USS Galaxy: The Next Generation Sim Log
Stardate: 60903.29 - 60904.04 |
Logs |
| "Come Wander With Me" John Walker Kaylee Hunter (npc) Korth towered over her, wearing nothing but a mighty Klingon loin cloth. He hoisted his mek'leth in the air. "I've come to rescue you," he said. Kaylee stood up and held out her bound wrists. Without even looking, Korth used his blade to cut straight through her bonds. "We must hurry," he said, "for the dread witch Mercedes could come at any moment---" And the door to her prison burst into splinters. The dread witch Mercedes was here. She cackled and then cackled some more. Korth jumped in front of Kaylee. "You will not have her!" Korth cried out. He charged the foul witch. Kaylee desperately tried to focus her attention on the situation at hand, but she kept noticing the complete perfection that was Korth's abs. They were dark and glistening with sweat. Kaylee tore her eyes away from them. Mercedes cackled again and threw her mighty warrior into the wall. "I'll get you now!" the witch said. And Kaylee said, "Screw THAT. NO ONE messes with MY warrior." She jumped up from her spot on the ground and took the mek'leth that had fallen from Korth's fingertips. With one blow, she slashed the wicked witch across the chest . . . and then punched her in the face, just for good measure. The wicked witch fell to the ground as Kaylee spouted off a number of witty remarks. Then she ran to her man's side. Korth started to sit up. "I meant to rescue you," he said, "but in fact, you have rescued me." Kaylee had another witty remark for that, but Korth put a hold on her cleverness by kissing her . . . "Kaylee Hunter!" Uh-oh. That didn't sound like somebody who had only called her once. Kaylee blinked and looked at her teacher. He stared down disapprovingly at her. "Have you been paying any attention at all?" Kaylee wondered how she should answer that. On one hand, you ought to be polite, respect your elders. On the other hand, honesty was supposed to be the best policy. "No," she said honestly. The other students snickered. Lieutenant L'lan did not look amused. He ordered her to add an extra essay to her assignment. There went that idea. Kaylee apologized and then immediately stopped paying attention again. Her eyes wandered to the empty seat in front of her. Korth wasn't in class today. He got to go down to the planet, be a part of some big mission. He'd been very proud about it. It'd all he'd been able to talk about for a week. Kaylee didn't know what the mission involved, but if it was what made her father start sobbing on the bathroom floor, she didn't think it was anything worth being proud of. Hearing Dad talk about his history with Mercedes had been comforting, in a way. She got it now, the reason he stuck with her, when she obviously wasn't the girl that either of them remembered. But it kind of sucked too, because Kaylee knew he would never, ever leave her. There had always been the smallest bit of hope---but that was gone now. They were stuck here. And if her Dad went crazy or if he di---if he left her alone here, what would happen? The door suddenly opened. Kaylee turned her head and was surprised to see her Dad. He should be on Denobula---what was he doing back on the ship? Kaylee looked closely at her father. He looked . . . really damn tired. There was something in his eyes that she couldn't quite place, but it scared her. Dad didn't even bother looking at Lieutenant L'Lan. "Kaylee," he said. "Get your stuff." Kaylee knew that tone. She packed her things quickly while the other students looked at her curiously. Lieutenant L'Lan tentatively asked what was going on, but Dad didn't answer him. She waved goodbye to the other kids---she wasn't really friends with any of them. The only nice ones were Bex and Kista, and they were both five years younger than her. When Kaylee walked out to the corridor, she saw a few bags on the floor. She looked up at her Dad. "What's going on?" she asked. "We're leaving," Dad said. He started to walk towards the shuttlebay, but Kaylee was so stunned that she couldn't even move. Dad turned around to look at her. "We have to go," he said. "But . . . Mercedes, what about---" "We're leaving her behind." There was something wrong in the way he said it. "You just quit?" she asked incredulously. "Gave my notice," Dad said, and horribly, looked like he was about to cry. Kaylee wanted to go hug him, but she still felt like she couldn't move. He walked back to her, put his hand on her shoulder. "She won't be following us," he said. Kaylee looked at him and understood. "Oh," she said. The wicked witch is dead. She felt a terribly inappropriate urge to laugh. "We're leaving now," Dad said. "Okay?" He started to walk again. But she still couldn't go. "Dad?" He turned, exasperated. "What?" Kaylee swallowed. "What about . . . what about Korth . . ." The look on Dad's face completely changed. Kaylee looked down at the ground. She knew it was a stupid thing, to hope, to ask---Korth had his own family; he was just a sorta friend, a crush, nothing more---but still, this was like every fantasy she'd ever dared to have. They were leaving; they were leaving . . . . . . but in her daydreams, Korth always left with them. Dad walked back over and knelt down in front of her. She didn't understand the expression on his face, reluctant, almost broken. He put both hands on her shoulders this time. "Baby," he said, "I'm so sorry." . . . and that, Kaylee did understand. And she was sorry too. *** Kaylee had cried a little, when John told her what had happened to Korth, but not as much as he had feared. He suspected there would be more tears to come, for both of them, but those could wait until they were off the Perdon. Ten feet away from the shuttle bay, they hit their main obstacle: Nnerhin. John didn't know when he beamed back to the ship, only that he was standing in their way. John pulled his phaser. Kaylee started, a little, but Nnerhin barely looked at the weapon. He looked a little shell shocked. "Captain Delgado is dead," the half-Romulan said. "Yeah," John said. "I know." "We still have to complete the mission," Nnerhin said. "What are your orders, Captain?" John stared at him for a minute. Had he really not put it together? Did he honestly believe that it had been Korath's blade that killed Mercedes . . . or did he know what John had done and just not cared? "I'm not your Captain," he said. "I'm not going to give you orders. I'm taking my little girl off this ship. Now, move out of my way." Nnerhin didn't move. "But the mission," he said. "If the Captain is dead and Commander Korth is dead and you're leaving . . ." "Congratulations, Nnerhin. You've just been promoted. Now move." Nnerhin still stood there. He looked almost nauseous. The man wasn't meant to lead. He knew it, John knew it . . . and John didn't care. "You can't leave me here," Nnerhin said. "You have to tell me what to do. You have to tell me if we're . . .if it's right, if we're doing the right thing. I need someone to tell me what the right thing is." "You're asking the wrong guy." Nnerhin walked up to him, ignoring the phaser. "Please," he said. "Please. I'll do what you tell me to do. Just tell me what to do." "Okay," John said. "I'll tell you what to do." Nnerhin nodded frantically. John pressed the phaser to his throat. "Get out of my way," he said slowly. "That is the right thing to do. And if you don't do the right thing, I will kill you where you stand. I don't want to kill you, Nnerhin. I don't want to do that in front of my daughter. But I am getting on a shuttle, and I am taking my daughter with me. We are leaving this insanity, and we are leaving it now. Do you understand, Nnerhin? Can you do the right thing?" Nnerhin nodded again, more slowly this time. He looked like a puppy who had been kicked, and then maybe run over twelve times. He stepped aside to give them room, still asking for help with his eyes. John had nothing to give him. He didn't know what the right thing was anymore. He didn't know if there was a way to save the universe. He could save his daughter, and that would have to be enough. They left. *** They cleared the Perdon and started flying in the opposite direction. The shuttle they had stolen was usually called the Bluejay. Kaylee agreed with John that this was the lamest of lame names and decided that they should rechristen it, as it would be their home till they found a better. John figured Kaylee would suggest the Korth, but Kaylee didn't seem to want to think about Korth at all, or anything they had left behind. John could understand the feeling. Kaylee suggested the Sparkle. John put his foot down right away. She suggested the Cupcakery. He bemoaned not having a tomboy. They compromised on the Toxic Cupcakery, because while it made no sense, it sounded like a good band name. Kaylee fell asleep for a little while. John sang Led Zeppelin songs to himself. Later, when she woke up, Kaylee asked where they were going. John had no idea where to go. So he said, "Let's see what the edge of the universe looks like." ** Kaylee thought that sounded like a beautiful idea. FIN "Behind the Scenes"
For'kel Arvelion- Outside of the Rank Leah Owen-Arvelion Sera'di Joyce Owen-Arvelion ==================================
(The Arvelion Residence: Mid-River Neighborhood- Central County: Al'Klei'sh)
Winners may write the history, but they often forgot to remember the participants.
For instance, when you went through the historical archives of the Federation, you saw that the free nations of Earth had banded together multiple times to fight fanaticism and totalitarianism in all its facets, from World War Two and Three to the Eugenics Wars. The Vulcan and Andorian Civil Wars, the Bajoran Occupation... the story pretty much always went the same. Good guys caught unawares, bad guys seem unstoppable, good guys band together in the face of oppression and tyranny, common valor leads to a massive military conflict which leads to the good guys winning, and peace is restored until the next cycle.
Apart from what was recorded though, away from the slogans, the unforgettable imagery of heroic young men and women throwing themselves forward against the enemy... away from the historical names and renowned battles, there was always the aftermath. Not so much for the soldiers who died, for they were always remembered as fondly as anyone could be: memorials, pictures taken at the prime of their respective lives, in family histories and literary authorities. No, most often the ones most readily forgotten were the ones who survived to come home. The maimed, the battle scarred... the veterans.
Both Leah and For'kel were among that band of brethren. Despite service that included both 'wars to end all wars' in the Alpha Quadrant, service that hadn't been anything less than honorable (even despite the Vered incident), a faux Court Martial definitely tarnished the luster of his service. That, however... really did not matter in the long haul. His primary concern had always been for Leah.
Leah had always been exceptional... but in that supportive way which often meant her importance was overlooked. She was an excellent soldier, with a spirit, intelligence, and confidence that was an impressive combination of traits one came to associate with the Starfleet Marines. He watched her go from the green recruit right out of advanced training to a battle-hardened leatherneck that distinguished herself as a jack of all trades and master of a few. She was a meticulous aide during the difficult transition from the 101st to the 188th, a wonderful advisor, confidant, and friend. He owed her his life dozens of times over, and never once had she asked for that debt to be repaid. He recalled well the disciplined young woman he first met, with a nonetheless wild eyed, constantly analytical gaze that might have been almost Vulcanish were it not for the mirth in those piercing eyes.
It was that look which kept him motivated when even his stubbornness and determination began to be tested. It was that look which helped him keep his sanity when he heard about Berilyn's loss, and it was that look which had gotten them through the horrific hunt for Moset. It was that look he would have remembered her by had his worst fear been realized and she died amidst the rubble of Cardassia.
And that look, or rather the lack thereof, was probably the most evident proof that she was no longer the same woman she once was.
