"Welcome to the Calvary Sailor"
Starring various NPC's on the War Torn world of Alpha KS-128
"Ensign Bob Franks reporting for duty."
In the camp full of mud spattered, bone weary Marines, the appearance of a trim and proper Starfleet officer was something of an anachronism.
The fact that he was saluting a Sergeant …an inferior rank and from a different service altogether also served to raise a few eyebrows.
"Put your arm down sir….shit….don't salute me I work for a living." Master Sergeant Jennifer Bledsoe was tempted to tearing a new hole into the 'fleetie ' for daring to confuse her with an officer, but relented.
In truth she was too damn tired and besides, she needed the guy.
The 26 year old brunette looked the Fleet weenie up and down critically. His sparkling uniform and polished boots were in direct opposition to her own tattered utilities, and mud spattered face.
She also became distinctly aware of how much she stank…..crap she needed a shower….and shampoo…..~~Gawd I'd give my left tit for some shampoo.~~~
"You the Torpedo guy?" she asked instead, still inspecting him critically.
"Yes….sir…ah…ma'am…I mean sergeant." Franks stuttered a bit, he wasn't up on recognition of Marine rank pins yet, and besides everyone here was a uniform color of grey mud that most such symbols had been blurred out. "Quantum Torpedo Load Specialist, Starboard tube….USS Jakarta."
His tone faltered a bit at the mention of his old ship…..so many shipmates.
"That one of the one blown out of the sky huh?" Bledsoe asked uncaringly, "Sucks."
"Yes…Sergeant….in the initial battle with Hydrans during the drop…..only a handful of us got to the escape pods." The memory was still fresh despite having happened weeks ago.
"How'd you get the spiffy uniform?"
"Huh?"
"The uniform….you've been on this rock for three weeks and you look like an Academy cadet smelling of Brass polish and cologne."
"Oh…" Franks suddenly became aware of how much he stood out amongst these dingy grognards.
"Um….We salvaged a Civilian Replicator unit back at the base camp…..most of the uniform data patterns were intact."
Bledsoe sighed. ~~What a effing ninny~~…..although part of her wondered if she could replicate some shampoo. "Ok Ensign…welcome to the shit….I know you aint Marine, but we're running shorthanded here, and we just so happen to need an antimatter warhead specialist." she paused, "You'll do until we find one."
Bob Franks nodded confused, but anxious to make himself useful. "I volunteered to come help when they asked for technical specialists….but what am I doing maintenance? Repair work?"
Bledsoe smiled and motioned to a large grey lump behind her. "No sir……Im here to teach you how to operate THAT."
Focusing for the first time on what he initially thought to be a small grass covered hill, Franks nearly choked. "Oh shit…..that's a TANK."
The sleek grey steel of the Hovertank was covered leaf-speckled camouflage net, leading to Franks initial confusion.
Now as the sergeant was pulling back the draping, he could appreciate the behemoth for what it really was.
As big as a house, and hovering a good meter off the ground, the tank looked like unto a squatting armored reptile of sorts. The massive turreted main gun protruding forth like a forked tongue.
Amazing to see something that big floating in mid air.
Experimentally Franks pushed down on a muddy fender, attempting to 'rock ' it a bit.
"What are you doing." The sergeant asked with a quizzical look on her face.
Franks blushed. "Oh....um...I dunno sarge....just testing the hovercoils?"
She shook her head wearily. "Look sir. This is the M-61 PETREUS Main Battle tank. Its got repulsorlifts designed to suspend a deadweight upwards of 80 tons....do you really a 180lb guy leaning on the fender is gonna budge it?"
The Ensign smiled embarrassed,, really feeling out of his element. "Right sarge....Petreus huh?"
"21st century General." she sniffed a bit defensively. "We dont ask questions about yall naming a starship Indefatigable or so such.....I dont even know how to use that in a a sentence."
Franks smiled. Born on Mars, he had to look up what a 'Jakarta' was when he first came aboard. The thought of his ship burning in orbit brought a grim set to his jaw. "Allright sarge...Im here to help...show me what you need."
Grinning the lady sergeant grabbed hold of a railing and heaved herself up. "Step into my Parlor sir."
(fifteen minutes later)
As big as the tank was on the outside, the inner core was a cramped crawlspace of dim light and metal protrusions seemingly designed specifically for banging one's head or shins on.
Sgt Bledsoe seemed to scramble in and around the various nooks and crannies like a monkey, but the Starfleet officer used to 3 meter wide passageways was already sporting a few bruises.
Not normally claustrophobic, Franks was beginning to have serious second doubts about volunteering.
'
"Okay...We're sitting here in the Main turret." The Sarge motioned. "Suspended beneath us is the turret 'basket' and the whole shebang rotates through 360 degrees to bring us to bear on any threat."
She poked her fingers at the metal mesh surrounding them. "Dont put your arms, legs or anything you're wife will miss through here, or it'll get snapped right off. Remember the turret spins but the hull doesn't."
Nodding Franks tried to squeeze himself even smaller. "Tray-table and seat upright at all times...gotcha."
"Down front we have the drivers position" bledsoe pointed down through the mesh 'basket'.....the M-61 will go from zero to 120 mph in 15 seconds and has a variable hover-height from one to 4 meters for covering obstacles."
She pointed again. "Next to the driver in the hull is the Defensive systems officer....point defense weapons...rotatable shields...and ECM, ECCM suites."
Franks nodded frowning a bit. As a Starfleet weapons officer most of it was familiar except for...."Rotatable shields?"
The sergeant smiled and motioned him for a closer look. "Okay...check it out...On a starship you got 360 degree shield protection on all axis right? One goes down, and you simple shunt to another kay?"
"Okay."
"Well on this here puppy we dont have a fancy antimatter core for unlimited power....all we got is a Z-Level Fusion plant for everything from weapons to movement and defense...so we have to make some cuts somewhere."
She motioned with her hands. "Picture this...the outer skin of the tank is two feet of layered duranium...good for protection against ballistics...small arms, and shell fragments okay? Outside of the armor we have a 360 light shield bubble. This can intercept hand phasers...most disruptor fire...basically similar to what you'd see in a detention center to keep people from running away...small stuff right?"
"Okay." Frnks nodded again.
"Right," Bledsoe moved her hands again to indicate a final layer. "Problem is when people start shooting the big stuff at us. Rail guns...photon bazookas....Antimatter cannons.....Poof! The light shields cant stand up to it, and the armor sure cant."
"So you need capital shields....like on a starship hull?" Franks concluded.
"Exactly, but like I said we aint got the power to provide 360 coverage with shields that hot, so what we got instead is a rotatable cap-shield with a limited 60 degree arc. That we can move."
"60 degrees?" The Starfleet Ensign blanched, That sounded dangerously open as 60 degrees of coverage left 300 degrees of vulnerability.
"Yeah...sucks right?" The Sergeant was enjoying his unease. "Dont worry fleetie, we try to keep the badguys in front of us at all time. Say a bad guy op sup on our right....thats starboard for you fleet types.....well we just slew our shield over to cover that arc. Bad guy pops up on the left and zip...we move the shield over there. Same thing if somebody pops up from behind."
Franks was nodding but a sudden thought struck him. "What happens if two enemies appear...one on the left...one on the right?"
Bledsoe frowned. "Well then we hope we guess correctly which one is gonna fire first, because if the shield facing the wrong way...." she shrugged. "Dont worry, we work damned hard not to get caught in a crossfire.....but....well shit happens right?" she frowned. Look...the Defense guy will handle all that so dont worry your pretty head. Lets finish the tour and get you settled." she motioned further back.
Central to the turret was the impressive commander's station, a high placed seat into which Sgt Bledsoe settled smugly. "Allright this is my seat. " she beamed. "we've got the standard overhead hatch for looking around, but in reality I'll be spending most of my time with the holo displays which give a panoramic view of the are all around us at magnifications out to several miles."
She flicked through a series of filters enumerating each of them in turn. "Infrared...ultraviolet...mass sensors....magnetic resonance imaging....yadda yadda...all the basics."
Moving her left foot she kicked the back of the seat directly in front and below of her perch. "This is the gunners seat." she tapped it again. "He's got most of the same displays, but is pretty much tied to the view of wherever the gun is pointing. He has primary control of turret movement, but I can override him from here If I need too."
By way of example she shifted a small joystick to her right and Franks had the slightly nauseating feeling of his entire world spinning with a low hum of electric motors.
"Thats a bit disconcerting." he remarked. "I can feel us spinning but have no external cues to focus on."
Bledsoe shrugged. "Sorry...no fancy acceleration compensators like you have in the fleet. I'll tell you up front that its probably gonna take a bit for you to adjust...make ya puke a bit too, but even if you do I expect you to keep on doing your job regardless."
"Which is what?" Franks gestured around the cramped turret, "What am I supposed to do?"
Smiling she pointed. "That's where you'll be sitting." Bledsoe indicated the cramped metal bench welded to the left side of the main turret.
"I know you're not trained in ground combat, but you stated you're a torpedo load specialist right?"
Franks was examining the tiny cramped alcove that was his position. "Yes, thats right."
"Cool...from what I'm told I think that will make for an easier transition. You're gonna be our loader...Its your job to inventory our various Main gun rounds, and feed them into the breech as needed. the ordinance is different, but basically all you're doing is loading our cannon instead of a torpedo tube."
Patting the huge cylindrical breech that dominated the whole front half of the turret, the sergeant smiled. "This is our baby. A 152mm Railgun smoothbore capable of reaching out and saying 'Howdy' to bad guys from about 5 miles out. In reality engagement ranges are a bit closer due to terrain masking and ECM, but she's a beauty."
Pointing at the display Bledsoe explained. "We have the capability of selecting and firing a multitude of different rounds depending on the situation at hand. I'll be calling shots....the gunner will do the aiming, but its your job to keep the cannon fed with the right type of ammo."
"This is the standard LCARS combat Software" Franks lightly touched the display..."Version 6.5?"
"4.0" she shook her head. "sorry, we dont get all the fancy upgrades, but the formats the same."
Glad to find something relatively familiar in all this tons of metal, Ensign Bob Franks cycled through a few menus, pleased to find it mostly similar to Quantum torpedo loading procedures.
"Ok....cool, I see prefiring sequences, bore evacuators.....arming cycles." he nodded at each menu in turn, "I understand all this, but Im not familiar with the ammunition specifics...whats a Glow-Worm?"
Bledsoe motioned for the Ensign to swivel his tiny stool to face the rear. "Okay that big metal door behind you, thats the Ready Ammo Racks. Just hit that switch with your knee to slide the door back...thats it."
She reached across to slide out a large transparent cylinder almost 6 inches across and more than a meter in length. "Okay....dont pull it all the way out, but you see whats inside the cylinder?"
"Its glowing..."
"Its plasma." she nodded. "Hot fluidic plasma kept in its ionized state by the magnetic bottle here. Runs about 4000 kelvin in temperature...these are our primary Anit-Tank round. We call em glow worms."
Franks nodded,examining the blue-green glowing fluid inside the casing. The name fit...it almost looked like a 3 foot neon slug.
Bledsoe pointed back at the main gun. When we fire them out of the gun, the casing falls away leaving only the plasma core traveling at transonic speeds. Trust me sir, anything that hot, and that fast is gonna cut through anything it hits. Thats another reason we call em worms. they leave big melted wormholes in the armor plating of anything they punch into."
She smiled almost cutely. Blowing stuff up was a tankers favorite topic.
The starfleet officer was taking mental notes. "Glow Worms...Antiarmor...real hot. Got it. What are these other rounds. The pointy looking one there?"
Bledsoe slid another four foot round halfway out. "You're a weapons officer. Check out the tip there."
Franks squinted. "Magnetic bottle? Wait...Antimatter?"
"Yup." The sergeant gingerly slid the cylinder back into place, "Metal casing stabilizes it during flight, and the bottle shatters upon impact. Not alot of penetration, but makes for very big booms!"
"I see."
"In addition we got smoke rounds....canister, thats an antipersonnel casing filled with tiny ball bearings."
"Whoa.' Franks whistled. "Making it a 152mm shotgun."
"Yessir." Bledsoe looked around wondering if she had forgotten anything. How she'd have loved to run the guy through 6 weeks of tanker school, but right now with casualties as high as they were, she needed every warm body she could get. At least he knew somewhat of the basics.
"I hate to throw you in like this sir, but I dunno...any questions?"
In fact Franks wanted to ask what happened to Bledsoe's last loader, but decided he wouldnt like the answer. Best not to know.
"No I....."
>>BRAVO ZULU 2-2, BRAVO ZULU 2-2, OMEGA 6 ACTUAL...COME IN COME IN<<
The blast of a combat radio cut across any reply.
>>BRAVO ZULU, COME IN....WE GOT ARMOR! ENEMY ARMOR INSIDE THE PERIMETER. REQUEST BACKUP, REPEAT REQUEST BACKUP IMMEDIATELY!!<<
Like a muddy imp, Bledsoe was already scrambling across the turret interior, up into her command seat. FRom outside other hatches were being thrown open and various crewmen were stuffing themselves into their own battle positions, throwing the new Ensign a quizzical look.
"Showtime Starfleet. We're moving out!" The sergeant winked at him from across the maze of metal. "Load me up a Glow worm and strap yourself in. Time to see if you get your Tanker spurs today."
"Sound and Fury in Perfect Form…"
Lt. Commander Adrian An'quinsos
Assistant Chief Counselor
USS Galaxy-A
Lt. Commander Rallen Norana (APC)
Chief Science Officer
USS Leavenbolt
*Epsilon IV (Demeter) Martial Arts Arena*
It appeared that in these games 'Mixed' Martial Arts meant a bit more
than the actual category, as it was further subdivided. The first
division was a straightforward contest between opponents incorporating
one or more fighting styles in their technique. The second category
was a 'catch all' for those forms of martial arts which were uncommon,
rare, and possibly unheard of. Therefore when Adrian saw the category
for El-Aurian Baguazhang, he obviously signed himself up for it right
at the least moment. Unfortunately, in doing so, the Counselor forgot
to remove himself from the former category until the day of
preliminaries in which he found himself in two; one during mid-morning
and the other around mid-afternoon. The blue-eyed humanoid male could
do little more than let out a long, deep sigh, and headed for a chair
to wait on his time to arrive. The only thing that really annoyed him,
was the feel of the standard gi he was wearing; he was grateful they
at least let him wear his other attire for the mid-afternoon
preliminary…
He had gotten through mid-morning Preliminaries; it was no surprise
considering his opponent was rendered unconscious within seconds. The
El-Aurian stepped onto the floor; his expression was nothing but
serene calm with a look of gentle poise. He listened silently to the
rules and then bowed to both the judge and his opponent and stepped
back into his spot on the floor. His opponent, a Bolian from the USS
Tomahawk, had decided to go on the defensive, drawing into a posture
to protect in the front and sides; Adrian stepped to his side into a
relaxed, 'millstone palm.' Cheers and jeers came in equal measure, but
everything was blotted out: the voices of the crowd, the sounds and
movements around him except for his opponent. The next few seconds
were a blur to most people, but from what they could tell, the
Bolian's defenses had been bypassed, several strikes had been made,
and the room fell silent as one of the favored medal contenders fell
to the ground unconscious. Knowing that there were medics on standby
for just such an occasion, he walked away silently, as he was
announced the winner…
It was the next competition that mattered and one that saw the
Counselor in another uniform. The standard white uniform had been
discarded for a personalized one. Two-pieced, it was black; the
long-sleeved shirt had a row of silver fasteners on the front, and the
first letter of Adrian's surname embroidered down the back, the
character looping to the right and then a little ways down looping to
the left ending in a gentle curve to the right. The pants had a series
of small, silver character, resembling scribble running the length of
both sides. The only thing identifying his ship origin was a
replicated, circular path placed on his right shoulder, everything
else was totally authentic. He had an alternate one similar to it for
sparring and practice was this one was for ceremonial and otherwise
special occasions. Vaguely resembling a Terran, Tai-Chi Outfit in
form, it lacked the frog buttons, mandarin collar (no collar at all,)
and elasticity in the waist and leg. Instead, it was loose, not
clinging to the body, it had had a 'flowing' appearance, as though he
were more gliding than actually walking.
