History, Politics And Current Affairs

....So - let's start getting this reposted so we can get everybody up to speed.
Author’s Note: This novel takes place between the events portrayed in the films Star Trek V: The Final Frontier and Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. Please adjust your stardates accordingly…

STARDATE 8454.20
USS POSEIDON NCC-2895
THE MUTAARA ASTEROID FIELD



They call them all Starships now, and that was the problem.
Once, there had only been fourteen of them, the most advanced, capable, and graceful spacecraft the Federation had ever built, and they were the most coveted assignments in Starfleet. When you heard the word ‘Starship’, you knew – knew with all your heart, hearts, sentience, or any combination of the above – that they were indeed something special.
Trouble was, times changed. And one day some genius got the idea of painting it on the sides of every ship. STARSHIP USS SARATOGA, perhaps, or STARSHIP USS PETR VELIKY, followed by the words, UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS. And as time went by, every ship in the Fleet, from the hulking Dreadnaughts down to the knifelike destroyers, ended up with that proud phrase on the side and it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, every last being in Starfleet could say with pride, “I serve aboard a Starship.” On the other hand, when the Federation Council wanted something done and demanded Starfleet do something about it, Fleet Staff could look them in the eye and say, “We’re sending a Starship.”

And then send a ship like the Poseidon.

Poseidon was a Clio-class destroyer, superficially resembling one of the big cruisers, but far smaller – downright cramped, as a matter of fact, two hundred and eight beings stuffed into a space that the Federation would have decried as unlivable planetside but was perfectly acceptable out here. And the larger ships may have been able to indulge themselves as instruments of peace and exploration, but the destroyer crews had no such illusions. At best they were instruments of enforcement, but all too often they were the only thing between the citizens lightyears away from the Home Worlds and the numberless beings, fleets, and…things… that wanted to harm them. Destroyer crews, however, take a perverse and unquenchable pride in being ordered out into deep space in their ‘tin cans’ and doing the impossible, especially when their usefulness is questioned by the no-good layabouts on the bigger ships – but that’s a discussion for another time. Right now, Poseidon had a job to do, and she would do it well. The job in question was officially known as Mutaara Patrol, but the crews who pulled it, destroyermen all, reduced that to two far more descriptive words:

Gonzo Station.

It was a term that went back, way, way back, to the old United States Navy and had come to represent a mission that made little or no sense whatsoever, except to the senior officers and politicians who had come up with it in the first place. The commodores who ran their respective flotillas tended to frown upon the term. Irreverent, they said. Disrespectful. Poseidon’s captain, Commander Edward Ellison, had a different view – quite reasonably, because he was there. Destroyers assigned to Gonzo Station pulled ninety day tours just slowly circling the massive field of rock and energy created when the Genesis planet tore itself to shreds a few years before, and after about the tenth day boredom set in. One could only polish the decks and inspect the crew so many times, Ellison thought, and recreation facilities aboard the destroyers were…limited. Ellison snorted to himself at the thought; there was a small gym big enough to handle perhaps ten percent of the people who would want to use it at any one time, and a small compartment with a dozen or so computer and holo games – as long as the Poseidon’s computer core wasn’t rationing drive space again; a depressingly common occurrence since the Starfleet engineers who designed her had been a bit stingy with computer core size. Now, the library was nice – pretty much every book ever written, and a good selection of vids, but the novelty tended to wear off pretty fast. The only thing to look forward to was a runner, the nickname for the people who for whatever insane reason decided they just had to get to Mutaara.

They came by chartered ship, or tramp freighter, occasionally in ships not much bigger than a shuttle, and sometimes in ships a damned sight smaller than that. Their reasons tended to vary from ship to ship, but they narrowed down to the same thing: there was a secret out here. For some, it was a miracle cure for…well, anything. More than a few times, ships on Gonzo Station stopped and/or rescued people who by all rights should have been in hospitals, or for that matter in a hospice, believing that something out here might heal them when the best doctors in the Federation couldn’t. For others, it was supposed to be the fountain of youth – people in their 120s and 130s coming out here thinking that there was something that might make them young again. And on at least a few occasions, the boarding parties would go aboard and find a corpse. Or two. And the explanation would be that they had heard that someone had come back from the dead out here, and they thought…