Granted her hardened, youthful body back when they were Marines had physically changed, trading some hard muscle-mass and teenage to twenty-something zeal for the graceful, feminine curves and exuberance of a semi-active dancer who still dabbled in ballet and even figure-skating when the mood struck. But that was a trade Fork didn't mind nearly as much... there was definitely something to be said for the allure of maturity.
What he had noticed, and what had kept him up many nights, was her broken spirit. She had been gravely wounded physically... having to be brought back from the dead thanks to some incredibly skilled surgery, but she wasn't herself. She would likely never be herself again... so was Counselor Troi's advice right after they got picked up on the Titan.
She, more than him, was the person behind the scenes that you would never read about in a history book, but whom upon battles were one and lost, and whom were left to bear the scars and mutilations of war. Physically she might have 'appeared' to be fine, but her heart and soul (and at times body) had been broken by a condition nobody could understand. A mutagenic compound of some kind had been used by Moset in his weapons to add to their lethality, because a vaporization level simply wasn’t enough. It attacked the nervous system at a cellular level, and they hadn't found a way to isolate it, let alone stop it yet. She suffered from a neurological condition none of her doctors could understand, subject to highly invasive surgeries and probing techniques which often left her bed ridden for a week or more afterwards, prescribed incredibly strong medication after medication and been through endless counseling sessions to contend with the psychological issues she was facing. PTSD, depression, night terrors… all terms that he’d come quite familiar with courtesy of her treating physicians.
None of it seemed to work. He'd done his best to help her collect the shattered pieces of her life, but for every success they had, true victory seemed further and further away with each passing day. Every time he woke up to find her sobbing and shivering in the middle of the night for no reason, or had to rush in with a hypo loaded to handle another seizure... it was a brutal infliction which cut him deeper every time.
And now he was going to have to break this news... joy.
It was another warm spring day on Al'Klei'sh... the season of renewal in full swing. The small orchard they had outback was in full bloom, and one could smell the floral aroma of flowering sun-apple trees over the several acre parcel upon which their home rested. Even the normally ravenous Chokobros were quietly coo-clucking and feeding... the pitter patter of massive, webbed, avian fleet like a subtle drum beat danced through the air, mingling with song birds and a cricket orchestra.
Be damned, he did 'not' want to do this to her.
He walked the pave-stone walk-way up to the house. Opening one of the twin heavy wood doors with only a little hesitance. He half wondered whether he should say anything... whether he should go back and say 'thanks but no thanks' and just pretend like nothing ever happened. Back on the Galaxy they’d saved the universe enough times that they could be left alone this go around, right? This would be the perfect excuse to give; to step out of the lime light and let someone else with far more to prove and far less to lose fill in. There had to be hundreds of potential candidates who would be just as good, if not better.
But that begged the question, how do you say no to such a request, and how do you force someone else to bear a burden you don't want?
Then again... who was he to force this choice on Leah when she's been through so much?
But then again... who was he to turn his back on his people?
He hated thinking like this. Things got way too philosophical, way too easily. How did you weigh service to your people, to the greater good, against your loved ones?
It wasn't like it used to be... where he could seek out sage advice from trusted confidants. He hadn't been able to find Anjoli again, Era understandably was unavailable with most of Federation space under enemy control, Arel was... well she was doing whatever it was that Arel did. He got the dreaded 'black wall' of 'need to know' when he tried contacting her just the other day. In fact anyone in Federation space beyond the southern tier was practically off limits, the Hydran and Breen fleets cutting contact at their whims. He hadn't received a personal message from Jaal in nearly three weeks, hadn't heard from T'Risia in... Prophets he didn't know how long, T'Pei had been too busy to speak most likely, Branwen hadn't had time to respond to a message since the war broke out, doctor Burton had died years ago, Cowboy was incommunicado, he never really had more than professional contact with the Krieghoffs (an opportunity lost there, one of many in his life thus far) or the M'Kantus... hell even Thyago was off the grid so to speak.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized practically everyone he knew from his time in the Federation was either dead, too busy to be bothered, or otherwise unavailable courtesy of the multiple wars in play. He'd gone his whole life trying to be independent, trying to be on his own, to always give more than he took, to never fear giving but to reserve asking for when vitally necessary. Self determination mitigated by a collective conscience as he was always taught, was the way one should live life. As his father once put it, 'always think of others first and yourself second, and likewise you will always be first in the minds of others'.
Well, certainly seemed like dear old Dad misread that one like totally.
"Pati? You’re home early."
The Stagnorian equivalent of 'Dad', short for Patir, it popped him clear out of his daze.
Before him, the teenage face of his daughter, Sera'di Joyce Owen-Arvelion smiled sweetly, the way any young girl did to their fathers. It was usually considered a tool of manipulation, 'daddy's little princess' wanting something and knowing exactly which one of the parental units was most likely to give it up. In reality that was a half truth like many old sayings... the fact was that, normally, to a girl there was never another man stronger or more wonderful than their father. And everyone knew there wasn’t anyone more important to a father than his little princess. He smiled, albeit with some effort. “Strange day. Where’s your mother?”
“In the orchard.” Sera’di could sense something was up… she didn’t need a Betazoid counselor to point that out for her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing min, just something I need to speak with her about.” He tried his best to put her at ease with a kiss to her forehead, though Sera had her mother’s way of seeing through whatever smoke you tried to blow. “Do me a favor, keep a hypo handy?”
Ut-oh, and there was the kicker. The fact that he wanted one of Mom’s hypos readily available meant he was going to tell her something she would either be ecstatically thrilled to hear, or deeply mortified. Given the way her dad had been acting so far, Sera was leaning far more towards the latter. She didn’t say anything, giving only a solemn nod. Damn, and she had a date… or what passed for a date at 13, in an hour too. She was going to be late, and he was going to be mad, and… well she stopped thinking about it there and then. There would be time to scream and carry-on and sob and be all around miserable and mopey about life not being fair and the universe’s peculiar grudge against her social life later. If nothing else, her parents had taught her well the art of prioritization. “Okay.”
“Thank you, andjele.” Giving her arm a thankful squeeze For’kel made his way out the back porch doors and down the pavestone path towards the dozen or so sun-apple and odd cherry blossom trees which marked the area.
It was a bit of a hike, which gave him an important five minutes or so to think. Not that it was going to help, the likelihood of coming up with an acceptable way to talk about things now when he’d failed to develop one over the last couple of hours was unlikely.
Particularly when considering the knack Leah had developed for taking his breath away over the years.
It didn’t take more than a few minutes for him to transverse the fairly large parcel of homestead their house and orchard rested on. It might only have been early spring, some parts of the continent still not clear of the frost, but already the sun-apples were ripening to their peak. The damned things had an inordinately long growing season.
Under the shade of the branches, shielded partially from the bright, early spring sun and covered slightly from the buffeting, chilly breezes of winter’s last gasps, Leah Owen-Arvelion, ladder in hand, had been moving from tree to tree with a large whicker basket, plucking the mature sun-apples from their immaculately manicured and maintained branches of perch. She wore a pink, cashmere sweater with black jeans and a pair of hiking boots that did little to add to her average height, but a lot to help handle the constant climbing. Her hair was tied back in a pony tail, save for that one undisciplined curl that dangled down just out of eye range, off the left side of her face. As if to tease, it would occasionally catch one of the aforementioned breezes, allowing it to temporarily swing into her field of view as if to taunt ‘here I am!’ She would puff, blow the offending strands back, growl when they swung in again, and follow it up with a brushing from her fingers to tuck said strand behind her ear… a prison from which it would always manage an escape.
It was rather cute to watch. Like most women, one of Leah’s ‘favorite’ complaints about the opposite sex was that they didn’t listen… didn’t pay attention. A closely guarded secret of men everywhere were moments like this, so surreal in their beauty to be more entrancing and awe-inspiring than any work of art could ever be, with their lover in dead-center splendor. Men most certainly paid attention, but the method of doing so was far more discrete, and less obvious to the undiscerning eye.
She actually looked happy. Not just the passing ‘that was such a bad quip I have to smile to kill off the awkwardness’ happy that she always had in fits, but genuinely, honest to the Prophets happy. The kind of happiness and contentment that came with a life where, for the moment, everything was right. Where everything was the way it was supposed to be. Almost as if she’d forgotten completely that just a few hours ago her home world, or what was left of it, had been obliterated by Cerebus’ bitch.
He knew deep down that such a prima facie fact was nothing more than a veneer, skin deep at best. Leah had always been one to keep her actual feelings, at least the negative ones, closely guarded. At least she did so, when she was well.
She’d looked over her shoulder by happenstance to see him there, and smiled broadly. “Stalking me?”
“Always.” He permitted a brief smile, welcoming her into an embrace and customary exchange of kisses.
She wrapped her arms over his shoulders, staring up with shining, hopeful eyes for a negative answer. “Is it true?”
“I’m afraid so, ljubav.” Fork wrapped his own arms around her waist, and leaned his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes. She’d expected that answer, and was in a way glad now that her mother hadn’t lived to see their heritage destroyed. Still, that didn’t make it easy to keep the tears from welling up, and she had to turn away momentarily for composure’s sake.
Their greeting embrace morphed into one of consolation. Fork rested his chin on her head, and ran his hand slowly up and down her back in that comforting caress that seemed to be universal among all sentient species.
“I’d say she should rot in hell, but I think even that place has standards.”
“She’ll get what she deserves ljubav, I promise.” He felt her move as minimally as possible, undoubtedly trying to avoid bringing attention to the fact that she was reaching to wipe the tears from her eyes.
“I hope so… but there’s not much we can do about it.”
Fork bit his lip. It was now or never. “Actually, the meeting did take a turn in that direction.” He could see her interest immediately pick-up, evidenced by the way her tear filled, oceanic eyes stared up at his. “There are a few things in the works… I can’t go into much detail but they want me to go back on active duty.”
“They what?!” Her mouth hadn’t managed to stay closed… one would’ve thought she’d need a shovel to get it out of the ground. “You can’t, you have…” the gritted look on his face gave her knots in her stomach. “Oh my God… you said yes, didn’t you?!”
“I’m needed…”
“Here! You are needed HERE!” Long gone was the shocked, quieted tone of surprise. Like a lion, the artificially uninhibited temper kicked into high gear. “Jesus Christ For’kel, how the hell could you do this?! NOW of all times!”
Forgetting his wife’s condition, Fork went into default defensive mode. “We have to do something, Leah.”
“NO! We DID our part!” She stammered out, taking a quivering step back. “We fought the good fight, we carried out the impossible missions, we defended the Federation and its citizens and its flag and its God damned apple pie! It’s someone else’s turn! I forbid it!”
“Forbid it?” Fork rose an eyebrow, about to remind her he didn’t ask for her permission when he noted just how much shaking she was actually doing. “Leah, you need to calm down.” He went for her hand ineffectively, as she pulled away.
