you're at an advantage. You've slept
in trees, fought off beasts, spent a year fending for yourself with
one eye and the use of only one arm ... and you've done it all with
little more in your stomach than bark and beetles.
You realized early on that this was going to be the main challenge.
You can work with limited shelter and little sleep, but making it to
the finish line with a high nutrient level and little weight loss
could prove difficult. But that problem was easily solved. Living with
Klingons, on Earth trying to disgust Aunt Leah, and in the jungle
while trying to keep your son healthy have taught you this - Worms are
a good source of protein.
You used to hate eating them - hated the fight they made as they went
down your throat and the taste of dirt or whatever dressing was
popular on Qo'nos at the time - but now you're pretty indifferent. It
used to be because you'd made a decision to survive by any means
necessary but now it is because you are determined to prove that you
are as tough as you say you are.
You may have trained as a warrior but you've *lived* this and there is
no way anyone is coming out ahead of you, including a gorram bug.
It also doesn't hurt that you know there is a big fat cheeseburger
waiting for you to be replicated when you get back.
So now you're making your way - chewing on worms and the occasional
bug as you go. As a general rule of the universe, if a bug comes in
bright colors, strange patterns, or fuzz, don't eat it. Otherwise
you've got a pretty decent shot at living through the day. Of course
it would be nice if you could catch some small game along the way -
this planet's version of a pheasant or a rabbit perhaps - but the
information packet you received beforehand warned that these were
scarce. You're better off sticking with the insects.
Besides you're on the lookout for something more important - water.
You figure you'll find a good spot for shelter (or failing that go
climb a tree) and you're already been collecting dry leaves and twigs
for a fire, but the nearest water source would set you back half a
day. The next one you can make by the third day.
So it works out that you'll probably have a day without water - unless
you can manage otherwise.
You're sure you can manage otherwise. Klingons can do anything.
"Counseling Vulcans"
By Lt. Branwen London
and Ensign T'risia
First Bran had taken a few days to get to know her marines again. She spent some time training with the platoon but then it was time to pick up her second job again. Being the marine contingent’s psychologist. As before she would be seeing navy personnel as well. And she was actually excited and a little nervous to see who would walk into her office first this morning.
Appearing promptly, as was her own manner, all of the time, the slender Vulcan woman T'risia approached the door of the counselor's office. She knew that Terran's valued counseling as a method of reasoning through their emotional problems, so, to be truthful, she was most unsure why she was here in the first place. Having no emotions to speak of, she would have little to work through in such a sense. However, being a logical being, rather than waste time, she had chosen a number of topics that she could gain insight into, to streamline interactions that were of significant importance to her functionality.
She paused a moment, and smoothed out her flowing red Vulcan tunic, held close with a sash of brown, over her tight fitting brown leggings. Her hair was held back by a "Strawberry Shortcake" headband from the late 20th century, and a button on her tunic announced that she supported "Love not War", in a flowery arrangement of peace symbols. Content with her appearance, she rang the door chime, and waited patiently.
“Come in!” Bran called out in her sing-song welsh accent. And she smiled as she saw a young vulcan woman come in. Her appearance surprised Bran a little, Vulcans usually did not sport buttons, certainly not while in uniform. Maybe this one had some human blood.
“Hello, I am Branwen London.” She introduced herself, not offering her hand as she knew vulcans did not like that. “Please make yourself comfortable, can I get you something to drink?”
T'risia draped her hands behind her back, in a stoic posture. her pretty features as emotionless as always. She shook her head slowly at the other officer, her piercing green eyes looking on with an intellectual interest. "I do not require refreshment. Many thanks, however." The Vulcan woman paused, and then added, "How may I be of service?" Her manner, as with most very traditional Vulcans, was efficient and businesslike.
“Well, what I read in your file stated that you have not been on board yet and you have not had your coming on board counseling chat yet. Don’t worry, it is more a kind of getting to know you chat, nothing serious.” Bran smiled as she poured herself a cup of tea.
T'risia inclined her head, and arched a brow. "I have been on board a short time, actually. In fact, I recently returned from the Away Mission to rescue missing crewmen." Pausing, the slender woman looked about the room, with some interest. "However, you are correct. I have not had any entry counseling. In fact, I have never had any sort of counseling. It is atypical for Vulcans."
“Never? But it is mandatory at the academy and every time you switch ships. And most ships do the yearly check-up. How have you been able to avoid all of these?” Branwen sipped her tea, pretty curious on how the woman opposite her managed all that.
T'risia arched her brow once more. "As a Vulcan, with no aberrant or antisocial behaviors, it was seen as irrelevant to counsel me during my Academy stay. Having no emotions, emotional counseling seemed superfluous. It was presumed that my own cultural support would be sufficient, provided I continued to adhere to the teachings of Surak." Once again, the slender woman looked about, her keen eyes observant. "As for ship transfers...this is my first posting. Thusly, my first such interview."
“Oh. That is kind of cool. Well, you know, we counselors are not only here to talk about emotional problems. But also about work related problems you might walk into and career guidance. If you are just starting out that might not be very relevant to you now, but it might be in the future. So tell me, T’risia how is it for you to work so closely with other races, people who are not as logical as you are?”
T'risia considered the question, not answering immediately. "Emotional beings encompass the majority of the universe. It is certainly mind expanding to be around beings who often make irrational decisions based on their 'feelings'. I note that it brings a great deal of creativity to their approaches, which is sometimes most beneficial."
Without changing her expression, she contemplated, and continued. "On the last mission, at times emotionalism got in the way of the problem solving methodology needed for success. At times, I experienced an anti-Vulcan sentiment. In contrast, emotionalism appears to have fostered a social activity with another crewman, which will be a first for me. I have not yet had social experiences with other crew." She stated all matter of factly, as if speaking about the weather.
Branwen nodded. “Tell me, is it something that you miss? I have not known that many Vulcans. Do you interact much socially when you are amongst other Vulcans, or are your people more solitary?” She genuinely wanted to know.
"Many Vulcans are social with one another. I am...not. I have had a mostly solitary lifestyle. Vulcan did not suit my general interests very well. It is the reason for travel upon the Galaxy, among other things. Certainly, I am most intrigued by the idea of a social situation. I am told it is called a 'date' by Terrans."
“So you are ‘different’ even for a vulcan.” She observed. “That is not a problem per se. Only people on a starship work as a team. Did you find that you had difficulties with that? For example during the mission?” That could be a problem.
The emotionless woman in the flowing garments of desert Vulcan shook her head slowly, which only highlit her incongruous "Strawberry Shortcake" headband. "I have no feelings to hurt. As long as the unit is working toward the common goal, rationality dictates that all is well. Each individual brings uniqueness of talent. Surak said as much."
“True. But sometimes humans have troubles with one member of the team being logical.” She said. “Humans are pretty different from vulcans, and they have different needs to function well in a unit.” She watched T’risia. “Is that something you can relate to?”
T'risia tilted her head slightly, puzzled. "I make great efforts to relate to Terrans. I find them of great interest." To her, she thought that matter was obvious.
“Okay, you say you relate to them. Tell me what you mean by relate, what do you do?” Bran wanted to have that clear before they moved on.
The slender Vulcan woman remained standing, arms draped behind her back. "I am fascinated by Terran culture. I attempt to engage Terrans in ways that are interesting to them, as well as culturally appropriate. I attempt to factor their emotional reactions into my decision making process, as a logical if unpredictable fashion." She paused, considering. "Off duty, I attempt to engage emotional beings in activities of interest to them." She did not mention that she had thus far, been largely unsuccessful on this front.
Then, T'risia arched her eyebrow. She realized that she was not actually, as unsuccessful as she might have believed. "For example, as a result of successful mission interaction with emotional beings on my last Away Team, I am scheduled to engage in a social activity. In short, I have a...'date', I believe it is called."
It took Bran a little bit of effort to keep a straight face. “A date, that is wonderful. By the way, are you sure you would not rather sit down? I feel a bit uncomfortable looking up at you.” She finally smiled. “you know, it might be a cultural thing, but the way I hear you talk about interacting with humans it sounds exhausting to me.”
Recalling that Terrans preferred those around them to be "comfortable", the Vulcan woman say in the offered chair. "Indeed. I am looking toward the...date...with considerable interest. However, you are correct. It takes a significant portion of my mental resources to interact positively with emotional beings. It is certainly a work in progress. If this...date, as it is calls, goes well, perhaps I will have greater success in future endeavors."
“May I ask, and because this is very personal, you can tell me to shut up.” Bran smiled. “How you are going about this date? I mean are you planning it in detail, your actions, thoughts, manners, or are you leaving more to fate? How would you like it to go?”
T'risia's serious expression did not falter, and her voice remained its customary tone, as if explaining the process of dismantling and re assembling her phaser. "As I understand is customary, I am planning the matters before the 'date' in some detail. Outside of that paradigm, I have left much to chance. We must have faith that the universe will unfold as it is intended."
The vulcan woman shifted her weight in the chair, leaning forward to a tiny degree. "I have selected clothing as per the request in response to my inquiry that produced the 'date.' Thusly, I am now in possession of a 'slinky' garment. Further, I have gone to the trouble of replicating a small token of appreciation, as I understand is appropriate to provide at the beginning of the 'date', as a show of interest in the other party. I have produced the Terran shoes known as 'pumps'. As for scheduled activities, we will meet in Ten Forward, but other than that agreement, there are no planned discussions or activities."
“That is good. It is good to prepare a little but leave the rest to choice. And enjoy!” The counselor said. “That is the main thing, enjoy each other’s company.’ She smiled. “Are you making more friends?”
Logic dictated the simple answer. Without preamble, the Vulcan woman simply said, "No."
“Uhm, I gather you mean no you are not making any other friends?” Bran clarified. “Is that on purpose?”
Without any preamble, the Vulcan woman replied in her deadpan, "No, it is not intentional. I am, however, failing to 'make friends'. In fact, I would be hard pressed to consider Lt. Hunter a friend at this point, as we have not yet gone out on our 'date.' Even if that 'date' is successful, to my understanding, the relationship would be somewhat different than conventional Terran friendships." She arched a brow, and thought for a moment. "Unless I am mistaken, and Terrans kiss one another frequently, outside of romantic liasons. I have not observed this, however." She made a motion with her hand, dismissing the side note. "However, I have no way of calculating the probability matrix for the outcome of the 'date' with Lt. Hunter, friendship or otherwise. There are simply too many variables."
“Tip one, don’t calculate, just let it happen.” Bran was amused at giving a Vulcan dating tips. “And if you like we can work on your social skills.”
The Vulcan weighed the offer. "Is that not outside the context of this sort of interview? It was my impression, at least, that the initial counseling session was to appraise an officer's fitness for duty. I am physically healthy, and not in conflict with any of my crew mates. I perform my few duties satisfactorily. I believe, within the context of the interview, I am sufficient."
She paused, and inclined her head. "Insofar as I understand both counseling, and friendship, they are based upon trust, no? It would not be logical to work on one's social skills with a virtual stranger. Thus, logically, unless some more significant relationship were to form with us, it would not be wise for me to spontaneously adopt social skill training from you." She arched her brow, making her point.
“Totally your choice.” Branwen said. “But it is one of the things that counselors offer. To help people develop skills that they might not have developed that well naturally. But if you do not feel comfortable with it, I totally understand and respect.”
T'risia nodded her acknowledgment. "Again, perhaps if some greater level of trust were to precipitate. At this point, you have already declared that I am 'different, even for a Vulcan.' To my experience, Terrans often use 'different' as a euphemism for that which they do not take a liking to, on some emotional level. It has been a consistent statistical trend across my experience." She folded her hands in front of her, her face showing no offense or emotional reaction whatsoever, just a statement of fact.
"To be fair, I have not yet formed an accurate hypothesis of your appraisal."
The counselor was surprised because this Vulcan certainly seemed different and acted as if her feelings were hurt by Bran calling her different. “That is you opinion T’risia. And I am glad you told me. Because I did not use different in a negative way. I am sorry if it came across that way. You are right we have not known each other long enough for me to form an opinion. It was a clinical observation that you act in another fashion then other Vulcans I have known. It was not meant as a judgment. Speaking as one who has been ‘different’ all her life.” Bran said honestly.
"I am most similar to other Vulcans behaviorally. It is solely my interest base that is a variable, as with all sentients. Please do not make an unfounded statement that I might be an emotional being. You are of course, entitled to your clinical appraisal, but it would be illogical to assume that I adhere to the teachings of Surak to a lesser degree than other Vulcans. Like all beings, there is some variation in the interpretation of such teachings, however. It would be the poorest of logic to ascribe feelings to me that I do not have."
“I have not used the word emotional, T’risia.” Bran said softly. “What I stated about you were simple observations about how I perceive your behaviour. I have not know that many Vulcans so I may be mistaken. I am very sorry if I have offended you.” Again the Vulcans she had known were not that easily offended either.
In deference to the statement, T'risia nodded her head in assent of the Terran woman's concession. Just as she did not understand Terran culture, try as she might, obviously there were issues with the understanding of Vulcan culture as well. It would be irrational to dwell upon it, so the alien woman said, succinctly, "So, what then, does one do at this juncture? As I have not participated in prior counseling, my expectations are rather unclear."
“That is up to you.” Bran said honestly. “There is no indication that you need therapy. Usually if I see people more often it is because a superior requested it or if someone has issues they want to explore themselves or career matters they want to talk about. Very rarely do we ask people to come in for follow ups ourselves. So you are free to walk out of here at the end of this conversation and not come back for another year. But if in the common days you think there is some truth in what I have said today I am more then willing to meet with you a few times. Officially or unofficially.”
The ever logical Vulcan woman considered this matter. Her recollection of social matters gave her several option. She analyzed that she was not in any danger of actually befriending Ms. London, since the conversation had taken the sorts of unusual turns she was used to. However, she had read the Terran Holy Book, "How to Win Friends and Influence People", by the Prophet Carnegie. It suggested that people liked to talk about themselves. This seemed, on some level, to be good advice, although T'risia did not wish to speak about herself. This could be one of the massive differences between Terrans and Vulcans.
Taking the advice of the Terran, Carnegie, in hand, she asked, "You said that you are considered different. How so? I perceive no major deviances from the Terran norm. Although, to be fair, I am unskilled at forming accurate opinions about living Terrans."
‘There is a lot of difference amongst humans,as I am sure there is amongst vulcans as well. I was brought up different from most humans and therefor it took me a long time to adjust to what most humans concider normal.” Branwen explained honestly.
T'risia nodded her head, despite simply not understanding. She did grasp that Earth was divided into many subcultures and creeds, but beyond that, could not really fathom what the experience might entail. "This caused you to have social problems, then?"
“Yes, it did. Because especially the first couple of years I sometimes just didn’t understand what the others meant.”
"I have this problem quite frequently. Regardless, I struggle to understand those about me."
“So when it happens what do you do to understand the others better?” Bran asked.
T'risia, for her part, shrugged slightly, a human gesture she had been trying to master. In her flowing Vulcan tunic, it looked somewhat unusual, even awkward. "Logic dictates the use of scientific method. Observe, hypothesize as to the workings of the issue, calculate probable outcomes, and experiment with similar situations, to provide results that might be meaningful."
“Yup, that is what works with Vulcans.” Bran agreed. “maybe it will with humans as well.” She was not sure and she really hoped it for the woman sitting opposite her. But she had her doubts that humans would react well to such scientific methods.
"It has not been successful thus far. I have noted that Terrans tend to worship athletic figures and other competitors. Perhaps, if I enjoy success in the upcoming Starfleet Games, the notoriety attached to such victory will smooth the social endeavors to some degree. Although, to be fair, I do not wish to be worshipped like the Terran Sports Titans of the past." She paused, her icy demeanor never changing. "A companion to play chess with would be more than enough."
Bran nodded. "Is that the way you want to go? Impressing possible friends so they look up to you. Correct me if I misunderstood you. I am just checking if I heard you correctly."
"I have no 'way that I want to go'. I am merely commenting on observed Terran behaviors, and how they might intersect with my experience. I have certainly no desire to make the outcome happen by one methodology or another."
"Then don't. Don't analyze all your actions. Try to do something on the spur of the moment and just see how others react. Try it for a day and if you don't like it go back to your own ways." Bran suggested.
"Spontaneity is not the Vulcan way. I did move forward in a creative fashion of some sort when I invited Lt. Hunter on our 'date'. However, I had supporting evidence to suggest that she would not be adverse to such interaction before I progressed, so the analogy is not completely sound."
The other woman blinked. "She.... you mean that Lt. Hunter..... oh." It left her speechless. 8-ball and a Vulcan."
With all of her typical cluelessness, and Vulcan implacability, T'risia examined the statement. "This seems unusual to you? From my brief experience, she is an outgoing and boisterous personality."
“I don’t know her very well.” Bran recovered quickly. “I think I was surprised that you are going out with a woman. I have not witnessed that in Vulcans before so it took me by surprised.”
Curious, T'risia tilted her head, and steepled her hands. "You have not noticed what, may I ask? Certainly, Vulcans form relationships with other beings. It is well documented, in the formative history of the Federation."