They didn’t think, Ellison reflected as he looked over a stream of reports on his computer screen. That was the problem. Yes, a famed Starfleet officer and his ship had experienced a very bad day out here. Yes, he had been gravely injured and ‘come back’, though how much that had to do with poorly understood Vulcan physiology and even more poorly understood Vulcan mysticism nobody was sure – at least anybody who was talking. Either way, something very, very odd had happened out here, the patrol skippers knew that much – otherwise Starfleet wouldn’t keep perfectly good destroyers out here doing racetrack patterns for three months at a crack. But if there was anybody who knew what it was, they weren’t sharing it with a bunch of junior ‘can skippers, and any questions no matter how discreet were always greeted with long faces and quiet suggestions to change the subject. Now. And of course, that sort of enforced silence ended up on the front pages of the tabvids and encouraged the people they were ordered to stop. The most technologically advanced and well-educated people in all of history, Ellison reflected…and they were risking their lives to come out here to Sector Godforsaken in hopes of some kind of miracle.

And in spite of the mystery, Ellison thought as he tapped the computer screen, life goes on. For instance, how does my ship manage to go through several hundred kilograms of bacon in a week? Strictly speaking, it wasn’t bacon like he’d grown up with – this stuff was based on the old Smithfield traditional bacons, formed in the replicators - but still…Hell, some of his crew hadn’t evolved to even digest bacon, much less know what it was. Oh well. As long as the crew wasn’t actually griping about the food, Ellison was fine. When the chow started getting complaints, then you had a problem. In the meantime, while on the subject of bacon it would be nice to get a decent club sandwich out of the replicators sometime.

Tapping a close to the last report, Ellison checked his incoming mail. Empty today, he thought. One of those things. Some days there were a dozen, or you could go a week without anything. He looked at the picture of his family just to the right of the computer screen and remembered for a wisp of a moment how much he missed them. Couldn’t dwell on that for too long, though. Too many responsibilities, too many ways it could hurt your performance. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, though, when no one else could see it. Maybe it was time to pack it in, Ellison thought, leaning back in his chair. He could ask for a planetside slot after this cruise, maybe even back home on Earth, and then retire at twenty years, watch the kids grow up, get a place in Hawaii and watch the rest of his life roll by. There were plenty of places to get a good job and enjoy things. Hell, he had – what, another good sixty or seventy years. His dad, a former civilian engineer for Starfleet, was still going strong in his late eighties, for crying out loud, going up to the Starfleet Museum on a regular basis to keep the old girls there in good shape.

Tagging along with his dad one day had been what motivated him to do this in the first place. Ed Ellison had a lot of good memories with his dad, but the best was a day when he’d been ten years old and on summer vacation when Dad woke him up early with a huge grin and told him to get dressed, he had a surprise. And what a surprise it was – he was going up to an honest-to-God starship, in spacedock high over San Francisco, and Eddie could come along as long as he behaved himself.

Not like there was any question of that, Ellison grinned. He was at his angelic best all the way through Starfleet HQ as Marine guards gruffly checked his ID and then gave Dad a wink, all the way through the shuttle ride up there piloted by a young Ensign named Sulu awaiting assignment to his first ship. Sulu couldn’t resist showing off just a little, rolling the shuttle over the spacedock so Eddie could see the strong black letters across a gray saucer:

U.S.S. CONSTELLATION
NCC – 1017

The crew treated him like CINCStarfleet himself, and even grim old Matt Decker, brand new Commodore’s stripes on his jersey, came out smiling to give him a tour of the bridge, even letting him sit in the captain’s chair for a glorious minute. Ellison never forgot it.

He never forgot either how hard he cried the day his dad sat him down and, as gently as he could, broke the news that Constellation and Matt Decker were gone, fighting hard against something that had wanted to come to Earth to hurt them. Dad let him get it out of his system, then told him that if he wanted to remember them…be like them. After that there was never any question of where Ed Ellison’s future lay. The Academy was tough – wouldn’t have been any point to it otherwise – but it was worth it, especially in his senior year when one of his instructors turned out to be Matt’s son Will, waiting for his ship to come out of refit. After that first class, Ellison told Will his story, and it turned into a long day of Will happily sharing memory after memory, and as much advice as he could offer. A couple months before graduation, Will sat him down just before going orbitside and told him that once he graduated, give him a call. Ed Ellison had a slot waiting for him on the Big E.