“Calm down?! CALM DOWN?! Jesus Christ For’kel, my husband comes home after some all day meeting to announce he’s going to fucking war AGAIN, not so much as a God damned day after my home world is destroyed… I’ve lost every fucking thing I’ve ever fought for or believed in, I’m sure as hell not being made a widow on top of it, For’kel! I will NOT!”
And that’s when it happened. The tremors mounted to a seizure, and even Fork was only just fast enough to catch her before she dropped. Fortunately, Sera’di inherited her parents’ athleticism and forethought when it came to preparedness. She was by her mother’s side, hypo in hand before For’kel could give a shout. He quickly set the dosage level, and pressed it to her neck.
Leah’s muscles slowly began to relax, tears welled more freely and less constrained then when they were forced out by the grip of the seizure. Color slowly began returning, even if only moderately, and her eyes became less dazed, more focused… although the shaking still continued.
“Deep breath’s Ljubav, relax.” He did his best to be as soothing as possible, an odd demand to be placed on someone who spent the majority of his life in a profession that called for roughness. Her skin was cold and clammy, but he knew… he hoped… the warmth would return. She turned into him, still crying. There was little comforting in the universe these days, but they’d been a constant in each other’s lives for what seemed like forever.
“I can’t lose you… I can’t.” She murmured. "The Art of Diplomacy" Commandant For'kel Suum Owen-Arvelion (Gateway Complex- Al'Klei'sh) "Leah, you don't have to do this." "Our daughter..." "Is a strong and independent young woman being ably looked after by "This could be dangerous, I..." "Listen, For'kel..." she started tartly, making a noticeable effort to He sighed, knowing when he was beat. She used their wedding vows like Hell, a shot hadn't been fired yet and it already seemed like his Staring into those gorgeous, ocean-blue eyes that seemed to sparkle She let go of a deep breath she didn't recall holding. "Yeah. Does "Yep." "What do I have to..." "Just touch it, when I tell you." "Just touch it? That's it? I don't have to click my heels or..." "Nope, just touch it. You ready?" "You already asked me that." "Right." Fork nodded. "Sorry, force of habit. Ops, dial up Paxar's The young man manning the station checked the status reports that came The screen of the Iconian Hub began flashing through images like a "Ladies first?" (Paxar- Romulan Star Empire) Paxar had always been a vital system to the Empire, but not because of In a bright white flash, husband and wife materialized in a valley, "Welcome to Paxar, sir." The head of the Pioneers detachment rendered The voice was scarcely audible over the howling, blistering wind and Fork returned the salute. "Thank you Tenente." The Pioneer stood aside as a Romulan approached. "The Empress sends "Thank you." Fork felt Leah press up against him, and took the To his credit the Centurion responded with a very understanding ================================================== (Vulcan) The preference for going from the hub to a planet with another gateway Vulcan had been chosen for a specific reason. Despite the attack, it was a neutral world. "Kind of makes your fingertips feel tingly, doesn't it?" "Yeah, it'll pass though." Fork gave Leah a gentle, lazy nudge. "You "Yeah." She smiled, the muscles in her shoulders notably easing "To you maybe." "Come on Commandant, you've seen worse." An unusually tanned Kopak stood in front of the monestary's door awaiting the visitors. Since when did a former Starfleet officer hold that kind of sway with Kopak knew Jaal had all manner of plans afoot to trying to get "Greetings," Kopak offered the traditional Vulcan salute to those that "Actually, we asked him to send a representative." Caria, the security "It's a pleasure." Fork offered his hand. Kopak shook Arvelion's hand, "The pleasure is mine, and to be precise, "Fair enough." "We're still waiting on a few others. Pardon me Commandant but I should let Fork nodded, letting the woman pass before turning back to Kopak. "I take Kopak seemed wary to answer not knowing just how much Arvelion knew "Here's hoping." Leah whispered softly, unconsciously taking Fork's hand. "It won't be." He assured her with a determined smile and gentle squeeze of It was a while longer before the rest of the parties had shown up. "Colonel..." the Cardassian, Duron Garak, the son of the famous Elim Garak and a battle-group commander in the 'Free Cardassian Forces', smiled in the venomously charming way Cardassians often did right before they stabbed you in the back, stuck electrodes to you, or did some other disgustingly brutal thing that proved that, like many species as of late, the veneer of civilization was scarcely skin deep at times. "I'm grateful for your hospitality, however exactly why is it that you've brought us here still puzzles me." "It's quite simple... we want your help." Kopak's eyebrow rose in typical Vulcan fashion. 'This was in "Our help?" The Cardassian inquired. (Dozaria: Badlands, Occupied Cardassian Territory) The Commandant and his wife weren't the only 'ambassadors' making the Jo'vel took a knee behind what little cover a rocky outcropping "That them?" Jo'vel looked over his shoulder to the combat engineer behind him. It "Negative." The feminine voice of their combat paramedic replied over "That bodes well." Jo'vel licked his lips, though nobody would've "On it." A young man responded, following seconds later with "Thank the Prophets!" Jo'vel sighed. "Okay, shrouds off and power The Cardassian soldiers on the other side had their weapons ready, but Frayed nerves were a dangerous thing, especially when holographic "Sorry." Jo'vel grinned sheepishly after removing his helmet. "You're "We were unavoidably held up." Sek'al, the Cardassian leader "Good news." Jo'vel gave the 'all clear' sign to his troops. There was a second of surprised silence as Sek'al picked his jaw up "Yeah." Jo'vel smirked. "We need to discuss plans." "A Tree In Brooklyn" Choking on the soot and the fumes, Sophia Isabelle Cabella-Anzalo pushed herself off the deck, waving her hands frantically in front of her face to find breathable air, before yelling over the sound of plasma fire extinguishers and sirens. "Report!" "Tabula Rasa" Lt. Cmdr. T'Pei, USS Hercules ======== T'Pei stared at the ceiling, her index finger absently tracing slow circles over the smooth skin of Chris' hip. Flattening her palm against his thigh, she resisted the urge to wake him. There would still be time for that later. She would let him sleep a while longer. For her, sleep had proven impossible tonight. Even as her body remained relaxed, curled around his, her mind was absorbed in self assessment--not the self she was now, but the T'Pei she had been seventeen years ago. Again and again, then once more, she reviewed her plan, testing it until it broke and rebuilding it with stronger pieces that would preclude her younger self from doing anything other than what she wanted her to do. The Vulcan narrowed her eyes, frowning as her mind inevitably returned to the portion of the plan she could not change. Anything she communicated would have to be done during one brief window of time--and 2385 was the wrong window. Two years later, perhaps even three, would have been ideal. The T'Pei of 2388, just beginning to suspect that there was something deeply wrong, but unwilling to admit it yet--she would have been more malleable. She would have listened, asked fewer difficult questions, because she would already have been predisposed to believe. The T'Pei of 2385, however, had no reason yet to mistrust the doctors, no reason to believe there was any problem more serious than a failed healing trance. And that younger woman, the one who would require logical proof of what was to come, would neither understand nor trust her emotional future self. Chris shifted, responding to her touch, and T'Pei removed her hand. There was no reason to disturb him, just because she could not sleep. Gently disentangling herself from his limbs, she stood, a flash of cold shivering down her spine as she moved away from his warm body. Silently padded into the bathroom, she wished, as always, that water showers were not among the luxuries that war had made impossible. Instead, she wrapped herself in Chris' robe and sat before the small mirror where this morning she had watched him shave, curling his tongue around the left edge of his lip as he concentrated on not cutting his neck. She wondered if he knew he did that. T'Pei reached past the razor, never looking away from her reflection as her fingers selected the scissors she had used for the past six years to cut Chris' hair. The word 'trust' danced through her mind--the most important piece of her plan, yet the most vulnerable to error--and she positioned the scissors over a section of long, wavy black hair. She cut 8-ball out first, folding the four braided strings of smooth stone and metal into a discrete pouch. Directed with a deft and efficient hand, the scissors quickly removed the remainder of the thick tresses, until only Sren's string of beads remained, dangling just in front of her left ear. For a moment, T'Pei hesitated, but then the scissors flashed again, and what remained of her bondmate's katra was carefully placed in the pouch as well. With a couple of last trims, she stepped back and appraised herself. Vulcan female, age 73. Small, delicate build. Sharp cheekbones and jaw. Alert, unreadable brown eyes, raised eyebrow, emotionless expression. Practical, severely cut black hair. The way a Vulcan should look. Satisfied, T'Pei left the robe in the bathroom, sliding under the covers and slipping an arm around Chris' chest. He stirred, mumbling something incoherent, and she kissed him softly between his shoulder blades, stroking his side until he quieted. Then, resting her cheek against his skin, she returned to planning. “Matryoshka, Part 3” 2269 & 2350
Lt. Mira Romaine Lt. Pavel Irihinova -- NPCs by Betred*
(follows “Matryoshka, Part 2”)
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<USS Enterprise, NCC 1701 – 2269>
Personal log, Lieutenant Mira Romaine, Stardate 5752.6
It’s a little disconcerting to be on the Enterprise again – and enroute to the same destination as well. The Zetar incident still gives me nightmares on occasion.
I am returning to Memory Alpha to assist in the rebuilding of the library there. Once completed, and when all the computers and storage facilities are on line, this facility will become one of several archives for Starfleet and Federation records.
I didn’t think I would be allowed this opportunity after the Zetarian infection nearly changed me into a completely different life-form. I originally thought Captain Kirk and Dr. McCoy had interceded on my behalf but I now know there is another reason I’ve been allowed to resume my assignment.
Last Wednesday I was summoned to a meeting with the Federation President, Lorne McLaren. This was completely unexpected and very nerve wracking; lieutenants under suspicion for alien influence rarely get to do a meeting with the president of the UFP.
President McLaren is – well, he’s an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, that’s what he is. And a leech – twice he tried to cop a feel, I’m sure of it. Damn these uniforms – why we can’t wear pants like male officers, I’ll never know.
McLaren gave me a box of documents to deliver to the archives, and a detailed set of instructions to be programmed into the Memory Alpha computers related to their release. I was informed that these documents could not be converted to computer code, but instead needed to be preserved and stored as is.
Of course, I was curious. McLaren seemed to sense this, and told me I could read any of unsealed documents in the box I wanted to. Then, with another pat to my ass, I was ushered out of his office and given priority transport orders back to Enterprise, to return to Memory Alpha.
I’ve read most of the documents. What a bunch of crap! I don’t understand why such fiction deserves a place in the Federation and Starfleet achieves. A member of Starfleet Intelligence, some guy named McAllister who hasn’t even been born yet, supposedly writes these letters to the past as a guide to avoiding some cataclysmic future and the destruction of Earth in the year 2402.