“Vulcans having same sex relationships.” The counselor said honestly. “I have seen mixed couples but never a same sex couple.”
"Vulcans have a tendency to be withdrawn about relationships," began T'risia, stoic as ever. "Surak taught that there is a beauty in combinations, of any kind, and of course, that it is logical to nurture that beauty in combination. Certainly, as the bulk of any relationship that a Vulcan has tends to be intellectual, and based on companionship, a 'same sex relationship' is not altogether unusual." She paused, considering, and then went a step further, deadpan as ever. "That is not to say that if Lt. Hunter desires sexual interaction that I will refuse the interaction. Relationships, as I understand, are based upon logical compromise."
“Uhm.” Branwen could hear the gears in her head working on overtime to keep up. “I thought this was a date date, or am I hearing you wrong.”
The alien woman was again quite puzzled. "I do not understand the nature of your inquiry?"
“I think that makes two of us.” The redhead mutteerd. “You are meeting 8-ball to be just friends, right?” She tried again.
T'risia shook her head. "I am meeting Lt. Hunter with the intention of experiencing a romantic encounter. That was the initial offer, when she stated she would kiss me if I saved her from cannibal aliens. My group was successful, thus, I went through the proper Terran methods to secure the aforementioned kissing. Thusly, we have a 'date' wherein we will certainly speak to one another. I find her features to by symmetrical and within the bounds of aesthetically pleasing, and she has shown evidence that she feels similarly toward me. Thusly, she may wish to expand our activities beyond an intellectual meeting of two different beings, as she is an emotional entity. Thusly, as I am endeavoring to construct a partnership of a presumably romantic nature, there is every possibility that a physical interaction may be necessary, to provide satisfaction to her in the relation." The Vulcan woman paused, and raised her eyebrows, an innocent gesture on her stoic face. "My research indicates that this experience, should it take place, will not be unpleasant for me, either."
“Right….” Was the only thing Branwen managed to get out. “Well…. I guess not. But do you have any feelings for the lieutenant, T’risia?”
The inevitable Terran question. "As you know, I am a Vulcan. I have no feelings to speak of."
Branwen just watched her. “Do you truly believe that?” Was the only thing she asked.
"It is the foundation of Vulcan culture. As I am sure you know."
“Yes I know. But over the years I have met Vulcans who did have some emotions and they were trying to supress those emotions. That leaves me puzzled. Does your race have emotions that are been hid, or do you have no emotions at all?”
T'risia stood, her face not changing its expression, and smoothed out her flowing tunic. "Vulcan history is somewhat well documented. We were a passionate, violent people before Surak. Surak taught the purging of emotion in favor of pure reason, and peace." It is clear that the very discussion borders on the culturally inappropriate, despite her reserved demeanor, and emotionless mask.
“I apologize if I have offended you.’ Branwen said. “And for upsetting you. That was not my intention.” It did give her an answer however.
T'risia nodded her head. "I am not upset. It is a matter of illogical stereotyping that I endure constantly among Terrans. You are emotional beings, and thus, you infer that all other beings are ruled by emotions. I have read enough basic psychology to call this behavior, 'transference', where the properties of one thing are put upon another. Vulcans may not have 'feelings' but neither do we consider it logical to be subjected to gross classifications of our people, or assumptions about our ways. It would not be logical to do so."
The slender alien woman raised her hand in the split fingered salute of her people. "I will go, if that is acceptable. I am certain that I have been firmly placed into whatever psychological category is appropriate by this time, so logically, my presence is no longer required. Peace and long life."
“Again if I have offended you I am truly sorry.” Bran said. “And believe me you are not pegged in a category. That would take a very long time to do. Not something I do an hour after meeting someone.” She watched the other woman. “I really hope your date goes well and you have fun!”
"Indeed," T'risia said, her arched brow and more withdrawn tone showing that she was scientifically skeptical of the assertion. Vulcans did not lie, but were aware that other beings tended to, especially in social or interpersonal situations. "Fun...it is a difficult concept." With little more to say, she moved out of the room with an unconscious grace based in efficiency of movement.
When Bran was absolutely sure T’risia was out of the room she could not help letting out her emotions by laughing. This was one of the strangest counseling talks she had ever had, even with a Vulcan. But she really hoped the other woman would enjoy the date and be happy.
"Creep"
Faylin McAlister
Lt Commander Jan Hoffman Spengler
Location: Planetside, Starfleet Games
========================
"Excuse me." The timid voice of the small framed female scooted herself past two portly security gentleman after confirming to them her seat assignment. Excitement ruled the morning, for the opening ceremonies of the Starfleet games was soon to commence.
She looked forward to the various parade of flags and athletes from designated areas and starships. The games themselves had been hyped for what appeared to be months on the universal news networks. Electronic papers screamed with delight the tails of certain athletes and the obstacles they had to overcome to be present at the games. Each story was injected with more and more tragedy which led to popularity of certain athletes. Every ship it appeared had it's one 'star' performer. Even the ship she was most interested in...the USS Galaxy.
Innocent as she appeared, this single woman had quite a story to tell. If, she permitted herself to tell it out loud. On a daily basis, it danced in her head revealing her true nature.
Crowds. Delicious crowds of moronic idiots provided her two things. Victims...and more victims. Light eyes scanned the masses with critical abandonment. Her ticket on board the Galaxy was here. Somewhere amidst the crowd, sat the person or persons that would have the right identity to gain access onto the ship that was once her home. The only obstacle in her way was the specific identity of the person.
The dome style stadium was filled to capacity. With it's glistening promise of medals for the victors, heat of competition laced the air with a certain heaviness that turned people tense. She had to find a way. This was one of those times where it was so close that she could taste Ophelia's blood on her lips. And then she saw them.
The 'athletes' of the USS Galaxy. A overly slight smirk etched itself across her mouth. There was something to be said about the crew that had 'pompous' written all over their smug little faces. And the flag leader, talk about politically correct? So much so that it made her want to puke. The men in particular, with their chests stuck out like a pruding male peacock in heat made Faylin just shake her head.
Her look intensified as she spotted a gentleman from the ship . A pot belly? What sport was he involved in?
------------
<Later that night.>
Squeezing the sponge softly, Jan Hoffman Spengler allowed the warm water to cascade off his grim face, and down onto his bare shoulders.
There was pain there……he allowed a gentle hiss as the liquid stung the still fresh wounds in his pale flesh. A series of angry red claw marks, criss-crossing his back and shoulders.
Dropping the sponge back into the bathwater, the Prussian born officer repeated the process….gentle splash of water…..welcome pain.
Across from him in the large tub, the naked female was still watching him with those enigmatic golden eyes.
~Baby.~ She thought to herself with irritation as she viewed him nursing his wounds. Bringing up her webbed hand, she reached of the side of the tub with her other hand and picked up the file she always had on herself for just such an occasion. No words slipped out of her mouth as she drew her attention downwards to the claws on her left hand. Dull. If she had just been taking better care of herself, the scratches would have been deep lacerations. Oh well, there was always next time with someone else. To McAlister, monogamy and emotion were filthy words.
The scritch scratch of the file cut through the silence as she regarded her situation. He was fun, but she had reserved herself upon his person which led her to boredom. Sighing, Faylin starting filing the claws on her right hand to a sharp, dangerous point. Glancing up, her eyes caught his gaze still staring at her. "What? Do you want me to tell you that you were impressive or some bull shit like that?"
Hoffman merely continued his ablations, the rhythmic slow splash of water and blood.
A chameloid he finally decided. Ja…that was most likely the species. How interesting.
"Nien….should I?"
"Not unless you want a major blow to your small ego." Fay smarted back.
He almost smiled at that one.
There was a harmony in their mutual distaste. She loathing him for his humanity and weakness……he barely taking note of her existence.
It made for great sex, but then again what was that but a means to pass the time? After the bath, perhaps they'd fuck again…perhaps she would leave…it did not matter really. For the moment there was warm water, and naked flesh, and shared arrogance.
Then the question was posed. "Have you ever heard of the USS Galaxy?"
"Ja…..a battleship assigned to 5th Fleet." he dropped the sponge back into the water and placed both his arms on the side of the tub, enjoying the coolness of the marble. "Why?"
Under the water he let his foot trail up her smooth leg, wondering idly how far up she's let him go.
"Just wondered." She was surprised that he was getting any traction with his foot as he attempted to trail it up her leg. For, there was nothing slicker than a scaly chameloid in water. "I need to get on board."
"I see." was all he allowed.
"I'm willing to do anything. Did you have something in mind?" And with a flick of her tail, she smacked his foot from traveling any farther up to the place she knew it wanted to go.
A small sigh. "I do not see what else there is for you to give." Over the course of the evening Spengler had already availed himself of everything Fay had to offer.
"Of course you wouldn't." She muttered, realizing that he was a simple terran and did not appreciate her unknown abilities.
Reaching slightly to retrieve a slowly smoldering cigarette from the edge of the tub, Hoffman considered the alien woman from behind the thin blue haze of smoke.
"Frauleine." he stated slowly, "Perhaps you misjudge my general contempt for my fellow man with a willingness to betray him." he rolled the thin paper lazily between his fingers, enjoying the crinkle of the leaves within.
"Your willingness to sell your charms for such access is misspent here I am afraid."
"Obviously, I should leave the job of insertion to the 'professionals'. You are an utter amateur for my needs."
McAlister tossed the file on the floor as she chose to take her leave.
He watched her slim form rise from the water and glide naked across the floor. Sensual and alluring yes……but for the moment he relished the ability to straighten out in the tub fully.
Yes…there were simpler pleasures than Faylin McAlister could offer him. Leg room for instance.
Ignoring him totally, she changed forms and dressed.
"Auf Wiedersehen, Fraulein." he allowed her, the farewell more than he'd given any of the other women to grace his room this trip. "Success I think will find you yet….." ~~Or death.~~ he mused stabbing out the cigarette.
"There is no other option, creep." She hissed before leaving.
He didn't even look to see if she closed the door, instead watching the curling smoke for long moments.
Reaching back behind him, he picked up his public Com and tapped in a few codes, "Ja…..hallo? I would like to make an anonymous tip regarding the Starship Galaxy…."
"Project Time"
Lt. Cmdr. Tarin Iniara
Flight Officer Aristi Ferguson (APC)
*****
Recovery had been blissfully quick for Aristi Ferguson. It had taken her several hours after her rescue to wake up, and when she did she was rather happy to discover that she was in Sickbay back on the Galaxy and wasn't still stuck on that damn planet with the cannibals. After that, it had taken a few days for the major injuries to heal: compound fracture of the right tibia and fibula, several broken bones in her right foot, two broken fingers, and a hairline fracture to one of her ribs. Not too bad considering a cave had collapsed on her, but it was still a little frustrating having to spend so much time on a biobed while the bone knitters worked.
She'd been up and about for the past few days, although she would still be walking with a limp for a while, at least until her bones finished the last bit of the healing process on their own. Understandably she'd been taken off the Sabers' active duty roster until she was back up to snuff. It wasn't any fun having nothing to do with the day, but Aristi couldn't say she blamed Songbird. Even without the limp and the stiff trigger finger and the slight tickle in her rib cage, she still only had one eye, and there was no way she could fly in that condition.
Now that her mechanical eye was gone, and its glowing pink replacement was gone as well, Aristi had taken to filling the empty socket with a simple 'glass' eye. It had been machined out of implant-grade materials (the names of which she couldn't immediately recall) and was designed to match the appearance of her real eye as closely as possible. At some point she'd been told that, amazingly enough, her old mechanical eye had been recovered from the planet's surface. The bad news was that it had been damaged beyond repair, so it was no good anymore. The good news was that with the advances in medical technology over the past several years, Dr. Burton had high hopes for getting her a cloned replacement. But...that process could take a few weeks, so until she could get the permanent replacement, the glass eye would have to do.
Being as bored as she was on medical leave, Aristi was quite pleased to receive a message from the ship's XO requesting that they sit down and discuss the events of the recent mission. No doubt this would classify as some sort of debrief, but Aristi was just glad for the excuse to get out and do something. Plus, it would give her a chance to catch up with her friend and former roommate, who, to be honest, she didn't get to see near enough of these days.
"Morning, Iniara," she began, pausing in the doorway that led into the XO's office. Like the captain's Ready Room (a place which Aristi had only seen in pictures), the XO's office was a fairly small, efficient affair. The room was roughly rectangular and situated in the interior of the ship, so it had no windows. A single desk dominated the room, in front of which sat two guest chairs. Immediately to the right of the door sat a small sofa and end table, and on the left wall was a replicator alcove. Behind the desk hung a Starfleet standard-issue image of some planetary system, while above the sofa hung an artist's interpretation of the USS Galaxy done in the mid-24th century Neo-impressionism style.
For a moment Aristi wondered why Iniara had neglected to redecorate her office; after all, this had been *her* office for a couple years now. Probably too much paperwork, she mused to herself. That was the one thing Aristi liked about being low on the food chain: very little paperwork.
"Aristi," Iniara replied, looking up from her LCARS, a slight smile on her face. "Please, have a seat."
Aristi did as she was told, sliding into one of the guest chairs. She looked up, studying the image of the massive red planet with the smaller purplish planets in the background behind Iniara's head, waiting for the other woman to actually begin. But when Iniara said nothing, letting the silence stretch on longer than she could stand it, Aristi couldn't help but blurt out, "Nice planet."
Iniara snorted, her smile widening just a bit. "How are you feeling?"
"Better than I did when I woke up. The leg's almost healed; I just need to keep using it so it doesn't get stiff and creaky. Dr. Burton says I should be ready for a cloned replacement eye in two or three weeks, which is exciting. Finally, I'll have one hundred percent natural vision in the cockpit."
Aristi paused, the proverbial light bulb going off in her head. "Say...you wouldn't happen to know what that pink crystal was, would you? The one I was using as an eye. I've never seen pink quartz glow like that."
"Let's see..." Iniara's voice trailed off as she turned back to her LCARS terminal. "Sciences identified it as isobirithium."
Aristi frowned. "Iso-whatsa?"
"Isobirithium," Iniara repeated for effect. "Apparently it's a type of warp drive crystal. It was experimented with in the mid-to-late 22nd century as an alternative to lithium and dilithium crystals, but never caught on for some reason, and fell into disuse by the dawn of the 23rd century."
"Ok-kay. I don't suppose that file you're reading from says anything about the pink glowie effect?"
Now it was Iniara's turn to frown. "According to this file, isobirithium is clear to milky white...not pink. And it certainly doesn't glow. They're running some tests on it to determine just why its properties have changed so drastically; I'll make a note to forward you any interesting information they find."
"Sounds good," Aristi said with a nod. She'd briefly considered asking to keep the tiny sphere; it had helped keep her alive in the cave, after all, but if it was some sort of warp drive crystal that the Science division was going to be running tests on, she doubted they'd ever let it out of their sights.
"So...what else has been going on?" Aristi asked after another long pause.
Iniara shrugged automatically. She wasn't immediately sure whether Aristi was asking about the ship, or about her specifically. "Not much, truthfully. We were set to continue our survey mission when we got the invitation to the Starfleet Games. Speaking of which, are you participating?"
Aristi shook her head. "Missing eye, bum leg...I'm not much good at anything besides piloting, and I can't do that in this condition. I figured I'd take the opportunity to relax a bit."
"Good, good," Iniara commented with a nod. "While you're relaxing though...there's a project I'd like you to undertake."
Aristi blinked. "Uh oh. That doesn't sound good."
"Trust me, it's nothing huge."
Aristi snorted.
"What?" Iniara gave her a look. "Starfleet Command is asking for a more detailed report on the Kahru. Of the members of our crew who were dimensionally displaced and spent any time among the Kahru, you're the one who is the most qualified to pull everything together and write a real report on the civilization."
"Because that's what pilots do."
Iniara tried not to roll her eyes. "Because that's what anthropologists do, Doctor Ferguson," she said, emphasizing the word 'doctor'.
"I hate it when people call me that."
Iniara smiled. "I know."
"It's a good thing I was planning to do that anyway. I just thought the article...err, report would be something to get me back in the forefront of the anthropology community, not something Starfleet Command would take an interest in."
"Maybe it can be both." Iniara paused. "I don't want to tell you how to do your work, but there's an important resource aboard the ship I don't want you to overlook."
Aristi tilted her head to one side, curious. "What?"
"Who, actually. The native who was with you in the cave. I'd like you to interview him--"
"What?" Aristi repeated, her eyes narrowing. Impet was gone from Sickbay by the time she'd been discharged; Aristi assumed he'd been beamed back down to the planet before they left the system. "He's still here? On this ship?"
Iniara nodded slowly, slightly taken back by her friend's sudden change in demeanor. "He requested asylum. Not in those exact words, but he didn't want to return to his people. Is there a problem with that?"
"He tried to kill me, Iniara. He was choking me when the cave fell in on us. That's why it looked like he was protecting me; he was on top of me, trying to kill me."
"Oh. Well, that certainly changes things." Iniara paused again. "Do you believe he still wants to harm you?"