Ellison’s thoughts stopped for a moment as he remembered what came next. Will Decker, relieved on the bridge of his own ship, for God’s sake, then…’missing in action’. There was a brief ceremony at the Academy where another Decker was added to the long black monument, and that was it. Over and done quickly, because Starfleet didn’t like to see it’s officers crying.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, though, when no one else could see it.

Ellison closed his eyes, intending to for just a second but letting it turn into a luxurious few moments…where it was warm and quiet in his cabin, the sounds of the ship merging into a smooth, soothing background hum…and nobody was asking for him…. and the General Quarters alarm wasn’t going off GODDAMMIT GENERAL QUARTERS as the whoopwhoopwhoop of the alarm rattled through the speakers and off every single surface in the cabin. Leaping out of the chair more by reflex than intent, Ellison grabbed his jacket and swatted the comlink in one fluid motion. “Bridge, this is the Captain! What do we have?”

“Sir, this is Ensign Alcala –“ Ellison had to think for a heartbeat, then remembered a dark, slim young man from Nueva Espana and right out of the Academy who’d had a few problems with self-confidence – “We’ve got a bogey!”
“How far out?” GQ for a bogey?
“Sir…it’s inside the Field!” Right. That explains that.
“On my way!” With that, Ellison pounded through the door and into the crowded passageway, next stop the cramped circle of seats and computers that was the heart of the Poseidon. And with every step, his mind just kept repeating the same thing:
Inside the Field? You can’t get inside the field. How the hell does something get inside the Field?

The swoosh of turbolift doors opening, the bosun’s call of “Captain on the bridge!”, and Ed Ellison was in his element. Every station manned, a team of focused, hypertrained professionals training every sensor and every sense on…what? As Alcala leaped out of the Captain’s chair to make way for Ellison, the captain took a quick glance at the big main viewscreen. There, for the most part, was what they always saw filling the screen – the rippling bands of blasted rock and frozen magma that had once been the Genesis planet, now smashed into several billion trillion pieces of fused rock, covering nearly a half million kilometers in any one direction. And, off center and towards the bottom of the screen, in bright red letters and symbology, BANDIT ONE. A red triangle, with a rotating circular aimpoint hovering over it, telling the phasers and photon tubes that this was where to shoot. Below that it said, NO POWER EMISSION NO LIFE SIGNS NO SENSORS DETECTED. As Ellison was absorbing that, he realized that his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Terracis, was already at his side. Okay, Ellison thought, let’s figure this out. Shutting off the alarm, he turned to Torres and asked – as gently as he could, because the poor kid looked terrified – “Okay, Ensign – from the beginning.” Alcala – Ellison remembered now, he had him pulling a few extra shifts as Officer of the Deck until he got over his first-cruise jitters - was shaking a little as he took a deep breath and said, “Sir, everything was routine until a few minutes ago when we started getting little blips in the sensors – like something was popping in and out in front of us, but it wasn’t staying long enough to get an ID. I had Sciences run a Cat 4 diagnostic and it was coming back fine when the fire control sensors actually picked it up. As soon as the computer classed it as a bandit, I went to GQ.” Alcala was still at attention, and Ellison thought the poor kid would burst if he didn’t relax. With the most encouraging smile he could muster, Ellison replied, “Okay – you did good. Take your station and let’s figure out what we have.” Alcala visibly relaxed, a proud smile coming to his face as he sat down at Weapons. Ellison turned to his XO and then quietly asked, “Good morning, Mister Terracis – your thoughts?”