The story begins with the delivery of these dire warnings to the year 1661 and to Clan Alasdair in Scotland. (I wonder what Montgomery would say if I could tell him about all this.) There is a letter for roughly each millennium, onward to 2385 – the last sealed letter is addressed to a Captain T’Vara of the USS Galaxy. The letters I’ve been allowed to read are also annotated with comments from previous custodians – I’m particularly fond of the notes from one Charles Godfrey Somervill MacAlister who reports he talked H.G. Wells out of writing a series of stories about a utopian future that sounds (remarkably, I admit) like our current time. Instead, this MacAlister gives Wells the plot for his novel “The Time Machine.”
President Archer was once the custodian of these fairy tales; he simply passed them on to his successor. These stories have been in the custody of each Federation president since the UFP was formed, and now it is my “sacred duty” – to quote the leech McLaren – to deliver them to most secret storage at Memory Alpha until the next scheduled delivery – back to the President of the Federation in 2350.
Almost time for Thanksgiving dinner – Montgomery has a special day planned for us. I’m looking forward to it.
Entry Ends.
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<Office of the Federation President, Paris, Earth – 2350>
Lt. Pavel Irihinova was two days into a six-month duty rotation as Starfleet Intelligence’s liaison to the Office of the President of the United Federation of Planets, and he was hating every minute of it.
The President’s Chief of Staff, who as far as Pavel could tell was the real power in the president’s office, treated the intel liaison position as a glorified communication specialist. Since his arrival, the only intelligence work he had done was to make a haphazard guess at what type of pizza his holiness wanted during a late night policy discussion.
Pavel checked his boards one more time, saw that they were clear of any true threats he needed to brief the President – or rather, his chief of staff – on and returned to his biography of Peter the Great. Now there was a man with real balls.
The chime of an incoming priority transmission dragged him away from his book. He swung his feet of the desk and accepted the transmission from the Starfleet archives on Memory Alpha. The message was encrypted, and was labeled eyes-only in care of the President. As had many presidents before him, this President had delegated such tasks as decrypting bothersome Fleet messages to none other than the intelligence liaison.
Pavel would have probably attempted to crack the message anyway, but it was nice to be able to legitimately read the President’s mail. The message was the result of a dead-letter drop into the archives almost a hundred years ago. Classified with the Federation’s highest security ratings, it was a message to the President from a Commander Paul McAllister of Starfleet Intelligence.
Written in the year 2402.
Pavel quickly rechecked the message header to find that McAllister’s letter to the President had been authenticated by the Department of Temporal Investigations without additional comment. He scrolled back to the beginning of the message. Commander McAllister’s first sentence was startling:
“Mr. President – in the year 2402 the Earth is destroyed by an act of civil war between the Hawk and Dove factions that have appeared within Starfleet. The Federation has collapsed, and nothing of true human civilization remains. This will all occur if you do not take action now.”
Inconceivable.
Pavel snorted. He knew that delivering this message to the Chief of Staff – nothing went directly to the President for fear of interrupting a session with a Galaxy girl or one of Madam T’Lise’s hot little numbers – he would be laughed off the presidential detail. As boring as this job was, it did look good on a resume, and Pavel had places he wanted to go.
He erased the message without sending an acknowledgement of receipt. Pavel knew that the computers at Memory Alpha would send it again, but by the time it arrived, he would be off shift and delivery of this prophesy of doom would be someone else’s responsibility.
Pavel wasn’t in the mood to return to reading Peter the Great, so he pulled up the Fleet society pages – it never hurt to know ahead of time whose ass you may have to kiss in to get ahead. A small listing in the Birth and Deaths column caught his eye.
On this day, on Starbase 44, a child had been born to Lt. Commander Peter David McAllister; his name was Paul.
That just had to a coincidence.
tbc
--------------------------------------- “The Surreallious Suspicions of Gangfights and Secrets” Starring: Mikaiu 'Mika' sh'Sonora ***** Photons and forcefields created an artificial fighting salon in the Andorian tradition. As it was customary to teach inside glacier carved caves and ravines, Mika had waited inside the artificial dojo, standing on a white marble squared fighting surface ringed by four carved grey pillars, in an arena surrounded by rough granite walls under a sky of crisp blue and whispy clouds. It was not real, but it was much like her fighting salon back home in the equlatorial regions of Andoria. Brutal, grey, uncompromising, with a touch of elegance and danger. It was reflective of Mika's inner feelings. On the outside she was a... interesting mix of contradictions. Small (five feet at the most, on high heels), slight (skinny more like it!), turquoise blue skin and snow white hair cut short and styled. Classic Andorian beauty demanded a Valhallan woman, heavy in curves, tall in stature, baby blue skin paler than hers and hair that reached the floor, bedecked in furs and brandishing her icebear hunting spear and pickaxe with pride. Mika was not a typical Andorian. She wasn't an iceberg walking northerner. She was from the south, with lighter climates (much like Earth's Scandanavia) and less ice. She was proud to be from the south, even if it was less harsh. She moved very well in her clothes, wearing her favorite Andorian kimono; an orange and yellow trimmed affair with embroidered kingfishers fluttering up the back, and a blue sash around the waist. She topped her ensemble with a domed, old fashioned noblewoman's hat that left plenty of shade, and a small stick holstered in her sash. It was southern style dressing, and engrained since childhood when her father, a nouveau riche business conglomorate owner, wanted his children to be made acceptable by the Andorian royal courts, in hope of ingratiating the family into the highest rungs of Andorian society. It was a habit she kept, if not the connections to the royals. She started her warmup with stretches and katas. She trained from an early age in Andorian martial arts, and even took a proficiency in the Southern Style, as seen by her deft movements, her mock throws, subtle evasions, deflective blocks and mock grappling movements. She trained in this particular suit not because it allowed the greatest ease of movement; on the contrary it was so tight and restrictive that she had to be conservative with her moves. She could dare say she was good; but because it forced her to use as little movement as possible. The binding robes trained her to be more subtle. She wasn't Starfleet Games good or Federation Olympics good (as far as she knew), but from a self defense perspective she could handle herself very well. Just ask K'tor, son of M'rakka, whom had his arm broken in three places a half dozen years ago on lan'Jep. Or ask James Lionel Corgan and his bruises every time Mika volunteers to show some moves in her martial arts training courses. (Ok, she was really good, and in a one on one fight she could beat James Corgan, hands down!) All those reason were not why she was working out today, at such intensity and difficulty. Something was bothering her about the here and now. Oh, she had no complaints. Life was good on Earth, and had been for a year while her fiance James Corgan took his command school courses and did a tenure at the Starfleet War College. She liked Earth, her mild climes, her beautiful variety, the friendly inhabitants in an idealistic paradise made all the more special by the fact that it was reclaimed from a mostly scorched, war torn disfigurement a mere three centuries earlier. Earth was not the problem. It wasn't from the fact that all she had to do was a few training courses in the War College of Andorian history, culture, and a few martial arts classes for the cadets. Be the fiance (soon wife, she hoped!) of a Starfleet officer meant she had to put up with transfers, and it made permanent jobs for her an impossibility. She wasn't going to leave James for months on end for a career. She found James to be a delight, being away from him heartache. Besides, she always found a way to keep busy. Like working out... or teaching. Wherever James would be assigned, a colony, a starship, a college, there would always be the need for a teacher. Lulls in the busy schedule were something to be solved, and it wasn't a hard puzzle. If it wasn't boredom, or the planet, or not having enough of her fiance's time, what was it? Was it James? She'd thought his unease as of late was due to the stresses of command school. Mika had let the matter slide. James was under enough pressure. He'd left his last posting, the USS Galaxy, in a hurry. Health matters, seizures that needed Starfleet Medical's attention, but for an odd reason he didn't let the USS Galaxy's crew know. Why the secrets? James had so many secrets. It was the only trait that really bugged her. Was that where her frayed nerves were coming from? James past was checkered but she knew all about it. James was candid about his fear of the Borg, his war past, his bastard child born by Atole Tekri. Yet somehow she gathered, by James silence, by his evasiveness, that he was holding back something else. What was it that would make James stay so tight lipped, even though keeping secrets nearly ended their relationship before? ~”Do I dare ask?”~ Finishing her kata, she'd collected her parasol, a lace antique from her homeworld and strong enough to weather its winter storms, opened it up, and was about to call for the holodeck arch to exit. Until a shimmer of photons and forcefields created a squad of a half dozen sharp toothed, befouled, sneering Klingon warriors. ”Oh no.” Mika peeped in a soft, submissive voice that disguised her confidence, “Was today the day my random encounter came?” Of course it was and she knew it! She set the training program to randomly generate an opponent, to come in at any time, and in any number less than six, at random difficulties and fighting styles. But what the computer choose today was one of its most difficult settings yet, a squad of Klingons, intermediate to hard difficulty, all trained in Bat'Leth, Mek'Leth, dk'Tag and Mok'Bara combat. They would fight like Klingons (to the death), but wouldn't start right away. The lead Klingon warrior, in his fine metal and mesh combat armour, Bat'Leth strapped to the back and his dagger wickedly drawn out of its sheath, was the first to approach Mika. He had a leer, looked down the tiny Andorian woman with a mix of lust and contempt. Klingons loved to show off in front of their prey, and with women they had no qualms bragging of their male endowments... or using them.. She thought she heard something from the head Klingon about taking her to Sto'Vo'Kor with his Sword of Kahless, and his squad giving her a night to remember, but it was all part of the realistic simulation. The holodeck safeties were on. She couldn't be hurt or molested by these holograms. And besides, if she did well, they wouldn't unravel one stitch of her clothes. “No thank you.” Mika politely bowed, standing up straight, head raised to meet the Klingon's eyes but the brim of her hat making eye contact infuriatingly impossible. She leaned on her folded parasol and added, in trained and clear Galactic Standard taught to her by the finest in bought Andorian education, “I believe you when you boast of your... endowments. Klingons are well known for it. But I would much rather find a real group of men, not barely old enough to take the Trials of Kahless. Keep your weapons in your pants. I doubt they are of much use to you anyways.” The best way to anger a Klingon was to question their skills. In anything. On cue, as Mika predicted, the lead Klingon's brown cheeks turned an angry lavender. The fight was on. A small kick to the parasol's tip, and she'd driven the umbrella deep between the Klingon's legs. He doubled over in pain, turned lavender until his cheeks looked like plums, and protected his privates with one hand while the other still held onto his dagger. Not a problem! Mika snapped the folded parasol like a fencer's foil, slapping the wrist to loosen the grip, then smacking the hand to part Klingon from dagger. A final flick poked the parasol at the Klingon's nose. He staggered back, holding one hand full of aching testicles, and the other hold back a flooding nostril. Her hat tilted to obscure her eyes, Mika tracked the Klingons that spread out, surrounded her, and drew their weapons with the swish of leather on metal. She wagged a finger at the lead Klingon, then said, “You must use manners when approaching a beautiful woman.” Five Klingons charged at once, Kahless's blessings on their lips and wicked curved blades glinting in the sun. Five grown male warriors in a simultaneous attack on one little Andorian woman, whom made their squad leader look like a squire. This wasn't a terran Kung-Fu holoprogram. These holograms acted realistically and with some skill. An attack all at once gave Mika some pause. ~”Damn... if this robe wasn't so binding!”