Aristi shrugged, consciously trying to relax herself. After all, they were back on the Galaxy, not still on the planet. Up here, she was much better protected, and could have him tossed in the bring, or press charges with a word. She wasn't sure how charging a Vulcan cannibal from a pre-industrial civilization would work exactly, but the Kahru were on a Federation world, and it was looking like they were the descendants of a marooned Starfleet crew, so maybe it was possible...
"I don't know. Maybe, maybe not. He was pretty friendly until I tried to leave the cave without killing the mythic 'dragon'. Maybe now that it's all over and he's away from the Kahru he's changed, but I still don't want to chance it."
"Alright. He's already under protective custody for his protection, but I can have Lieutenant Krieghoff assign a security detail to you as well if you feel it's necessary."
Aristi tapped her chin in thought. "Um...no, I think I'll be fine. As long as he's being watched."
"He is."
"Good. Anything else you need to share?"
Iniara shook her head. "That about does it."
"Alright," Aristi concluded, now getting to her feet. "I'll have something for you in a day or two."
"Sounds great. Thanks, Reece."
"Don't mention it."
"Upping the Ante"
Cmdr. Brian Elessidil, Chief Counselor
J. Andrus Suder, Librarian
****
USS Galaxy
Brian's quarters
****
It was supposed to go down like this. Andrus was going to charge
purposefully into the room, manfully declare that they were moving in
together over Brian's outraged protests, have some of that amazing
sex, and then (much later) start filling out the requisition request.
What happened instead was this: Andrus charged purposefully into the room,
tripped on something, and went flying forward, and crashed into the
living room table.
"Graceful," Brian noted, looking up from his seat at the comm
terminal. He took in the sight for a moment or two before getting up
to lend assistance. Andy was tough enough to take a tumble and not be
seriously hurt. "What do you do for an encore?"
"What the hell is all this crap doing on the floor?"
"'That crap' would be a meditation mat and candles, which fortunately
weren't lighted yet. And also fortunately I wasn't in the middle of
meditating yet either," Brian answered, letting go of Andy's arm once
he was stable. "And *that* was a table," he added flatly, indicating
the two broken halves left behind from Andy's spill.
Andrus grunted and sat down on the couch. This was not going how he
had planned at all. "So, I think we should .." The memory of Samantha
shrieking at him stopped him from finishing with 'we should talk' but
left him annoyed. Why couldn't this be easier? He sighed. Nothing to
do really but to charge ahead in the plan. "We're going to move in
together this week."
Eyebrows raised, Brian regarded Andy with surprise, then perplexed suspicion.
"You're destroying my furniture to make me move in with you?"
"I didn't mean to ... " Andrus started and then crossed his arms.
"When we move in together, there should be a meditation spot that
ISN'T right in front of the door."
"You're really serious, aren't you?" Brian asked, still not quite sure
what Andy had said had really sunk in. "You're really ready to move
out of your comfortable independence?" In a way, it wasn't
surprising. What had started as an inexplicable fascination many
months ago had indeed grown into something neither of them could have
predicted. Madden's mischief resulted in a relationship that Brian
was sure she never expected. Served her right.
And more than anything, Andy had surprised him. After all, it had
been Andy who set the bar low by clearly stating his resistance to
long-term relationships. Andy's whole life had been one of
convenience to him, Brian slowly learned; there was no room for
entanglements. Yet here they were now, after many long nights
together, after long talks, long walks, and long fights. Here they
were, Brian having stood by Andy while others dismissed him as a
charlatan, even a menace; and Andy having stood by Brian as he dealt
with the possible repercussions of a life-changing illness.
Possibly for the first time in either of their lives, neither was
truly alone. And in the end, it had only cost Brian a broken table.
Allowing a few moments of silence to pass, Brian walked over to the
couch and extended his hand to Andy.
Andy looked at him suspiciously but then took Brian's hand.
"You want to move in together, huh?" Brian said thoughtfully, matching Andy's
dark Betazoid eyes with his own. "Is that it?" he asked. He paused
again, swallowing as he prepared to see Andy's ante...and to raise it.
"What if I said 'I don't do' simple cohabitation?"
Andy blinked. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning if you want my life -- your life too -- to change that
significantly, it had better be for a good reason. You were once
afraid I wanted to break things off. I was afraid I couldn't commit.
We were both wrong about me in that regard. I'm ready, Andy. I'm
ready to make this," he squeezed Andy's hand a little harder, "all the
more real...and permanent." Brian couldn't help but wonder how bold
Andy felt now. "How about you?"
"I've been ready for awhile now, Brian," Andrus said. "I just wasn't
sure you felt the same."
"Honestly, I wasn't sure I did either. But I'm sure now." Brian
smiled while continuing to look into Andy's eyes. "But then again,
I'm not known for charging through doors and breaking furniture either."
He took a deep breath, letting the reality sink in anew. "Andy...you
know this situation with the Zanthi Fever isn't over yet. It's been quiet
again thanks to the new treatment Kimberly put me onwhen we got
back, but she still doesn't know how long that will last. If something
permanent isn't found...."
"We'll deal with it." Andy inserted. Then he paused. "You really
don't mind my past?"
Brian smirked. "It's part of what made you so intriguing to me in the
first place." With great tenderness, he wrapped his arms around his
new betrothed. "But it's your future I'm interested in now."
"Hunting for Purpose, Part II"
Holodeck X, Haida Gwaii Simulation
==========================
Typically, Th’Khiss K’aa loathed holodecks.
His audits as Ops Chief on both the Galaxy and the Miranda suggested
that the facilities, which featured some of the most advanced
technology in the Alpha Quadrant, was typically used as the Milky
Way’s most expensive tanning beds or seemingly critical parts of
mammalian mating rituals.
~What a waste~, he mulled as he leaped down from a moss-covered cedar
that had fallen across the shaded game-trail. K’aa marveled at the
programming skill that had re-created the terrain and climate he had
come to know well on Earth. The only thing new to him was the smells
– the sharp, pungent odor of decaying western cedar and the salty tang
of the sea-air drifting in from Hecate Strait. Each brought a new
element to the familiar, making his trek through the dense woods the
most intense and vivid he had experienced in recent memory. Gone was
the self-loathing and depression of his mammalian transformation.
Now, there was only the hunter and his prey.
The grizzly was proving to be as crafty as it was large, making
several cutbacks on the trail and detouring on barren outcroppings of
grey-black slate. Each sign and track infused more confidence in the
former Gorn as he came to believe that his skills as a hunter were
undiminished with the exception of no longer being able to taste the
scents of his quarry.
When he had hiked past a slate plateau, he saw a section of brush
highlighted with specks of bright crimson, and instinctively he knew
where the large boar had gone. Jogging to the bushes, he grinned when
he saw large, ripe salmon-berries hanging delicately from fragile
stalks. The signs of the boar were obvious as the massive mammal had
traced to greedily consume as much of the carbohydrate-rich fruit as
he thought was safe, crushing many of the bushes in the process.
Still, K’aa wasn’t exactly looking for sign of the bear’s presence as
much as its timing, and he grinned when he found it. Hanging from a
broken branch, a thick, viscous drop of ursine saliva hung like a
silvery teardrop. Rubbing the drool between his thumb and forefinger,
the Ops Chief was elated to find it still fluid and warm. His smile
stopped when he heard a loud growl ahead of him muffled by the
forest’s thick and dense cedar bark.
As his adrenaline surged it flooded K’aa’s mouth with a bitter,
coppery taste which he swallowed with difficulty rather than give his
prey any sign of his approach. As carefully as he could, he went
along the narrow game-trail to a small clearing amongst a knot of
twisted spruce trees.
Any hunter of worth knows the prey he hunts, and knows it well. K’aa
knew that if the North American grizzly bear had any weakness at all,
it was its slavish devotion to its own hunger, especially just prior
to hibernating. This boar was no exception, having found both the
Chinook and the berries insufficient, it now waded into the moose
carcass it had stumbled upon – all memories of he hunter gone as he
gorged on the decaying flesh.
K’aa knelt on the needle and moss carpet of the forest floor and
watched the boar eat, marveling at the creature’s ferocious appetite
and strength. The Bull Moose, a Terran bovine-like creature that
easily eclipsed 1,500 pounds, had as much mass as the grizzly but the
giant bear played with it as though it was virtually weightless.
Antlers splintered and leg-bones shattered the boar sought the
softest, most tender meat, reveling in its power. Witnessing the
sheer strength of the creature made K’aa feel alive and invigorated,
as though he somehow lived through the vitality of his prey. His
hands trembled as he again as he raised the rifle and brought the bear
into his sights.
As it had on the creek-bed, the bear sensed K’aa’s movements and rose
on its hind-quarters, glaring down at the human before him from a
towering nine-feet. This time however, he charged,
K’aa’s first shot went wide to the left, leaving a cloud of blood in
the air as the bullet tore a chunk from the grizzly’s right shoulder.
It didn’t slow the boar down in the least as rippled swiftly across
the small clearing. As K’aa lowered the rifle’s lever-action to load
another shell in the firing chamber, he considered just letting the
creature defend itself. There were, after all, worst things in the
universe than death, and being forced to endure his humanity certainly
ranked high among them. Still, as vivid and as real as this all
seemed it was still an artificial reality, and K’aa’s ego couldn’t
bear to be listed as a “holodeck fatality” instead of being a hunter
slain by his prey.
The bear was a scant fifteen feet away when K’aa’s second shot caught
it in its left eye, the force 300 shell snapping the creature’s head
to the side as its hulking form collapsed amongst spruce and cedar
needles. When it had surrendered it’s inertia along with its “life”,
the foaming snout of the massive mammal was barely a foot away from
K’aa’s crouching form. The hunter’s chest heaved as he brought in air
to fuel his racing nerves, and the heart that threatened to burst from
his chest.
It would have been a fine death… a hunter’s death.
If only it had been real.
"One Last Thing...."
Lt. Victor Krieghoff
Lt (JG) Man'darr Maivia
******
USS Galaxy
Deck 39
Victor Krieghoff's Office
Victor reviewed the file in front of him one last time. The record was excellent, even counting the notations regarding occasional outbursts. Certainly far better than his own record was in that regard. And, unlike Victor's record, there were cultural and medical mitigating circumstances for most of the issues flagged. Satisfied, he commed out to the Main Desk. =/\= T'risia, send Mr. Maivia in please. =/\=
=/\= At once, sir, =/\= the Vulcan responded crisply.
As Victor waited, he wondered how this was going to turn out - and if he'd made a mistake in agreeing to the transfer... Much the same, he thought, as other officers had wondered while awaiting *his* arrival.
Man'darr strode in, expecting to sense the dark aura, but did not--he wondered briefly as to why that was. "Lieutenant Man'darr Maivia, reporting for duty," he stated formally as he came to a stop in front of the man's desk.
"At ease," Victor nodded, "and welcome aboard." He waved a hand to the cylindrical chair behind Man'darr. "I'm not feeling very formal today, so let's dispense with all the 'sirs' and whatnot, shall we? Have a seat and relax. Would you like something to drink? I've got real coffee, not the replicated kind, if you like?" He indicated a small coffee-maker installed next to the replicator panel to the side of his desk.
"No, thank you," he replied. "I am not much of a fan for Terran coffee."
"It's an acquired taste," Victor agreed. "Something else, then?" He poured a portion of the black liquid into a sturdy mug of a design Man'darr knew well: they were sold only to senior Marine NCOs by their interservice fraternity. This one bore, in addition to the normal Starfleet Marine logo, words stenciled on it: 'For Gunny Highway's Use Only' and 'This means you, Maggot!'
"No, thank you. I am fine."
"All right then," Victor said, sitting on one corner of his desk and sipping at the coffee. "You know most of the big things going on aboard ship, so I don't need to fill you in on them, so we'll deal with the inter-departmental stuff. There's only one big issue in the department right now that you need to be aware of: me."
"You?" Man'darr questioned, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. He knew of Victor's evil aura, but he didn't feel the need to be wary of him.
"Simply put," Victor explained, "I'm not the one that most of the department wanted to see in the Chief's position. They all liked James Corgan, and they'd rather he was back - which may or may not happen - or, failing that, someone else - just about *anyone* else if it comes down to it - besides me. Instead, the CO tapped me... which leaves me with a department that by and large doesn't like me, is scared of me, and hasn't made the adjustment to my being in charge yet." He smiled wryly. "With me so far?"
"Yes." It was true that many aboard the Galaxy were judgmental if not down right discriminatory when it came to dealing with something they didn't understand.
"Good. Now what that means in actuality is that the department still hasn't gotten itself straightened out yet. That's compounded by the fact that something like 90% of the people in the department find being within 3 meters of me to be 'uncomfortable' at the least, and 'functionally impossible' at the worst. The Vulcan members are fine, and so are one or two of the others who've either gotten used to the effect I have on them, or have decided to just work past it. No one's disobeying orders, but the complaining, foot-dragging, and griping is still at a high enough level that it's likely going to seem insubordinate to someone with your Marine background. If that happens - and I expect it will - I'm going to ask you to please moderate your response. These folks aren't Marines, and they aren't coming from a Marine background like you are, and treating them as if they are and do may, in fact, make things worse."
"They must remember that they are Starfleet...but I will do my best." He could understand their concerns but to Man'darr, duty shifts were not the time to complain--that what free time was for.
"Can't ask for more than that," Victor nodded. "James Corgan ran a fairly relaxed department, and despite the fears of some of the folks in the department I'm not planning on changing that unless there is some overriding reason that I need to. I want everyone to know the rules and follow the important ones, but I'm willing to overlook some of the small things in the name of morale. There isn't a posted list of what we're willing to overlook, it's mostly understood. What may help you is to watch Shelley O'Rourke and Walter Marsh dealing with the rest of the department for a few days to get a feel for how things are done, and then step off and find your own way. If you have a question, my door's literally open just about all the time, and figuratively open the rest of the time."
"I don't have any questions at this time."
"There are a few important people in the department to know, so you know who to go to in order to get things done officially. Shelley O'Rourke is handling orientation and crew-related issues; she's good with people - better than me - and has a good rapport with the department. Walter Marsh is handling training; if you check with him he might be glad to let you share the load with him on that. T'risia, the ensign that sent you in, just came aboard a short time back, and has fallen into the job as my administrative assistant. She's splitting up the raft of administrative paperwork that I've delegated out with Shelley." Victor took a sip of his coffee, looked down at the mug, and smiled. "Now if you need something done unofficially, I can't tell you who to go and see, because I'm officially not supposed to know about things like that... but I doubt I need to tell a Marine how that works. If you ask around, someone will point you in the right direction."
Man'darr nodded. So he would assist in training? It sounded reasonable. The meeting had gone better than he had expected. "Is there anything else I should know?"
"Probably fifty things," Victor replied good-naturedly, "but I'm not going to make you sit here and listen to me reel off a list like that, so I'll keep it down to just three. The annoying one is first: bluntly you're not a popular person aboard ship. Personally, I could care less; right, wrong, good, bad, guilty, innocent... it doesn't matter. That was then and this is now - and now is all I'm worried about. I realize, though, that the rest of the department may not feel that way, so, I'm going to ask you to just ignore them. If you can't ignore them, come to me and let me take the heat for making them stop. Better for everyone that way, because no matter what you do I'll *always* be more unpopular than you aboard ship; I might as well be unpopular for a reason. Are we clear?"
Man'darr nodded again. He wished he could forget the past, but on this ship he knew very well that pasts followed people around. "Yes. What are the others?"
"The second thing is training: since you're coming to us most recently through the Marines, you've got some of the skills security needs down cold - personal combat, marksmanship, sentry duty, things like that you're already good on. What you don't have is the rest of it: civil law, patrolling skills, dispute management, some technical skills, and a boatload of other things that you didn't need to know as a Marine, and that we all got drilled into us since the Academy. Ordinarily, I'd send you to a Starbase, or back to the Academy for a re-training course, but we're in the middle of a war and both transport and time are limited, so we're going to handle the re-training in-house. That means you're going to be spending a good deal of time to start with on classwork, homework, tests, practical exercises, and so on to catch up on the things you need to know. Walter has a training schedule worked out that has you doing hands-on patrolling and things like that part of the day and classwork the rest. It's self-paced, so find your own speed and work at it; I'm more concerned that you learn the material than I am that you finish the classwork in record time. If you have questions, I suggest that you check with Walter on the physical things like patrolling, suspect apprehension and restraint, examination of crime scenes and the like; with Shelley on interpersonal relations skills like interrogations and dispute resolution and law; and with T'risia on anything to do with paperwork, regulations, traditions and the like. Questions there?"
Man'darr shook his head. "No. I was in Starfleet Security after I first graduated the Academy, so the courses should be easy to refresh in my memory."
"Good," Victor agreed. "The last thing is probably going to be harder than the other two, but it's just as important: I need you to relax."
"Relax?" Man'darr repeated, arching an eyebrow.