Terracis made a noncommittal face. “Alcala did well. He could have moved more expeditiously, but on the whole it was an adequate performance.” Ellison grinned at that one; Terracis was a demanding taskmaster whose crew members could never move fast enough or aggressively enough for her, so that was high praise indeed. “Duly noted, Mister Terracis,” Ellison replied, “but right now perhaps we should focus on our newfound friend out there.” Andorrians didn’t shrug – it was a gesture that their society never developed – but Terracis could have used one as she replied, “Captain, I do not know. I have Sciences running a full scan to get us more information. I do, however, believe that whatever is out there is not hostile. It appears to be keeping a constant speed – that is; drifting – and appears to be taking no maneuvering actions at all. My guess would be a derelict of some kind.” There was a disappointed look on her face, and Ellison wasn’t surprised. Andorians lived for combat, and Terracis would have loved an excuse to light up the phasers. Ellison looked at the screen again, and the information hadn’t changed. Okay, no harm. Resting his chin on one hand, Ellison said, almost to himself, “This is damned peculiar…derelict it may be, but how the hell did it get in there? That’s gotta be a few thousand clicks inside the field – if it’s big enough for us to spot, then it’s too big to just slip in there…” Then, after a moment, he turned and said, “Mister Soltek?”

Soltek, a quiet, typically efficient Vulcan, was seated at the Sciences station, his hands dancing over the controls like a pianist at his keys. Without looking up. Soltek said, “Stand by, Captain. The ambient radiation levels are, as always, causing serious problems with any readings. May I request more computer space?”

“Easy call, Mister Soltek. Granted.” The rec room, library and chow hall had just lost a good chunk of their computer access, but it couldn’t be helped; this was business. A few moments later, Soltek turned. “Captain, would you please come to the station? I believe you should see this.”

Now Soltek had his attention. Ellison and Terracis stepped up to the Sciences station and leaned over the array of controls and viewscreens. It wasn’t as fancy as what you’d find on a Constitution or a survey cruiser, but more than a few tin cans had contacted civilizations or made important discoveries, and Soltek was the master of his little corner of the bridge. With a slight flourish, Soltek touched one screen flowing with data, and gestured towards one line of colored bands descending from the top of the screen. “Captain,” Soltek explained, “there is a discrete radiation band inside the field – faint, but detectable. As you can see, it appears to be streaming from the bandit’s approximate position. Comparing them to the radiation signatures we have on record, they are clearly not a match to the protomatter or previous nebula signatures.”

“Fission or fusion products?”

Soltek nodded. “One of several possible explanations. The others would be related to weapons detonation byproducts, though I know of none in this area.”

“Okay.” Ellison reflected on this for a second. “A runner got past the patrols, got inside the field –“

“Exactly how, Captain? It would require powerful shields to get much closer than we are right now,” Soltek pointed out, “and that would require a vessel of considerable size. Runners, as a rule, use vessels that are small and therefore by definition, unable to generate that much power.”

Man had a point, Ellison thought, and then an idea popped up. “Soltek”, he asked, “you said that was a discrete radiation signature?”

The science officer nodded. “Indeed, Captain.”

“Analyze it. I want to know everything that can be learned from it before we call Starfleet.”

“Of course, Captain. I enjoy a challenge.” With that, Soltek went to work as Ellison turned to Terracis and said, “Stand ‘em down from General Quarters. We ought to be able to figure this out from here.” Terracis nodded and replied, “Yes, sir,” with a look that suggested disappointment that the Poseidon wasn’t going to shoot at anything today.

With that, Poseidon downshifted back to normal routine as Soltek worked his magic. They were staying their usual cautious distance from the outer edges of the field, and over the next fifteen minutes the destroyer kept its sensors locked on whatever it was in there. Ellison was watching the big screen intently when he heard Soltek say, “Captain?” Ellison looked at his watch as he left the captain’s chair – fifteen minutes and change from the initial alarm. Soltek’s getting slow.
Ellison stepped up to the sciences station and leaned over Soltek’s shoulder. The Vulcan motioned to one of the display screens and quietly said, “Captain, this is…most odd. The radiation is indeed from an engine – to be precise, a damaged warp core.
“A Starfleet warp core.”
Ellison’s jaw dropped almost down to the deck. “Soltek, are you sure?”
The Vulcan nodded gravely, his voice low. “There is no question, Captain. Please notice the ratios of dilithium-23, deuterium, and anti-deuterium to each other – precisely seventeen percent to one another. The actual amount of the byproducts will vary from ship to ship and engine type to engine type, but the seventeen percent ratio is as distinctive as a fingerprint.”
Ellison said, with some disbelief in his voice, “The only Starfleet ships out here are…well, us. There hasn’t been anything else out here since they set up the Mutaara watch.”
“As true as that may be, Captain…the facts are what they are.”
Ellison kept his eyes on the displays as he toggled an intercom switch. “Engineering, this is the Captain.”
“Engineering, Chief Barry. What can I do for you, Sir?”
“My compliments to Mister Singh. I’d like him on the bridge quickly and quietly.”
“Aye, sir.”