~ To play it smart, she had to find the one weak member of the squad and use him. Someone that charged first and gave their formation a little mistake. Klingons were like that, headstrong, and when their pride was wounded their training fell to the wayside. Mika found that Klingon, and dashed towards him. The Klingon started with a running decapitation slash, to that Mika ducked under and ran past him, already getting out of the Klingon squad's closing attack circle. To counter, the Klingon she targeted tried to meet her retreat with another slash on the return spin, and when that didn't work he gripped the Bat'Leth in both hands and brought the blade down, a swooshing arc from the small of his back to what should have been one petite, and one very dead Andorian. Her folded parasol slapped the weapon's trajectory just enough miss her shoulder by millimeters. The blunt end of the blade tried to meet her in a skull cracking swing, but found the blade twisting and turning in odd arcs, as if the Klingon was deliberately being clumsy. Not so. Mika thrust the parasol into the left grip of the Bat'Leth. She had the weapon snagged by her umbrella, and was controlling the weapon's movements with one hand. She twirled as another Klingon tried to join the melee, and ducked another as his dagger trust for her neck. The parasol unfurled, exploding like a canvas blind in front of the Klingon's face. That meant the Klingon warrior didn't see Mika turn her back to him as she drove an elbow into his gut, doubling him over. She yanked the bat'Leth out of the warrior's hands, throwing the parasol and bladed weapon at another Klingon whom was just trying to find a way into the hornet's next of hand to hand combat, catching the blunt end in his face, and kicking a third in the cheek as he tried to run past. The momentum of the kick, as well as her arms around the doubled over Klingon's neck, gave enough momentum to rock herself onto her opponent's back. Like a bucking, awkward pommelhorse, she used the Klingon both as cover and as a weapon. The roll to his back let her launch two feet with tremendous force at one Klingon in the chest, then used the counterforce of that blow to roll up and catch a Klingon mek'Leth's downward thrust, complete with surprised Klingon's arms, in a leglock. By this point, the Klingon Mika was using as a stand had hit the ground, down due to a afterthought elbow chop to his neck, bringing the mek'Leth warrior to ground level, where she twisted the wrist, disarmed the blade, then kicked one sandal wearing foot into the Klingon's cheek, teeth and blood flying out as she let go and let the Klingon complete his downward descent. With a dignity befitting a queen, Mika rose to her feet, then removed her hat, holding it in her hand. Two of the Klingons were sporting bruised egos and muscles, but were ready to take the fight to her. Mika tipped her hat, and waited for the first to attack her. The lucky Klingon that tried was meet with slaps to the cheek from her straw conical hat. He viciously pushed the hat away, thrusting with his dagger for a kill shot to the solar plexus. Mika sidestepped the blow, pivoting her heel while the other leg swept in front of the Klingon's thigh, as her dainty free hand and thin arms led their way down the Klingon's rippling biceps. Her hand chopped at the thumb, loosening the dagger's grip, and her hand snatched the wrist while her thigh and hips thrust forward and unbalanced the Klingon. She caught him in a textbook grapple and throw that would have done the Aikido masters of Earth proud. He landed butt first on the ground, her heel stomped his jaw and ended his fight. His partner on the other hand caught her in a distraction. She didn't see his dagger lunge for her shoulder until she was fully turned away. She felt the air move and his scream, but it was too fast to guarantee a safe evasion. So she guessed, and guessed right. Her whole body spun, the hat caught the blade in time, tearing the straw and expensive embroidery and just barely missing her hand. Jerking her hat brandishing arm down to expose his defenses, Mika kicked the meaty part of the thigh, then his stomach, and his lower chest, which was as high as her robes would allow her to go. She faked an elbow swing, then reversed it into a headlock, and quickly used her hips to toss the Klingon away. Two Klingons back in the fray! Mika's dimunitive size got under the nearest Klingon easily, and she shoulder threw him away hastily, as she wasn't so sure if she could take them both at once. As that Klingon and his weapon skittered to the corner of the marble floor, the other had swung once, twice... thrice and no successes. Mika's movements were like quicksilver, fast, though it looked like she was hardly moving at all. She waited for her chance, then took it as the Klingon exposed a gap in his blocks below the armpit. One of her arms went down to deflect the Klingon's blow, the other went up to chop beneath the elbow joint. The two arm attacks at once dislocated the Klingon's elbow, the warrior yowling in pain. A few blows to his crumbling ribs and backhand to his left temple quickly shut him up. “One more back up. Good show! Do you boys ever rest?” She addressed the foolhardy Klingon. Thinking to be cunning and brave, this one picked up a discarded mek'Leth and a dagger. He was going to overwhelm Mika with blades! Blades were tricky in empty handed fighting. There was always the risk of cutting herself. In this program it would be a disqualification. In real life her hands would be splayed open and she would be at the Klingon's mercy. She had to handle the warrior and his knives carefully, as one would a ravening tigerbeast of Ceti Alpha V. She drew the stick out of her sash, and snapped it open with one flick of a finger. A fan, intricately drawn with a scene of springtime, fluttered in front of her face. It snapped back close as it had to reroute the course of a mek'Leth to her head. Her little folded fan fended off the dagger's thrust next, while the rest of her tried to avoid being eviscerated in two by the Klingon's evil looking sword. Her thoughts were running fast. For all her skill the Klingon's vigor was truly a match! She had to think smart and be quick, but for the Klingon the end was too fast. Thrust, parry, stab the warrior's wrist in the nerves, drop the dagger, step on his toes as he overextended his overhead slash, flash the fan in his face, snap it back together, poke out the Klingon's eye, chop the trachea, punch the stomach, chop the trachea, chop the ribs, chop the trachea, twist the other wrist, disarm, chop the trachea, shove the small fan into the Klingon's nostril, chop the trachea. A leg sweep and a palm driven into his jaw and the Klingon went down. And that left the squad leader Klingon the last man standing. Sore groin, bleeding nose, and a room full of dead comrades groaning in agony, facing down in fear at an Andorian half his size and mass. Bellowing a warcry, he charged, bat'Leth swept low. She and half the universe knew the Klingon's intent. He was going for a one shot disemboweling, a slash similar to the samurai's one shot sword slashes back on Earth. It had validity, a trained Klingon warrior could choose just the right time to swing the blade, giving Mika a narrow window to either dodge or parry. The swing of the bat'Leth could separate upper from lower body, hip to tit. That's what the angle of the blade told her. It was a matter of when, or if she was fast enough. She stood her ground, waiting for a head on clash. And ran in at the last moment, throwing off the Klingon's charge, while still risking a disemboweling, she sneaked low, and let her palm strike become an unstoppable wall. “Ahh!” Mika squeaked. ~”By Andor that hurt!”~ Her strike to the Klingon's chest was like hitting a plate of duranium armour. It sent a shockwave of rattled bones and hurt muscles, stinging from her wrist all the way to her shoulders. Whatever she felt was a fraction of what the Klingon felt. The blow was to the chest cavity, the ribcage would be cracked from the centre, and the vital organs would have bruising. The Klingon's lungs would have felt like they were lit on fire, and his heart would be one throbbing bruise. It would be too much pain to bear. The Klingon fell to his knees, then lapsed into unconsciousness. The holodeck program tallied up her score. It was not her personal best, but high, and it was comparably good to other people running that same program in those same settings. She was awarded extra points for not being touched. But it still wasn't her personal best. What was wrong with her? She felt something was wrong, as if during the fight she was being distracted, a niggling thought in the back of her head that ceased to let go. Then it came with sudden clarity. ~”Oh right! James!”~ Mika sighed, ~”What could be bothering him? I must know. I want to make it better. But how when he won't tell me what it is?”~ She made a quick list. It wasn't T'lan. She was on Vulcan at the Vulcan Medical Institute, hospitalized due to a faulty katra and broken down emotional defenses. Mika and James talked to her everyday, and she was making a recovery. Her surgery date was soon. Was that it? Mika had some doubts. James doted on his favorite security officer, and Mika suspected he harboured some less than innocent affection for the Vulcan, but then again so did Mika, or she would not tolerate it. Mika considered T'lan the third member of the Quad, though James didn't know it. Was it Allison? The little teenager that stalked him? No. That was not a threat. Human males were strict about their relations. Mika suspected, by Allison's pert nose, blonde hair and blue/grey eyes that she was at least a blood relative of James, maybe even a cousin. How James didn't know was beyond her, but she was long gone, no longer a threat to their relationship. It was probably what motivated James to leave the Galaxy to begin with. And that was another matter. What could Allison and James have done to spook James so badly? Mika tried to put the pieces together, but nothing matched. She would know if James had a sexual relationship with her... James would be even more evasive. It was just that sudden departure... Or it could be all his problems. James had a habit of taking on the world and not asking for help. It could be all of them... being too much. But why hide it from Mika? Sure, James put on a brave face and in some ways it was enduring, but she didn't want a man that put himself on a cross all day, every day. She wanted to share those burdens, ease those hurts, protect him as he tried to protect her. Didn't humans ever do THAT in their marriages? What was eating him? “I should just ask him... when I gather the nerve to do so.” Mika sighed discontently, “Computer, arch. End program.” She left the holodeck, walked down the musty halls of academia, and exited to the courtyard of the Starfleet War College on a beautiful spring day. James had a lecture at this time, and it would almost be over. She decided to meet him at his classroom, after the lecture, and perhaps disarm him with kindness, until he purred like a kitten and let his guard down enough to spill what's bothering him. Mika's smile was warmer than the spring sun. James would spill his secrets yet. “The Phaser Lecture and Temporal Conundrums” Starring Commander James Lionel Corgan Location: Starfleet War College, Glasgow, Scotland, Earth There might have been a right place and time to find James. This was not it. Mika, after navigating the War College's labyrinth of academic populated courtyards, relic strewn halls and lecture rooms filled with rows of Starfleet's future commanders, she'd found lecture hall 18 C section 1. There, she'd see her fiance give a lecture of his own. Commander James Lionel Corgan, approaching his early 30's, was as young as commander as any in the new environment of fast promotions to make up for the depleted officers corp in post Dominion War Starfleet. As such it would be a surprise to all but James Kirk that such a babyface could have his own starship in a matter of five years, or be second in command of one right now if he so choose. There was nothing babyish about James. He lanky but leanly muscled and tall figure, well worked out from Starfleet exercise drills, and his pacing back and forth in the lecture hall was dexterous and deliberate, like a cat that paced in a cage. He had a mop of dirty blonde hair, combed but a little wild and youthful. The uniform was standard Starfleet military, wearing red for