"Just that, relax," Victor repeated. "You're a very intense person, Man'darr, very focused and driven - that's written in your file, but it's also written all over you for anyone that knows what to look for. Your body language, the way you choose your words, it's everywhere. I don't know if it's cultural or personal or a little of both but... try and relax some when you're on duty. Everyone's going to expect you to be all serious and gung-ho and hard charging all the time and they're going to feel intimidated by that vision, whether it's actually true or not. So relax a little. Tell a joke. Don't be what they expect you to be, and they'll probably stop tensing up every time you walk into the room." He set his empty mug down on the desk. "Think you can do that?"
'Tell a joke?' Man'darr mentally asked himself. He was as good at telling jokes as he was at baking terran brownies. "I will try," Man'darr replied after a moment.
"I'm not asking for more than that," Victor assured him. "In which case, I'll stop taking up your time and let you and Walter start talking about your training schedule.
There were a few seconds of standing and required saluting, and then, as Man'darr was literally stepping through the door, Victor asked one last question. "One last thing, Man'darr... Have you ever played... baseball?"
"An Old Friend"
Ens. Alexandra Lee (APC)
Lee stood, dressed in her black and gold engineering warm up outfit with her arms crossed and leaning on a rail that overlooked the Sandarsky River. The sun was setting, casting the sky above on fire with its dying rays. A slight breeze blew off of the river. Her mind was in knots over what had happened--she was still qualified for the 400 meter relay and the 100 meter butterfly semi-finals. She knew she had to get her mind cleared before the next event but she found that nearly impossible at the moment. She was, for the most part alone as many spectators and competitors had either gone to eat or was enjoying the night life. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the approaching footsteps.
A man in casual civilian attire with his hands thrust into his pockets, black hair and green eyes leaned on the rail next to her. "Beautiful sunset, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I suppose it is," Alex said without looking at the man.
"I thought you knew better than to go skinny dipping in public."
The comment angered her and she snapped her head in the direction of the man next to her. "Who do you...." her mouth almost literally dropped open at the sight of the man before her. "Ryan?!"
Ryan had been her best friend back on Alpha Centauri. "How are you?! What brings you here?" she instantly hugged the man and for the moment forgetting about her fears and troubles.
"Well, to be honest, your mother told me you were competing in the Starfleet Games and I thought I would come and see you compete since I had some vacation time from the company saved up."
"Its great to see you, Ryan."
"You too, Alex. So how is Starfleet life treating you?"
Alex shrugged. "Its going alright. Seen alot of action since the start of the war with the Triad."
Ryan nodded. "Yeah, I've been worried about you. I'm glad to see you're ok."
"I'm fine. I'm with a good ship and crew." Though to her, a few members of that crew were just plain odd. Especially the Security Chief--that guy gave her the chills.
"Thats good to hear. Mind if I take you out for a bite to eat?"
Alex smiled. "Sure, we have alot to catch up on," she replied, wanting to forget the day's events.
****
Sitting at a booth in an exclusive Italian Restaurant, Alex stuck out still being dressed in her warm-up outfit compared to the individuals seated around her. Sitting across from her was Ryan. "You just had to bring me here," she replied with a grin. "Look at me, I should have changed."
"You look just fine. Beautiful as always," Ryan commented as he clasped his hands together on the oak wood table.
Alex laughed. "Thanks. So, how is your work coming along?"
"Its going good. When my vacation is over, I'll be heading to Risa to supervise the new upgrades to their Climate Control System in the Northern Hemisphere."
"Sound great, Ryan," Alex answered as the waitress set down the two plates of pasta and a basket of bread sticks.
"Yep, and if all goes well, it will lead to bigger projects and before long I'll be able to start my own company. Alex, you've always been a bright engineer, why don't you join me?"
"I'd love to Ryan, but I can't. Starfleet and my crewmates need me. Now, more than ever until this war is over. Besides, thats exactly what my mother would want. Me to quit Starfleet and get a big Engineering job working alongside you."
"Is that so bad an idea, Alex?" Ryan asked, leaning forward slightly before letting out a sigh. "Alex...I care deeply for you."
"I care about you too, Ryan," Alex replied, slightly confused. "You know that."
Ryan sighed again and shook his head. Alex had always been so aloof about his and other's interests in her. Who would blame them for having such interests. "No, I mean I care for you, in a romantic way..they way lovers care about one another."
Alex choked on her wine, letting out several coughs before recomposing herself. "You are? Ryan...we're best friends. I mean yes, you're an attractive man but to be honest we live two completely separate lives. I have a dangerous life, especially now in war, stationed aboard a ship of the line."
"Thats why I'm offering you a job with me. That way we could work side by side in safety and we would be together."
"I--I'm sorry Ryan, I just can't. Your friendship means too much to me and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize that relationship that we have."
"I see..." Ryan was disappointed. He had always hoped the two would end up together.
She placed her hand gently on top of his. "Ryan...I will always love you as a friend. Perhaps...someday down the road my feelings about you will change, but not right now. Alright?"
Ryan nodded. "Yeah."
Alex smiled. "Thats good to hear."
Ryan wanted to change the subject immediately. "I think I can help the Starfleet Games Committee with their investigation of your incident earlier."
"Thanks for the help, Ryan."
"Anytime."
As Alex was about to speak, she noticed the same woman from earlier in the day enter the restaurant and was making her way to their table.
"Ms Lee," April O'Reily began. "I'm sorry to bother you but apparently you...or rather your suit was sabotaged. It seems that someone may have infected your outfit with nanites. Our Specialists scanned the pool area and found thousands of deactivated nanites within the pool and the filtration system. But where the Nanites came from, we do not know as of yet. However, we are not suspending any of the events due to this...prank."
"Thank you for the information, ma'am."
O'Reily nodded. "You're welcome. Again, sorry to interrupt. Enjoy your dinner, Ms. Lee."
"Who would want to do a thing like sabotage your swimming suit and cause you so much embarassment?" Ryan asked.
"I don't kn...." She then had a good hunch. Amy had always been an excellent prankster back at the Academy, having done a similar prank on a fellow teammate. "That bitch!" The words were uttered louder than she had wanted, causing a few faces to turn in her direction.
"Excuse me?" Ryan asked curiously.
"I bet you it was my former Academy Roommate, Amy Jenson. I'll speak with you later, Ryan," she said standing.
"Oh, um, ok."
Alex walked briskly out the door and headed towards the temporary athlete quarters.
TBC...
"Take Me Out to the Ballgame?"
by Ensign T'risia
It had been a short while since Mr. Krieghoff had assigned her the job of organizing a baseball team for the USS Galaxy, as well as the assumption of administrative tasks on his behalf. She found the administrative tasks rewarding, as they rendered her function for long hours in her cubicle useful to ship processes, at last. Finally, at the end of a day, she could look at a large stack of data PADDs in her "outbox", a human affectation with the sign "Out", and a Troll Doll on it, and consider her time well spent. As she put yet another PADD in the box, a lengthy requisition form that had taken some time to interpret, she considered her other task.
The Baseball Team.
At one point, it had seemed like a clever idea. Logical to some extent. T'risia was well aware that her affection for the ancient Terran art was eccentric, even bordering upon the illogical. However, it had seemed that the painstaking effort into learning its arcane Terran traditions seemed to have a so called "payoff" in this matter, where she could use it to bring together a team of some sort, as a moraale building exercise for the department.
That point was approximately 2.37 days in the past.
She tilted her head as she considered the ever expanding roster. Rapidly, more than just the department had become included, which deepened the pool of players. However, that also deepened the number of schedules to operate around for practice, and radically expanded the number of emotionally driven personalities on the team. The last time that she had checked, some 4.5 minutes ago, she was the only Vulcan on the team. Thusly, the number of emotional responses was infinitely expanded, and despite her incredible, computer like mind, she found herself woefully unable to predict them.
One player demanded that they play the Base Known as Third. Another required, by all means, that they Perform the Batting in the position known as The Cleaner, assuring her, sight unseen, that they were the best player on the team, and the best batter in the Alpha Quadrant. Many did not know the Holy Rules. Uniforms were still an abstract, but her suggestion of a mascot, the Vulcan Sehlat, had fell to a voting down by the group.
Most of the equipment, at least, had been easily replicated, with the exception of some items, like the Baseball Gauntlet, which often needed to be tailor made to a given player. Many of them assumed that the Gauntlets would be fine right out of the Replicator slot, refusing to indulge in the all important Ritual of the Breaking In, which rendered the items usable in the Field. She continued to admonish the group with the wisdom of the Ancients, but little progress was forthcoming.
Perhaps she would need to consult the wisdom of the Ancients themselves. Silently, she had the logical thought that it would be best if the ancient humans had Katras, she could simply consult with those in the Holy place of Cooperstown. Unfortunately, this was not the case, however, she would need to find some alternative....
"Hunting for Purpose, Part III"
Holodeck X, Haida Gwaii Simulation
==========================
Sparks from the small cedar fire crackled, sending glowing embers
dancing into the cold northern sky as K’aa looked into the heart of
the crackling flames, and cut a piece of raw bear liver with his
hunting knife. Being the first truly solid food since becoming human
he was surprised at the effort, and the muscles at the sides of his
jaw had quickly begun to ache. Still, replicated or not, it was food
hunted by stealth and skill, not the seeds of grasses or fruits of
legumes to be consumed by other leaf-eaters.
As pleasurable as the liver was though, the consumption was automatic
as the Ops Chief’s concentration was lost in the glowing heat of the
fire. In it, he saw Hydran carrier-hulls venting plasma after
multiple quantum torpedo strikes, a lifeless Breen dreadnought caught
in a death-spiral in the gravity well of a massive red-giant. He tore
a piece of the bloody liver from his knife as he pictured a T’Kith’Kin
strike cruiser broken in half from sustained phaser fire, bright green
organic-plasma casting a sickly glow against floating streaks of the
midnight-black ichor that acted as the bio-ship’s lifeblood.
These, he thought, were the worthy trophies of the victorious and he
couldn’t relate to his crewmates’ preoccupation with their less-than
trivial athletic diversions. Immediately after finishing his hunt, he
had a confrontation with the men’s volleyball team about the use of
the holodeck facility and the etiquette of honoring bookings. K’aa
had not said a word, but with one hand full of raw, steaming bear
liver and the other holding a bloody, razor-sharp bowie knife the
athletes had decided to pursue another venue for their training, as
well as to lodge a complaint with the ship’s XO.
K’aa’s hunt was further spoiled by the alarm of the communication padd
he kept with him at all times. When Delta IV had fallen, Starfleet
Command had relayed the news to all ships in the fleet and still, the
Galaxy’s crew obsessed about a “winning edge”, gold medals, and petty
glories. All at a time when enemy fleets wallowed in Federation
systems, and regional capitals were being fettered with a Triad
yoke.
He gulped down another succulent piece of meat, and reflected on the
thrill the hunt had given him. K’aa had gained the confidence of
knowing his skills, regardless of the form he was now imprisoned in,
were still enough to survive. While no longer a threat in physical
combat, he could still think strategically and use senses other than
those he was familiar with. He was still a carnivorous hunter with a
hunter’s instinct, even though he bore the form of an omnivorous
primate.
The realization, and the satisfaction, had made the decision for
reassignment an easy one.
"Chris' Break From the Action"
Part 1--The Siblings
Lt. Chris Daniels
And a special guest star
Chris' Quarters
==========
You didn't just get over the fact that you nearly killed someone on accident.
In Chris' case, the news of T'Pei only being wounded had lifted a burden off his shoulders that may very well have pushed him over the edge. Over the past few weeks, the feeling had subsided a bit, however, he was welcoming the break from the constant work that was the Starfleet Games. While his fixed but still weakened wrist kept him from competing in anything he was good at, and with the decision to leave his younger officers in charge of the Tactical competitions, it gave him a nice little vacation to clear his head.
As such, he finished packing his bag, looked around his quarters once to see that he hadn't missed anything, and made his way to the transporter room.
====
Athletic Field 2-A
====
Chris sat in the sparse stands as the game to an end. He had never understood the intricacies of Field Hockey, but watching the various females-save for one-prance around the field was a sight to behold. It had been months since he had even seen Janeen, and as such he had recently reverted to his Academy-days style of openness of his appreciation for the female form.
The scoreboard showed a close game: USS Pericles 5, USS Crichton 4. The truth of it was that the winning side had run roughshod over the other team but had let up at the end. Either way, the game was now over, the teams did their required acknowledgement of each other, and then they began to disperse. Chris made his way down to the bottom of the bleachers and stood a few meters from the Pericles team huddling around. When they broke up, his face broke into it's familiar smile, as the all too familiar red-highlighted, brunette haired form of Ensign Ezzie Daniels, his sister, former midshipman on the Miranda and now self-proclaimed "Engineer Extraordinare" bounded towards him.
"Eyes off my teammates, Lothario..." She quipped as they embraced as only siblings in the middle of a war could. "Besides, aren't you still running around with Janeen?"
He shrugged. "I hope so...Atlantis never did get it's comm system totally figured out."
Ezzie rolled her eyes. "Lame excuse."
"Hey, at least I can keep a significant other for more than a few weeks now..."
"Oh shut up! You haven't met the boys on my ship..they all either think a girl engineer is a man hater, they're pansies or they're intimidated by me."
Chris smirked. "Good..." Despite the fact that they were both into their twenties now, Chris still had a tendency to over-protect her. In his opinion, the way she went through males like tissues, she needed it. Ezzie just shook her head and rolled her eyes.
"You never let me have any fun..."
"Yeah, yeah...whatever...When did you get good at field hockey?"
"Something I picked up after graduation..." She added, matter of factly. "The triathlon isn't till next week anyways. I figured I had to make up for your crippled ass."
"Funny...why don't you get changed and we'll go get some grub?"
She nodded. "Ruvallo's in an hour?"
"Sounds good."
They hugged again, Ezzie pulling back and looking at him. "It's good to see you bro."
Chris smiled. "You too Ez, now hurry the hell up, I'm hungry."
Ezzie gave him a punch in the arm before running off to the locker room. Chris stood and took in the sunshine for a moment, looking at the activity on the other fields. Despite the ongoing debate about the point of the games, Chris had to admit that Starfleet did a great job picking the location.
Before he left, he noticed two men discussing something with quite a bit of animation. It caught him off guard...what could cause that much emotion about a field hockey game?
Without giving it much more thought, Chris shrugged, turned on his heel and went to take in some beach volleyball before meeting up with Ezzie for lunch.
"Unstoppable Juggernaut"
Lt. Victor Krieghoff
Lt. Branwen London
****
USS Galaxy
Deck 39
Security Main
Branwen knocked on the door of Victor's office. She had been pleasantly surprised to hear of his promotion and his new job. It made her smile. Not that long ago people would have said that Victor was unsuited for such a task, but he had changed so much lately. Not that she had ever had ever had anything but the greatest confidence in his abilities.
"Congratulations," she said smiling, standing in the door opening. "That was a long time coming. I guess I should start calling you sir now."
Victor looked up from his desk, grateful for the interruption from the paperwork that was rotting his mind. He supposed that thousands of officers were, or had, wished that they had their hands around the necks of the sentients that had designed the new personnel evaluation forms Starfleet had implemented three months earlier and we choking the life from them. He also supposed that, out of all of those thousands, he might well be the only one that would actually do it if the opportunity arose.
His homicidal impulse was based on the theory that the new evaluation forms were actually a Triad Intelligence operation to demoralize Federation officers. No one that wanted to win the war would make officers waste time with a twenty-three-part form with quint-level, interrelating evaluations that had to be completed for each person in their department.
Quarterly.
In triplicate.
It was positively insidious, as plans went; destroying morale from within with paperwork. Despite body-swapping, inhuman prisoner treatment, enslavement of local populations, and everything else they were guilty of, he hadn't thought the Triad were quite so. polished. in their evil. If they both didn't need the Federation to win as much as the Federation itself did, he'd have thought this more likely to be a Tal Shiar or Obsidian Order plot.
"Hello, Kit," he greeted her as he mentally shelved his plan to assassinate the obvious Triad agents in BuPers for the moment until he could get permission from the Captain, and waved her to a chair. "And pretty much no one else calls me that except the ratings, so I don't see why you should start."
"Thank you, Victor." She came around his desk and gave him a quick hug. "I have missed you so much the last couple of months." What she did not add was that she had needed him to come and save her and had been a little bit disappointed that he hadn't. Being here so close to him somehow made her feel safe inside again.
Victor pulled back and studied her for a moment. "Are you all right? You're a little... green... still. I thought that they fixed what those... what had been done to you?"
"I am still on medication, and I need to see Dallas for supervision twice a week." She shivered thinking back to that horrid place. "But I think I don't need any surgery any more." Her eyes clouded over and were more guarded then they had ever been near Victor.
"Dallas is a good counselor, Kit," Victor said reassuringly. "Just tell her what you feel - all of it, even the bad and embarrassing parts - and she can help you."
"She was with me in the prison cell." Branwen bit back her anger. Of course Victor would have a good reason for not coming to rescue her. "I know I need some therapy to deal with it all, Victor. But she wants to supervise my work and that is an insult to me. My work has never suffered and I am good at it. People treat me like I have no say over my own life and I hate it. I am not the naïve child I was half a year ago, my friend."