Moments later the turbolift doors swooshed open and Gundram Singh, all smiles and turban, strode purposefully onto the bridge. Ellison motioned him over to Sciences with a brief wave and a finger held briefly to his lips. “Mister Singh,” Ellison said, “I need your professional opinion on something.”
“Of course, Captain. What do you need?”
“Take a look at these intermix byproduct ratios and tell me what kind of engine they come from.”
Singh gave Ellison a look of some skepticism, but leaned forward to look at the display. There were a few ‘hmms’, and a satisfied ‘ah’, before turning to Ellison and quietly but directly saying, “Captain, there is no doubt in my mind that these are from Starfleet standard engines, likely larger ones than ours. Something has clearly breached a warp core – ordinarily you would get these products through field emissions, but these are…how would you say it?’raggedy’. They would be much cleaner had they been properly intermixed. Does this have anything to do with…” And at that, Singh looked up at the display screen and put two and two together. Ellison nodded. “Yeah. Let’s keep this down for right now, but what I need to ask you is if there is any possible way to determine what ship they came from? I know we can determine if they’re Klingon or Orion or what have you, but I need to know if we can ID one of our own ships.”

Singh thought on this for a moment, stroking his luxurious beard, then his eyes brightened. “Absolutely, Captain. Mister Soltek, may I sit with you for a moment?”

“Please.”

Singh took a seat and reflected on things for another second or two then said to Soltek, “I would like you to access the Starfleet Propulsion Systems database, in particular Annex Ten.”

“The reason being…?”

“Because the intermix signature of every engine ever installed into a Starfleet vessel is in there. That way when repairs or installation are being done away from the original yard, the shipfitters have the ability to properly tune the warp core and the intermix systems. Remember, for all our technology, starship-sized engines are still not what anyone would call ‘mass-production’. The combined technical abilities of the Federation can still only produce a few dozen units a year, and that means that every engine is almost unique in one way or another.”

Ellison said, “Mister Singh, one nice thing about this job is that one learns something new every day. Mister Soltek, hit it.”

“I would be happy to, Captain, except…”

“…you need more computer space. Granted, as much as you need.” The poor souls getting chow or using the sonic showers were going to be unhappy for a few minutes, but that was tin can life. Soltek worked his fingers for a moment, then began searching for the information they needed.

One minute.

Five minutes.

Eight minutes.

“Soltek, is it taking that long?”

“Given that the nearest node with a link is several hundred parsecs from here, and that node is in turn a few hundred light years away, I think –“


“Soltek, it’s fine. Please, press on.”

And within a few heartbeats of that, there was a soft ping on one monitor, and Soltek shot a self-satisfied look at Ellison. Singh leaned forward and touched the screen. “My goodness,” he said with mild surprise, “it appears to be an experimental engine.”

“Say what?”

“Indeed, see here - Fairbanks-Morse Cochrane LN-64 Mod 1X – basically, the first of their type installed on a starship. Everything after this would be a Mod 1A, etcetera.”

“Okay,” Ellison said, absorbing this information. “This will tell us where it was installed, right?”

“Affirmative, Captain,” Soltek said, and he touched the screen – which hiccupped once and began very slowly loading from the top. While they waited, Ellison looked at his officers and said, “Okay, now this makes sense…”

The screen now showed TOTAL INSTALLED UNITS: 2 and continued to crawl downward.

“…It’s an experimental rig on a test sled, got away from the engineers, and wound up here…”

And then a line appeared that said SHIPBOARD INSTALLATIONS, followed by an NCC number and name.