command, and the added florish of his glasses (he suffered a knife wound from a Hirogen blade, Mika suspected the lost vision in the affect eye was psychosomatic) gave him the appearance of a young, slightly bookish academic. But the best part, Mika's favorite part, was his eyes. Blue gray irises, a rarity on her homeworld, that could be ice coloured and lively when he was excited, crystal and flaring when he was angry, or dead and cold when he was depressed. Out of all his features, the eyes were his most expressive. With a PADD in hand and giving a lecture to students he could easily be mistaken for a young professor or a teacher's assistant. Who could have thought this man, younger than Mika by a few years, had more battlefield experience than most Starfleet officers saw in a lifetime? It was true. James was a spectator of the last Borg offensive on Earth, an event that scarred his mind and set his life's path for him. James survived the last and deadliest year of The Dominion War, the year with the bloodiest offensives in memory, with a throwaway suicide battalion full of expendable troops of 'suspicious unreliability'. He was then assigned to a warship, the USS Galaxy, to which saw the most action of any peacetime vessel and participated in the most heated Hydran War engagements. He'd lead teams. He'd commanded platoons. He'd help make the first Hazard Team on the Galaxy. He even ran their security department. He'd risked his life on many occasions and ordered soldiers to fight and die. The young man was not young anymore. He had experience that belied his age, and it was so put forth by his blunt, sometimes caustic attitude. He didn't believe in diplomacy when lives were in danger or lessons were to be learned. He put forth his lecture in the same straightforward, practical manner that he conducted himself in real life; no nonsense or pulled punches, just straight wisdom earned from years of blood. It was just like him. His emotions were on the surface. His being reserved was a front, break down his walls and he was a very sensitive person. His excitement and enthusiasm, his warmth and love had a counterbalance of depression, guilt and longings. The humans had an expression, 'to wear their heart on their sleeve'. She felt the expression was made just for him. Flaws and all, she loved that about her darling James. Mika didn't enter the classroom. James was on a roll, and an Andorian in an exquisite alien kimono would derail him. It was best to stand at the doorway and listen. She'd heard the lecture before. It was recorded for Starfleet Academy use and James did practice it with her a few nights before. She didn't care, even though she could recite the lecture by heart. She liked to listen to him, liked to watch. And he could be engaging and entertaining. He was on the last segment of his lecture. Good. The technical parts Mika didn't understand (until she broke out a few armoury and electronics textbooks) were over. He was doing the wrap up. “So in conclusion.” James paced, raising his finger up, making sure the students were paying attention, “The standard Starfleet pattern 2378 Type 2 phaser pistol is not just a sidearm. It is the symbol of empire, much as you would see the Lee Enfield SMLE of the late 19th and early 20th century in the defunct British Empire, the Automatic Kalashnikov Model 1947 of the Soviet Union, and the Type 9 E-Mag rifle of the Eugenics War. It is not only your protection against a universe who's default setting is to kill your sorry ass, but it is also a symbol of Starfleet strength and versatility. But unlike the weapons of old empires, your Type 2 phaser is more than just an instrument of death. It is a tool, a means to an end, and with the creative mind you can find many uses for your sidearm.” James took a lengthy pause to allow the information to sink in, “With it you can use it to heat objects. Heat up rocks for warmth. Warm up a metal pellet and use it as a detonator for a incendiary based explosive. Use the heat dissipation off an object to measure time, light your way, leave a trail of breadcrumbs for people who want to find you. Set it in wide beam mode and you'll give a heat signature to any cloak suit user or changeling, they'll light up like a Christmas tree in July on thermal specs. Warm up your rations, boil your rakdejino, make popcorn... that was a fun experiment.” The class lightly guffawed, “Turn down the wattage to dead minimum using the modification I showed you and you can use it as a flashlight, a searchlight, a spotlight... just don't be caught tampering with it that way and it wasn't me who told you, it'll void the warranty.” Another laugh came from the class, “But it's true. It can be a light source if you ramp it down enough. Or it can narrow it's confinement beam and use it as a spot welder, a soldering iron, a bug zapper, an improvised phaser scalpel, a lightsabre if you want to loose a limb trying. You can excavate tunnels, collapse tunnels, phaser out foxholes and trenches, even entire bunkers can be shaped. You want to build shelters? Cut logs and vines, or if you're willing to use more power, phaser entire metal beams and hull plating. You can scrap a shuttle or a ship in no time flat with you and your phaser. Or hell, use it for peace. Plow fields. Agitate clouds for rain. Reroute rivers. The phaser's uses are endless. Starfleet's instruction manual for the Type II phaser alone has over one thousand and twenty one recommended uses. I added two or three myself, can think of a dozen other uses the eggheads at Starfleet Armory didn't figure out, and half of their ideas are redundant. Don't let that stop you. As long as you have a brain and an imagination, you can find even more uses for your weapon.” “And yes... you can be used to harm, stun... even kill.” James added soberly, “But like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police of the 19th and 20th century, and most Starfleet officers during the golden era of peace, you may go an entire career without having to draw your phaser in anger. But there may be a time when you have to. Know this. The phaser is a tool, nothing more. It's usage and intent that determines whether or not your cause is good or its use is justified. But I'm not here to tell you when its right or wrong to use the phaser. That depends on the user and circumstances. Who am I to judge. But I can make suggestions... and I hope that with this course you've opened your imaginations to the myriad of uses your standard issue sidearm can present to you.” James deactivated his PADD. The blackboard, a projected computer surface, shut off a huge diagram of the Type II phaser. “Now that I'm done wasting your time telling you the blatantly obvious... get the hell out of here and enjoy your day. And thank you, it's been a most enjoyable tenure.” The classroom applauded the efforts of their 'professor', and orderly left the classroom, first shaking James' hands before they left. Mika stepped to the side to let the students out; it was the first time they saw her and it attracted a lot of fuss! And so too did it get James attention. Like a kid on holiday, he broke out his best smile, but felt agitated that he had to shake everybody's hand, rather than do what he wanted and rush over to his love. “Meeks, baby.” James breathed, “Last lecture of my tenure! I thought it would never end!” “You are in a good mood, dear James.” Mika let go the embrace, James cradled an arm on her shoulder, gave her a tender hug, and let the way to the halls. It was very unmilitary, and not very reserved by Andorian high society standards, but as James described it once, politeness and military protocol were for parade marches and superior officers with a 'stick up their ass'. Every other time, he rather preferred to be himself, and that was the guy that wasn't afraid to walk arm in arm with his fiance close, no matter how many students saw. She tilted her head on his chest, antennae drooped to contentment. She had a lifetime to be a lady, but not enough time for affection. “I guess I am.” James said, happy as a clown, “My last lecture. And I have some great news. There's a plum assignment coming up and I want your permission.” “Oh?” Mika asked, “You need my permission?” “Come now, my dear. You know that when you accepted the engagement ring that you'll be doing a lot of travelling. I still want to find an assignment where we can stay... for years if possible, and away from frontline duty if necessary, but I don't want to put you off by tranferring all the time. It was a strain with my parents and I don't want it to be a problem with us.” “James.” She gently explained, “It is no trouble. We get to see the universe and stay together. Where you go, I go. So tell me, love.” James ruffled her hair. Mika never understood his obsession with her hair. He loved to touch the snow white mane. He even insisted, in private, that she always keep a 'landing strip' down below, thought it was even cute. Mika didn't understand it, but indulged her fiance. After all, he did remove his tattoos and battle scars for her sake. ~”Bawdy! I must not let on. James can be easily aroused.”~ James said, “I'll tell you what. I'll tell you over lunch. Ok?” Mika replied, “As long as it's not the replimat again. You are on Earth. You might as well enjoy some real Terran food. You may never get to do it again for years.” James nodded. “Unless we liberate some colonist's pies from their windowsills. Your wish is my command, sweetness. Lets eat.” **** Unlike New Orleans, where Mika spent a lot of her time on Earth, Glasgow wasn't known for its eateries. It had pubs, lots of pubs, but it was too early in the day to drink and neither James or Mika were heavy drinkers, not even for synthahol, much less the real alcohol beers served in the city. It wasn't to say that there was no good food to be had. Mika knew an eatery that made a good sandwich, and served the best tea and scones. James wasn't a gourmand. Food to him was a substance that fueled the furnace and stoked the coals. But he was getting better. A lifetime of bland replicator food left his palate uneducated, but he did eat his plate of mashed potatoes and sausages and onion with conduct befitting an officer. Their coffee and tea was refilled and served hot; James uniform guaranteed prompt service. She could get used to the perks of being a Starfleet wife. The uniform brought respect, and she, formerly in touch with galactic events, could chisel James' rough edges (there were lots) into a polished final form. “My dear.” James said after chewing a piece of sausage, “I just found the perfect assignment. It's deep space, long duration, and it's in need of good officers. Not saying I am one... but I'll see if I can pull a fast one with Starfleet Command and get on board.” Mika asked some probing questions, “Is it a exploration vessel?” “I wish.” James sighed, “Sorry babe, but there's no vacant deep space exploration billets available. They're all gone. With the Hydran War as it is, we're lucky to get support ship duties. Starfleet wouldn't give me one, damn them to hell. I even told them... 'I'm getting married for fuck sakes. I'm not dragging my wife through another fucking warzone.' and you can quote me on that. I told them to put me on a garbage scow, a runabout courier, a transport vessel... put me in the merchant marine for crying out loud. And you know what they said?” “What did they say?” “They said I was too valuable an asset to put on anything but a warship.” James shook his head, “And a year ago they wouldn't trust me with a sublight glider. Funny how a war could make Starfleet Command forget that I am blacklisted.” Mika didn't forget. James previous relationship with a Tal'Shiar spy (and she secretly hated the manipulative bitch and would punch her teeth out if she came within a sector of James) and tripping red flags over digging into a former officer/comrade Rebecca Von Ernst meant that James technically shouldn't have made it past Lieutenant Commander. In fact, he should have been busted down to Ensign by now, since James had a nasty habit of clashing with any command structure that tried to put limits on his conduct. Starfleet Command hated James. He was an officer that didn't co-operate well with the larger organization. Mika asked urgently, “So, what is the assignment?” James answered, “It's not written in stone, love. But it's familiar. The next best thing.” ~”No way.”~ Mika already guessed. James still played a game of making her guess, “It's deep space. Frontline, but well protected. Family rated ship. It's huge too. A capital ship. She'll be protected. It's a Galaxy Class vessel. Modified. You might recognize it.” Mika faked astonishment, “The USS Galaxy!” “Aye!” James exclaimed, “They still haven't filled the vacancy for security chief. Victor still doesn't want it though he seems to be doing an ok job. There's some guy named Spengler that wants the job, rumour has it he's a bigger prick than I am, so if I make the request Starfleet will put me in!” Cutting out the act of reserved politeness, Mika squealed, “Good for you James!” and thought, ~”Good for me! I have friends on that ship. And pupils. I get to be a schoolteacher again!”