He stepped into the warm-up room and a curious expression came to his
face. The only practitioners of El-Aurian Baguazhang that he was aware
of were of his own race. There were no instructors aboard the Galaxy,
unless you counted, and he only taught his son, Maxim. Despite being a
regular in the gym (typically with his son,) no one was interested and
consequently, he had neither the impetus nor the interest in starting
a class. However, by the looks of things, he could tell that someone
had actually done so, and that class must've culminated some
reasonably potential students. He noted Humans, Bajorans, Vulcans,
Trills, a few Betazoids, a couple of Klingons, and a few El-Aurians
dispersed among them.
"Hello Uncle… I didn't know you were competing."
Ears twitched as his head moved slowly to the left, catching sight of
a youth appearing in his late teens with short, reddish blonde hair
and dark, green eyes. Of similar height and build to Adrian he had a
bright, friendly smile on his face as he approached in a uniform not
too dissimilar than his; save for the fact that it was white, lacked
the lettering on the back of the shirt and pants, and a patch
indicating his own starship.
"Hello Rallen and neither did I, until Maxim added me to the roster."
He scanned the room. "Your aunt isn't here is she?"
"Oh." He could only blink at that. "No, mother said Aunt Sonriell was
busy back on Earth. So… where is Maxim?"
"Good, that means we'll survive the competition." Eyes passed toward
the competitors in the room warming up, gauging them discreetly. "With
your mother in the Diplomat's Box; Jaina has elected to take him off
my hands while the Federation Games are being held. What Pattern did
she teach you?"
El-Aurian Baguazhang is composed of four walking patterns and eight
trigrams rooted in El-Aurian philosophy and spirituality. The four
walking patterns are Circle, Concentric, Triskelion, and Spiral. Back
on the Homeworld, the term 'form' was once interchangeable with
'pattern,' however this became archaic, due mostly to the Diaspora
that occurred in 2265. Then came those philosophies, interconnected in
their own ways (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, Light, Life, Time, and
Sun,) represented in a trigram fashion, similar Baguazhang on Earth.
For an El-Aurian it was enough to ask was pattern had been taught; by
the time one walking pattern was completed, you knew the eight palms
(and the sixty four combinations that encompassed them) and the animal
styles that conceptualized each palm. With that in mind, Adrian was a
little surprised- perhaps impressed- at the number of non El-Aurians
who were competing in this division.
"Triskelion." The Half El-Aurian replied; looking to the room. "She
also incorporated a little Circle and Concentric, said I wasn't ready
for Spiral yet."
"Still, your first pattern mastered, and a good one to learn…" He
looked to the room, moving to a clear location. "I suppose I better
warm up then. It was good seeing Rallen, and when the time comes, I
will look forward to our match."
The Science Officer regarded his Uncle rather ominously as a gleam
sparkled within those dark, stormy blue irises of his elder. As a
scientist, he attempted to postulate it in numerous ways, and finally
gave up, nodding to Adrian and returning to his space in the room. The
El-Aurian looked back at his nephew as he departed, a moment of
thought hanging on his face and then returned to his task.
Hands clasped, eyes closed and perfectly still, he began shutting out
the world; the voices in the room, the sounds of movement, and the
thoughts of the upcoming match died away as he centered himself.
Finally, after an eternity of wait, eyes opened; his left arced
halfway over him, while his left arm, slightly bent at the elbows,
palm flat, was held out; he pivoted sat the waist, creating another
angle and began walking a circle. He walked clockwise and then
counterclockwise eight times each. As this came to conclusion, the
El-Aurian stepped into the circle; graceful and agile, each strike
flowed into a combination of a block, a twist, and finally pivoting as
he began walking counterclockwise. Completing the rotation he
proceeded into more complicated turns and twists; well-placed strikes,
counter strikes, kicks, and blocks happened almost instantaneously.
One moment he moved right and the next he was left and then down and
up in a dazzling flurry of complicated spirals, fist and spear strikes
that, to every onlooker there had dangerous meaning without words.
He drew further, incorporating hand movements; pushing, pulling,
directing, and redirecting, this culminated- with a series of
intricate arcs and spirals- into strike directed at unexpected angles;
above and below as he sank and rose, strikes that went two different
directions, along with kicks that, as far as all there could tell,
would well timed and placed. There was no paying attention to whatever
was or wasn't around him as Adrian was in his element, focus placed
upon his center and one name that would not go away even after he
died… Adrastos. Spins, circles, spirals, and diamonds all went into
his footwork as that particular name echoed across his consciousness.
The memories aboard the Nemesis were as fresh as though they happened
a few minutes ago; he was outclassed, outmatched; beyond his league on
so many levels that he realized the only reason for the fight was to
stall. He landed well placed strikes but that was in his opinion, only
luck. The sentiment brought even more moves into the fore; he went
deeper, incorporating increasingly more complex and more precise
combinations; an expression of serene calm and peace never left his
countenance, the memories serving only to fuel increasing complex and
dynamic maneuvers which were beginning to transcend walking patterns.
Beginning in circle, he had moved into concentric, triskelion, and
spiral, bringing each pattern out intermittently; he continued without
fail drawing upon his knowledge of his people art until he was sound
and fury in perfect form, with nothing to stop him except himself.
And then he stopped, bringing his hands, his hands up and lowering
them palms downward, letting out a long, drawn out breath until
everything was over, oblivious of whatever was or wasn't said, leaving
to warm down in silence. Little did he realize, he had the Humans and
Betazoids a little intimidated, the Klingon impressed, the Vulcans
intrigued, the Trill taking notes, and the few El-Aurians in the room
smiling with pride. As far as the latter were concerned, this would
prove to be an interesting match to say the least...
"Dueling Commentators"
Leo Streely
Samantha Widdlestein
****
Epsilon Four "Demeter"
Holodeck Complex
Couples Ice Skating Preliminaries
****
"This is junior commentator Sam Widdlestein reporting live from the
preliminary round of ... couples ice skating. Yeah, that's what I
thought too when I first heard what I was covering. I mean where in
the universe is putzing around wearing bad spandex - which you,
Contestant Number Two, should NOT be wearing by the way - considered a
survival skill? I thought these were the Starfleet Games? I thought
I'd at the very least be covering rhythmic gymnastics. I mean this is
an obvious waste of my talents and considerable ..."
"Hey little miss muffet, why don't ya sit there and let a pro show ya
how it's done? That's right boys and girls, this is your Captain of
all things carnal, the pubah of the pubic..Leo Streely giving you the
thrill of my...waitaminute...did you say junior commentator? Forget
that carnal pubic thing. How come you ain't out there gathering roses
off the ice? You there with the camera, I didn't know she was under
age..can we get a cut here and second take? Maybe I can go stand next
to those two skaters dressed like a mousetrap and cheese....."
"EXCUSE ME?!? *I* am a professional, unlike some people who don't know
their figure eights from their asshooo ... WHOA! Did you see that? I
didn't think that move was legal outside of a Risan bordello. Perfect
ten for being able to hold the Missus up over his head for that long
though. What did you think of that ... LEO! Didn't you read there's no
flash photography?
"There's no flash, its a holo recorder! It just gleamed a little under
these hot lamps. Geez, you think that it was something a Cardassian
Interrogator would set up to get to the truth. WOW!!! Did you see
that? Now that kids was unbelievable. A Quadruple Sow Cow. Why do you
think they named these moves after farm animals? And they say I'm
pervert. What's next? A tripple horse c...."
"Continuing with MY coverage, I'd say this dynamic duo has a real shot
at the gold. It's a shame their outfits look like they were designed
by a third grader. Or James Corgan. Geez, there are just some color
combinations that aren't meant to grace the living. And sparkles? SO
juvenile."
"Whoa! Now that's unfortunate! A wardrobe malfunction!!! That's gonna
cost 'em a deduction from the Russian Judge! They are notoriously
prudish don't ya know. Can you imagine the scores they would give
someone like 8-Ball? By the way, viewers at home, what you are looking
at now.... is a full moon over Uranus!"
"Talk about blinded by the light! Damn, that's one skater that's never
seen the inside of a tanning booth. But kudos for trying to continue
the routine even if we're paying more attention to ass cheeks than
their sits and spins. One can only hope that ... OH NO! SKATER DOWN!
SKATER DOWN!"
"I guess what they say is true: you just can't lutz with your sequined
pants down! Not in this day and age. Hey, can we get a little help for
the little darling there before she ends up with frost bite? I've
seen posterior amputations before and they ain't pretty. Liminikova!!!
Over here!!! It's Leo!! Roll over here and I'll help warm you up!"
"EW, gross! Play shoot the duck on your own time, Casanova. Besides,
she's totally a man."
"WHAT?!?! Well who knew? He looks like a chick, OK?!?! Hey, can we
just edit this part out? I can't have my fans think that I'm playing
for the other team here. What do you mean we're live? I didn't know
that! Cut to commercial. Cut to anything!"
"Do we have that segment on Liminikova ready, Sandy?"
"Hey now, I don't think anyone wants to watch She-Ra, Princess of
power there icing up his marbles and talking with a lisp."
"You said 'anything'. Don't get pissy with me; It's not my fault you
were non-specific. Ah, what a lovely pair spin that just was. A little
on the safe side perhaps but it's hard to beat the flaming death
spiral that was performed in this very auditorium two years ago. It
may have been a risky move to combine ice and an open flame but what a
sight!"
"ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...wha..what? Sorry! I dozed off there a little
watching that dreadfully boring performance.When are those two over
there going to be on the ice? He's dressed like a hockey stick and
she's dressed like a puck. Who can't see where this one is going to
go?"
"What do you mean?"
"Look kid, you're a little too young for me to be talking about this
type of thing. Last thing I need is the fuzz putting the hot lamps to
me for corrupting your sensibilities."
"But I don't understand, Uncle Leo. Could you explain it to me?"
"It's all symbolism. What are they teaching you in school? The stick
slaps the rubber covered puck...waitaminute...you know what I'm
talking about don't ya? I'm wise to this whole playing dumb thing.
You're growing up a little faster then people realize there, Lolita."
"Had you going though. You're watching Couples Figure Skating brought
to you by Starfleet and Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. Scrambling your
brains and making you beg for more!"
"We'll be back, right after this commercial break.....now tell me the
truth...is Liminikova really a dude?"
"Homework from The Boss"
Featuring:
Jordan Elaithin
Valentina Kyznetsova
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After her brief meeting with the captain, Jordan returned to the intelligence center. There were more people there, now, especially odd given the gamma shift had started about two hours earlier and the numbers should actually be dwindling. She supposed the rumors of her arrival would have been buzzing through the small intelligence contingency and people wanted to get a look as she who should not be named, or "she who was here on some nefarious business to be sure." The latter would only be supplemented by the fact that Bental departed some time earlier, not long after completing what would have been a very short call. No doubt they believed Jordan to be responsible; no doubt they believed it to be some meddlesome and likely evil power play.
She would neither confirm nor deny this. There were reasons to Bental reassignment. Many reasons. Many far deeper than any one of them could possibly imagine.
But at the moment, Jordan was sure they would see it as a ploy to get him out of the way so she could rummage through his files, systems, and deepest secrets.
Of course, the chief ghost could not care less. If she didn't want them to see her, they wouldn't. It was that simple.
She'd been in Bental's office for a good hour or so, scouring through the copiously maintained, not-a-hair-out-of-place, entirely on the books and above-the-water files he allowed to be easily accessed. It was a pointless exercise. If there was anything to hide on the system, he undoubtedly had mechanisms in place to wipe it clean, which he no doubt activated the moment he completed that call. And given his friendship with Valentina, the resident tech-ops liaison and soon-to-be (no doubt, already named) department administrator pro temp, it would be virtually impossible to recover. She knew this before she even sat down behind the desk; gathering information beyond a cursory glance was not the focus.
No, indeed that had just appeared in the doorway. She could feel the presence lingering warily.
"I don't bite," Jordan said, not looking up as she tabbed through another set of folders. "Not unless you deserve it, at any rate. It's Valentina, correct?"
"Lieutenant Junior Grade Kyznetsova, Ma'am." The cyborg standing just outside Bental's office sounded very much like a Vulcan, or perhaps the machines she was partially composed of. "I know your name, and the unlimited access to this facility you display tells me that you are well placed within the hierarchy. The rumors and stories do you no justice, Mrs. Elaithin. Though it will no doubt be revealed in due time, protocol and common courtesy require that I inquire as to the purpose of your presence and how I might assist you in your endeavors, Ma'am."
Jordan lifted an eyebrow as she glanced now at the cyborg standing stoically at the door.
"Hm," she stated, returning her focus to the screen. "I think I can handle this current matter fine on my own, it's more personal curiosity than anything else and I doubt that you would be able to offer much," she mussed. "There's just not a clearance level there... I will need to speak to you, though, about the small issue of your own recent experiences... but perhaps some time later. I want to do an... informal debrief."
That didn't sound anywhere remotely close to the definition of 'good' at all, especially when her own experiences were referred to as a 'small issue.' Stepping in through the still open doorway, Valentina allowed the office to close and seal shut behind her before continuing their dialogue.
"Normally I would defer you to Lieutenant Bental with regards to my experiences and status within this particular department," she said, taking a position standing at the visitor side of the desk. "It is unfortunate, perhaps, that he has been temporarily reassigned. I would expect you know this already."
"Of course," the director said as she continued to look through the details in the ghosts of Bental's files; they didn't reveal much, she didn't expect them to. "Who do you think made sure he was reassigned? But don't worry, he'll return."
That immediately put Valentina on her guard. She didn't just know where Saul was: Jordan Elaithin was the one who had personally sent him on his way.
"What specific 'experiences' of mine would you be referring to, Ma'am?"
Somewhere, she knew better than to pursue any information regarding Bental's return: all in due time, as the saying goes. In the mean time, Val had little use for 'pleasantries,' small talk, and the like. She now had a department to run, more or less. It actually ran itself rather well, she just did paperwork. Paperwork she had only half a clue about and had to enlist the aid of one of the senior analysts to muddle through. Surely they could have chosen someone more qualified from the department.
"I'm sure you know," Jordan stated. Then she sighed, turning off the console and sitting back in the chair, studying the officer in front of her. "Your sudden disappearance and equally as unexpected return from thin air." Jordan raised her eyebrows again, echoing the expression of someone searching for non-verbal clues, but it was clear she didn't expect them.
"I was rendered unconscious and kidnapped." It was the truth, at its core. "Upon awakening I immediately perceived a threat to the health and proper operation of my body and associated hardware and defended myself, resulting in the deaths of a number of my captors. Transportation returning me to the USS Galaxy was arranged with extreme haste."
Blur the details however you liked, it was precisely what had happened. Regardless of whom she was or the potential threat she posted to Valentina's 'health and proper operation,' the cyborg didn't believe in outright lying to those lawfully appointed over her. Muddying the waters, on the other hand, was perfectly acceptable. Especially given the vocation they shared.
"I see," Jordan said after a moment. "Sit down, lieutenant'." She watched the cyborg comply. "Here is what I need: I need you to cut the shit and be straightforward with me. I know your file probably better than you do, and I have read a full investigative report from the scene. What I need from you, now, are some additional details on the people who were holding you."
"I had no contact with the command level personnel," Valentina replied. "My only contact was with the people in the operating theater when I first woke up, and what appeared to be Starfleet Security department personnel who showed up shortly thereafter. They shot first and asked questions later; I reciprocated in kind. Unless this gives you any further insight as to the identities of the brains behind this scheme, I don't think I have anything else to offer. I have no knowledge of how they rendered me unconscious, nor of my incarcerations prior to waking in the operating theater. Neither did I witness any of the facility beyond the OR and the corridor immediately beyond prior to returning to the Galaxy."
"Starfleet Security? Really?" Jordan questioned, somewhat surprised. It was an interesting deduction for her to make -- the director what have expected her to conclude the personnel were Intelligence Security Section or some such thing. Though Jordan was, frankly, almost positive they were neither -- not security section nor fleet security nor anything remotely similar.