Victor looked at her, and then said softly, "You don't, you know. Have a say over your own life I mean; in some ways, not in general, and others, specifically." He waved her to a chair and sat on the corner of his desk. "What I mean is that in general, because you're a part of Starfleet, you've surrendered a degree of control over your life, allowing the organization to generally tell you where to go and what to do and how you have to conduct yourself. All simple things and easy to adjust to, but ones that people forget at times. Specifically though, in this instance, by being a part of Starfleet you've, in essence, given them utter control over your life: because of what happened to you, they *do* have the ability to tell you what you will do in fine detail - a power that's not often used - until they're satisfied that you are back to normal, Kit. That," he added, "would be *their* definition of normal, not yours, but the way. There isn't anything that you can do about it, either, except nod, and keep doing what they ask until they're happy with you, no matter how long that takes."
"So that is why you didn't come for me." She looked at him with disappointment. "You really think they had the right to take me away from my friends, my only support system. And still me in a cage as a test subject once again. I had just been a prisoner of war for three months. The last thing I needed was to be put in yet another kind of cage with no say over what was happening to me." Bran stated vehemently.
Victor considered that for a moment. "They put you in a... cage?" He frowned. "The reason I didn't come looking for you, Kit, was because I didn't know that I *needed* to, not because someone told me I couldn't. I assumed that you were in a medical facility somewhere having the... genetic alterations, or whatever they were... undone and the children delivered - not that you were being turned into a lab experiment." It occurred to him that his clearance might be high enough to find the people who'd worked on the project now. "That's what happened? They... experimented on you, didn't try to help you?"
"Not exactly a cage. But it felt like it. The first few days I was not allowed to leave my bed, for example. There was no privacy and I was watched constantly. They submitted me to all kinds of tests without telling me why. Dallas was the only one who stood by me. Later they brought in some other nicer doctors. One had served on the Galaxy. Things got a bit better then. But I still wasn't allowed to do what I wanted. In the end they decided not to experiment on my kids." She looked at him. "One died in my arms, Victor."
"I'm sorry for that," he replied slowly. "No one should have to watch their children die. But... the rest, uncomfortable as it sounds... Might that be a case of the doctors not knowing what to do, or just being terrible at relating to you? I've seen that before when I was the one being examined and treated like a specimen slide and not a person? I don't like to think that they deliberately mistreated you."
"I wanted to stay here with my friends. I had just spent 3 months in captivity, I wanted my friends and doctors that I knew. They said no." She cleared her throat. "Nobody listened to what I wanted." She looked at him. "The other two babies survived."
Whatever Victor's opinions of the children were, he knew from her expression what Bran's were - and they made a good place to shift the topic for a few minutes. "I know that you're glad for that," he told her. "Are they here on the ship? From what I know of your family, you won't be getting any help with them there."
"They talked to me for days before I agreed it was better if I didn't take them here." Bran hung her head a little as if she was not happy with herself. "If I want to save my marriage the babies can't be here. And I don't have the abilities here to really look after them well." She looked up again. "You are almost right. But remember the sister who saved me? Shanna? She is now a commodore and she does have the facilities to look after the kids. She has a son already. Shanna agreed to take them so they will grow up in a family and I can see them whenever I am able. You want to know their names?"
"Could I possibly," he returned with a grin, "stop you from telling me?"
"No." Bran admitted a proud look on her face. "My daughter is called Rowena Dhanishta London and my son Daffyd Victor London. I was hoping that you would be his godfather." She said looking at her friend.
"You... named him after me?" Victor said slowly. "Well, that's... of course I'll be his godfather, Kit. But don't you think that it's possible that he's going to have a tough enough time growing up without carrying my name around, too?"
"Thank you, Victor!' She embraced and hugged him. "I couldn't think of a better godfather then you. You are a good role model and I know that you will protect him. You have to meet him now." Bran laughed.
"I think that the role-model part of that is something that he ought to be encouraged against," he cautioned. "But as for meeting him, that does seem to be appropriate, doesn't it? I can't be a godparent and not see him."
"Then you will come with me next shore leave and see the kids? I hope Dhani will come as well. I haven't told her yet." Bran was very pleased with his reaction.
"I'm sure she'll be happy," Victor agreed. At least about the naming part; the traveling with him part was yet to be decided after their last extended meeting.
"I can show you pictures." She said and whipped out pictures of little green tykes. "Aren't they cute?"
They were infants. They were green. They were wrinkled. They didn't appear quite human. None of which particularly concerned Victor, since he'd seen infants from enough species - sentient and not - to realize that they were all alike in two important ways: 1) their parents usually loved them; and 2) they performed an absolutely appalling number of excretory functions at inopportune moments. At least his children had... no, they'd been Chulak's children, not his. Sometimes it was hard to remember that distinction. "They are" he agreed.
"Thank you." She hugged him again. "I will make sure that you get piccies and updates from my sister as soon as I get them."
He smiled and nodded, since there wasn't a real reply necessary to that. Even if he'd cried 'no' Bran would still have brought them like the unstoppable juggernaut of image dispensing joy that all new mothers were. Sakonna had once... no, that was another life again, another man's life - and wife. But maybe something he remembered from that life would... "Make recordings," he offered suddenly. "Long ones of you singing, talking; saying anything that you can think of. Have your sister play them for the children, so they'll know the sound of their mother's voice." He'd done that as Chulak, when work had kept him away from Sakonna and the children, and it had seemed to work out well for him then; maybe it would for Bran as well.
"You are a genius!" Bran said not letting go. "How do you think of these things when you don't even have kids of your own?" His behavior truly amazed her again.
"I knew someone once that did that," he answered truthfully. "It seemed to work for them, so I thought it might work for you."
"I think it will. That way the kids will know who I am even if I am not there all the time. And when we are out of communication range. And that way they can get to know Uncle Victor as well." She grinned.
The only other person that had ever called him that was Allison, and she was from a future that hadn't happened yet. It was odd hearing someone call him that in the here and now, even Kit. "We'll have to see how that works out," he cautioned. "And speaking of things working out, how are you doing? You sidetracked that topic rather neatly with the children."
She smiled. "Hey I am a shrink myself so I am good at that. One day is better then the next and Dar is not really much of a talker. But I manage, I think I can muddle through on my own with help of my friends. But it is tough, you know. Sometimes it feels like I will never be normal again."
"Kit," he returned. "I know because that's why I go to Counseling sessions every week... because they never have, and never will, decide that I'm 'normal. Not by their, or anyone else's definition."
"You are normal enough to me. But of course I cannot be your counselor because we are friends. I don't mind the counseling, don't get me wrong, Victor. I think I need a lot of counseling, but about my private life not my work."
"But they're the same, Kit," Victor told her. "For most people to a degree, but for you, more than that."
"What makes you say that, Victor?" She asked curious.
"Because you care so much," he explained. "You open yourself up and care about the people that you're helping - so much that your professional life and your personal one sometimes become the same thing. At least," he added, "that's what I think happens to you, and why you need counseling for both - because for you they're the same."
"I don't completely agree. And she makes me feel like a child, like I am still a student or something. I have been holding my own here for a few years now and my marines trust me. It is as if she doesn't see that."
Well," Victor suggested, "have you told her that? Maybe she's waiting for you to."
"What do you mean?" She asked tilting her head at him.
"Maybe what she's waiting for is for you to tell her that you feel that way, as a guidepost to your development. I'm no Counselor - but I've talked to a lot of them - and they've all seemed much happier... well, relativistically speaking anyway... when I told them exactly what I thought about things rather than avoiding addressing the topic of a problem or frustration directly."
"I haven't always been kind to her while we were in the facility. In the beginning I told her exactly how I felt about her being there. Later I learnt to trust her. So now I can talk to her about my private life, I really can. I only don't want her hovering when I am working, you know?"
"So tell her that. Tell her that it frustrates you, that it makes you angry. Maybe then you two can make the problem go away." He gestured towards her. "I can get a big signboard and walk around behind you with the words on it if you think that will help?"
"I wish you could be my counselor, Victor. It always makes me feel better to talk to you. You would be good at it you know. You are wise and kind."
"I," he said with a sideways smile, "am just about certain that no one else in the Universe could have said that with a straight face, Kit."
OOC: Takes place a few days after "Silence Breaks The Heart - Part 1"
"Silence Breaks The Heart - Part 2"
1st Lieutenant Branwen London
Chief Psychologist, CO, 5th platoon
Lieutenant (jg) Michael McDowell
Engineer
*** Ten Forward, 1017 hrs, Alpha Shift ***
One advantage of having to work on the 'Graveyard Shift' was that you didn't
find a crowded Ten-Forward if you decided to go there after the shift had
ended. Because of that Michael found himself in a quiet corner of the Lounge
enjoying a few sandwhiches and a cup of Dimbula tea. Usually he settled for
Earl Grey, but the special blend of tea had been advised by one of the
waiters. Although he had to admit that it tasted good he didn't see himself
trading it for his favorite tea.
Branwen had filled her tray with goodies for breakfast. After her release
from the hospital and all that bland hospital food she really was hungry
these days and eating well. She spotted Michael sitting alone and decided to
join him. "Hey, mind if I sit down?"
Looking sideways Michael looked up to verify that it was really Branwen that
was standing next to him. "Sure." he said after a second of hesitation.
"Pick a chair." He waited until the Marine Psychologist had seated herself
before continuing. "I'm surprised to see you here. I've never seen you here
at this time."
"Scout's honor that I did not follow you. I have a later shift today, hence
a later breakfast. I won't even mention the other day." She grinned and sat
down.
Michael returned a weak smile and took another sip from his tea. Branwen was
of course refering to the day when they'd met just outside Main Engineering.
"It's okay. I know you were trying to help..." He searched for something
more to say, something that would explain his behaviour without giving too
much away, but failed in that. "I'm sorry."
"Nothing to apologize about, you had a bad day it can happen to the best of
us." She started to dig into her breakfast.
Case closed. Michael should've felt relieved that she'd left it at that. But
he didn't. Instead he felt like he'd just made a mistake by not telling her,
not even a little bit, about what was really on his mind. Brawnen actually
thought it had just been a bad day while there was really so much more. Why
couldn't he just talk about it? Why was it so difficult for him to do that?
These questions went through his mind as he watched her eat her breakfast.
"My body still has to adjust back to what it was." She explained for eating
such a huge breakfast. "I eat like a buffalo and still I am not getting
fat." She was really not going to push Michael. If he wanted to talk she
was here, if not, fine.
"You want to get fat then?" Michael smiled for the first time in days. He
didn't know if she'd said it on purpose, but his reaction was to be
expected.
"A bit more couldn't hurt, Michael." She laughed. "I am not one of these
women who think all fat is evil. I lost too much weight over the last half
year."
Michael's smile faded slightly. He could only imagine what she had been
through. Must've been hard on her if she'd lost that much weight. "Yeah.
I've heard about what happened to you. Bits and pieces really. It's good to
see you're back, Branwen, and I mean that."
"Thank you, it is good to be back amongst friends." She said. "What have you
been up to this last half year?"
"The usual." Michael finished his, by now almost cold, tea before he
continued. "Fixing things or doing maintenance. The only thing that really
stood out were a few Away Missions some time ago."
"What about things between you and Dhani? Any wedding bells yet?" Half a
year ago they had been doing well and Bran had not talked to Dhani yet.
This was his chance to get it all out. But instead of starting to talk,
Michael idly stared at his teacup in his hands as he kept turning it around.
He heard Brawnen lay down her fork and knife on her plate and knew she was
looking at him, waiting for an answer.
"No,...no wedding bells." He said softly and placed the teacup back on the
table.
"Oh...." She said understanding there was trouble in paradise. "I put my
foot in it, didn't I?"
Michael smiled, but it was one of those fake smiles. One used for 'keeping
up appearances'. "Nah, it's okay. Actually, I'm kind of glad you asked."
"Really?" She looked at him. "Your bodylanguage kind of told me you don't
want to talk about it."
"It's not that. I'm just not so much of a talker. Not when it comes to that,
you know, 'touchy-feely' stuff." Michael said, then realized that he could
come across as a rather unemotional guy. "I mean, I do talk about it, but
not with just anybody. I just can't do that."
"Do you talk to Dhani?" Bran asked. "It seems like that is the most
important person you should be talking to about your feelings." She said
watching him.
"I would want nothing more, but we hardly talk anymore. Not since she came
back." Michael stopped. He felt a bittersweet pain go through his heart.
Damn, how much he missed talking to her. What the hell had gone wrong? What
changed her so? Had he done something wrong? Had he missed something
important, something had should've thought of? Or was it even something
worse? What if she had found someone else...? All these questions circled in
his head and he couldn't answer any of them.
"I am sorry, Michael." Bran said. She knew talking was not Dhani's strong
point, she hated talking to counselors for example. And even amongst friends
it was like pulling teeth half of the time. "The last couple of months have
been tough on us all. Those hydran camps." She pauzed for a few seconds. "It
was also tough on those who rescued us."
"Yeah, I know. It's just that... She's so different, Brawnen. Sometimes I
even feel like I don't know her anymore." Michael looked at woman sitting
before him. He hoped she could give him at least some of the answers he was
looking for. "Talking to her is like talking to a wall. That is, if we get
to talk at all. We hardly see each other these days. I don't know what's
wrong. I...I just don't know..."
His voice faded as he got lost in his thoughts. The many questions that
haunted him started to wear him down.
["Engineering to Lieutenant McDowell."]
The cold sounding voice over the subspace channel pulled Michael to the here
and now, but he didn't react right away. He didn't need more problems, even
if it were technical ones.
["Engineering to Lieutenant McDowell. Respond please!"]
Michael sighed and then tapped his combadge, though he did so with great
reluctance. "McDowell here."
["What the fu.. hell have you done!?"]
"I replaced a few secondary plasma couplings on Deck 39 today." Michael
replied rather nonchalantly. Right know he really didn't need a frustrated
colleague breathing down his neck. "That's what I did."
["Well, I don't know what you did, but I know you screwed up!! One just got
blown apart! We got a plasma fire down there now! You better get your ass
down there right now and fix it. There's already a damage control team at
the site, but I sure am not going to risk any of them because of your
mistake! Engineering out."]
There was a moment of absolute silence after the channel was closed.
"...Shit." It was the only thing said by Michael as he jumped up, throwing
his chair down on the ground in the process, and ran out of Ten Forward.
"Tough and Gamey Part 2"
Consul Ayanna Hianat Judge
Ensign Charlotte Dooley NPC
Lt. Michael Dicen
Attorney for the Plaintiff NPC
Lt. Jennifer Pandora
Attorney for Starfleet NPC
Lt. JG Christopher Bearson
Security NPC Plaintiff
Location: Conference Room C Liaison Department-USS Galaxy
============================
"And, your problem with the request that Junior Jt Bearson has brought before this court is Attorney Pandora?"
Ayanna's mind instantly thought, 'Pandora's Box'. Then it darted to Pandora's pointed ears, lackluster emotional expressions, and sharply hawkish eyes. Vulcan. Perfect. It was a trend within Starfleet as of late to recruit Vulcan's to the legal field. They did have their benefit and when involved in a case, the less emotion the better.
"The Lt. has had a history with Starfleet illegal drugs. Four years ago, he competed in the bobsled competition. On turn three, he steered the sled a slight degree to the left instead of the right. The result was an accident to which killed a member of his team."
"And?" Ayanna stated.
"It was later determined. The report is on your screen. That Lt. Bearson was under the influence while driving the sled. It was concluded through an investigation that the accident was caused by Bearson's lack of judgement and impairment due to the use of the illegal drugs."
The judges eyes drifted over to the bulky Klingon. "Bobsled?"
"Yeah, Mon..."
"Hush it..." Dicen sparked off at his client.
The accent threw her off for a moment before her eyes darted over to the information on the screen. "Jamaican bobsled?? Is that possible?"
"Ya, judge, it tis..."
"Shut up....." Michael whispered in a sing song voice to Bearson.
"No, you shut up. Ya tere? De judge is asking me de questions."
Hinanat raised her hand, attempting to hide the grin behind the stern glance. A Jamaican Klingon. She had know officially seen it all.
"Lt. Bearson. Pardon me for saying so, but arn't you a little large to be driving a bobsled?"
"Of course now judge. I has built muscle since ten. I used to be wiry."
"Indeed." Ayanna muttered while reading the article and viewing the picture on the viewscreen.
"Your honor. Starfleet wishes to remind you that just short four years ago, this man took the life of another Starfleet officer. He has been permanently banned from the games due to this infraction of Starfleet code of conduct, regulation number...."
"I am well aware of the regulation number Attorney Pandora."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"What I do not understand, is why, if he was permanently banned, has he not been tested for illegal drugs on a regular basis to insure that he will not continue to be a threat to other members of the crew of the Galaxy or any other post that he has served on."
"Hey, Mon. I don't do dat stuff no more! Dat was some eeviill sheet right dere."
"Keep your client under control Dicen, or.....contempt for both of you."
The Klingon raised one bushy solitary eyebrow before leaning over to his attorney and whispering. "You work wit that every day?"
"Yes, I do. Now, take my advice and shut the hell up!" He whispered back with ferocity.
Bearson's hands raised in mock surrender. "Okay, I just ask a question."