~ “So you're ok with that?” Mika leaned over the table and kissed James on the cheek, leaving an imprint of blue lipstick, “James, I am not disappointed. I miss our old home, and I still wonder why we had to leave so quickly. But now that we are going back, I will be content. Is that wonderful Captain M'Kantu still in command?” James shook, “Sorry babe. He's gone. They got a Vulcan in the chair. Not a cool Vulcan like T'lan. A stick up the ass Vulcan. Might not be so fun. But hey... it's a major billet on a capital ship, extra pay, extra shore leave and I have a history there. I could be its commander in no time if I wanted. But secretly... I miss the security department. I want to go back... if just for awhile.” “James, you have my blessing. Take the assignment. Go home.” “Thanks babe.” James smiled, “But you know what? There was another reason too.” “Oh?” “Babe, lets set a date.” “A date... oh!” Mika realized. They were engaged, human style, and it showed by the diamond ring on her finger, but they hadn't set a date yet. Mika was wondering when that was coming along, and was getting frustrated by the fact that no date was set yet. It was always later, when James had to take care of business. He had his command schooling. He had an assignment. There was nothing else to get in the way. “How does three months from now sound?” Mika quickly converted the Terran Gregorian standard to Stardates, then to Andorian Rotations. Her eyes lit up. “That soon?” “Sure, and it'll be on the ship we meet in and found our love in. Perfect, huh?” Mika jumped up and squeaked, “Oh thank you James! Thank you!” “Anything for my baby.” James glowed in the warmth of Mika's love, “We've got nothing but clear skies. Nothing but clear skies.” **** So the clear skies analogy was a bit of a lie. James had a lot of business to take care of. He just didn't let Mika know, and he felt ashamed about it. But what could he expect? What he knew was like a pit in his stomach, a burning coal of guilt that if let out would set the whole foundation of their relationship on fire. It had started a year ago. James was at his worst. His performance evaluations were sliding to abysmal levels. He was depressed. His love was depressed, not taking well to life on the starship (though he thought she was adjusting, and her excitement of coming back was a little odd...). Then to make matters worse, he got a special delivery from a mystery crewman, an Andorian claiming to be a prince of the royal family. He had on him a communicator, and it had James Corgan's name on it. On the badge was a recorded message, a brief one, and it had his voice. So on top of a crumbling career and doubts to his marriage to Mika, he had four counts of temporal prime directive violations, five if he counted his temporally displaced daughter, Allison. All of it not his fault. More like his future self's fault. He took Mika home. She stepped outside to jog. It was then James unlocked a keepsake box, and opened a false cover. He had the communicator pin. He played back the message for posterity. The message said, some parts were garbled: =/\=”As you have guessed from your tricorder readings, this pin is from the future. I know you've already investigated it, so cut it out and stop living in denial. I'm your future self. I am Commodore James Lionel Corgan, Fleet Commander of the First Andorian Fleet, Starfleet Command. You're making history, buddy! My true self gets to be the first Human commander in the Blue Fleet. But enough about that. We're already in enough trouble as is, so I'll be very brief.”=/\= =/\=”My daughter is in danger. You will have meet her. She's a Civilian, not a Starfleet noncom as her 'Becca told me she would be, so the temporal prime directive isn't something she holds dear. She wants to meet you, and I bet by the time you get this message that she already has. Her she'll go under the name of Allison Jimsdottir, but her real name is Allison Von Ernst. I'm sure you already know that. She has her mother's short height and her brains, put together with her her daddy's blonde hair and blue eyes. She also has both our Moxie combined. God help you. She'll tell you exactly who she is. She craves fatherly attention and will try to get it, and that'll mean spilling her secret. But just in case she hasn't told you yet... sorry about the bad news.”=/\= =/\=”Yes. You heard correctly. Von Ernst. And sorry, before you ask she doesn't Quad with Mika or Bre'kir. She's too conservative. You get back with Rebecca. You become her white knight again. You marry her. You have a child by her, but you find her unbearable. What Hoth did to her was unimaginable, and it left her less than human. You married her for the wrong reasons. You spend most of your time on deep space assignments. Eventually Rebecca gets fed up with you and divorces your neglectful ass. Allison grows up without a father figure. If I'd stayed home, she wouldn't be in your time looking for you. That's my fault.”=/\= =/\=”But I'm afraid the irreparable damage to the space time continuum from her actions are unpredictable. She shouldn't be in your time. But she is, and what's done is done. All I can ask is that you protect her in the only way you can.=/\= =/\=”Stay out of her way!”=/\= =/\=”You know you have no choice, and she'll never understand. It'll be heartbreak for her, to be left alone by two fathers. But it has to be done. She doesn't understand the implication of her actions. She's too young and immature to understand.”=/\= =/\=”And secondly, she must stay in this time period. You don't know the nightmare this galaxy has become. There is nothing but war in our future. There's already talk about the Hydrans winning... we've been fighting for so long, but we're not exhausted yet. It is the future I worry about. The Federation's more fractured and contentious. There's talk of Civil War. The common threat of the Triad is what's keeping us together now, and I don't know how long that will last.”=/\= =/\=”It's dangerous for her to go back. We'll let her know when she can be recalled, so let her sit tight. But mostly, stay out of her way. She doesn't need her old man fucking her life up any more than it already is.”=/\= =/\=”I know by this time you're engaged with Mikaiu. Wonderful woman, love of my life, tried to recapture that feeling with Rebecca, lept to marrying her too soon. But who knows. Maybe I would have driven Mika away, keeping my pains private, my struggles away from her, as I had with Rebecca. It is most unfair to subject her to this. Love her, keep her close... for she had so little time left.”=/\= =/\=”What I'm about to tell you comes to great cost. I thought long and hard, and decided that the damage is done. You'll do more damage wondering what happened to Mika, and might upset the whole timeline, erasing us from existence. The only way to kill a timeline is to deny a decision. That's how alternate realities work, so I'll just tell you and you can decide for yourself.”=/\= =/\=”Mika always loved you. Always will. You will not drive her away as long as you know her.”=/\= =/\=”Instead, there will be an accident... and she will die.”=/\= The rest of the message was garbled. He tried to reconstruct the rest, but it was too distorted from temporal transit. =/\=”Cremate herr.r.rr. So they never do those horrrrriii... *blip*”=/\= That was the secret he kept from Mika. The temporal prime directive stated he couldn't tell her of her future. Who knew what damage could be caused if Mika knew Allison was his daughter, and not hers. Who knew what would happen if Mika knew. She was happily engaged, in the flower of her life, the universe was in order. Why ruin it? He left the Galaxy because he was afraid of the future, so he ran away from it. But something in the message occurred to him months ago. Allison had to be protected, but he had to stay away from her. Two contradictory terms from his future self, neither could be fulfilled while he was away. So he picked the USS Galaxy's security position. He lied to Mika too, something he deeply regretted for there were lots of deep space assignments, but it was the future. He was in too deep. He had to be there. Mika had to be there. James had to know how the future would unravel. And if he could change it. Even if it meant putting them all in danger. It was that, or let a future die, risk Allison not being at all. He was going back. He would fix the future. "The Best Laid Plans..." Captain Jaal Jaxom, USS Panther ==Somewhere Above Ellison Base== They had arrived late. Two formations of seven ships each, one led by Captain Daniels, the The Shiva would have been a fine prize for Captain Jaxom's efforts to Unfortunately, several things happened that Jaal hadn't counted on. The loss of the Shiva as a potential ally was unfortunate, and the And that was why they were late. ====== USS Hercules "Entering sensor range, Captain," T'Pei said, frowning slightly at the "Not the Shiva, though," Chris asked her, with a voice that suggested "No, I have the Shiva," T'Pei replied. "She appears to be engaging the "Open a channel to the Panther." Jaxom's face appeared on the screen. He didn't look as comfortable as "Captain," Chris said with a smirk. "We appear to have arrived. What now?" "Stick to our original plan," Jaxom told him. "We go after Shiva and "I can do that. See you on the other side." Chris nodded at Jaal as "Tactical, form us up line abreast. Helm, take us on a parabolic The Hercules glided forward as her task force fanned out to her port "Damage?" Chris asked tersely, holding on to his arm rests as the deck "Minor damage to decks 5, 7, and 14," T'Pei replied. "However, the "Good...Guns, focus all ships' fire on that vessel." Leading the way, the Herk opened fire with her three main phaser Chris stared passively at the screen, not a trace of emotion on his ===== USS Panther Jaal's formation made a beeline for the Shiva more or less ignoring His seven ships streaked towards the dreadnought with all phasers There was some success but after the initial volley, the same type of After the second go around, two ships in Jaal's formation had to ===== USS Hercules "Captain, the Brittain has been destroyed. A clear path has opened to For the first time all day, Chris showed a hint of emotion. A simple "Do you see any weak spots?" T'Pei watched the Shiva's most recent movements play across her "Patch me on to the Panther." Jaal's face appeared on the screen, looking a little caught up in the "Make it quick Captain." Came the short reply from across space. "I've got an open path to her Jaal. Permission to go in?" Jaal nodded tersely, "Do it. We'll follow you with cover." Just moments after that, a small vessel rammed the Shiva, sending a Some foolhardy shithead had just stolen their thunder. Chris stood from his chair and stared at the explosion on the screen, "FUCK!" ======== USS Panther Jaal watched his viewscreen with a deep frown. "What the hell do they Once the results were obvious the Trill captain slammed his fist into As if on cue, the Panther was shaken hard under a barrage of phaser "Engineering to bridge," the comm called for attention, "Captain," the And that's when the lights went out. "The Best Laid Plans...part 2" Captain Jaal Jaxom, USS Panther ==Somewhere Above Ellison Base== "REPORT!" Captain Jaxom hollered from the deck. Before anyone else could get their bearings the emergency lights The rest of the bridge crew was getting to their feet. Jaal couldn't Things did not look good. The ship was running, if one could call it that, on emergency battery 'Damnit!' the Trill thought, 'My own damn ship ended up like we === USS Hercules "Captain, the Panther's adrift. Two ships are on her!" Lt. Lechtar's "Redirect all fire on those targets, let's get our asses clear and get The Herk turned to bear on the two marauding vessels and opened with a "Ops--" Chris broke off as he realized that there was now a male "Find out what's left on the Panther and prepare to tow her out if T'Pei walked up to him, far closer than was necessary, and stood at Chris took a breath and nodded. "Whatever you're planning, it had better work." T'Pei held his eyes for a long moment, then leaned in, almost Chris looked away for a moment, and then turned back to T'Pei. "You'd He had dropped his hand, and for several seconds, the Vulcan stared As T'Pei left the bridge Chris turned his attention back to the Chris wiped his fingers on his pants as if to dry them, sat down in "Helm, plot us a route for the nearest neutral star system." ==== USS Panther "Sir, we've managed to restore communications and short range external sensors." Jaal slid out from under the console he was working on. "Great. Let's "Ahhh... the main viewer isn't working." Jaal closed his eyes in frustration. He was ready to bite the head of The Trill captain stood and made his way to the science console. He Jaal sighed sadly as he hit the send button. He wearily leaned against Ship of the Damned Part 3
With Commander Raven Darkstar, the long imprisoned Captain Kira Nerys and the crew of the believed missing USS GALAXY – C.