Well, somewhat similar.
"Why do you think that Starfleet would be involved in your abduction?"
"I have no doubts that following my departure the scene was tampered with. The individuals who attacked me were wearing Starfleet uniforms with Security department identifiers. I also stated that they appeared to be Starfleet," Val clarified. "I did not definitively state who or what they were, nor did I remain for any length of time to conduct a personal investigation. Movement to a safer environment was my prime objective.
"As for why anyone would take the extreme course of action this particular group chose, the answer is relatively simple to me regardless of the veracity of any statements I overheard."
She held up her right hand - it looked perfectly organic. "My synthetic components. They are of a technology base now extinct within the Galaxy, and are of an order more sophisticated than anything the Federation has seen short of the Borg themselves. In the History of the Galaxy it has always been far easier and much less painful to simply take something and deal with the repercussions than to ask for permission or attempt to acquire possession through legitimate venues."
"Yes, I've read your file," Jordan said, attempting to conceal the irritation over the almost boastful nature of the other woman's tone. "I have also had a full briefing from your director." She cleared her throat. "And that is what complicates this, to be honest; the data on your components is highly classified. That means it's either an internal job or there's a mole somewhere. I'm not sure which would be worse."
Valentina shook her head. "Both scenarios indicate that at least one, if not assuredly multiple persons, within the organization have betrayed the Security of the Federation, knowingly or not. I would consider those that do not know the damage they are causing to be most dangerous, as they will not sway from their current courses of action precisely for the same reason; they do not know, or possibly don't care." It may have been stating the obvious to someone like Jordan, but Val knew from her time that Intelligence didn't want yes-men.
"Evidently," Jordan replied, raising an eyebrow again, attempting to decipher the extended response to her rhetorical statement. "I would like you to make a full report – and I mean full report, Lieutenant', of the incident: every detail of immediately before, what you observed when you woke, and a complete play-by-play of what you did once you escaped custody. I also need a full list of everyone you know who may have any knowledge of your technology, regardless of whether or not they have the clearance to know about it; understand that I do not care who they are to you nor how certain you are they would not share such information. I need a complete list and any purposeful omission will be considered disobeying a direct order."
Jordan's voice had lowered considerably, gaining the deep and intense cadence that came with her 'official hat,' the weight of her position pushing the words even more harshly forward. And she looked at the lieutenant from over her brow; her eyes gleamed with the faint, ethereal blue that was otherwise so out of place within the dark hazel iris.
"Do I make myself understood, Lieutenant?"
"Perfectly, Ma'am. When do you require the report?" Already the neurons were firing within Val's mind - Cowboy certainly knew, Bental was a no-brainer, as well as the entire Intelligence staff, for starters. Writing up the play-by-play of her escape was the part that would take the longest, she figured.
"First thing in the morning, start of alpha shift would be fine," Jordan stated, standing, signaling that in her mind, the meeting was finished. "I look forward to it. Thank you, lieutenant; it was good to finally meet you, I have heard quite a bit. You are dismissed."
"The one with a friendly hello -- and debriefing"
LtCMDR Th'Khiss K'aa
Chief of Operations
USS Galaxy
K. Jordan Elaithin
Director Clandestine Ops
Starfleet Intelligence
--
Her meeting with ship-board intelligence completed, Jordan was left with little to do; she was up to date on her briefings, wouldn't be due to get another set of reports for several more hours, and her husband was currently on shift and more or less incommunicado what with the Miranda in deep space some three week's hard warp away. They were communicating by subspace mail these days, and would another two months as she sorted out all of this and a healthy dose of other business that needed her more physical attention.
It wasn't easy. In the past year, she had grown accustomed to being a fully accessible wife and mother, making up, perhaps, for the time she'd been forced to spend far, far away.
But all that said, she decided this current downtime would be the perfect opportunity to catch-up with some old friends and colleagues.
When the Miranda was reassigned to another sector, many of the crew had been transferred to other ships within so that their veteran experience would not be lost to the Triad front. It was a smart move by Starfleet, but it left a hole in the ship as far as Jordan Elaithin was concerned. The Miranda's new crew was solid to say the least, each of them capable with their own quirks and contributions, and they were slowly growing to be something closer to a family. But it wasn't the same; it couldn't be and never would.
Perhaps it was just nostalgia getting to her, Jordan thought as she walked the familiar halls of the USS Galaxy. It had been eight years since Serpico first told her she was to be assigned to this ship; Captain Price had been put on a special assignment and John Q. Bhrode, a controversial and relatively inexperienced captain at the time, had been given the command. She, freshly off an assignment she now knew was for Section 31, was shifted to something a little less sensitive and far more "on the books": covert observation of a new commanding officer. It was nothing special, nothing unusual, just a run of the mill internal affairs assignment like any they would give to clandestine officers in need of some relief. So she slipped into her long-running reporter cover, ingratiated herself with the crew, and watched the captain's every move and reported his every decision.
The good old days.
To be honest, she had hated almost every minute. She wasn't a COIA (clandestine operations: internal affairs) officer; her training had made her better than that. And while she thought the quiet assignment would be good for her, it actually served to make her antsy and a little bit stir-crazy. Until, of course, she met Elaithin Jii. And that, as they say, was that. It shaped her entire life since.
She paused, then, in front of the operations chief's office.
Jordan hesitated a moment and then depressed the call button. She suspected that this would be the most difficult meeting, and thus she decided to put it first in the docket. Get it over with, out of the way.
"Hi, K'aa," she said, voice low as she offered a slight (and slightly strained) smile toward the human face that answered, "mind if I come in?"
The thin man's eyes narrowed and his frown deepened at the sight of the familiar female. The sight of her turned his blood to rivers of ice water - it always had, ever since the Indefatigatable. He had seen the autopsy, reviewed it a hundred times on the Miranda, and while Elaithin Jii's overjoyed acceptance of his wife's return bore significant weight, Th'Khiss K'aa couldn't change the feeling that he was now looking upon something disturbing and unnatural.
"Director Elaithin," he rasped after a deliberate, uncomfortable pause. "Still... hmmmm... undead I see."
As sad as it was to say, seeing K'aa in this form made the meeting somewhat easier; it muted the more haunting memories between them -- at least, from her end.
Jordan raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk and a brief cock of her head. She had grown accustomed to the comments, the attempts made by others to accept and understand her return by using sly humor or even harshness. Though she would have to admit -- perhaps, though, only to herself and her husband -- that such a comment had a little bit more meaning when coming from the being at least partially responsible for her death. But to be fair, that was quite a simplification of their long, complicated, and storied past.
"So it seems," she deadpanned in return. "The human body... it's a little of a pain in the ass, isn't it?" She paused. "May I come in? Or will that only create to be some sort of unnatural contamination of your space?"
"Unnatural seems to be the order of the day on the Galaxy," K'aa countered with a deepening frown. "And 'pain in the ass' seems something of a grotesque understatement." He glared at the long-time spy just long enough to border on being impolite before moving aside and gesturing towards a seat in the monitor-filled office. Inwardly, the operations manager wished Intel had sent someone... anyone... other than Jordan Elaithin, but he knew that the choice had been hers to make and wondered if she took some sort of delight in her killer's new circumstances.
"The Galaxy always did attract some of the more colorful members in Starfleet," she agreed, nodding as she moved into the room, the light fabric of her uniform black ensemble fluttering with the movement. Idly, she fingered the bauble around her neck, the bluish gem concealed underneath the shirt. The action provided minimal comfort as she looked around the room.
"How are you adjusting?" Jordan asked as she glanced at some of the padds on the desk, then she directed her attention back toward him when she leaned against the table, palms pressed hard against the smoothed edge. "To everything."
K'aa moved with the deliberate slowness that only those who had suffered severe skeletal decalcification were truly capable. He eased himself before his sizable stacks of padds without taking his red-rimmed grey eyes from Jordan's, speaking only when he was fully settled.
"The human condition," he growled, "is entirely over-rated. I could go into considerable details on how I itch, or sweat, or smell, or how grey and dim the world has become, or how frail and feeble I have become... but given our past -- and your current assignment -- I sincerely doubt you've traveled several-thousand light-years to discover my current physical discomfort." The thin man's eyes narrowed with distrust, suspecting why Starfleet's 'chief spook' was here to see him. "I remain myself, Director... as every counselor, physician or scientist on this tub can affirm."
Part of her longed to discuss it, longed to talk about how awkward it was, this shape, this form; because while neither of them could understand the other's position, they could both relate to being in a shape that was altogether unnatural to them, a shape they had to adjust to. She remembered how trapped and uncomfortable she felt, just after her reawakening, how uncomfortable the skin was, the sensations of human life. How odd, how foreign. But instead, she let the opportunity pass, directing her focus much more comfortably on the question of 'work,' of position, intention, purpose. It was more easily defined, much more comfortable to discuss.
"My current assignment," she echoed, shifting in her position, easing off the desk's edge to settle in the chair that faced the Gorn -- he may not have that shape any longer, but he was, very much, still the K'aa she remembered. Surly. No nonsense. To the point. And all in all, distrustful. Not that she could blame him. And this exchange was not much different from any she'd ever had with the man: green, pink, alive, dead -- undead. It didn't matter, it never had. She had no trouble believing his statement that he remained himself. It was the same way that, despite it all, she was still very much who she'd always been. "What do you suppose that is?" She lifted her eyebrow again. "I'd be interested to hear." Her mouth slid into a bemused smile.
The smile wasn't reciprocated. "Strategic conjecture: three things would demand your attention." K'aa's expression remained like granite and other than the movement of his lips he remained absolutely motionless. "Firstly, the Galaxy's new CO would need to be brought up to speed with the latest sector intelligence, and given the security 'concerns' on board of late, a face-to-face briefing from a secured messenger would be prudent."
She nodded slightly. "Sure, but that's not my job. I'm a spy, not an analyst or liaison. Briefings aren't really... my thing." Her hazel eyes narrowed slightly, the very slight all but invisible bluish light behind them disappearing as she did so. "But please. Continue."
"Secondly, in Lieutenant Bental you have one of the more... shall we say... 'enterprising' ship's intel chiefs in the fleet. 'Enterprising' to some may be 'uncontrollable' to others. Perhaps a yank of the lieutenant's chain was in order, yes? Control is, after all, the true purpose of military intelligence."
She wordlessly raised her eyebrows, again a confirmation without a confirmation, her gaze angling down toward her hands a moment, lips still carrying the briefest of smiles though its meaning had changed considerably.
"I recognize that we were never especially friendly, K'aa," she looked up to him, her gaze holding his intently, just as solid and stony, just as unblinking. He hadn't frightened her as a 300-pound Gorn, he didn't frighten her now as an undernourished wisp of a man who didn't yet understand his new body. "I always chalked that up to what I do. When you've been in my profession for as long as I have, you get used to the distrust and discomfort of others when they're around you. But your dislike for me, your distrust, your wariness -- your *fear*? Goes beyond any of that. Why." It wasn't a question -- it was a stated command, her voice a low, haunting breath.
K'aa finally moved then, slowly standing up and leaning over his desk. His voice rasped quietly between his clenched, stained teeth as he glared at the chief spy.
"You drove the Indefatigable into a pulsar, jettisoning the shuttle *just* prior to impact. D'Bari estimated your tissue was exposed to over 20,000 roentgen equivalents of radiation - yet *here* you are, in *my* office, grinning like a Kzinti. *I* don't have clearance for *your* files, so enlighten me - what's the third reason you're here. Are you seeking truth? Or are you merely... hrmmmmm... the *messenger*?"
"The one with a 'friendly' hello" conclusion
LtCMDR Th'Khiss K'aa
Chief of Operations
USS Galaxy
K. Jordan Elaithin
Director Clandestine Ops
Starfleet Intelligence
--
But your dislike for me, your distrust, your wariness -- your *fear*? Goes beyond any of that. Why." It wasn't a question -- it was a stated command, her voice a low, haunting breath.
K'aa finally moved then, slowly standing up and leaning over his desk. His voice rasped quietly between his clenched, stained teeth as he glared at the chief spy.
"You drove the Indefatigable into a pulsar, jettisoning the shuttle *just* prior to impact. D'Bari estimated your tissue was exposed to over 20,000 roentgen equivalents of radiation - yet *here* you are, in *my* office, grinning like a Kzinti. *I* don't have clearance for *your* files, so enlighten me - what's the third reason you're here. Are you seeking truth? Or are you merely... hrmmmmm... the *messenger*?"
Jordan's jaw visibly tightened at the last word, the name of the being responsible for all the personal chaos of the past two years; the blue flash in her eyes was momentarily clear, and she pressed her hand over the glow of the bauble under her blouse. She could feel Oracle just under the surface, pushing up, coasting through her mind like a fog. It was the first moment in a long time that she remembered the reason for her small, self-imposed exile on the Miranda, the reason for her physical separation from the wider Fleet.
She had needed to get control.
For quite a while during the earlier months following her return, she desperately wanted to speak to K'aa, wanted to grill this man, wanted to know everything he did about the Messenger, about the events and circumstances; she wanted to know if any greater reason had been revealed to him. She wished she could say that desire had disappeared as she came to terms with and began to understand the greater realities of and for her return, but really, that desire had only intensified. She'd pushed it aside, it wasn't something that she, as *Jordan* wanted to deal with, it wasn't something she wanted to put either of them through emotionally, spiritually. So she'd pushed it aside, buried it deep.
And yet, now that he mentioned it, the questions came flooding back: maybe K'aa would be able to expose the deep purpose of the Powers the Be -- the threads of the greater universe, if not to himself, then at least for her because she already had so many pieces of the puzzle. Maybe he could offer a few more, fill in a couple of remaining blanks.
The small woman stood, her slender arms pushing her five and a half foot frame up, and she paused a moment, bracing herself, steeling herself before she looked again into the eyes of the demi-human in front of her.
"Jii sends his regards, and his regrets. That's my third reason," she said, though her voice, which had been so solid throughout the conversation, wavered for a fraction of a syllable.
"Unacceptable", K'aa rasped harshly, and small flecks of spittle flew from his snarling lips. "UNACCEPTABLE! For six months after your death on the Colorado, I bled from the cold the Miranda's crew gave me for what happened on the Indefatigatable. Drove Elaithin to despair... *killed* you..." With an unexpected burst of speed, K'aa moved along the side of his desk until he was almost nose-to-nose with Jordan. "I'm familiar with Terran myth, Director... even your Judas was paid for his services. I. Demand. An. Explanation."
"You demand an explanation?" she stated, voice cold, tone stern -- a barely controlled fury exposed only by the raspy evenness with which she spoke. "An explanation? Payment? How exactly do you see your story, Mr. K'aa, I'm confused -- are you the Judas or the Christ? It's impossible to tell in the way you speak. And if I may ask, who am I in your tale? God? Or Satan?"
Her humanity seemed to -- barely -- triumph over the unspoken power raging somewhere deep inside her, and she blinked at him, demeanor changing.
"I have no explanation to give you. I had made my decision, I had found my peace -- I died so that others may live, so that my husband, my ship, my family could live. It was what I was meant to do. Everything finally made sense in that brief moment, before I switched my badge for Jii's. Everything I'd been shown, on that ship, even in... even in the time before. It all made sense. I had no idea, then, what would come to follow that choice, but I wouldn't change it, I don't think I ever could. Some things are just meant to be. And I don't know what else you want from me. I don't know what you mean by explanation more than that."
"I want the truth!" Bile burned in K'aa's insides, and as blood pumped through his arteries his thin face darkened and he trembled on his feet. Jordan's reappearance on the Miranda had been met with a staggering amount of rumor, but the reality behind the event had been sealed with a classified status even Operations couldn't crack. The Gorn had assumed that it was some sort of elaborate Intel op, and the revelation that the Director's reappearance was some sort of re-animation seemed beyond incredulous.