Hinanat blew an empty breath out of her mouth. "Give me a few minutes, I'll be back with my decision." She stood, causing the entire court room to stand in unison as she exited.
Dicen glanced at Bearson. The Klingon slid around in his chair, glanced back at the gallery of people that stared openly at him. He offered a gracious smile before turning to look the Starfleet attorney in the face. He shivered.
A few moments passed before the door opened and Ayanna appeared. Sitting down behind the bench, she nodded, which caused a wave of people to sit.
"Lt. Bearson. Why do you believe I should revoke the decision to ban you from the games permanently?"
"I'm Jamaican Mon. We all do a little sniffy sniffy from time to time."
"Seriously?" She breathed in disbelief.
Ayanna paused, her dislike for Bearson growing within her gut as she cleared her throat. "Lt. Bearson, I am upholding Starfleet's decision to ban you from the games. I also, as of this date, am enacting a requirement for you to be randomly drug tested for the remainder of your Starfleet career." She banged her gavel, then leveled her eyes at the Jamaican. "Another 'ting' Lt. Bearson. I don't want to hear any excuses if you get caught using again. Excuses are like assholes. Everyone has one and they all stink."
"The Date, Part One"
Lt. 8-ball Hunter
Ensign T'risia
Dressing for a first date was a bitch.
8-ball stared down at her bed, which was currently covered in about five thousand recently replicated outfits. She had everything from lingerie to Catholic school girl outfits to hoop skirts. She couldn't decide what would match a Vulcan's idea of "slinky." She was sort of expecting T'risia to show up in her uniform with the sleeves cut off or something.
8-ball wondered if she dressed outrageously enough, T'risia would run away from this crazy idea.
8-ball looked to Eptgac for guidance. Eptgac was currently drowning in a huge pile of pink, crotchless panties. "What do you think?" she asked the teddy bear. "Should I go as Marilyn Monroe?"
Eptgac did not respond. But he seemed to not respond in a negatory fashion.
8-ball sighed and dramatically threw herself down on the heap of clothes. Her date was in fifteen minutes, which did not leave her tons of time to make herself look awesome to the degree of which 8-ball was capable. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing, and attempted, most sincerely, to meditate.
After a few minutes, an image came to her mind.
8-ball grinned and started to get dressed.
***
T'risia waited in Ten Forward for her dinner companion. She had experienced considerable difficulty with her ensemble, rapidly learning that she would have to replicate appropriate undergarments, and a garter belt, thigh high stockings, and the Terran footwear known as "the Pump." Learning about these arcane items was trouble enough, but further, donning them, so that she would look like the image that was most associated with "slinky" had taken considerable practice.
She had also replicated a gift. A token of her esteem as it were. Or affection. Emotional words were so hard to comprehend, but she did understand that it was often customary to bring something "cute" to one's first date. Thusly, the "cute" item was in a giftwrapped box next to her.
Occasionally another sentient would walk by, and look at her, as though startled. She was aware that her attire was less common than the Terran norm, but she did not realize that Terran "slinky" attire would garner such an extreme response. She made a mental note of it, for the future.
T'risia had arrived ten minutes early, having learned that one should not keep their date waiting from a rapidly consumed set of Terran young adult lessons on the subject, that she had memorized. She did understand that Terran females had a habit of being late as part of their mating behavior, and thus, thought little of it when her mental chronometer told her that her companion was running behind schedule. Since Lt. Hunter had been raised on Earth, it was likely part of the arcane ritual
.
8-ball walked into Ten-Forward, only about six minutes minutes late. It occured to her T'risia may have already left, being all Vulcan and punctual and stuff. 8-ball wasn't sure if she should be relieved or disappointed by that.
Then she saw T'risia at a table and realized that she needn't have worried. The Vulcan was still here.
And she had an . . . interesting idea of what slinky meant.
Ensign T'risia was decked out in an honest-to-God's French maid outfit. There was even a feather duster. 8-ball just stood where she was and gaped for a minute.
It was the most bizzare thing she had ever seen.
It was also kind of hot.
8-ball looked down at her own outfit. She had discarded evening gowns and swimwear for a look that she had founded under the category of "Dominatrix." Specifically, it included black leather pants that were stitched up the sides, a blood red corset, a spike collar necklace, and boots with four inch heels. It had also included a whip, but she had, regretably, left that back home.
She thought that it might make her look too weird.
Making her way over to the French Maid Vulcan, 8-ball didn't figure the situation could look any weirder than this.
As "8-ball" approached, T'risia stood, politely and bowed slightly. For a moment she was unsteady on the unfamiliar shoes known as "Pump", but her characteristic efficiency resolved the balance issue. "It is agreeable to see you, Lt. Hunter." Remembering the counselor's discomfort with her standing, she added, "Please, take a seat."
8-ball couldn't help but grin. She often found herself smiling in surreal situations such as these . . . not that she'd ever been in situation quite like this. "Okay," she said, and sat down, watching her "date" move around. T'risia didn't look entirely comfortable in the French maid's uniform, but even 8-ball wasn't sure she would be. Leather pants were much preferred.
With the look of someone who is not sure what order in which something is done, the efficient Vulcan woman in the French Maid's Uniform took up the box to her side. "I have procured you something 'cute' as is the custom. Please accept it." With no further statement, she pushed the box across the table, waiting for the other to open it.
"Ummm. Sure," 8-ball said, taking the gift and trying to remember the last time a date had bought her anything. Eptgac himself had been a gift, but it hadn't been on a first date, that was for sure. Usually, the romantic ones got her roses. Everybody else just gave her a condom.
8-ball wasn't really sure what to expect from T'risia, so she didn't bother trying. She just opened the damn thing.
And managed to be surprised anyway.
Revealing the gift within, after copious paper wrapping and tissue had been removed, the form of the Terran "Magic 8-ball" came forth. T'risia explained, "It is an ancient Terran decision making tool, in the shape of your namesake. My apologies, it is replicated, and not an antique. It functions by asking a verbal question, and then shaking the artifact." Her piercing green eyes looked at Hunter with interest.
8-ball held the Magic 8-ball. She was familiar enough with crystal balls, but this didn't quite have the same feel to it. It was hard to find divinity in something made of plastic. "Okay," she said, deciding to try it out. "Uh . . . what should I order?"
She shook the device and looked at it. "No" it said. Well, then. Either the fates were trying to tell her that this date was a massively bad idea, or the thing only responded to yes or no questions. Which would make more sense, but would be a lot less useful.
"All right," 8-ball said, trying again. She found T'risia watching her and had absolutely no idea what to make of the expression on her face, or lack thereof. "Will T'risia here be kissing me before the night is through?"
"Most definitely," the Magic 8-ball said.
The less-magic 8-ball's eyebrow rose. "Interesting," she said.
T'risia arched a brow at that, her piercing green eyes sparkling in the light. "Indeed. I had no idea that the ancient Terran artifact was so efficient at correctly producing an accurate probability matrix. I primarily selected it due to your affectation for its form, It is satisfactory that it pleases you." Although her facial expression remained its neutral cast, her general demeanor revealed a sort of satisfaction.
8-ball wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, but before she could try, the waitress came by to take their orders. She figured that alcohol would be a good idea, but the fake stuff that they served here usually just made her depressed. "I'll have a Cherry Coke," 8-ball told the waitress, "and a cheeseburger with fries. Hold the onions, please."
T'risia nodded once. "I should have assumed that you would be conversant in Terran cuisine." To the waitress, she turned, seeing the Bolian woman from the other evening. "I will have the vegetarian lasagna, and a cup of espresso." The waitress seemed to be struggling to contain both her astonishment at the Vulcan woman's clothes, and her astonishment at her date. The blue skinned woman made a note of it on her PADD, and moved onward, to gossip while placing the order.
T'risia, for her part, resumed her interest in her companion. "I am...less than elegant at conversation. I found you intriguing when I initially encountered you. Your colorful speech, as well as boisterous demeanor, were fascinating, as well as your obvious involvement in Terran culture. I am highly interested in the culture of Earth." The awkward Vulcan was doing her best at conversation, although her computer like mind kept returning to the 8-ball device's predictions. "I read many novels from that world," she added, somewhat more softly.
"Yeah?" 8-ball asked, figuring that she'd have better luck discussing Earth books than her own "boisterous demeanor". "What kind of novels?"
T'risia considered this for a moment, and remembered the advice that one should proceed forward in a relationship without concealing anything, if possible. Even so, the emotionless woman lowered her voice slightly. "I read a wide diversity of Terran literature, but comsume the genre of romance in gross quantities." She paused, and arched a brow slightly. "I trust that you can remain...discreet about that."
"Oh," 8-ball said. "Well, sure." She imagined T'risia laying on a couch, reading lines about turgid pleasure rods outloud in a breathy voice. It didn't compute.
She hesitated, played a little with the Magic 8-ball in front of her, and said, "So, this whole date thing . . . are you basically just trying out an experiment or something? Cause, I gotta say, I was . . . pretty surprised to hear from you. Usually, when humans date, it's because they're physically, you know, hot for each other. So, I mean, I guess I'm asking . . . you actually got a thing for me, or, are you just trying to replicate Terran dating methods for, well, educational purposes?"
T'risia leaned forward, her green eyes glittering, pretty features fixed in her serious mein. "This is no mere cultural experiment. True, I have not in fact had a 'date' of any kind. However, I do not wish to merely replicate Terran dating methodology, i am most certain that there are Holodeck programs for that."
She paused, unsure how one phrased her thoughts. "On the Away Mission, I found your personality of interest. You are vastly unlike any being that I have encountered." Once more, the awkward pause, as she sought out the right words. "In addition, I found your physical form possessed of great empirical beauty. Most humanoid sentients would find it so. Logically, when you had then suggested the kissing, as a consequent of the conditional of salvation, I was most interested in succeeding. Now...we are here."
T'risia leaned back. "To summarize, I concluded that a romantic liason would be mutually acceptable. Seeking advice, I was informed at the way one begins such liasons. As I understand, on one's first 'date', it is illogical to attempt to predict where such a liason might lead. Suffice it to say...I find you of great interest, on many, well reasoned levels."
8-ball was glad for T'risia's awkward pauses, because they made her own seem almost acceptable. She hadn't been this tripped up on a first date, since, well, ever. Of course, this was the first date she'd had where a dominatrix and a french maid hooked up, but still . . .
She was obviously thinking about this way too much. Since when did she worry so much? Life had been so much easier before she'd gone crazy.
But not thinking about that. That was not first date material.
"Okay," 8-ball said. "I mean, I'm not trying to figure out where we're headed, either. We haven't even gotten our food yet; it's a little early for planning futures together. I was just, you know, curious. This is a new experience for me, too." She felt that she needed to compliment T'risia; the Vulcan woman had said all sorts of nice, if freakishly logical, things about her.
"So," 8-ball said. "You look spiffy. The outfit's definitely . . . unique."
T'risia did not smile of course, but something about her demeanor...improved. "That is most satisfactory. I endeavored to meet your request to 'wear something slinky'. My research indicated that this garment would fit the definition, and furthermore, was one of the most attractive garments for use in romantic liasons to Terrans." She stopped speaking a moment, and then went on. "In truth, i found the 'garter belt' most perplexing, but felt that the item was worth it, for the appeal that the 'thigh high stockings' are rumored to have. The shoes were somewhat challenging to learn to walk in. Discipline and practice remedied that, however." Remembering that one should not talk about themselves too much, from her study of interactions, she examined the other woman's outfit with a critical eye, like a scientist.
"From the visual trends and earmarks of your own attire, you seem to be proclaiming allegiance with sexual dominance. Is that your preference?" T'risia asked the question deadpan, as if she was inquiring about the price of milk at the supermarket.
"I'm easy going," 8-ball said lightly. "I've never been known for being picky. What about you, T'risia? Any preferences I should know about it?"
Once again, the slender Vulcan woman arched an eyebrow. "In truth, all that I can speak of is my inexperience. One must first have done something in order to be aware of their preferences within that category."
8-ball almost choked on her drink. She didn't, but it was a near thing. "Are you're saying that you're a virgin?"
T'risia seemed confused by the reaction. Also, she was somewhat unsure how to deal with what in Vulcan society, is something of a taboo topic. However, she wished the conversation to continue, so in a lower tone of voice, nearly a whisper, she said, "As you know...most Vulcans are nearly celibate save for...a feverish time. It happens most infrequently, and since the fever affects the brain, often memory of the...experience is poor, if not limited in the extreme. Thusly, given my age...no, I am not. I have no real memory of those events, however."
The Vulcan woman leaned back again, regaining her composure. She tilted her head slightly, studying 8-ball, wondering if her lack of experience in these matters was going to be some form of problem or obstacle.
Well, hell. That was the closest to upset 8-ball had ever seen a Vulcan, with the possible exception of her own mother. T'Pol senior was as logical as any other Vulcan mother, but 8-ball had many various talents. Driving people to drink was high among them.
It wasn't her intention here, though---T'risia seemed to have as little concept of human taboos as 8-ball had Vulcan ones. You just didn't calmly asking someone if they liked being a top, not before appetizers, anyway.
Though 8-ball, as a general rule, tended to ignore taboos of all cultures equally.
"Sorry," 8-ball said. "Didn't mean to . . . yeah. It's just, you're not exactly the typical Vulcan. I don't mean that as a bad thing." In fact, she meant it as a good thing, but 8-ball wasn't sure T'risia would be appreciate the comment. "I just, I've never met a Vulcan so interested in human customs and practices. I guess I wasn't thinking . . . anyway. It doesn't matter. I don't really care about any of that."
The waitress came back with their food, saving 8-ball from any more awkward explanations. 8-ball slopped some ketchup on her burger and ate it a touch slower than she normally would. The two ate in silence for a few minutes. 8-ball struggled for a slightly less risque topic.
"So," she asked, "were you planning on participating in the Starfleet Games?" That seemed pretty safe. If she didn't inquire about logical fucking, she was gold.
T'risia paused for a moment, before speaking. She saw that 8-ball had become somewhat ill at ease, and wished to assuage the discomfort. In all of her reading, it was suggested that discomfort was not in fact, a good thing for a 'date'. Logically, 8-ball must wish to discuss this new topic, so she indulged the digression. This must be the Talking of the Small. "
"Yes, actually. Initially, I had intended only to participate in the Chess event, but my superior, Mr. Krieghoff, ordered me to put together a team of some kind for the Games. I selected the ancient Terran Battle Art of Baseball. I have been relegated to coaching the team, as well as being Keeper of the Base Number Three."
She ate a bit of food, her studies on the Terran 'date' having suggested that she should not in fact, 'eat like a horse.' Being a vegetarian, it was almost impossible for her not to, so she was unclear on how one should proceed. Leaving the murky area of social eating, she asked, "And you? Will you be participating?"
"Yeah," 8-ball said, deciding that, for once, she would attempt tact by not explaining how she felt about chess as an actual "event". It was an unusual feeling for her. "I'm entering it billiards. It's sort of my specialty."
She dunked her fries in a pile of ketchup. "You know," 8-ball said, "I don't know a lot about baseball, but I'm pretty sure it's not what most would consider a, um, battle art. The bases there aren't like, you know, real bases . . . it's sort of hard to explain." She didn't think about it at all before adding, "Maybe, if you want, we could go to Holodeck sometime and watch one? Give you a better idea of what you're getting into?"
T'risia's manner showed some enthusiasm toward the idea, a sort of curiousity. "I am well studied in the Arts of the Baseball. I have spent many hours watching games and documentaries...and would be most pleased to attend a virtual game upon the Holodeck with you. It would be a most efficacious use of our time together." The stoic vulcan woman continued to pick at her Lasagna, still attempting to understand the Horse Riddle.
"Billiards seems most elegant," she continued, with what passed for enthusiasm in a more or less emotionless being. "The simplicity of the game, mixed with the complexity of the Newtonian relations that govern it, are a matter of real mathematical beauty. I have watched it, and am familiar with play to a degree, but have never actually attempted it. Perhaps at some juncture you might instruct me?" For T'risia, she was being practically outgoing, despite the reserved nature of her request.
"I just might," 8-ball said with a grin. She was ignoring T'risia's description of the game . . .mathematical beauty, Jesus . . . and instead focusing on the the idea of T'risia bending over the pool table to make her perfect shot . . . in that French maid's outfit, no less.
"It's not the same, though, learning the way I learned it and playing at a Starfleet competition. I'm sure that everything at the Games will be very . . .sterile. Starfleet Games usually are. Billiards in the real world, though, pool . . . the atmosphere's just completely different. The music is pounding and usually centuries old, and your spectators are usually drunk guys in a bar. It's not the elegant game that you might be imagining. Nevertheless," and here 8-ball smiled slowly, "there's a certain . . .sexiness to the game that one might find lacking Starfleet. So, if you're still interested, I'll be happy to play teacher."
The emotionless woman nodded her head in acknowledgment. "That would be a most satisfactory use of time." She tilted her head slightly, and took on the puzzled look that Vulcans tended to when phrasing a question. "Would it be desirable to you if I were to be a spectator at the billiards event? I could perform the Terran ritual of the Leading of the Cheer."