Time: Seconds before Earth’s destruction…(yes, yes. A back post. I was too busy reviewing posts to get around to this until now.)
Location: Bridge of the USS GALAXY C
Previously: As the battle between the Hawks and Doves rages above Earth, the long declared missing USS GALAXY mysteriously reappears and concentrates its fire upon the secret Tranquility Bay detention camp located on the Earth’s Moon. With the instillation’s defenses down, Raven Darkstar beams down and rescues a confused Captain Kira Nyres and beams back aboard the ship.
When the former commanding officer of Deep Space Nine materialized on the bridge of the USS GALAXY - C, the first thing she was conscious of was that there was no familiar tingle of the transporter beam.
In fact, the experience was quite the opposite.
Her muscles spasmed violently and white starbursts filled her vision. A searing pain shot through her head.
“Take a few deep breaths, Captain.” Raven Darkstar grunted, otherwise showing no ill effects of the transporter. “Technology here is a little different then you are used to. The effect fades in a moment.”
The pins and needles feeling of long asleep limbs waking up washed over the Bajoran and moments later, feeling more in control of her body, she finally looked up from the deck plates and screamed.
There were Borg drones everywhere!
Manning every station on the bridge. Plugged into the helm itself. All working in the amber red alert lighting that she had long grown accustomed to with all the battles that Kira had seen throughout her lifetime.
"Look out!" she shrieked, scrambling backwards. A fingernail broke as she clawed herself backwards seeking immediate cover.
“AT EASE CAPTAIN. THEY'RE ON OUR SIDE.” A voice rasped sounding like gravel being spilled down a coal chute.
Standing before the Captain’s chair, a graying and weathered Admiral John Bhrode clasped his hands behind his back, and turned his thousand yard stare upon the confused Bajoran.
“Excellent work, Darkstar. Take the helm and prepare to get our asses as far away from this system as you can. It appears that my dear 'wonder girl' is escalating her little war a bit.” he ordered as he watched the image of the Shiva firing on Earth.
“Captain Nerys, I would advise you to buckle in.” Bhrode said gesturing to the open seat at his right hand. “We move pretty fast around here and the crew seems to have issues with keeping the inertial dampeners in a fixed position when we take evasive action.”
“SENSORS INDICATE CRITICAL MASS ON THE PLANET" a drone plugged into the tactical arch said.
“Get us out of here, Darkstar. Extraction plan Tango!" Bhrode ordered planing his Hirogen skinned boots firmly on the deck.
Without response, the well muscled Indian keyed a sequence of commands on the helm and the ship lurched foreward and then arced on its Y axis as the Earth itself exploded.
The GALAXY rocked under the concussive wave; Its lights flickering and computer consoles sparking cascading over the drones who didn't so much as flinch. Chunks of Earth came sailing at them at high speed from the dying planet.
“Goddamn her. Never trust a red head.” Bhrode growled, then looked at Kira. “No offense.”
The Bajoran - still in a panic - was bracing herself as Darkstar jinked and juked the ship free of the flying chunks of the planet, then he punched to warp only it was a warp like Kira had never before seen – eerily starless. And darker.
Long silent moments played out and finally the ship dropped back into a deserted section of real space.
"Report!" Bhrode barked.
,<Engineering reports minimal damage to the aft shields. Estimated time of repair 3 minutes.>
<Ops reports no further damage. 0 casualties.>
<Tactical reports no contacts.>
“Now that's efficiency. Should have hard wired a crew a long time ago." Bhrode quipped. "Darkstar, take us into standard warp. Best speed. You know our destination.
“Where...where are we going?" Kira asked, still eying the drones warily.
Bhrode smiled and the Bajoran felt a ripple of goose flesh run across her arms.
"You will be happy to know that we are heading home, Captain." he said. "Back to Bajor!” “Matryoshka, Part 4” 2375
Commander Peter David McAllister Commander Pavel Irihinova Lieutenant Kathryn MacKenzie -- NPCs by Betred
(follows Matryoshka, Part 3)
--------------------------------------
<A Dive, Anywhere -- 2375>
“I am NOT a frackin prostitute!” shouted Kathryn MacKenzie.
“You are whatever we say you are,” replied Commander Pavel Irihinova of Starfleet Intelligence. “And you should keep your voice down – this is supposed to be a clandestine meeting, after all.”
“He’s just not my type,” whined Kathryn.
Peter McAllister laughed. Part of him realized he should feel at least a little insulted – the pert, blonde MacKenzie was talking about his son – but McAllister was never one to put family allegiance ahead of personal gain. “So fuck him for free for all I care, Katie – I can certainly find better things to spend the credits on.” He patted her high on her thigh, letting a finger or two stray.
MacKenzie slapped his hand away. “Touch me again, and I’ll rip your balls off and feed them to this foppish bastard.” She jerked her thumb at Pavel.
“You both disgust me,” replied the intelligence officer. “Let’s try to remember why we’re here. Despite your assurances, Commander McAllister, your son entered the Academy last year, and we need a means of controlling him. As luck would have it, Lieutenant MacKenzie will be one of his instructors as he enters his second year. And I possess information that dear Kathryn here would prefer not come to the attention of Starfleet Command. It’s serendipity.”
“Fuck you,” said both McAllister and MacKenzie at the same time.
“Please,” replied Pavel. “Must you both be so uncouth?”
McAllister downed his drink while Kathryn simply shook her head in dismay. “Alright, I’ll do it,” she agreed. “But I’m taking your credits,” she pointed at McAllister, “and your promise of promotion.” She pointed at Pavel. “Screw me over on this and I will kill you – and you know I don’t have problems with that sort of thing.”
“So,” she continued. “What makes this bald headed son of a bitch worth all this effort?”
“The less you know, the better,” said Pavel. “You’re job is simply to seduce him, get him wrapped around your little finger, then allow yourself to get caught with his hands in your knickers. Commander McAllister’s bald little boy gets drummed out of the Academy, and you get transferred to a cushy job in Paris. McAllister the younger is none the wiser and ceases to be a threat to our plans. Everyone wins.”
“Except I’m out a boat load of credits,” snarled McAllister.
“Please, Commander. Cease your whining and grumbling. Certainly the price you’re paying to Lt. Mackenzie is excellent value. Or would you prefer I tell your son exactly why you left your wife to the tender mercies of the Borg? Not to mention what you did to your daughter Holley?” To Kathryn, Pavel said, “You really don’t have to worry about this pig’s advances my dear, you are much too old and not a member of the family, after all.”
“You son of a bitch!” McAllister leaned across the table to strike the effeminate intelligence officer. He stopped short when he saw the barrel of a small disruptor pistol pointed at his torso.
“Sit down, Commander.” Pavel’s voice was hard and carried an unexpected tone of command. “Lieutenant, I believe our business here is concluded?”
Kathryn swallowed hard. “Yeah, I guess it is,” she replied.
Pavel simply raised an eyebrow.
MacKenzie nodded. “Cadet McAllister is on leave. I’ll arrange to meet him. We will have a torrid affair. He reports to the Academy to find I’m an instructor. I protest we can’t continue the relationship, and then give in. Once he’s in love with me, I arrange for us to get caught during one of our trysts. Yeah, I got it. But I gotta tell you – you’re both bastards.” Mackenzie stood and hurried to exit the bar before her stomach betrayed her.
Both men watched her leave, one admiring the sway of her hips, the other concerned that she would be adequate to her task.
“Well played, Pavel,” complimented McAllister when they were sure she was gone.
“Just following your script, Peter,” smiled Pavel. “Are you sure she can handle your son?”
“Blonde, perky, great body? Yeah, she’s just his type – hell, dye her hair red and he’d follow her anywhere.” McAllister chuckled.
“So how does all this further our cause?” Pavel asked.
“My son’s reaction when he heard about the Borg attack surprised me, I admit. When Paul decided to stay at Julliard I this whole letter thing would go away. Deciding to join Starfleet was way out of character for him. Or so I thought – maybe he spent too much time listening to his tutor’s tales of family honor.
“In any event, we need to derail that letter. It’s already been written, so there’s nothing we can do about that, but if we force Paul out of Starfleet that should cause the fork we need to keep the rest of the letter from the President’s attention. Are you sure you can get into the archives to read the rest of it?”
Pavel shook his head. “Any additional attempts to access the rest of the letter will trigger a data dump – the damn thing will go public on every world in the Federation. I know you think your son is a worthless airhead now, but in 2402 to he was – is damn good at his job. How can you be sure he’s wrong?”
McAllister sat silently for a moment. “Pavel, I’m not worried about him being wrong. I’m worried he may be right.”
***
<San Francisco, Earth>
In a small club, a young, slightly overweight, prematurely bald man in a Starfleet Cadet’s uniform applied the finishing touches to a light jazz piece on the old fashioned piano built into the bar. Several patrons applauded politely; several more ignored him completely, more engrossed in their own possibilities for success with – in most cases – the opposite sex.
A petite woman dressed in short black dress that fit over her form perfectly approached the man and placed a drink in front of him, on the bar, not the piano which was a bit closer.
“That was very good,” the woman murmured in soft, sultry voice. Her blue eye flashed as she swept her wait long blonde hair over one shoulder. “Do you know ‘As Time Goes By?’” 7229 |