"You have the truth! All I am able to offer you now is an apology!" she shouted in response, though her temper dissipated quickly, her tone and expression falling even again. "Though that hardly seems appropriate! Because tell me, Th'Khiss K'aa--" his full name was a rolling melody through her lips-- "what, exactly, would I be apologizing for? That I made my sacrifice while saving *you*? Should I have forced your captain to leave you there to be sucked into hell, or Fate Knows what other place?" She stared at him. "Well I'm sorry K'aa," Jordan whispered now. "That was selfish of me."
"You think THIS..." He raged and jammed a thumb into his own ribcage, "...is what it means to have been 'saved'? Look at me! LOOK AT ME!!" K'aa's voice became almost a roar, the force of his anger savaging his vocal chords and making his words tattered with bitterness and his eyes, wide with outrage, focused solely on Jordan's. "I burned for your death while on the Miranda, Jordan Elaithin! And trapped in this weak, sweaty.... hrrrrrnnn... USELESS shell.... this IS hell! And you... YOU..."
"YOU need to back away from me!" she shouted, her eyes flashing brilliantly as she met his anger, the air around them becoming sharper, charging with furious electricity. "This is a dangerous line you are walking right now!"
K'aa stood trembling, but the ruddy complexion on his face quickly paled to a mottled, sickly white. Still, his bloodshot eyes bored into Jordan's but the anger that had driven him seemed to have been washed away with something altogether different. His brow furrowed, and a small trickle of blood oozed from his left nostril.
"What... are... you?" he finally croaked in a tortured whisper before collapsing onto the carpeted deck plate of his office.
Jordan stared at him as he lay prone, her entire body tensed into knots. Her hands were shaking, her pulse racing. What the hell just happened? The ghost steadied herself as her fingers brushed against the light that hung on the unbreakable chain around her neck before she slapped at her comm badge.
"Medical emergency, 'Commander K'aa's office," she stated, trying to gather herself as she dropped to her knees beside him, feeling for a pulse and starting compressions as she waited for the medical team. "You, Mr. K'aa," she said softly between her steady rhythms against his chest, "are not allowed to die quite yet." She bent toward him as she heard the commotion outside the door, and she whispered low in his ear -- "You have far too many questions to answer first."
The Ops chief's eyes opened slightly at the words, and K'aa made efforts to speak but even this was beyond his body's capacity. The focus of his existence was reduced to the burning agony that engulfed his chest and the blue-hued dark eyes of the woman kneeling over him. As the pain spread and intensified, the thunder of his pulse echoed Jordan's last words which seemed timed exactly with the unsteady rhythm of his heart, and all he was capable of doing was looking up at her face.
The blue glow disappeared into the hazel iris as she stood away, her face replaced by the faces of the medical team.
"We were just reminiscing," her voice echoed to the medical team with an edge of surprise and perhaps a little bit of fear, of shock, her tone exposing an appropriate amount of each all the while giving a sense that she was trying to hold it all back. "And then he stood up and collapsed. I don't... I don't know what happened..."
"Random Encounters in the Lounge"
Lt. Cmdr. Tarin Iniara
*****
Epsilon Four "Demeter"
Holodeck Complex
When she'd entered the energy-based weapons competition, Iniara had no idea it was going to take this long to even get to the actual competition. Currently, she'd been on Planet Demeter for nearly ten hours, almost all of which had been spent in the planet's sprawling holodeck complex. Then again, as she was coming to realize, this event really did need such a large number of qualifying rounds.
When she'd arrived that morning, the XO of the Galaxy had been one of what must have been at least two thousand entrants. That had surprised her at first, but once she'd thought it through for a minute, it began to make sense. After all, there were thousands of Security personnel, and at least several hundred Marines, stationed on the over one hundred ships that were participating in the 2385 Games. In addition to that, there were no small number of people like Iniara, those whose jobs didn't require them to be top marksmen, but who maintained a high level of skill in the field for one reason or another. So, given that thousands of entrants would eventually yield just three medal winners, Iniara supposed it made sense that the field would be quickly whittled away over a series of qualifying rounds, leaving a much smaller group of competitors to begin tomorrow's preliminaries.
She wasn't surprised to see that the qualifying rounds were based very closely on the standard Starfleet marksmanship tests, the various levels of which were administered to pretty much every single person in the service. In fact, the first round, which had taken place early in the morning, was an exact duplicate of the minimum competency test administered to every member of Starfleet. Depressingly, there had been a few people who hadn't even made it past this round. The second round had been an exact duplicate of the test given to Security personnel on a yearly basis, and had eliminated still more competitors. And the third round, which had completed just before the competition's scheduled dinner break, had been a close replica of the Elite Marksmanship test. Now that dinner was over and the few hundred remaining competitors had reassembled, the fourth and final qualification round could continue. This one, as expected, was on the same level as the Expert Marksmanship exam.
As it had been with the earlier rounds, Iniara expected to clear this one easily, but that still didn't mean she wasn't a little nervous, or that she wasn't taking any time to prepare herself both mentally and physically. At the moment she was camped out in a corner of the preparation area, going through a series of breathing techniques to center herself. Now that she thought about it, it had been nearly a decade since she last completed the Expert Marksmanship test, so now she was mentally reviewing what was likely to happen in the fourth qualification round.
After several minutes she was satisfied that she was ready, so she took a moment to look around the area. The holodeck complex was a massive building that covered dozens of acres of ground, but thankfully the competitors were not forced to wait their turn all crammed into one area. She guessed that at least twenty smaller holosuites were being used for this particular event, and between every two holosuites was a lounge/waiting area. Each lounge looked to be able to seat between 50 and 75 people at a combination of long rows of seats in the center of the room surrounded by a few round tables in each corner.
Right now the room was about two-thirds full. Most of the competitors were milling idly about, some were conversing in small groups around the round tables, while still others stood back from the crowd, keeping their own silent counsel. Everyone in the room wore standard duty uniforms; as expected most of the collars were either gold or green. There were about a half dozen junior officers with red collars; Tactical officers, most likely, as well as a smattering of black-collared Intelligence officers. There was even a trio of blue-collared Science officers, two of them Vulcan, grouped around one of the corner tables. Most everyone looked fairly relaxed; Iniara figured that at this point, they all expected to make it past the qualifiers and into tomorrow's actual competition.
"You look nervous."
Startled by the unexpected interruption, Iniara looked up towards the source of the voice. He was tall and a little on the thin side, with close-cropped brown hair and dark, almost ruddy skin. "Excuse me?"
"I said you look nervous," the man repeated, sliding into the chair next to hers and extending a hand. His inky black eyes clearly meant Betazoid, as did the little extra tickle she felt in the back of her mind: one Betazoid feeling out the mind of another. "Aron Vira, USS Gorgon."
"Tarin Iniara, USS Galaxy," she responded automatically, grasping his hand firmly. "Can I help you?"
He shrugged, settling back into his chair, his arms draped loosely on the armrests. "Not particularly. You just looked like you could use a bit of company."
"I see." Crossing her arms across her chest, Iniara regarded the man with a sideways glance. As far as she could tell he was the only one in the room wearing teal, and his Lieutenant Commander's pips meant he was probably his ship's CMO. Or...
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you're a counselor."
"Guilty as charged," he said with a grin. "Lieutenant Commander Aron Vira, Chief Counselor of the USS Gorgon, at your service."
Iniara raised an eyebrow. "Right."
"What?"
"You're..." Her voice faded out as she considered what to say. Sure, his forwardness was a bit annoying, but so far he wasn't being completely obnoxious. Being completely rude or telling him to leave her alone would be a bit excessive at this point. "You're probably the strangest counselor I've ever met," she said at last.
"Hah. And we've only just met!"
Iniara shook her head, but before she could reply a harmonious tone reverberated throughout the room. All conversations fell silent as the remaining competitors waited to hear which two of them would be called next.
"Lieutenant Sporr, USS Senanga. Lieutenant Commander Tarin Iniara, USS Galaxy."
"Well, that's me," Iniara said as she pushed herself out of the seat. "Nice, ah, talking to you, 'Commander."
"Likewise. Good luck in there."
"Thank you." Iniara turned towards the exit, joining up with Lieutenant Sporr as the Vulcan Security officer made his way to the holosuites as well. Somehow, Iniara didn't think that would be the last she saw of the strange counselor, and at the moment she couldn't decide if that would be a good or bad thing.
"Mentality"
Lt Commander Jan Hoffman Spengler
USS Brandenburg.
Morning sun from the mammoth floor to ceiling archways filtered in brightly to color the Fighting Dojo with alternating bands of light and shadow.
The hall was as tall as it was narrow, overhanging balconies stretched 50 meters into the air, overlooking the polished marble floors and the light grey fencing mats laid out therein.
The ground were sprinkled with the anonymous white clad figures of fencers in their traditional garb.
An army of androgynous clones, dancing and stretching their ways through their pre-match warm ups.
An occasional bout of laughter, or a clatter of steel upon steel gave rhythm to the orchestra of morning songbirds just outside.
At one end of the thin hall, a collection of tables were set up, and the pale competitors used them to hold the equipment and weapons of their ancient art.
With infinite care and patience, Jan Hoffman Spengler gently opened the ancient wooden carrying case before him.
Over a meter long, and carved from real Prussian Oaks, the case was lined with red velvet and fastened with cunning silver hinges. These snapped open with a pleasing pop.
Inside, bathed in the morning light was a thin silver Epee', a fencing weapon from the European Renaissance, and the reason that Jan was at the games.
Well not the only reason, he thought as he lifted the weapon and grimly considered its needlelike perfection. The night life had proven marginally diverting, and he had found a kindred spirit of sorts in the form of a homicidal chameloid.
Not that a kindred spirit was anything that Spengler would find remotely desirable. He was questionable company at best. Why would he would want to meet someone like himself?
The Epee grip was not the standard straight handle you'd expect on a bladed weapon. Jan preferred,, as did many modern fencers, a Visconti, or pistol grip assembly in place of the traditional hilt.
Jan used the more basic Russian style grip which in essence allowed him to point his blade with the ease of extending his index finger, and just as fast.
Settling the Russian and the oversized guard into his heavily gloved hand, he flicked the blade back and forth with a whiplike swish of air.
Of all the fencing weapon, the Epee' was paradoxically both the heaviest and quickest of the brood.
Primarily a thrusting weapon, it was the essence of lighting fast attacks and needle sharp accuracy, it not being uncommon for a single touch to be scored in mere seconds of blurred motion.
Grasping the tip in one glove and the grip in the other, Spengler flexed the blade, testing for its springy resilience.
"Beautiful." he whispered to himself. There was no one else worth speaking to.
The event was the Unlimited Class Martial Weapons Competition. Rather than hold a thousand different events in a thousands different weapons forms including everything from Terran Kendo to Klingon Bat'leths, the Unlimited Class comprised a unified competition where one match would find bo-Stick vs. Vulcan Lirpa, while the next pitted Sabre vs. Katana
Perhaps not keeping with the strictest traditions of each individual art, it nevertheless allowed the competitors to display a wide range of martial prowess.
For Jan Hoffman....it was of course the epee'.
He wasn't a master...far from it, but he nevertheless had developed a flair for out thinking his opponents those times when he couldn't necessarily outfight them.
As always, the game was 90% mental.
In a grab-bag assortment of Mixed weapons styles, this first match was something of an oddity. Spengler had actually drawn another traditional fencer as an opponent and so for once was able to pit epee' against epee'.
Replacing his weapon for moment, Hoffman readjusted his traditional white garb, tugging at the thick underarm plastron that never seemed to fit properly.
In deferment to 24th century safety regulations the tall Prussian experimentally tapped the tiny shield belt that all competitors were required to wear.
Minimally powered sport units, unable to deflect anything like a bullet or phaser, they would nevertheless provide for both safety concerns against blades, as well as accurately scoring hits by opponents weapons.
Jan flicked the unit on, feeling the slight invisible tingle in the small of his back as the skintight field enveloped him. Bouncing lightly on his feet he worked out the kinks and binds typical of the device, once satisfied and deactivated it again.
He was just reaching again for his epee, when a soft silver chime drew the attention of everyone in the narrow hall.
This was the first match, the one everyone would be watching before they fell into the blurry routine of their own competition rounds. For a time, all eyes would be on Hoffman Spengler, and his opponent, just now approaching the end of the long thin competition mat, or piste.
"Salut." his opponent called , raising a gloved hand in greeting, "Comment allez-vous?"
Spengler's blue eyes narrowed a bit at the sandy haired Frenchman. It would have to be a Frenchman of course.
"Ees a beyootiful morning wee?" the man was all smiles, gesturing warmly to the hall full over onlookers which crowded around the piste and the many overlooking balconies. "Jacque' Dumas, Engineering USS Galaxy." he introduced himself, "It zeems we 'ave the honor of starting the competition eh? Shall we make eet a good show?"
Sword under arm, Spengler was readjusting his gloves, his face stern and unwelcoming. He waited until he saw the Frenchman's offered hand twitch and smile falter a bit from the uncomfortable delay before stabbing forth with his own steel grip.
"Ja, I am Spengler. It shall be a bout to remember."
First psychological point to Jan.
Retreating to opposite ends of the piste, the opponents activated their sport-shields, and tested their scoring tips against a small target. Small bells announced each hit, and once calibrated they approached the center in a slow considered manner.
Dumas took a classical mid guard position, his epee level, and free hand tucked neatly behind his back. By contrast Jan Hoffman adopted a very relaxed low guard stance, the tip of his blade almost scraping the piste, and his body held slightly sideways and wary.
The match judge stepped between the fencers, a small test tricorder validating the integrity of their sport shields. "Fencers, Monsieur Dumas? Herr Spengler? En Guarde…" he called, holding a hand between them.
The was a collective intake of breath from the floor and the overhanging balconies…..
He dropped his hand, "Allez!!"
In a blurred clatter of steel, both bells went of simultaneously in a crackle of blue shields.
"Halt…..double touch. Score one point each."
Unlike other Fencing styles, Epee is by far the quickest of the schools. Foils and Sabre limited themselves to certain parts of the body, the torso usually, being the only valid target.
In Epee however, every part of the body, hands, feet, head, etc were all equally valid targets and as such there was more uncertainly as to which part of the body an opponent would go for.
Double touches….the surprisingly common occurrence of both fencers scoring a touch at the same instant was quite legal in Epee, and theoretically at least, the 15 point match could conceivably be called a tie on the basis of double touches.
Retreating back to his starting position, Jan ran the point back through his head, his opponent was good, but a bit too formal. Perhaps his youth was his undoing.
Spinning again to face the Frenchman, Spengler focused on the boys eyes. Yes…there was pride and invincibility there…..that was the key.
"Fencers En Guarde…….Allez!"
Dumas charged with a quick Passe' Avant, his blade twirling, to which Spengler executed a high glissade', a sliding movement that trailed down his opponents outstretched blade to catch him in the forearm.
"S'arrêter!" The judge called, "Double Touch. Score is two, two."
Jan looked down with irritation at the epee tip in his own shoulder.
Before the next 'En Guarde' he devised a new way of proceeding. Rather than changing point for point, he'd try to frustrate his opponent into making a mistake. The watching crowds would only serve to Much more satisfying this way.
"Allez!"
THWACK!
Beating back a probing tip, Spengler executed a painful smack upside the head with the edge of his blade, before hopping backwards into low guard.
Dumas blinked for a moment at the surprising sparkle of the sport-shield, but shook it off. Only the tip of an Epee could score a point, and as thus Spengler's touch was invalidated and the action continued.
The Frenchman advanced again with an aggressive battement, seeking to bat the Prussian's epee away before….
THWACK!!
Dumas blinked again. Another blade to the face! No point but the sting of the shield discharge was a bit annoying.
"Are we playing sabre or zee epee monsieur Spengler?" he asked, retreating a bit to regain his stance. " No points por vous I am afreed."
Stone faced Hoffman merely stood in a casual low guard, not saying a word.
Dumas advanced again…. A bit more hesitantly, feinting low but swinging around high in case Spengler tried another head shot.
The German ignored the feint, and lunged low at Dumas advanced foot, a valid target. The Frenchman jerked it back, dropping his guard for a moment….
THWACK!!
THWACK!!