As she said this, the Bolian waitress came by to "check on" the table, barely able to supress her giggling.
8-ball glared at her. "What are you sniggering at? That's right---I heard you snigger. And I can tell you, from my days of working behind a bar, that I've seen a lot weirder things in this life than two chicks decked out in leather and ruffles. And you wanna know what's funnier than the Terran ritual of the Leading of the Cheer? How bad waitresses lose tips! Now, scram, before I smack you upside your blue head!"
The waitress ran off. 8-ball rolled her eyes and returned her gaze back to T'risia. "Sorry," she said, "but I despise people who are desperate for gossip. There's a subtlety to the art that our waitress severely lacks."
8-ball finished her cheeseburger and wiped her mouth with her napkin. "Anyway," she said. "You can watch me play if you want, but cheerleading, at least traditionally, is more for team games, especially outdoor ones. But, maybe, we could meet at the Holodeck in a few days, and we'll try out that baseball team."
She wondered what T'risia would wear to that.
T'risia, for her part, was somewhat astonished, despite her calm demeanor. Her face showed no emotion, but she replied, out of order, "I would very much like to watch you play, and would certainly vouch for you upon our baseball team. I must ask, however....this thing that you have just done, with the waitress? Was this the Terran Art of Sticking Up for One's..." she trailed off thinking out loud often caused her problems. She chose to complete her thought, taking a somewhat large risk, socially. "The Sticking Up for One's Girlfriend?"
"Well," 8-ball said, then stopped. Girlfriend? One date didn't exactly constitute a girlfriend. And yes, they'd been setting up more dates---all sporting events; this was so unlike her---but girlfriend? That sounded a little more committed than 8-ball was comfortable with.
"I was sticking up for you, anyway. I mean, I hope you didn't mind. She was kind of being a bitch."
"Indeed. I appreciate it very much. I have noted that I am the subject of some large amount of speculation here." T'risia reached her hand forward, two fingers extended, and together, for 8-ball to touch with her own, in the only Vulcan display of affection that existed.
8-ball---while silently thanking any and all gods that she actually knew this particular Vulcan gesture---touched T'risia's fingers with her own, and then thought, What the hell am I doing? This is not how an 8-ball date should go. Even a reserved 8-ball date . . . this is just not me.
So, 8-ball leaned over the table, pulled T'risia forward, and kissed her.
When she pulled back . . . eventually, because 8-ball wasn't much of a believer in first kiss pecks . . . she look at T'risia with a raised eyebrow.
"Satisfactory?" she inquired.
The unflappable T'risia was momentarily silent, as she slowly relaxed back into her chair. Her normally very alert green eyes were a bit unfocused, as if considering some very intense inner monologue, or trying to divide two infinite non repeating decimals by one another. After a long time, for her, she replied, in a softer voice than usual, but with her typical stoic demeanor, "Indeed. Most satisfactory. I trust that my performance was also satisfactory?" T'risia was momentarily troubled by her inexperience in these matters ruining the Date.
8-ball thought about that. "Yeah," she said honestly. "It was." It wasn't the best kiss she'd ever had---not the type that said ohmygod, why am I still clothed---but T'risia was suprisingly . . . adept . . . with her tongue, and 8-ball could stand a few more kisses like that.
Considering the matter with computer-like Vulcan efficiency, T'risia added, "If it was below the standards that you are used to, I can take time to practice." She said so with the blatant honesty of all Vulcans, meaning the sentence in the same way she would practice a martial arts move, or tricky chess problem.
"Well, there is this human saying that practice makes perfect," 8-ball said. She touched T'risia's fingers with her own and said, "Let's give it another shot."
"The Contract, Part II"
With
Mr. Siebur (The Assassin)
Approaching the USS Galaxy....
As the USS Kentwood approached the 40447-003 Epsilon system, and the USS Galaxy, Mr. Siebur went over the material regarding his first target. A caffeine addicted con artist was what everything that was known about the man boiled down to. He was also a Betazoid, which is why Mr. Siebur took chemical neuroblockers with the precise action of preventing empaths and telepaths from detecting his intentions and thoughts. While the drug was illegal and had some negative side effects, it was worth it for the task at hand.
Siebur already thought of several ways that he could kill the Galaxy's librarian. Poison would be somewhat easy, but unpredictable. He could simply catch him in the corridor and stab the man, but then he would have to hide the body and get off the ship before he was caught. A freak accident would be investigated, but would take longer to figure out if there was foul play involved, and gave him enough time to get away. The assassin decided to have that as his primary option for eliminating J. Andrus Suder.
Now it was a simple matter of getting close enough to the target and executing his contract. Siebur was aware of the difficulty in that particular part of the plan, but was confident that he could pull it off somehow. It would make life much easier if Suder was planetside in these "Games" that were being held in this system. There were many ways that he could kill the little fucker off then. He read the rest of the profile:
6'1"
175 lbs
Apparently some kind of history buff, as well. Siebur was not sure if the man had any significant personal combat skills, but that didn't matter. Blade or beam, hand or foot, he would take the man down. The Kentwood was now pulling up within transporter range of the Galaxy. There were other stops she had to make, and those who were to disembar were being summoned to transporter room # 2. Mr. Siebur concealed his PADD, picked up his light duffel bag, and departed his temporary quarters. He made sure not to associate with anyone on board during his transit, as he did not want to leave any lasting impressions. The fewer unnecessary questions that he had to answer, the better.
In the transporter room with him were several ratings, and a couple of rookie Ensigns. He gave a slight nod to the one who was closest to him, as he recognized her from Starbase One. The last view he had of the Kentwood was the transporter room fading out of view as the transporter beam took him.
"Disturbia- Part 3"
Consul Ayanna Hinanat
Judge
Lt. JG Ophelia Zamora
JAG
Admiral Vincent Geralde
AKA Faylin McAlister
======================
Yellow to blue. Scales to short sandy blond dotted with grey at the temples hair. Female to male. Naked to Starfleet uniform. Smile to concentrated frown. No identification to decorated war veteran. Victim on floor, still breathing, mercy granted.
Short stocky hands flipped the identification card over and over from index finger to pinkie finger, then back again. It was his golden ticket on board the USS Galaxy. Part of him wondered if Krieghoff believed the news that she was indeed dead. With her labeled as a feared and dangerous fugitive, she had the suspicion that news would travel back to the Galaxy in a quick fashion. Too late to worry about that now.
=====================
"We have a reception arranged for the Admiral at noon. Which..." Dooley stopped short before checking the time. "Damn, twenty minutes."
"Time flies when we are having fun..." Ayanna muttered. The sudden influx of diplomats and high ranking Starfleet had the Liaison department jumping in an attempt to show Galaxy hospitality to everyone. Court cases that were not code 'red' were put on hold until after all the outrageous hoopla settled down. Standing, she yanked ritualistically on her uniform. Unbeknown to her, her predecessor and the one before did the same exact thing. It was something about the air of formality that was required that caused the natural reaction to a less than perfectionist uniform.
Popping her head through the Chief's door, Ophelia presented herself in again, perfect. Ayanna studied her JAG, something was different about her. Perhaps she had come to the realization that her life on board the Galaxy was almost over. This part of her existence would soon be squashed. She was quite easy to read, her uplifting emotions were leaking to those around her. Something was still off!
"Ensign Dooley, Ophelia and I will be in transporter room 2 to welcome Admiral Geralde."
"Aye Ma'am."
Hinanat's dark eyes darted over to Zamora. "Ready?"
A quick nod in response, and the two swiftly made the journey to the transporter room.
========================================
Clearing his throat, he turned sharply as he stepped on the transporter padd located at a station on the planet. His heart raced just slightly, and the demon inside had to wonder if 'she' was going to be present when he arrived. Gods above, he hoped she would be. Just to see her parcelion face would be enough to make him shoot his load right there.
"Admiral Geralde. Transport in three, two, one."
=======================================
"Here he comes." Ayanna muttered to herself as the blue hazed materialized into the portly experienced Terran gentleman that stood before both women.
"Admiral Geralde. I'm Consul Ayanna Hinanat and this is JAG Ophelia Zamora. We welcome you on board the USS Galaxy."
He said nothing for a mere moment, letting the sheer electricity of the pause in history to wash over him in a morose manner. He wanted to take her right there! Some brutal way. A neck snap, several short deep stabs, a punch to the jugular with his finger. Fucking anything! Swallowing the bile he felt rising in his throat, he offered a diplomatic smile as his eyes never left Ophelia Zamora.
"I was not aware I would be so blessed with graceful visions of beauty to greet me." He cooed.
'No alarms, no security. I've made it!' His inner Faylin voice screamed as she came to the realization that she was indeed finally on board.
'Liar.' Ayanna instantly thought. This man before her was not what he appeared. His anger mixed with over excitment was unsettling to her. Reaching upwards to scratch her head, she realized she had forgot to take her inhibitors for her emotional reading. Not on her game.
"Admiral...in your honor, we have arranged a small reception for your arrival. If you would..." Zamora returned the flirt, not really knowing that she was staring her enemy directly in the eyes.
"Lead the way."
Turning their backs on him, Zamora and Hinanat led him faithfully out of the transporter room. He studied the graceful curves of both of them knowing that in a very short while, one of them would be dead.
“Broken Heart”
FO Gryphon Stone
Location: Gryphon’s quarters
==========================================
The envelope in his hand felt like a razor blade that cut into him on
the inside. The Starfleet letterhead inside with its crisp curtness
did not soften the edge in the least.
He sits on the bed and sees the salty tear stain on his pillow. ‘So
many tears over her, and now this,’ he thinks.
The words upon the letter run through his head again: “It is with
deepest sympathy that we must inform you about a recent event with
your father, Charles Stone.”
“A heart attack,” how could a man who never had a heart, have a heart
attack?
For that matter how could a man with the strongest of hearts let his
break so easily? Maybe he wasn’t so different from his dad then he
thought.
A thick tear falls upon the back of his hand. He blinks and wonders
for whom this tear falls.
The letter authorized him a Leave of Absence to care for his ailing
parent, and he seriously wondered who would need caring more. In his
head so many questions rolled around and chafed his brain.
He looked around the room and wondered what he should take with him,
not sure when he might be coming back, and he realized it didn’t
really matter. The only thing he wanted here was her, and she didn’t
feel the same. He thought he had come to the Galaxy to fly, but it was
something different that had sent him soaring, but now he felt
grounded. No that wasn’t it. “Grounded” gave the impression that he
knew where he stood, but he clearly didn’t so perhaps, “wings clipped”
was a better term.
The pilot considered doing more… saying more, but to whom. He hadn’t
even been aboard long enough to be missed by anyone; he hadn’t left a
lot of strings unstrung.
Shouldering his flight back, with its few memories (including the
pillowcase that still smelled of her hair) he made his way to the
turbo lift… and with slow painful steps to the shuttle that would take
him home to dad, and the next phase of his life.
He mouthed a silent goodbye to the flight bay and blinked back just a
few more tears.
"Welcome back Allison?"
Lt. Victor Krieghoff
PO Victory
Allison von Ernst (Age 20)
Dr. Kimberly Burton
****
(After the events in Breakable)
The woman sitting on the edge of the examination room table was a mess.
Literally.
Victor Krieghoff had only just docked the Shuttle Serengeti from its trip to
the Roark's Rift Black Hole an hour beforehand, and a stop by the Medical
bay was the first thing on his agenda.
The woman - was she really a woman now? - that he'd returned with appeared
in every major respect to the tests he'd been able and willing to run while
in transit to be, at the core, the same Allison von Ernst whom he had sent
back to the future through that very same Rift.
However at the exact moment the 16 year old girl that he'd come to know and
agreed to help return home had disappeared, this older version approximately
four years older, making her 20 - had appeared behind him angrily wielding a
phaser and demanding to know what he had done with her mother.
Her mother.... There was another headache for Victor. So far as he knew,
only himself, Allison's Horta roommate, and James Corgan knew that Fleet
Captain Rebecca von Ernst was really her mom. Or would be in the future. Or
would have been in the future. Or something like that. It was confusing
enough that he knew why temporal discontinuities were ranked lower than even
space herpes infections as a thing the average officer wanted to deal with.
He'd figure out the legal and time-line ramifications later, but first
priority was getting Allison - he'd decided that she was indeed Allison and
that he'd treat her that way until given a reason to do otherwise - some
medical attention.
As they waited in Sickbay's clean, sterile waiting room where he'd been
pointed as he carried Allison in, he was struck by the contrasts between
this woman and the girl that he'd known. She'd kept to herself in the
shuttle, not wanting much contact and eyeing his warily until they'd docked
and he'd told her that they were home and he'd see that she got the medical
attention she needed. She'd been willing to let him carry her then, and from
there it was a point-to-point transport to sickbay. He'd done his best on
the shuttle to care for her, but here, in the gleaming white and chrome of
Sickbay, it was impossible to ignore the changes that had taken place.
She was filthy. Layers of dirt and grime covered her once impeccable skin.
Where she had once diligently exfoliated her pores daily, this Allison
looked like she hadn't had a bath for a month or more.
Her hair, still blond and with hints of blue and purple dye in places, was a
shaggy mess. Oily and tangled it was a far cry from her usual stylish coif.
And then there were the wounds. Cuts and bruises covered her face and arms.
and who knew what other parts of her body?
Victor wasn't about to go exploring. The tattered remains of some old combat
fatigues covered her thin form. To Victor's eye they looked vaguely
Starfleet marine issue, but they were mixed and matched with a Klingon
utility belt, various daggers and knives that he'd confiscated, along with a
phaser pistol bearing the date stamp of 2407.…(over 20 years from now)
He'd hid that one quickly after a few minute's work to identify and then
disable the transponder and security link that would cause the ship's
computer to realize it was aboard.
Peeking out from behind the curtain, he wondered what was keeping the nurse
- even given that he was here, this was taking longer than normal. Were all
the Vulcans off-shift?
A short redheaded woman with the rank of Petty Officer 3rd class on her teal
collar and a pair of glasses set before her glowing red eyes appeared,
pushing the curtain back enough to allow her entrance. She looked over the
woman laying on the biobed, ignoring Krieghoff for the moment as she removed
the small hand sensor from her medical tricorder and started scanning.
"Sorry about the delay" she said finally. "What happened to her?" she
glanced at the Security officer, the red markers in her red eyes spun and
adjusted like focusing camera lenses.
"I don't know," he answered; taking refuge in the truth as he always did
when asked questions. "She hasn't wanted to talk much since I found her like
this. She was off-ship, going to visit family. Something bad happened
instead, is all I can assume - and that's merely stating the obvious.
Victory frowned as she looked at the readings on her medical tricorder.
"More than just 'something bad' happened" she commented. "There are signs of
extended periods of malnutrition, wounds dating back months and years that
were not recorded on her medical file..." she trailed off. "Everything I am
seeing shows someone who has been mistreated for a long extended amount of
time... Which I know is not the case for Ms. von Ernst....But what else is
strange...." Victory frowned again, looking at the information on her
tricorder, than back at the woman. "She is a good deal older than Ms. Von
Ernst....Premature aging....or...something else...." she regarded the
Security officer with her spectacled red eyes. "Is there anything else you
are not telling me? Any information you have is only going to help me treat
her"
"I can't tell you what I don't know, Victory," Victor replied. He considered
his options. There would be questions; he knew that, he'd known that from
the moment he'd realized who the woman that had appeared in the shuttle was.
Questions that he didn't want to answer, questions that he shouldn't answer,
questions that he couldn't answer.. "I have a feeling that I'll be saying
this a lot in the near future, but. I think it's better that you *don't*
know. If it helps, I'm considering classifying the whole issue at the
Halcyon Seven level pending further review." Halcyon Seven was the highest
level that he could classify something as without Command approval, which he
wasn't sure he could get, or Intelligence assistance, which he might have a
better chance at, but the situation certainly qualified for it, so.
"That's not going to be making things any easier" Victory frowned, she
really did dislike when officer types started throwing their authority
around, especially when someone's health was concerned.
"No, it won't," Victor agreed. "But it's probably better for everyone
concerned."
"I'm going to have to check you out to make sure you are okay, Ms. Von
Ernst. It wont take long than you can get some rest" Victory said, her voice
soothing.
Gingerly Allison slipped her arms from the mud caked sleeves. Little dried
bits of dirt fell off the table and scattered across the floor as it came
away.
She moved shyly, but also as if in a daze. her eyes unfocussed on the far
wall.
As her shoulders were bared, it was apparent she was emaciated. Sharp collar
bones protruded starkly from her thin frame, a sure indication of
malnutrition.
Starvation in the 24th Century?
In the 25th Century?
The bones weren't the only thing... more bruises and old cuts were
apparent... some in the distinct shape of fingers and hands, as if she's
been manhandled. She stopped before pulling her shirt all the way off. Thin
arms crossed across her chest unwilling to expose any more.
Victory glanced at Lieutenant Krieghoff as she set her tricorder on the
small cart next to the examination bed. "Lieutenant, I think you should be
on the other side of the curtain, if you please?" The tone of the redheaded
nurses voice indicated that what she said was less a request as it was more
an order.