Jan reversed from his low feint to deliver two quick snaps to either cheek in a sparkle of blue electricity.
"Ze hell?" Dumas retreated down the piste, as a murmur began to arise in the crowded hall. Spengler had refused a legitimate advantage and opportunity to score a point in order to deliver two non scoring raps to the head.
Not technically illegal, but quite apparently deliberate.
Uninjured, but getting quite angry, the Frenchman's original smile was long gone, his coifed hair a bit mussed as he ran his gloved hand through it in frustration.
The damned blond was just standing there in his stupid low guard position, neither advancing or retreating…..arrogant bastard.
Returning to mid piste, Dumas adopted his own low guard, awaiting for Spengler to make the first move this time.
He did….yet another lightning slash to the head…..or so it seemed before he withdrew his blade a second before impact, causing Dumas to flinch and blink his eyes in anticipation of the hit.
Spengler allowed his first small smile. He'd seen the blink. The Frenchman was anticipating blows now and as such had lost the second psychological point. He was afraid of being hit in the face more than losing a point.
Leaping forward with a hopping balestra, Jan intentionally smacked his blade hard against the piste creating a loud CLACK!
Despite being a common ruse in Epee, Dumas found himself flinching again from the noise, failing to follow through with a riposte.
Retreating back with a slow passe arriere', Jan knew he had him. He had scored his final Psychological point with Dumas and his first with the muttering crowd.
The score remained at a tied two-two, as Spengler again and again passed up easy openings for advancement instead preferring to embarrass, spook, and generally annoy his flustered opponent.
At one point in a rage Dumas charged at a run, finding his wild blade snapped aside by Jan who instead of stepping aside , stood his ground and allowed the smaller man to crash full long into his shoulder in a blatant corps a corps, or colliding of bodies.
Normally a foul in sabre or foil competitions, the corps a corps was quite legal in Epee and left Dumas wincing in pain as the sport shields did little to cushion the jarring stop. He fell backwards off the piste with a thump.
"Halt." called the judge, "Warning to Monsieur Dumas. Match continues score two-two. "
Spengler was almost openly smirking now. This was fun.
"Fencers En Garde…..Allez!"
Clash
Clatter
THWACK!!
Dumas reeled back again touching his cheek….still shielded but now glowing red with embarrassment. The hundreds of Fencers watching from the Gallery and the Balconies were like a thousand eyes burning into his skin. He was being made a fool of in front of the best in the fleet.
His ears burned at the ridiculousness, his own pride betraying him to Spengler's calm, quick, and insulting blows.
"Jooost fucking heeet me already!" Dumas spat in anger, willing Jan to take advantage of the point and stop dancing.
No response. But it was the last straw, the Frenchman already begging to be defeated.
Fifteen minutes and no score later, the match was over.
In a fit, after yet another Corps a corps jarred him to his very teeth, Jacque Dumas of the USS Galaxy threw his epee down in a raging in clatter.
"Forgeet this sheet!" he cursed, "I don't need thees! I queeet. I forfeit."
The crowd gasped and shook its head as the young man tried to come after the smirking silent Spengler with fists, and had to be physically restrained by the judges.
The Prussian not deigning to acknowledge him turned his back and began stripping off his gloves….his victory….by default though it was had brought him to the center of attention of the fencing world.
"Bout to Herr Spengler by reason of forfeit." the microphone buzzed. "Advances to Quarter Finals."
The balconies buzzed…The forcing of Dumas to actually surrender was an humiliating loss. Anyone facing Spengler from here on out would be a bit afraid…..not of just losing…..but of being made a fool of.
No matter your skill….that was the real fear that all had.
Jan Hoffman smiled and snapped closed the lid on the wooden box. He'd just scored the first psychological point against everyone he would face for the rest of the competition.
"The Man With The Golden Nanite"
Raikar Thaimus
Ensign Alexandra Lee
****
Epsilon 4
Demeter Recreational Complex
It was an abuse of power. Raikar knew that, knew that the equipment wasn't designed to be used for the purpose that he was putting it to, and didn't care.
He was the one out here, doing the job, him. Not the grey-haired man who had dispatched him from an understated office in a nondescript building on an innocuous planet from where he ran the Wyldfyre Compact. Not the wizened old Ferengi that had issued the device to him in the underground levels beneath that same building with the usual dire warnings to ensure it was returned in working order, lest the technician be punished if it was needed again and not ready. Not even the Deltan woman that served as the grey-haired man's receptionist, secretary, and reported companion - although if any of them were to be here, Raikar would have wanted it to be her... and for the rumors to be false.
None of them were here, though, and he was, and so if he chose to use the equipment in this manner, to provide himself with some amusement in the midst of a job that was anything but amusing, well then, that's simply the way it would be. Especially with his current appearance as a sandy-haired, bespectacled human of the type known as 'the nerd,' albeit a nerd that was slipping over the line into handsome despite his nerdosity; Raikar had his pride, after all. The Gods of Space and Time knew that he needed something to break the constant tension, the underlying fear of failure, discovery, and exposure that he lived with every day while on the job. Even if that distraction was to use the experimental sensor unit he'd been issued to help identify Camboro Cartel operatives to, at the same time, examine the unclothed forms of the most attractive women present at the reception.
The device, adapted from earlier units by Compact technicians, used to allow the blind to see, had been cunningly redesigned to resemble a pair of the spectacles used by those with an allergy to Retinax, and retasked to passively use common wavelengths of EM radiation to render clothing and other thin, unshielded substances, transparent. The material appeared to be a ghostly overlay on top of the individual wearing it or the structure beneath it. Even more useful, the device drew power from his own body heat, so as to not create a power signature, making it less likely that he would be discovered using them.
Like now.
He smiled at the shorter woman who had almost run into him, the smooth lines of muscle and delicious curves under her clothing every bit as tantalizing as the hint of perfume that she was wearing. "I beg you
pardon, I didn't see you in time," he apologized, even though the collision had been her fault - or had been arranged to look as if it were. "Are you all right... Ensign Lee, isn't it?"
"Ah... yes," Alex answered, straightening her dress and flushing slightly. "I'm sorry, have we met? There are so many people here and...?"
"Oh no," Raikar said with a slight glance away as if embarrassed. "I'm, Daniel Spivak and I...umm... well, I was looking for you because, um... I was watching the swimming competition earlier and... well... you
know..."
"Oh." Alex flushed brighter.
"No, no, really," Raikar returned, holding his hands up placatingly, the picture of embarrassed innocence. "I'm not trying to... you know... pick you up or anything - I just remembered your face and..."
"You and a thousand other people," Alex sighed relaxing a little. "I'm never going to be able to attend a Fleet function again without that coming up."
Considering the form that he could see clearly under her outfit, Raikar doubted that was the only think that would be coming up when others remembered the moment. "I'm sure it won't be that bad," he said considerately. "Everyone's not like that, you know."
Alex snorted.
"No, really, he continued, "Everyone isn't."
"Everyone like you?" she returned suspiciously
"Ahhh.. I can't pretend that I didn't see... what I saw," he conceded, with an involuntary-appearing flick of his eyes at her figure. "Or that it's not still as clear to me as when I saw it on the screen. But...."
"But?"
"But it's not the only thing on my mind," he continued.
Alex frowned, and ventured, "So what else is more important that..."
"No, no, no," Raikar waved his hands frantically. "There's nothing more important that your form... Oh God, I mean nothing more important than your form in the right circumstances... I mean... Oh God...." He took
several breaths rapidly. "I mean that you're very... that I'm trying to... that... Nanites!" he threw the word out with the desperation of a drowning man reaching for a rescue line. "Nanites! That's why I was looking for you!"
It was, he reflected, an award winning performance.
"Nanites?" she questioned. "What about nanites?"
Raikar gulped some air, steadied himself, and said, "I heard that they discovered nanites in the pool after the race - lots of them - and that's why... what happened to you happened. Is that right?"
"Yes," Alex answered slowly, still suspicious.
"Okay," he returned, allowing himself to relax a bit. "You see, when I heard that, it occurred to me that someone could have done something sneaky, and that the race monitors might miss it, and I thought that I
should find you and say something, and so here I am." He let the words speed up slightly without *quite* running together.
Alex frowned. "What do you mean, 'sneaky?'"
"You see, I do things like that," Raikar admitted, enjoying the delicious irony of telling the literal truth for once. "Sneaky things, the kind of things that Starfleet doesn't like to admit to? And anyway, it occurred to me that... well... if *I* were going to do something sneaky, I'd hide it with something else. Something that... you know... everyone would be looking at? Like you and your swimsuit? All misdirection and stuff?"
"I'm familiar with the idea," she replied dryly, and a touch curiously.
"So after I saw what happened to you, I started to think about it... not in that way, you understand," he added hastily. "And it occurred to me that if I were going to hide something, something to do with nanites,
and I didn't want my dead ones to be found... then I should hide them in a really big batch of nanites, so they would be hard to find...."
Alex paused, considered that, and frowned. "So you're saying that, what, I should go and get checked out to make sure I wasn't infected with some *other* nanites?"
Raikar nodded. "Well, maybe. It couldn't hurt. And maybe the others in the pool should get checked too, just in case. You can do a lot of things with nanites... make someone absorb oxygen just a tiny bit slower, change the absorption rate of chemicals a bit, simulate muscle fatigue... It wouldn't take much at your level of competition to change the outcome of a race...."
"Wait, you really think that...?"
"I don't know, maybe. Or maybe not. I'm just saying that if *I* were going to be sneaky, that's how *I'd* go about doing something to affect the competition," Raikar countered. "Because, you know, you were
beautiful and all with that water cascading off of...." He winced. "Oh God, I'm making a fool of myself... You were beautiful," he tried again, "but doing what was done to you is the kind of thing that ends a career
- and why would someone do that just to see you... you know... that way? All wet and... Ahhuugghh!" he threw up his hands. "I'm... I have to go before I say you were naked again... No, I did it... I'm sorry! Not that
you were beautiful, but that... Going... Going now!"
He turned and fled.
From across the room, hidden by a few hundred people, Raikar watched as Alex stared after him for a minute, laughing a little... and then frowned again and fished out a comlink.
Raikar nodded to himself in satisfaction as she made the call, and then faded into a corridor, on his way to a restroom to remove his disguise. He'd never been happier since the scares caused by Chamelioids and
Changelings - everyone was so busy looking for them that the old ways, the simple ways of changing one's appearance were almost always overlooked. A quick rinse to wash the dye from his hair, some contacts
and a nasal appliance removed, and wipe with a cloth to remove a skin dye and some freckles and he was - literally - a different man.
Time to move on. There were places to go, people to see... and secrets to reveal.
"Settling the score"
Ensign Alexandra Lee
Alex pressed the chime for the second time before the doors slid open and standing before her, wrapped only in a towel to cover herself was the object of her hate--Amy Jenson.
"Alex, could you come back--"
Amy was unable to finish the sentence as a fist connected solidly with her jaw, sending her reeling to the floor, losing the towel in the process. Alex, remembering her hand to hand combat training from the Academy followed through, landing her knee into Amy's throat, making it hard for her to breathe. "You bitch! It was you who was behind that little stunt wasn't it!?"
"Yes," Amy managed to croak out between gasps for air and rubbing her chin where she had been struck.
Alex stood as Amy began coughing, attempting to get air back into her lungs. "Why? Because I happened to beat you for the one-hundred meter butterfly?!"
"It was only a joke! Lighten up, Alex!"
"Only a joke? You caused me embarrassment in the entire Alpha and Beta Quadrants! You want to finish this, then I'll see your ass in the pool tomorrow and I'll beat you again!" Alex caught movement out of the corner of her eye and had just then realized that there was a man, covered only in a towel as well, standing near the bed. "I see you're still the slut, Amy." Alex had remembered the times Amy had brought home dates. It had seemed that she had a different date each week. "See you in the pool!" Alex then turned and stormed out of the quarters.
"You bet you will," Amy stood, shaking with anger.
****
The next day, the stands at the pool arena were packed in anticipation of the one-hundred meter butterfly semi-finals. Alex was again dressed in her one piece competitive swimming outfit with her hair tucked under her cap. Two lanes down from her was Amy. After getting acclimated to the water temperature and rinsing her goggles out, she took her place on the platform. She was still angry at Amy for the stunt she pulled. She bent down and grasped the edge of the platform as her muscles tensed in anticipation of the horn to sound the start of the event. It had hurt her deeply that her friend would stoop to pulling such a prank on her, especially at this level of competition. Then again, she had known that Amy had always been very competitive in everything she did. 'Clear your mind, Alex,' she told herself as her eyes focused on the pool wall at the other end of the pool and marked the half-way point of the event. 'Just focus on that wall,' she told herself again. Her muscles instantly reacted to the sound of the horn blaring, launching her into the water, along with the other seven swimmers.
Alex's mind focused on the opposite wall as her arms and legs worked in unison, propelling her body up and out of the water and back down with each brisk stroke. Soon the wall was within reach and she flipped her body and pushed off of the wall, using her entire body to propel herself under water and surfacing and once again switching back into the butterfly stroke. Her vision was now focused on the finish as it neared. She could not afford to take a glance to her sides, only ahead of her. 'Push, push, push!' her mind screamed at her as her warm muscles worked harder with each stroke. Her hand soon hit the wall.
"And its Alexandra Lee by two tenths of a second, setting a new Starfleet Games Record for the one-hundred meter butterfly event of 47.40 seconds!" the excited commentator announced.
The roar of the crowd seemed to vibrate the walls and drown out the few boos. Alex thrusted her arms into the air in victory. The adrenaline drowning out any fatigue in her body as she pushed herself up and out of the pool, waving at the cheering crowd.
"You have got to be kidding me," Amy muttered to herself in anger as she had finished second. To her, second was the first loser, and she would not be the first loser in the finals. She pushed herself out of the pool and stormed directly for the locker room, ripping her cap off in the process.
“Burnout”
Lt. Cmndr Th’Khiss K’aa, Chief of Operations
=====================
The dream was as vivid as it was painful, dominated by the howling
winds and shifting sands he had known so well in his early youth.
Towering, weathered cliffs and hoodos stood like gigantic, silent
witnesses to the Gorn procession, and instinctively, Th’Khiss K’aa
climbed the blistering hot dunes to follow them along the large
outcropping’s crest.
Their robes said they were of the political caste, but here and there
the larger forms and pole-arms of warriors could be seen among them.
At the head of the line a matriarch lead, easily towering above all
behind her and clutching gently in her large talons a small, delicate
white bundle. When she turned they all followed, though the
destination was well known to almost all of them.
K’aa too knew of the place, seeing it perhaps a dozen times before his
exile. It was not a pleasant setting, but a necessary one to the Gorn
culture and had been used for almost a million years. It had seen the
death of the inner sea beneath it, and all the millions of creatures
that had lived beneath its waves. It had seen Gorn civilizations rise
and fall under millennia of almost constant bloodshed, uniting only as
the race had taken its first clumsy steps to the stars,
Today, it bore witness to a death of another kind. When the matriarch
reached the highest part of the outcropping overlooking the vast
desert beneath them, she gently lowered her burden to the ancient
quartzite slab and unfolded the bundle’s shroud. From within a small
Gorn hatchling squeaked, making the demand for meat from its gigantic
parent.
Even from his vantage point, K’aa could see why they were here. While
perfectly proportioned, the infant was far too small for anything that
should have come from the egg. Its small scales were barely
noticeable, and its fangs thin translucent in the harsh sunlight of
mid-day. Still, its shrill cries broke the wailing of the wind and
sand, the only other sound to do so.
One by one, the Gorn bowed in respect to the massive female and she in
turn nodded politely, hissing only to correct those who did not bow
low enough to offer the correct amount of respect and condolences.
Finally, when she was alone with her young, she collected the thin
‘chau-skin shroud and carefully folded it and stowed it amongst her
robes before lumbering down along the thin but well-used path. For
the crying hatchling she offered nothing, but she cast her coppery
eyes to the yellow-white skies where winged scavengers circled with
thin, leathery wings. Finally, she stopped, and looked angrily at
K’aa’s wind-tossed human form.
“Sha’kuuuul, estaan bayoooon Th’Khiss. Ch’aaal ssssayy’d
al’ch’aysssss.”
“Look well at the hatchling, Th’Khiss. That fate should have been
yours.”
She snarled and made a halting lunge at the thin mammal, causing
K’aa’s flight instinct to kick in. He took a step back before
controlling the instinct, knowing that in the female’s eyes he had
failed by showing any form of weakness. The matriarch raised her
massive head and sneered down at K’aa, and from her massive chest a
deep growl highlighted by a constant clicking told of her considerable
and profound contempt.
K’aa watched her lumber past and walk down the path, turning only when
he heard a muffled squeak overpowered by a famished scream and the
tearing of flesh. The hatchling was lost under bat-like leathery
wings, and only rarely did a black, blood-stained beak appear as its
owner looked at the thin-skinned, weak human that watched the feeding.
The winds and sands continued their song as grit clouded K’aa’s eyes.
Lacking a nictitating membrane, he could only covrt them as he
witnessed the hatchling’s death and dismemberment.
**********
“I know”, K’aa croaked seeing cloudy light around him, and the muffled
sounds of mammals speaking in hushed tones.
“Ye know wot?”
“I… hnnn… “ The former Gorn tried to form words, but the blurriness of
his vision was accompanied by a medicated haziness of all his other
senses. Sounds and smells were vague, and his skin felt dry and
sickly. “Wha.… hnnn….”
“Careful there, Sunny Jim”, growled a mammalian voice from a well-
tanned monkey-face. “Yer jus’ comin’ out of th’ anesthetic now. Give
it a bit before ye try an’ make sense o’ things.”
It was all K’aa could do to “give it a bit”. While his senses cleared
from their drug-induced oblivion, all he could do was listen to the
clean-up work of Sickbay’s surgical staff. Center to it all was
Doctor Mathieson’s uncharacteristically bronzed pate reflecting the
ward’s sterile overhead lights. He felt nauseous, but had the light-
headed, empty feeling of having nothing in his stomach to retch.
Combined with the lingering effects of the anesthetic, his condition
left him trembling and weak, with a cold sweat seeming to cover him
entirely. It took him several minutes before he could manage the
feeblest croak.
“What… happened?”
“Nothin’ we shoudnt ‘ve seen comin – yer ticker gave out.” Mathieson
brought up a glass jar with a brownish lump of meat leaning stickily
to one side. “Effects o’ severe an’ prolonged malnutrition combined
with you bein’ a complete an’ absolute berk. I told yer t’ take it
easy, an’ now yet sportin’ th’ late in artificial ‘earts.”
OOC: So here is a bit of an experiment. I originally conceived this post as a single post, but midway through it I thought it would be interesting to tell the story from the other perspective as well. I hope it works... (Oh, and read this one first, since it was the one I wrote first.)
"Seven Days"
Flight Officer Aristi Ferguson, Saber 3
*****
On the first day, he tried to make contact.
"Reece?"
"Not interested!" Aristi half-shouted as she rushed past the trio in the hallway. For such a large ship, she was quite amazed that it had taken less than a day for her to bump into Impet and his pair of escorts. But, considering that the Vulcan hadn't actually been charged with a crime, he was pretty much free to go wherever he wanted in the ship's public areas. The two escorts were only there to make sure he didn't get into any trouble in his aimless wanderings around the Galaxy's hallways, and of course to make sure that he didn't have any contact with Aristi Ferguson.
"Sorry, ma'am." Automatically, the two Security ratings slid between their charge and the nervous-looking pilot, forming a shield between them that prevented physical contact, and did a pretty good job of limiting communication as well. As she stepped quickly past, one of the ratings, a Trill by the looks of it, gave her an apologetic smile.
"Reece!"
"I said not interested!" And with that, she turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.
*****
On the second day, he tried to make contact again.
"What did I say yesterday?" she asked with an irritated voice, although it wasn't immediately clear whether she was more irritated at the Security guys, or Impet himself.
"Sorry, ma'am," one of them repeated. "We're just doing our job."
"I know," Aristi replied, a hint of dejection in her voice. After the encounter yesterday, Aristi had commed Iniara to ask what was up, and why Impet the cannibal was allowed to roam the ship freely. The XO's response had, of course, been that Impet had officially requested asylum and was now under the protection of the Federation, and so until the civilian government figured out what to do with him, he was to remain a guest aboard the USS Galaxy. And, as a guest, he was allowed access to any and all public areas of the ship. Iniara understood Aristi's concern that Impet might try to finish the job he'd allegedly started in the cave, which is why she'd had Lt. Krieghoff instruct the Security escorts to maintain separation between them at all times, but unless Aristi pressed charges there wasn't anything more she could do.
Personally, Aristi thought Impet should be restricted to his guest quarters; after all, they knew almost nothing about him, and so it didn't seem very safe to be allowing him to roam about the ship, even with an escort. But, such were the ways of the Federation, even aboard a starship: if a passenger hadn't done anything wrong, they couldn't very well be confined somewhere like a criminal.
"Alright," Aristi said, her features shifting into a much harsher look. Crossing her arms over her chest she looked back at Impet, then pointed a finger at him. Behind the two ratings, Impet looked anxious to speak to her, but Aristi looked so angry that for the moment he held his tongue.
"I'll keep this nice and simple. Stay. Away." And then, she spun on her heel and practically stomped off.
*****
The third day was much the same.
This time, Aristi ran into the trio as she was exiting the gymnasium.
"Bloody. Frazzing. Hell," she began, deliberately enunciating the words so they would know just how exasperated she was getting. "Can't I at least work out in peace?"
Without waiting for an answer from any of them, she stomped past and moved off down the hall.
*****
On the fourth day, he scaled back his attempts, and sent a message along instead.
It was early evening, just about dinnertime, and Aristi was camped out in Ten Forward, slowly eating a meal as she pored over a set of padds spread out on the table before her. Although she'd put together a satisfactory report on the Kahru for Starfleet Command, as well as a second report detailing all she knew about the other, likely extinct civilization that had built the city that was now in ruins, Aristi still felt the need to work on it a little more. After all, she still wanted to submit her findings to several archaeological and anthropological journals, and it would take a significant amount of additional work to turn a simple report for Starfleet Command into something worthy of acceptance by the civilian scientific community.
A slight coughing noise very close and to her left brought her out of her thoughts. She looked up and towards the sound of the voice, her eyes automatically narrowing as she saw who it was.
"Excuse me, ma'am," the Trill Security rating began.
"I don't want to hear it." Then, deciding that if she ignored him he might go away, Aristi turned back to her padds.
Several seconds passed before the man tried again. "Ma'am?"
Smacking a hand loudly against the smooth surface of the table, Aristi let out a low, throaty growl and looked back up. Nearby, several diners ceased their murmured conversations as they waited to see how this would play out.
"Look, Petty Officer..."
"Forn, ma'am; Petty Officer Third Class Zorren Forn," he supplied helpfully.
"...Petty Officer Forn, then," she continued without missing a beat. "I don't care what Impet wants, I don't care what he told you, I don't care what he is trying to get you to do, and really I don't care what you want either. *I* want to be left alone."
"I understand, ma'am," Forn said with a nod. "All Mr. Impet asked was that I deliver a message." In his hand was a small padd, which he held out to her.
"Clearly you didn't understand me the first time," Aristi said, ignoring the padd in his outstretched hand. "I. Want. To. Be. Left. Alone. Don't make me put a restraining order on you and Impet *and* the other one, who I hope to God is watching Impet right now."
"He is, ma'am...Petty Officer Third Class Alan Dorsey, if you feel the need, ma'am."
"Whatever," she muttered. Gathering her padds into a pile she stood, grabbing her plate of food with the other hand. "I'm out of here."
*****
The fifth day went much like the first, but with a bit of a twist.
"Morning, Noah," Aristi said as she strode across the flight deck towards her starfighter, and the man milling about next to it.
Noah Gabriel, one of the flight techs assigned to Saber One Flight, looked up from a pair of greasy parts he was comparing in each hand. It was still early in the morning, but already his gold jumpsuit was just as grimy as his hands. Not for the first time Aristi wondered just how, in the near sterility of the 24th century, and especially in the vacuum of space, things could get so dirty.
"Heeeey, Cyclops," the young Terran answered. "You cleared to fly?"
"Not with this bum eye," she answered, tapping a fingernail against the hard surface of her temporary replacement eye. She watched as Noah suppressed a shudder; clearly he found her apparent level of comfort with the eye, particularly her tendency to tap it or even pop it out from time to time, a little disturbing. Aristi found his reaction rather amusing.
"That explains the outfit, I guess," Noah replied, waving a hand at Aristi's white jumpsuit. "Not exactly the standard pilot uniform."
Aristi nodded. "Exactly. Look, I'm getting antsy. I've been spending all my time resting, catching up on my research, killing time in the gymnasium, or other equally dull pursuits. I can't even use the flight simulator until I get the actual replacement for this piece of transluminum or whatever the heck this fake eye is made out of. So, I don't suppose you could use a hand tinkering with my bird?"
"Suuure," Noah said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. "Adrenaline junkie; betcha can't wait to get back in the cockpit."
Aristi rolled her eyes. "Whatever. So, can you use my help or what?"
"Of course." Noah paused and looked over her shoulder, frowning slightly. "But..."
"What?"
"Who's the stiff?" he asked, pointing a black-tipped finger in the direction he was looking.
Aristi turned, the rest of her body following in the direction of her head as she realized who it was that was walking towards them. "Oh, for fuck's sake."
"Who is that?"
"Forn," she answered Noah in a low voice. "Just...someone I didn't particularly want to see today. Or ever, for that matter. Hey, Forn! Get your ass over here!"
Surprised that Aristi hadn't yelled at him to go away, the young petty officer quickened his step, closing the distance in just a few seconds. Once he stopped, Aristi noticed that, just like he had been yesterday, he was still carrying a padd. The same padd he'd been carrying yesterday, by the looks of it.
"Is that for me?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Aristi huffed loudly, her shoulders sagging just a bit. "Fine. Give it here." But before he could pass it off, she reached down and snatched the thing from his hand. "Now you can get out of my sight."
Not bothering to watch him go Aristi turned back to Noah, sighing loudly.
"What was that about?" he asked.
"Nothing," she answered with a slight shake of her head. Looking down at the padd she noticed it was powered off, and she realized she didn't really care what it contained. Maybe she'd look at it later, but right now she was just too irritated to do anything with it but toss it on the pile of discarded parts at their feet.
Noah shrugged; he'd known the Cardassian pilot long enough to realize that no amount of prodding or cajoling would get her to talk about something she didn't want to talk about. When she was ready (or if she was ever ready), she'd open up...and that would probably be the point where he couldn't get her to stop. So, instead of commenting on the situation, the flight tech merely watched the arc of the padd as it glided through the air and landed on the broken parts with a loud clatter.
"Right. Well," he continued once the echo of the noise had faded away, "as I'm sure you remember, the right rear stabilizer has been acting up lately, so I figured while you're grounded I'd do a whole overhaul. First we need to start with..."
*****
The sixth day was wholly unexpected.
Having spent well over sixteen hours dismantling, tinkering, and then subsequently reassembling a good section of the right rear corner of her starfighter, Aristi hadn't made it back to her quarters until very late at night. Actually, now that she thought about it, she'd made it back after her cousin Siobhan had gone to bed. That almost never happened; Siobhan was a professed night owl, and often didn't make it back to their shared quarters until 0200 or sometimes even 0300.
So, it was equally strange when Aristi rolled out of bed around 1100 hours the next morning to find Siobhan had already woken, dressed, and left for parts unknown.
Stumbling out into the small central area, Aristi almost immediately noticed that there was a small padd sitting on the corner of the dining table. She quickly recognized it as the padd she'd received yesterday from Petty Officer Forn. The one she'd left on the pile of parts on the flight deck, she now remembered.
So how did it get back here?
Moving closer, Aristi noticed a small scrap of paper sitting on top of it. She picked it up, reading the tiny, scrawled words: "A-- Noah brought this by earlier, said you needed it. S"
"Great..." Aristi mumbled, balling up the piece of paper and lobbing it into the matter reclamator. She looked back at the padd. Maybe she could throw it in the reclamator too.
After ordering "Aristi's Random Breakfast Selection" from the replicator (an algorithm she'd programmed into the alcove to give her one of a list of breakfast selections when she couldn't decide what she wanted to eat), Aristi sat down with her plate and began to munch. In the back of her mind she wondered what she would do today, and after several moments decided that it would probably involve more work on her two papers. She might even get one finished by the end of the day, if she worked on it long enough.
But first...
First she needed to stop that damn padd on the table from staring at her.
Grumbling and rolling her eyes, the pilot finally gave in and reached for it, although she wasn't sure whether she was genuinely curious or just simply feeling a twinge of guilt. She activated the device, and wasn't too surprised to see that the only thing it contained was a short text file.
Aristi- I understand if you don't want to speak to me. But, I feel I have to apologize, both for your treatment by the Kahru, as well as my treatment of you in the cave. Please accept my apologies, and I wish you the best. -Impet
"Whatever," she commented to the air, deactivating the padd and tossing it back onto the table. Some small part of her almost felt willing to forgive him, but the majority of her was still too angry and frustrated to pay it any mind. So, she quickly finished her breakfast (an assortment of fruits, an English muffin, and two pieces of crispy bacon if you must know), showered, dressed, and settled in for a long day of research and writing.
Hours fell away as the day progressed. Aristi worked diligently on the first draft of the paper describing the as-yet unnamed extinct civilization of HD-189625, although to her dismay the work wasn't progressing as quickly as she hoped. Annoyingly, the few words on that padd were still nagging at the back of her mind, and that tiny part of her that wished to give forgiveness unfortunately kept growing.
Finally, just when she was preparing to break for dinner, Aristi decided that she should just get it over with, stop being such a standoffish bitch, and actually send the poor guy a reply. I mean, sure he'd tried to kill her, but wouldn't she have done the same if she thought someone she knew had been instrumental in the downfall of her civilization?
Well, maybe not, but...well, truth be told, unless she ever found herself in that situation she didn't know how she'd react.
Grabbing the padd once more, Aristi activated it and composed a quick reply message. When she was satisfied she tapped her commbadge. "Ferguson to Petty Officer Forn."
"Forn here, ma'am, go ahead."
Aristi was surprised at his nearly faster-than-immediate reply, so for a moment she wasn't quite sure what to say. "Um. Uh, I have something for you," she began with a bit of hesitation. "Can you stop by my quarters whenever you get a chance?"
"Really? I mean, certainly ma'am; on my way now."
*****
And the seventh day was the expected culmination of days four, five and six.
A few minutes before the expected time, Aristi entered Ten Forward, chose a table in one of the room's corners, and sat down.
She wasn't quite sure what she was going to say to Impet if (well, when) he showed up. Maybe "thanks for apologizing, I totally forgive you for trying to kill me"? Or on the other end of things, "you asshole, I'm going to make you pay for what you did to me"? Hmm. Perhaps not. She should probably just keep it simple, stick to comments that were somewhere in the middle of those two extremes, and see where things went from there. At the very least, meeting face to face would quell the feeling that passing notes between intermediaries was rather like high school.
The pace of Aristi's heart quickened as the doors to the lounge slid open once more. As expected, Impet was flanked by Forn and Dorsey. The trio made their way over to Aristi's table, Forn and Dorsey hanging back slightly as they approached.
Taking a deep breath, Aristi looked up at the Vulcan. He'd cleaned up since arriving on the planet; his messy hair had been combed back into a loose ponytail, and the healthy growth of stubble on his chin was now gone. He'd also traded his leather tunic and laced leather breeches for a typical Vulcan-style robe, although it looked like he felt quite awkward covered in the voluminous grey fabric.
"Hello, Impet," she said at last. Behind him, the two Security escorts had claimed a table of their own, both turned towards Aristi's table and prepared to intervene should the situation require it.
Impet inclined his head slightly, his expression neutral. "Hello, Aristi."
He used her full name? Interesting. She extended a hand, indicating the seat across from her. "Please, have a seat."