"NO!" The woman on the table's hand shot out and latched onto Victor's arm
in a death grip. She actually drew blood as her nails dug deep into his
flesh. "Don't leave me!" she bored into him with two blue-eyed pits of
desperation. "Don't leave me alone!" Her hand quaked with desperation as it
clung to him.
Victor blinked, reached down, and covered Allison's hand with his own,
uncertain of the proper response to someone desperately wanting him to
*stay* anywhere. The last time that had happened, had been when Sakonna
begged Chulak not to die and leave her, and his response than wasn't
appropriate now. Finally, he chose the simplest response and hoped it would
suffice. "All right," he said softly, not moving. "I'll stay here until you
tell me to go, Allison. I won't leave you alone."
This seemed to mollify the wild-haired girl who went back to her sullen staring. ~~What did it matter really? All these people….wasting power…all bright lights?
Didn't they understand what was going to happen to them.~~~
After the Lieutenant had calmed Allison, he shifted position to let Victory
start her examination. "Thank you, Lieutenant" Victory commented as she
turned back towards her patient. "Okay deary," Victory offered her most
comforting smile. "Let's make you as comfortable as possible ok?" she leaned
closer to the other woman and whispered. "You can leave your clothes on if
it makes you more comfortable. I don't need you to remove them to do the
exam" she said and pushed her half rim glasses back up her nose.
Tapping some commands into her PADD Victory brought the room temperature up.
"Once I finish the exam we'll get you a nice warm shower so you can clean
off and a set of fresh clothes for you to be comfy in" she said and traded
the PADD for her medical tricorder and scanner as she switched her optical
sensors from visual light mode to x-ray and ultraviolet, the illuminated
markers flickering slightly as the visual modes shifted.
Allison - if it really was Allison - fidgeted uncomfortably on the table. It
was too bright in here. Too many lights, they ought to be conserving power.
What a waste.
She scratched at her arm, flakes of dried mud sprinkled off onto the floor.
How long had she been itching like that? Months now?
It was too warm in here too. Spuff didn't these people know to follow good
power conservation discipline?
When they ran out then they'd be sorry.
"Then you'll be sorry." she whispered, itching at her arm.
Victor frowned. Allison had murmured things many times on the trip back, but
that was the first time she'd been clear enough that he understood the
words, even if the context was lost on him. "What will I be sorry about,
Allison?" he asked gently.
She raised her head a bit. "I said, 'when my mother gets here... then you'll
be sorry.'"
"Your... mother?" Rebecca was coming here? The last Victor had heard, she
was off killing Hydrans near Delta IV. And he wasn't aware that she even
knew that Allison existed, much less how she was supposed to come *into*
existence. As he started to ask for more information, the curtains slipped
aside softly and he waited a moment to avoid being interrupted.
Just inside the screened off area Kimberly walked quietly up behind Victor;
pausing at a reasonable distance she coughed gently. She had no illusions
about being able to creep up on him, but surprising someone was never a good
idea. "Lieutenant," she greeted him casually, "I've been monitoring the
crewman's scans, where did you find her?"
"In my shuttlecraft," he responded truthfully. "And before you ask, no, I
don't know how she got there. She certainly knew the codes to let herself
in, but I haven't thought pressing her for information was a good idea." Of
course, she *hadn't* let herself into a shuttle in deep space with those
codes, while wearing no protective gear, but that was a complication that
he'd just as soon avoid adding to the mix right now.
"Has she said anything about where she's been, or anything? Some of her
scans are showing some unusual and unexpected results for someone who, by
all accounts was fine a few days ago. And some of her injuries appear to be
fairly old." Stepping around to stand at his side she looked up at him, "You
mentioned she'd gone to visit family? Is there any chance they might be able
to she light on this?"
"To the best of my knowledge, any members of her family that might assist in
answering those kinds of questions are beyond my ability to contact at the
current time." Victor was certain that much was accurate. "And no, she
hasn't said much about anything until right now." He paused. "To prevent
further issues, I'm, as I already told Victory here, considering invoking a
Halcyon Seven security lock on anything to do with this issue. If I do that,
then things become very official and constrained - I'll hold off if we're
all willing to just help Allison and sort things out later. Is that
acceptable?"
Victory glanced at Doctor Burton. "I respectfully must disagree with Mr.
Krieghoff's decision to restrict information concerning Ms. von Ernst" the
nurse said, "I think, especially with her current state we need all of the
information we can get to help with determining what happened to her so we
can properly plan out her physical and mental treatment"
Not looking thrilled Kimberly shrugged, "For now." She agreed. Looking at
Victory she shook her head, "I hate working blind as well, but if Mr.
Krieghoff is placing a security embargo on information for now we'll have to
trust his judgment there, he is Chief of Security. Having some idea of the
environment she's been in would help of course, but we'll work around that
for now. However, if anything does become available I expect to be notified
immediately, OK."
Looking over at Allison for a second she raised an eyebrow, "if you know
anyone aboard she's particularly close to or friends with, I'd appreciate it
if you could have someone stop by, having a friend around might help relax
her a little."
"Only one - her roommate; I was thinking about calling her soon but I didn't
want to wait on getting Allison's treatment started," Victor replied. "He
paused, checked Victory's disapproving look, and tried once more to convince
everyone to leave things under the table. "Look," he started quietly, "I'm
not trying to be obstructionist here. I do *not* know what happened to her,
other than the obvious from looking at her. I don't know where she was
before I found her. I don't know what happened there, other than, again, the
obvious inferred from her condition. I do know things I haven't told you,
but as of this moment they will not help you treat her. What they will do if
I tell them to you is to force me to slap a security lock on this and go to
higher command - and at that point, you, me, Allison, the rest of the crew,
and the ship itself will be, without fail, sitting out the rest of the War
undergoing procedures that will, I have no doubt," he nodded to Victory,
"make what you endured from Starfleet scientists, technicians and
psychologists after your discovery, into something you will remember fondly,
like a six-year-old's tea party. So, can we please do this without the
glares and the questions, or must we all take a three-year tour into Limbo?"
The nurse stiefled a slight laugh, "uh yeah .... try floating for centuries
in deep space, hoping some stray celestial, interstellar object *doesn't*
wander into your path, or wondering about the possibility of burning up in
reentry into some random planet's atmosphere, and all the while your body is
slowly working on putting itself back together." Victory said. "And you have
NO ONE to talk to."
"Okay, time out people," Kimberly warned silently, not wanting this to go
any further. "Victory, we have a patient, please arrange for a full blood
screen, get samples to the lab for immediate processing then see to Alisons
contusions please, i'll check the scans and go from there." Turning to
Victor she pointed outside, "Once the young lady is happy for you to leave
please arrange for her roommate to stop by later, and then see what you can
dig up for us. If you do unearth anything that might be of use to us, let
me know, if I need a security waiver to be told about it I'll leave you to
sort it out. Let's get to work people." She ordered.
"Place I Must Go" -- pt. 1
Lt. JG Artim Shivar - Chief of Life Science
Cmdr. Brian Elessidil, Chief Counselor
<< Holodeck- Juram V Program>>
It had only been a few days since his rescue from the jungle but Artim
had yet to go back to work. Physically he was pretty much back to
normal though his vision was still a bit blurry from the concussion.
However that wasn't the problem at all. Mentally he was a wreck
though. The hallucinations had stopped but the memories they had
jarred loose had...well...driven him here.
He was up on one of the hills overlooking his old home, a place he
hadn't been virtually or otherwise in two hundred years. It was here
that the memories that had been haunting him were formed. IT was up
here that Liam was killed. Or at least this was the last place he'd
seen Liam alive. Artim had always assumed he'd been eaten alive by
whatever animal he'd been running from but never actually went back to
find out. He never said good bye. He never thought to go back and bury
his friend. That's what he was here to do and he'd asked someone to
join him.
"This place has a lot of meaning for you," Counselor Elessidil
observed quietly as he gazed out across the hills. The fact was
obvious, not merely because he could sense Artim's feelings, not
merely because Artim had said there was a reason he wanted to meet
with the counselor in a different location than their usual, but also
because the land spoke for itself. Brian knew instinctively that no
one who was familiar with this place could not be affected by it on a
deep and personal level. It had a certain beauty, not obvious, but
there if one were willing to acknowledge it. "Tell me about it."
Artim didn't even look at Brian when he delivered his reply as his
eyes remained fixed off in the distance. His voice was hollow and distant.
"I didn't tell anyone this before but when I was down on that planet
waiting to be rescued I had...well...don't know exactly what they were
but I was seeing something. Someone that had died. An old old friend
of mine from when these woods were my home. His name was Liam and we
had been looking after each other for about 40 years. Before..."
Artim stopped himself when he realized where this was about to go.
He'd never talked about this to anyone. Ever. He wasn't sure he wanted
to now. Hopefully the shrink would sense the pain that was swelling
within him and decide not to go down the path that was clear. Maybe,
just maybe.
"Go on," Brian encouraged, casting an understanding glance in Artim's
direction.
Artim closed his eyes and sighed deeply before continuing. This was
going to be hard to talk about but it was probably for the best that he did. Two
centuries was long enough to feel guilty about something. Finally
turning to look up at Brian
Artim's tone stayed hollow distant.
"I was out gathering wood one day and left Liam at our camp, just over
there in that clearing, was a day a lot like this one actually. I got
to, well, about right
here when I heard a scream and then a roar. Sounded like a bear or something."
Tears started to form in his eyes as he got to what was the most
painful part. He was crying more than speaking at this point.
" I....I ran. I couldn't help it. I wanted to help him I really did but...I ran.
I left him there to die knowing that he needed my help. Didn't even go
back later to see if he was alive or anything. I just ran. I left one of
my best friends to be eaten alive and...and it's been..."
Sensing Artim's pain, the counselor put a hand on his shoulder.
"Artim...that's a terrible experience to have gone through. And
what's got to be worse is that you've been living with it ever since.
How long has it been?"
Artim stopped sobbing and wiped his eyes. "Two hundred years. More or
less. Was hard to track time back then. I...was hoping you could help
me with something. I want to set this thing behind me after all that
time. This is a demon that I have to confront. Could you...go in there
with me." Artim's eyes indicated the clearing in the distance, a few
minutes walk away.
Two hundred years. Not the kind of time frame most patients dealt
with. Brian had an inkling of what it was Artim might want to do next,
and while two hundred years was a long time to live with the guilt
associated with the kind of tragedy Artim had described, jumping in
too hastily could make things worse.
"I can, and I will if that's what you want. But Artim, before you
take that step, be sure you're really prepared. You ran away last
time and many would say for good reason. I realize this is a holodeck
re-creation, but programming it and re-living it are two different
things."
Artim had thought this over already but he did take a deep breath and
gave it one last bit of consideration. After a few seconds of silence
he shook his
head in the affirmative.
"In absence of going to the real place, which would be impractical as
long as this war is on, this is the only other way I can think of to
put this demon to rest. And I
have to put this demon to rest."
"Alright," the counselor acknowledged. "I'm ready whenever you are.
Lead the way."
Artim took a moment and another deep breath and then stood up and headed for the
clearing. Soon...very soon it would all be dealt with.
"LAUGH - A - LYMPICS"
Part 1
Featuring Leo Streely, his bard Shakes and the mysterious St. Croix
LOCATION: Main lodge for the Starfleet Games, Epsilon 4
"Look at 'em! There has to be hundreds of them, Shakes!" Leo Streely said breathlessly eyeing the women milling about the cavernous grand foyer of the lodge.
Modeled after the quaint Olympic villages from the heyday of the Olympic games in the 2010's before the controversial decision was made to expand the eligibility of the events to include species beyond Earthlings, the massive hotel complex was a remarkable representation of the idyllic hotels seen in all of the history holos.
Right down to the shudders and chefs who specialized in ethnic cuisine.
Standing on a massive staircase that looked like it belonged in a southern plantation on a sultry summer night, Leo's official bard scanned the crowd of men and women - mostly higher ranking officers - who had opted to lodge planet side rather then return to their mother ships.
"I believe its closer to a thousand." Shakes said to the smaller man whose eyes moved with a subdued grace as opposed to Leo's hatchet like leering.
"Even better! That makes the odds even more in my favor." he said rubbing his hands together. "These sports chicks all keep themselves cloistered during events to keep their edge. Once they are done competing, inhibitions fall and so do the panties!"
"How enlightening." Shakes deadpanned.
"Stick with me kid. You'll learn something." Streely said with a large smile. "Hey look there's our banner!"
He moved briskly through the crowd, slickly grabbing another drink and cocktail weenie (not to be confused with a tac weenie!) and then suddenly frowned.
The high, wood paneled walls of the interior of the inn were decorated with large banners from each competing ship. Some brandished thier ship’s crest. Others had images of the ships itself.
The Galaxy banner however contained a simple swirl of some sort of celestial anomaly.
"What...the hell....is this stupid crap?" Leo said whirling on Shakes, "THAT is supposed to strike fear in the hearts of the competitors? A swirlie?!?!"
"I suppose that there's an elegant symmetry in a picture of the Galaxy representing the GALAXY..." shakes started before Leo cut him off with a wave of the hand.
"Not on my watch! Lemmie see here...." he said walking around the room until he found an attendant who moments later came back with a spray adhesive and the two images Leo asked for, printed upon large pieces of flex board.
"Gimmie a boost..." Leo ordered.
Shakes thought for a moment, then said, "The blonde in the corner continuously gazes upon your groin with lust filled..."
"Not an ego boost, you dolt! Lift me up so I can reach the banner. Jeez. Why does it always have to be about my man root with you?”
After an awkward balancing act that drew more then its fair share of giggles and glances (say that one five times kids!), Leo stood back and admired his handiwork.
“What do ya think now? Isn’t that a little more like it?” he asked gazing upon the added image of a pouty looking Vulcan woman’s face gazing seductively over her shoulder with a crossed pair of swords hanging behind her.
“That’s quite…striking, Captain.” Shakes commented. “In an Old Ben Gunn kind of way.”
“Damn straight. Everyone in the ship has some sort of edged weapon ticked under their mattress like some sadistic version of the princess and the pea. Plus we seem to be a haven for Vulcans as of late. Not that I mind. Pointy ears are hot when used the right way.”
“Weeo. I am surprised to be zeeing you here…” a voice clipped from behind Streely. “Here without your Indian lover.”
Leo whirled around and came face to face with a thin Frenchman blotting his pencil thin moustache with a white kerchief.
“St. Croix. You french fried tart! Stand back Shakes. You may brush against this creep and come down with space ick or something that will turn you into a back stabbing pansy!”
The Frenchman huffed indignantly.
“I am nothing of zee sort. I see you are still holding zee grudge. You should know by now that not only are zee French better lovers, we are also cunning in zee business as well.”
“Better lovers. Ha! I hope you're not talking about your momma. She wasn't anything to write home about. A little too hairy for me. I thought I was rolling around with a wookee!"
“NON!!! I AM NOT HEARING ABOUT ZEE WOOOKEE! AND MY MOZAIR IS OFF LIMITS!”
“Try telling that to the dozen guys who are knocking on her door looking to lick the powdered sugar off her croissant if ya catch my drift.”
“As much as I enjoy watching your two brain cells struggling to make the thoughts, I am afraid I must bid you adeau. Surely you are needed in whatever rest room you are handing out zee breath mints in. Mean while, I am competing for zee glory of La France’ tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah? I didn't know the “Surrender” was an actual event.”
St Croix waved his glove in the air in disgust.
“Begone, Weeo. Before I do something that will make regrets!”
“What are you gonna do, tie me to a rail road? For your information, I'm competing here too. Isn't that right Shakes?
"I thought you were here to do that guest announcing..." the bard began before he was cut off by a sharp elbow to the short ribs.
"Shut up Shakes. Hey Frennchy, I have an idea. Whadda ya say we settle some old scores at the games here. You versus me and the winner gets..................... the twins."
St Croix hissed.
“Zee twins…yes! For zeee first time in your tiny little life, I believe you are having an idea. Tell me more..”
“You pick an event. I'll pick an event and then we will randomly pick an event. The guy who finishes highest wins the event. Whoever wins 2 events, wins................ the twins!
“A deal has been made, you mouse turd. We shall battle for......zee twins! I go now Weeo. Kiss your twin adeau!!!" St. Croix announced and then turned with a grand flourish and stalked out of the foyer.
As soon as the Frenchman was out of earshot, Leo whirled on his bard.
"Ok, OK, OK!!You need to get me signed up for an event here. Its gotta be something you know I can win! I cant loose...............the twins to that fru fru!"
Shakes looked confused.
"Who exactly are the twins? And do I even want to know whats going on?"
"The twins are a pair of velvet paintings. I have one and before I could finish bidding on the other, ol Frenchy there swooped in and managed to win the auction! Friggin Ebay. These things are priceless and now, at long last, both of.................the twins are gonna be mine!" Leo said rubbing his hands together.
"Um..what exactly are these prized paintings of?" Shakes asked, surrendering himself to his curiosity as they left the hotel in search of the registration tables.
"Mating Ferengis."
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