OOC: If you haven't read Ferguson: "Seven Days", go back and read that one first. I think it makes more sense that way.
"One Week"
Impet, refugee from the Kahru
*****
On the first day, he ran into her completely by accident.
He'd spent the first part of the day meeting with the woman who was called the "Executive Officer". She had vibrant red hair and stern grey eyes and didn't seem very friendly, but what interested him the most were the strange ridges on her nose. Apparently this was a characteristic of her species, which was called "Bajoran". He'd never met one of those before.
After being told by the Executive Officer that he was free to access the public areas of the ship, so long as he was accompanied by an escort, Impet decided to take advantage of her offer and see some more of this strange, and strangely fascinating, vessel. Although, the more that he thought about it, this was more like a floating city than anything.
Of course, it hadn't taken him very long to get lost. Thankfully, his two escorts, Forn and Dorsey, seemed to know their way around the ship, so every time he took them down a wrong turn simply because he was curious, they were there to redirect him back to the proper paths.
It was during one of these redirections that he thought he saw her.
"Reece?"
She saw and recognized him immediately. "Not interested!" she shouted at him and his escorts.
"Sorry, ma'am," Forn replied automatically as he and Dorsey moved to block him from getting any closer to her. Was that why they'd been assigned to escort him? Not because he needed to be guided around this vessel by people who knew their way around, but because someone thought he needed to be kept away from people? Or kept away from her?
But, she was already moving away from them. His chance to speak with her was quickly disappearing. "Reece!" he shouted again, waving a hand to try and get her attention.
"I said not interested!"
*****
On the second day, he wasn't even trying to find her, but still ran into her completely by accident.
Impet had been away from his home for a couple weeks now, and noticed with amazement how much different he felt every morning when he woke up. Part of it he knew was psychological. Considered less than a person because he wasn't human, Impet had been repeatedly subject to insult and abuse by the Kahru. He hadn't even been allowed to take a title when he came of age, which meant that he'd been a member of the lowest caste of their civilization, and had been relegated to such unsavory tasks as preparation of the dead for consumption, collecting the waste and other assorted detritus that collected in the streets, and of course taking the proper sacrifices to the Cave of the Dragon so that the god would be appeased for another year.
Now, aboard the floating ship known as the USS Galaxy, he was free of all that. The people he'd encountered thus far had been slightly unsure or even wary of him, but thus far that was the extent of their negative reactions.
But in addition to that, Impet couldn't help but feel like a terrible weight was being lifted from his mind. All throughout his life he'd been able to understand the words of his Honored Mother and Honored Father, or his "grandparents" as Dorsey had said. So many new words. He'd never known the father and mother of his father, but the father and mother of his mother had lived for years after he was born. T'Mar, the mother of his mother, had even once been a concubine of the first Ka'tin, the founder of their civilization, a man named Levess. When he was little, T'Mar and her mate Voras had told him stories of their time in the stars, to a group called the "Starfleet". The rest of the Kahru had corrupted the word to something like "oflit", but his mother and father, and their mother and father, had maintained the original shape of the words. Honored Mother and Honored Father had even taught him a good deal of what they'd called their "native tongue", the language of their people, the Vulcans.
The words had always sounded right in his mind, but when he tried to reproduce them, they came out wrong. "Dragon" became "dag'n". "Honored Mother" became "ahna mudda" and "Honored Father" became "ahna fadda". His name, "Impet", became "Imp". Her name, "Aristi", became "Reece".
That was the one thing that had frustrated him the most throughout his seventy-six years of life. He knew how the words were supposed to sound, and he hated when the Kahru destroyed them, and he hated even more when he spoke and it sounded just like them. But now...now that he'd been away from their home for many weeks, that was all changing. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost say the words just the way he knew they should be said.
"What did I say yesterday?"
The voice snapped him quickly out of his reverie; it was hers again. He looked up, just in time to see Forn and Dorsey snapping into place before him. "Sorry, ma'am," they repeated. "We're just doing our job."
"Sorry, ma'am," he whispered quietly to himself, feeling how the words felt on his lips. Sah. Ree. Mam.
"I know," she said to them. Impet watched her intently, studying how she formed her words. All he had to do was imitate that.
Abruptly, she pointed a finger at them. "Alright," she proclaimed in an angry tone. "I'll keep this nice and simple. Stay. Away."
Impet watched her stomp off, although his main focus was on the words that echoed inside his head. Nice and simple. Stay away. Nice and simple. Stay away. He replayed them over and over, matching the movement of his lips to the sound in his head. Nice and simple. Stay away.
"Impet?" Snapped once more out of an unexpected reverie, he looked at the man called Forn. As he had when he'd met the man, Impet once more tried to wrap his brain around the conundrum of Forn's species. He was called a "Trill", which meant that he had spots on his body and could host an organism called a "symbiote" in a pouch near his stomach. Impet had never heard of that species either, but on this strange vessel that belonged to the Starfleet, he supposed anything was possible.
"I...apologies...erm, apologize, Mister Forn," Impet said after a long moment. Again the words felt strange, almost alien on his lips...but it was getting easier.
*****
On the third day he wished to explore another area, and by coincidence happened to encounter her.
"The gymnasium is where the crew of our vessel go to exercise," Dorsey was telling him. Impet wasn't quite sure why they needed a special room to use for exercising, but he supposed it had something to do with them living in this this closed-off ship instead of on a planet. Yet another thing he would have to grow accustomed to in this strange, antiseptic world.
As the trio approached the entrance, the wide double doors swished silently open. Once again Impet's mouth formed an amazed 'o'; he still found the automatic door thing fascinating.
"Bloody. Frazzing. Hell."
Impet tilted his head to the side, curiously noting Aristi's appearance, particularly the blue sleeveless shirt darkened with perspiration, her normally wild black-and-red hair plastered against her skull in chunks, and the slight pinkish flush to her normally ashen grey complexion. Interesting.
As expected, she went right on talking. "Can't I at least work out in peace?"
As she left them behind once again, Impet replayed her words in his head. Work out. Hmm. That must be another word for exercise.
So many words yet to learn, he mused.
*****
On the fourth day, he decided that remaining in the rooms he had been given would be the best way to avoid Aristi and her temper.
But, he still wished to talk to her at some point, and at the moment was having a hard time figuring out how to go about that. On his planet, he wouldn't have been allowed to even speak to such a woman without first receiving an invitation, but now that he was here, the rules were entirely different. At least, that's what Forn and Dorsey had told him.
"Why don't you send her a note?" Dorsey suggested.
"A...note?"
"Yeah, a note," the young human responded. Impet watched as he moved through the room to the storage alcoves set into one wall, pushed a corner of one so it slid open, and withdrew a flat, rectangular object with several markings on both sides. "Write something on this padd, and either Zorren or I can take it to her."
Impet looked at the device, turning it over in his hands several times, wondering how it functioned. After several seconds he realized the level of technology was still above him, and he looked back at Dorsey, a confused look on his face.
"Here, let me show you," Dorsey replied, once again remembering just how little his charge knew about 24th century Federation technology. "Tap this screen to activate it," here the screen popped to life, displaying a default series of menus in subdued blue text on a black background, "then use the stylus to write out your message."
"But...I do not know writing," Impet admitted, his face flushing slightly with embarrassment. At an early age he'd learned to read the words of the language systems called Federation Standard and Modern Vulcan, but had never learned to write the symbols that made the words. "Is there another way?"
"Sure, sure." Dorsey tapped a colored square on the device's screen, then handed it back to Impet. "Now it's set to accept audio input. Just say what you want, and the padd will transcribe it for you. Tap the large red button to begin, and tap it again when you're done."
"Alright." Impet nodded once, then extended a finger, tapping experimentally at the thing. It chirped at him; he supposed that meant it was ready. He took a deep breath, and spoke the first thing that came to mind: one of the newest words he'd mastered. "Aristi."
*****
On the fifth day, he once more asked Forn to be his messenger.
"I don't think she'll like me trying to give her that padd again," Forn commented between mouthfuls of food. It was still early in the morning, and the trio of refugee and escorts were having a light breakfast. Forn and Dorsey had already eaten before they came on shift, but Impet insisted they eat again. He'd been doing plenty of research, and had been trying the foods of a different culture at each meal. This morning it was the Bajoran dish called "hasperat" that held his attention.
"Try again, please?" Impet asked after he'd downed a large gulp of water. He hadn't expected the dish to be so spicy, but now that he'd had a few bites and had grown accustomed to the unexpected fire of it, he found it quite tasty.
Forn sighed slightly, but nodded anyway. In truth, he was getting a bit frustrated by the constant need to keep Impet away from the Cardassian pilot, and was hoping that whatever argument they'd had, they would settle it soon. "Alright. But...right now?"
"Please?"
"Fine. Computer, what is the location of Flight Officer Aristi Ferguson?"
"Flight Officer Ferguson is on the primary flight deck."
Forn sighed again. "Damn, that's a long way." He pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed the padd that had been sitting in the middle of the table since he'd returned from his unsuccessful delivery attempt last night. "Dorsey, you stay here with Impet; I'll be back in a few minutes. I hope."
*****
The sixth day contained a wholly unexpected twist.
It was mid-afternoon, and Impet was fully engrossed in a new game Dorsey was trying to teach him. He'd never seen a pattern of colored squares like the one this game board was made out of, but after Dorsey had explained the meaning of the term "checkerboard" and how it related to the pattern of 64 red and black squares, he had then understood why the game was called "checkers".
"So, once I move the piece to the opposite side of the board, it's called 'crowned', and then I can move it up and down the board?"
"Exactly." Dorsey nodded. Nearby, Forn looked up from a padd he was reviewing and smiled slightly. He knew exactly where this was going."
Impet smiled and reached for a piece, hopping it over two of Dorsey's pieces. "Excellent. Crown me?"
"Ouch."
"Ferguson to Petty Officer Forn."
Surprised by the sudden interruption the trio froze. Automatically, Forn tapped his communicator pin. "Forn here, ma'am, go ahead."
Impet frowned. They'd given him one of those badges as well, supposedly to track where he went on the ship. Could he use it to communicate with people too?
On the other end, Aristi's voice came through as if she was hesitating. "Um. Uh, I have something for you. Can you stop by my quarters whenever you get a chance?"
"Really?" Forn's eyes widened; clearly he was as surprised by this as was Impet. What could she have for the Trill? "I mean, certainly ma'am; on my way now."
*****
And the seventh day gave Impet the chance he'd been waiting for ever since he'd woken up on this ship, and finally found himself free of the yoke of the Kahru.
The appointed time was fast approaching. Impet was nervous, but he was trying not to give any outward sign of that. He'd spent the past two days studying the habits of his people, the Vulcans, and was intrigued at their widespread suppression of emotion. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to do that himself, especially given the fact that emotion usually brought him more joy than it did pain, but he'd come to understand that there was a certain value in downplaying those emotions rather than being quite open about it. Dorsey had called it "playing one's cards close to the chest". Impet wasn't yet sure what emotions had to do with paper cards (unless it was a human ritual he hadn't yet encountered, he thought), but the phrase seemed to make sense.
Trying to kill some time, Impet reached for the padd that was once more sitting on the table...the same padd Forn had delivered to Aristi two days ago, and the same padd he'd brought back yesterday. After a few experimental mis-taps, he managed to call up the short text she'd added.
Forn-- Take this back to Impet. And if he wants to meet me, bring him to Ten Forward tomorrow night at 1900.
Impet-- I appreciate the apology; while it won't completely absolve you or your people, it is a step in the right direction. I assume you wish to speak to me face to face. If so, I will meet you in a public place, and we can talk. The Ten Forward lounge is a good location; Forn and Dorsey will know where to take you.
"Hey, time to go." Impet looked up, the padd sliding out of his hand back to the table as he watched Dorsey rise and cross to the room's exit door, with Forn not far behind.
"Lead the way, then."
The trip from guest rooms to the place called Ten Forward was quick, but Impet still knew he would have become lost without his guides. They had taught him so much in the past week: how to instruct the elevating cars (no, they were called turbolifts) to take him places, how to order meals from the alcove called the replicator, how to access information on the ship's computer, how to make the swishing doors open and close, and what seemed like a million other things that were now all swimming around in his head. And yet, he knew he still had far to go, and much to learn. But that could all wait for the time being; right now the only thing he wanted to do was to set things right with the first person in his life who'd actually treated him like someone worth knowing.
The doors to Ten Forward were impressively opulent. Fashioned out of firey red wood that seemed to glow with an inner light, each one had a frosted glass window set into it that bore the symbol of Starfleet. Impet reached out a hand to feel them, and for the first time wasn't surprised that the doors parted automatically once he got close enough. Last week that would have startled him; this week, it was merely a curiosity.
The lounge was large enough to be comfortable, yet still small enough to be cozy. He took a few steps inside and looked around. A long bar stretched the entire length of the room, and the rest of the space was filled with small square tables. An entire wall of the gently curved room was made entirely of windows, offering a stunning view of the blackness of space outside. Eventually, his wandering eyes settled on the seated form of Aristi Ferguson. She was looking straight at him, and looked about as anxious as he felt.
Well, best to get it over with. He moved silently through the room, Forn and Dorsey following closely behind, until he found himself standing at her table, looking expectantly down at her. She was wearing the outfit he'd sometimes seen her in before: a loose grey jacket with darker grey panels on the shoulders, a white high-necked undershirt with a single silver bar at the neck, and fitted black trousers with a white stripe down each leg. He hadn't learned what all the forms of dress were aboard this vessel (after all, there were so many, and each one contained its own unique symbolism), but perhaps this was the uniform she wore when she was working. No, when she was "on duty", he mentally amended.
And after what seemed like hours, she finally looked up at him. "Hello, Impet."
Imwardly, he sighed a sigh of relief. At least she'd acknowledged him; that was a huge step. Now it was his turn to speak, and more importantly to show her what he'd learned. Remembering the traditional greeting forms of the Vulcans, he bowed slightly before beginning, "Hello, Aristi."
Was she surprised that he'd been able to say her full name? He thought he'd seen the emotion flicker across her face, but just as soon as it appeared it was gone. She extended a hand, gesturing to the chair in front of him. "Please, have a seat."
Allowing the slightest of smiles to cross his features, he arranged the ample fabric of his robes and sat down.
"Diversion of Night"
Consul Ayanna Hinanat
Judge
=============================================
It was the first sudden chill that had awoke her. Delicately haunting, it crept up each single solitary dark plum painted toenail causing her legs to violently spasm. How? The question misted over gently, forming itself in one small part of her brain as the majority of her cranial tissue busied itself with checking the rest of her numbed senses.
The rough surface underneath her felt much akin to rubberized cement. Basketball court. Click. The memory solidified itself causing her brain to store it in its proper place. Still, something did not make sense. What? Panic...just the sheer thought of being out of control caused her body to shiver with the thrill of sudden lack coherence.
Cold continued to follow up the back of her calves, and her buttocks, but stopped just a nanoinch short of the lowest curve of her spine. Forcing her eyelids open, she realized she was laying on the surface on her stomach with her head resting looking out over the left side of the court. Despite the frigid temperature of her lower body, her neck and head profusely started to sweat as she struggled to regain normal adrenaline levels.
'Movement!' Her mind screamed. Instantly, her eyelids shut. Her body knew more than she did as to her current circumstance. Fight or flight, she now was not alone.
The pain in her back did not fade, but grew worse. Any attempt at a sheer shift of flesh, her body did not permit. Yet, the urge to survive out played the urge for stillness as the silence was cut away by the shuffling of what she knew was Starfleet regulation nylon workout pants.
The being's raspy breathing accelerated as the cool of the evening danced upon her bare, yet blood soaked back. Risking the chance of being caught, she opened her eyelids yet again. It revealed a shred of information she did not want to know. Her crumbled academy uniform lay shredded not but two feet from her face. The small mustard stain from her collar yelled at her as it signaled the hurried attempt at giving herself nutrition just a few short hours prior to this.
The rustling of the pants stopped just for a mere moment as the sensation of stabbing metal entering flesh caused her to gasp. Her make believe obviously at an end, as her life signs revealed that the cadet was indeed alive and very much in pain. Darkness smiled upon her as she felt herself involuntarily flipped over. Instantly, above all else, the intense need to cover her jiggling breasts was met with embarrassment of not being able to move her arms.
Searing pain tore up her spine, however the ability to vocalize her distress was cut short when her widened eyes fell upon the blade. It's silver clarity mocked her with a reflection of the Earth's moon as it was raised above her chest.
"No..." She whispered in horror. A weakened plea that was not recognized cried out against the glimmering stars and securityless night as the blade crashed against her smooth flawless right shoulder.
A flash of brightness, a ragged forced intake of breath, followed by a surge of righteous energy screamed through her causing her muscles in her vocal cords to contract as liquid sweat streamed from her innocent pores.
"Lights!!!" Ayanna yelped with an impassioned battle cry from the unknown security of her bed.
Swallowing hard, she instinctively placed her right hand over her beating heart. Rolling her dark eyes upwards towards the ceiling, she closed her eyelids slowly and with a painfully slow exhaustive breath, calmed herself mentally. Flipping her legs over, Ayanna stood with somewhat wobbly legs. Pausing a moment at the foot of the bed, she caught her dim reflection in the full length mirror at the opposite side of the small room.
Her green silk robe fell methodically off her right shoulder, exposing a large tattoo of a white Lilly. The harsh white amid the tan skin of the consul reflected itself more prominently in the mirror than the rest of her. It was a beacon, drawing her to her reflection. As the haze of the image in the mirror cleared drastically, Ayanna's gaze froze on the tattooed flower. That was the last cut. Rotating her body, she untied the ribbon of silk around her waist, her eyes following it as it dropped to the floor below her.
The once smooth flesh of her back exposed itself to the mirror. Taking a moment, she turned her head with a respect of what she was about to view in the reflection. The green vine started at her left back side of the curve of her womanly hip. It wove it's way around various spots on her back, finally resting on her right shoulder. Every white Lilly signified a wound, every petal delicately hid the scarred tissue where the silver metallic weapon had raped her smooth subtle skin.
Seven lilies in all, various sizes, currently decorated her back and right shoulder. A weariness washed over her as the personal strength she took pride in drained itself from her body much like dirty bath water from a bath tub as the flowers bloomed at her. It had been at least four weeks since the last nightmare. And, she should have known better. She inwardly knew, the *moment* Ayanna entertained the thoughts that the grime nightmares were finally over, they manifested themselves and teased her yet again. Her savior graced her mind. Without his bravery that fateful night, she would not be alive. As many times as she wished to thank him, the opportunity never presented itself until now. For he was a member of the crew of the USS Galaxy...
TBC
>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
INCOMING TRANSMISSION
GHSVKTY-HKJE
DECODING IN PROCESS
>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
EYES ONLY INFORMATION
STARFLEET INTELLIGENCE
USS GALAXY COMMAND STAFF
CC: T'VARA, CAPTAIN : ELAITHIN,DIRECTOR JORDAN, SFI : KYZNETSOVA, LIEUTENANT VALENTINA, SFI : KRIEGHOFF, LIEUTENANT VICTOR, SECURITY CHIEF :
1. BE ADVISED. ON OR ABOUT sTARDATE 54671.2 VON ERNST, CAPTAIN REBECCA CATHERINE, THEN BEING IN COMMAND OF UNITED STARSHIP ZEUS (NCC 45255),
THEN BEING ATTACHED TO TASK FORCE 34 (PICARD), DELTA IV SECTOR, HAS GONE MISSING.
2. PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATIONS REVEAL FOLLOWING FACTS:
A. USS ZEUS, VON ERNST COMMANDING, WAS THEN ATTACHED TO PICARD, CAPTAIN JEAN LUC, TASK FORCE 34. DELTA IV SECTOR.
B. USS ZEUS HAVING BEEN CLEARED FOR IN DEPENDANT REAR-GUARD ACTION IN FURTHERANCE OF TACTICAL DEPLOYMENT FROM DELTA IV SECTOR.
C. USS ZEUS HAVING REGISTERED DESTRUCTION OF HYDRAN LIGHT DESTROYER H'JARR CLASS ON 54671.2 (SPECIFIC HULL REGISTRY NOT AVAILABLE)
D. VON ERNST HAVING LEFT THE BRIDGE UNDER COMMAND OF CHURCH, COMMANDER TERESA L. (PANIC) PRESUMABLY FOR RETIREMENT TO CAPTAINS CABIN
E. SHIPS TURBOLIFT LOG CONFIRM TRANSPORTING FORM BRIDGE TO DECK 5.
F. SHIPS COMPUTER HAVING REGISTERED ACTIVATION OF CAPTAINS CABIN FOOD REPLICATOR. ITEM #456-A-24B (MILKSHAKE, PEPPERMINT, 28 DEGREES)
3. SUBSEQUENT TO THESE EVENTS, COMMUNICATION ATTEMPTS FROM BRIDGE, BY COMMANDER CHURCH WENT UNANSWERED.
SECURITY DETAIL UNDER COMMAND OF GILES, LIEUTENANT ROGER M. GAINED ACCESS TO CABIN AT 2042 HOURS LOCAL. THE CAPTAIN VON ERNST THEN BEING NOT
IN EVIDENCE.
4. IMPLICATIONS AND CONSIDERATIONS:
IT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED OR MULTIPLE OCCASIONS THAT MEMBERS OF THE TRIAD HAVE IN THE PAST ATTEMPTED CLONING AND REPLACEMENT OF KEY
STARFLEET PERSONNEL.
CAPTAIN VON ERSNT AS A FULL FLEDGED SHIPS CAPTAIN IS IN POSSESSION OF KEY TECHNICAL AND STRATEGIC INTELLIGENCE THAT WOULD BE
BENEFICIAL TO ENEMIES OF THE FEDERATION
THESE FACTS SHOULD IN NO WAY BE CONSTRUED AND AN ENDORSEMENT OF THE THEORY OF REPLACEMENT OF CAPTAIN VON ERNST HOEVER THE OPERATIVE IS
ADVISED TO KEEP THE DELICACY OF THE SITUATION IN MIND.
5. ADDENDUM. MEMBERS OF FOLLOWING FLEET ASSETS SHOULD IMMEDIATELY REPORT ANY FACTS PERTAINING TO THIS EVENT TO SFI POST HASTE.
WE REC COMMEND THAT INTERNAL SHIP WIDE INVESTIGATIONS ARE ALSO IN ORDER TO DETERMINE IF PREVIOUS CONTACTS HAVE INFORMATION TO HER
WHEREABOUTS.
THESE ASSETS INCLUDE PREVIOUS SHIPS POSTING FOR VON ERNST IN HER SERVICE JACKET.
STARBASE 108 (SB-108) ADMIRAL TRUHH COMMANDING
USS VICTORY (NCC-75643) CAPTAIN CHAMBERLAIN COMMANDING
USS GALAXY (NCC-70637) CAPTIAN T'VARA COMMANDING
USS ZEUS (NCC-46255) COMMANDER CHURCH TEMPORARY COMMAND
WOLF 359 TACTICAL SCHOOL (DS-46) COMMANDER JOHN ZALETTA REGENT
6. SPECIFICS OF THESE EVENTS CLASSIFIED CLASSIFIED AND SUBJECT TO PROVISIONS IN THE WARTIME INFORMATION ACT (FORMS 45-B)
>>>>>>>>>END TRANSMISSION<<<<<<<<<<<
OOC: Okay, I know y'all are going to be like, "WTF, eh?!" Just bear with me, especially through the intro. It'll all make sense, eventually. I promise. - MJ
*****
"Fullmetal Angel" - Part I
Starring...
SFMC Captain T'Shani sh'Akledor - Special Reconnaissance Operator
142nd Marine Special Reconnaissance Unit, 14th Marine Special Operations Battalion
* * * * *
STARDATE [!ERROR! \ ANOMALOUS READING \ LCARS INTERLINK OFFLINE] (ESTIMATED GREGORIAN DATE: OCTOBER 13, 1944)
SPECIAL PROJECT RESEARCH SITE 7, SOMEWHERE IN THE HARZ MOUNTAINS, GERMANY, EARTH
Rudolph Koenig couldn't believe he was actually seeing what was lying in front of him. His assistant, Gregor Hunzer, peers questioningly at him across the...the *thing* strapped down to the reinforced examination table.
"What *is* it, Doctor?" Hunzer asks, reaching out to touch its...skin.
"No, Gregor, don't tou--" Koenig admonishes, too late; Hunzer is already brushing his fingers across the dull-gray, burnished plates that cover the...
The...
Truthfully, Koenig is at a complete loss for words to describe it. Scientifically, he had already made categorizations: bipedal, bilaterally symmetrical, with arms, legs, torso, chest, shoulders, neck, and a head: humanoid. That much was obvious. What was also obvious was that this "thing" appeared to be some sort of armored over-suit--some sort of advanced...armor. There had to be something--perhaps, some*one*--inside controlling it.
And that's where he and his assistant were stuck: they had no idea how to open it. There was no release lever, no button to push or switch to activate. No labels or iconography, either. Simply a seamless, dull, grayish-colored metallic casing.
No..."metallic" wasn't the right word. At first look, the suit-armor *looked* metallic, but it wasn't. Well, perhaps it *was*, but it wasn't fashioned out of any type of metal Doctor Koenig had come across in his lifetime.
It was almost...
Chitinous. Like a beetle's carapace.
"Look at this!" Gregor suddenly exclaimed, waving a portable electric lantern at the suit. "I...I can't believe it!"
Koenig moved over to Hunzer's side of the table, his eye trained on the reflection of the flash-light as it shone over the armor's smooth curves.
Except, there was no reflection.
At all.
*What the hell?*
"Give me that," Koenig ordered. Grabbing the flash-light out of Hunzen's hands, he cycled its plunger switch off-on, off-on, making sure it was working correctly--even shaking it, for good measure.
"Lights," he barked, to which Hunzen quickly flicked off the switch for the overhead operating lamps.
Carefully, he trained the beam from the flash-light on the far wall, its dull-yellow glare reflecting in the white glazed wall tiles. Slowly, he tilted the lantern downward, the beam passing down the far wall, over a bright steel equipment cart, and onto the armor...
To disappear, completely.
"Hold this. Here." He handed the lantern back to Hunzen. "Keep it there," he pointed in the darkness at the suit. "Don't move."
He walked around the table, to the opposite side, where he had originally been standing. From this point, he could clearly see the lantern bulb's light. He could even see a shaft of dust particles as they floated through the light's conical beam. But there was absolutely no reflection *back* from the suit!
"Amazing."
Quickly, he turned and picked up several round discs from the equipment cart behind him. Moving back to Gerhardt's side, he snapped one over the flash-light's reflector cone, cutting the light down to an eerie, blue-violet glow.
Nothing on UV.
He snapped off the filter, then fitted it with another, this time burnt-red.
Nothing on infrared.
Nothing...at all.
He walked over to the light switch, and flipped the room lights back on.
For the first time in his life, he was completely, utterly...flabbergasted.
Nothing explained what he had just seen. Nothing. There was nothing in all of the Wehrmacht's science divisions which could account for this..this...
"Supersoldat," he whispered
*Super-soldier*.
One thing he knew, for certain: if this was a new weapon developed by the Allies, then the Third Reich was truly doomed.
He had to get that suit opened, whatever it took...
* * * * *
TO BE CONTINUED...
"The Beat Goes On"
1st Lt. Branwen London
SFMC Psychologist
Captan Karyn Dallas, RN
Fleet Chief Counselor
USS Galaxy-A
***Karyn's Office, USS Galaxy-A***
Since returning to the Galaxy after accompanying Branwen for what Karyn
referred to as London's second stay in captivity, Dallas had been trying to
free herself from the mountain of reports and other red tape that had
accumulated in her absence.
When she had advocated the creation of her current position, she was but a
babe, a mere jay-gee in a universe where she believed the highest rank she
would ever achieve, if she was lucky, was that of Commander. After the
disaster that was lanjep, when seemingly ever member of Starfleet Medical
was calling for her head, she'd sent a memo to Starfleet Medical urging them
to create Fleet Chief Counselors in an effort to provide greater oversight
and support for mental health professionals at a time when war was a
constant threat and resources were stretched thin.
At the time, she remembered thinking, "What the hell do I have to lose? I'm
on my way out!"
She didn't know it at the time, but she would soon come to realize putting
duty first could be a real son of a bitch.
Not to mention how hard it could be on a woman's social life and maternal
ambitions. (She often wondered if her dwindling supply of eggs were
beginning to powder).
The only joy she seemed to find these days was when she actually got the
chance to counsel others, a task that was more difficult today because it
meant talking with Branwen, a mother away from from her newborns, but a
mother nonetheless.
It was irrational to be envious of her, she knew, especially considering
what London had endured, and Karyn would never let her feelings about
motherhood interfere with Branwen's care, but Dallas felt it all the same.
"How're you feeling?"
"Busy ma'am." Branwen said. "The marines have been on a tough mission and
they need me pretty hard right now, both as a platoon leader and a
counselor. It is amazing how quickly I have fitted in again." She said. "And
it is easier for me to be busy, that way I don't miss the kids so much. Oh
and I have seen a doctor already, they are keeping an eye on me. How about
you?"
Karyn smiled at Branwen's deflection. It was a natural impulse for
counselors to be concerned about the welfare of others. "I'm well. I'm
pleased you're back aboard the Galaxy where you can get the care you need
and deserve. I know it's important to you to work, and it's important to me
that you have the opportunity to really address what you went through."
Bran shuffled her feet. "Ma'am, care makes me feel like an idiot or a
child." She remembered what she had promised Victor. "You sometimes make me
feel that way and I hate it. I am a grown woman and I can handle my life. I
am over the worst now and would like nothing better then to get on with my
life and get that life back. NOT to be treated like an invalid still. I don't
mind therapy, just don't cuddle me, I am a marine.And I am good at my job."
"It's not my intention to make you feel like an idiot or a child, and I'm
sorry if I gave you that impression. I admire you, Branwen," Karyn added,
looking London directly in the eyes. "You've been through a lot and you've
handled it the best you could, with a great deal of determination and grace.
You are good at your job, you wouldn't be here if you weren't. Counseling
for you is just one more necessary evil of your job. We'd require it of
anyone who's been through something traumatic. I know you know that.
You've had to do these kinds of evaluations yourself, I know."
Branwen exhaled. "yes, I know that and I accept that. But keep it focussed
on my private life, please ma'am. Let me do my job with the same amount of
supervision then the other counselors get. You have no reason to doubt me,
and I am good at my job. I will see you as often as you want for my private
life."
"Branwen," Karyn replied patienty, "You know as well as I these sorts of
evaluations require an exploration of how the crew member in question is
coping with professional and personal stressors in light of traumatic
events. If I were to ignore the impact such events could have on your
professional work, I would be applying a different standard to you than I am
required to apply to everyone else. As for supervision, you're getting the
same attention any counselor who had just been through a very personal and
traumatic ordeal would get, no more and no less. Starfleet Medical
recognizes counselors who are working through their own personal issues are
vulnerable to losing their objectivity and their focus as they counsel, so
personal supervision is used as a preventative measure."
Dallas raised a hand before London could protest. "No one is saying you
have lost your objectivity and your focus. All of this is a precaution.
It's a check-up, Bran. That's all. I've reached no conclusion one way or
the other, and I won't be able to until all is said and done."
"I can talk to you about things I run into with patients that I might need
advice on. And I will be honest if I run into emotional problems with a
patient. Is that enough for you, ma'am?"
Karyn nodded. "And I'll be reviewing your case notes and asking my own
questions at times just like in any supervisory session."
"That I don't mind." Bran said. "How often do you want them?" She began to
relax a little.
"Why don't we start withonce week for supervision and once a week for
individual therapy? We can do more or less as we need," Dallas suggested.
"That is fine with me. So what would you like to do today, ma'am?"
Karyn shrugged. "That's up to you. What's on your mind?"
TBC...
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