There was absolute silence around the science station for a moment while Ellison and Singh looked at each other – first in amazement, then in stunned bewilderment. And then they heard Soltek, in as close to emotion as he would ever get in their presence, say with a quiet gasp, “Fascinating….”

To Be Continued....

“Fascinating….” = Oh, Crap.

Ruh roh Zhaggy

In Gonzo, No One Can Hear You Scream

Good to see this back!

Said it before and I’ll say it again Mikey. This is some of the straight best-damn-well-written fiction, for both style and content, I’ve ever read.

The Management approves.

What happened next was pretty much by the book, though Ellison would later reflect that there was nothing in the book that would have prepared him for this. Communications were, of course locked down, with the exception of an abrupt and hastily composed message back to the nearest base station. Using every trick in the book, it would take two hours to get there, God alone knew how long to get Higher Authority’s approved response, and then two hours to get back. In the meantime, nobody on – or off – the bridge except for restroom breaks, and then make damned sure you let the Skipper know you were going. Leaving the Navigator as the OOD, Ellison left for the briefing room, a space behind the bridge just big enough to hold all his staff – of them. And they were there - Terracis of course, Singh, Soltek, Lieutenant C’relle at Communications, and Lieutenant Commander Hardy, ship’s doctor. They were all there ahead of him, rising as Ellison entered and motioned for everybody to sit.

Ellison sat for a moment to collect his thoughts, and then addressed his staff. “Friends, I am not exaggerating when I say that I haven’t the foggiest damned idea what that ship is doing out there. And I will be at even more of a loss when Starfleet asks me why – and they WILL ask me for an explanation, believe me. Mister Singh, can you think of any engineering explanation that makes sense?”

Singh shook his head. “Captain, I only know what was officially released on that vessel’s loss, and we were told that her captain activated the self-destruct protocols. There should have been almost nothing left.” Those words sent a quick, unmentioned chill through everyone there; self-destruct didn’t happen anywhere near as often as the videos and novels would have you believe, and the total in Starfleet’s history was probably less than twenty-five – but it was a horror that always lurked in the back of your mind, right behind all the others. And it was supposed to be a sure thing, which made this whole matter that much more mysterious.

“As you know, in most starship classes, there are a series of interlocks around the warp core that in the event of a self-destruct command simultaneously open all the intermix chamber valves. This in turn terminates antimatter confinement, and that…is that. However, the heavy cruiser classes and up are slightly different – their larger size requires a design that physically dismantles the vessel, because even a full warp core breach can leave some substantial sections of the vessel intact. There are charges placed in the turbolift shafts, activated during the protocols. This should – at the very least – blow the ship into several large pieces, and every simulation has told us that it will destroy the structural integrity of the engineering deck, opening up the warp core and resulting in a breach that should tear apart the ship. The popular conception of a warp core going off in some apocalyptic blast is of course a bit over the top; smaller ships of course would be almost erased, but larger ones will still have some identifiable components –“

“Hold it.” Ellison held up a hand and leaned forward. “Simulations? Just ‘simulations’? I understand that nobody wants to blow a starship clean out of space just to prove a point, but surely we tested something somewhere along the line?”

Singh nodded, somewhat embarrassed. “Captain, as it turned out…that was the first time anyone had ever fired the self-destruct charges on a cruiser under actual combat conditions. Individual components, and even some complete subsystems were test fired, but that would have been decades ago, and always under what would be called laboratory conditions. Clearly the warp core did not fail beyond what would be expected with the stresses we know the hulk experienced. Given what we know about the immediate aftermath, those simulations therefore appear to have been…somewhat mistaken.”

Ellison’s face was a humorless mask. “To put it gently. Soltek, what kind of size do we have on that thing?” Soltek tapped the screen at his seat, and peered closely at the display. “Precise size is unknown, Captain – as you would expect, -“

Ellison finished Soltek’s words for him with, “ ‘- field radiation is hampering the scans’. I am hardly surprised. What can you tell me?”

If it weren’t for the fact that Vulcans are emotionless, Ellison would have sworn that Soltek had been slightly annoyed with his response. In slightly more clipped tones than usual, Soltek read from the screen. “The object appears to be – approximately – two hundred meters from end to end, this however seems to be fluctuating, whether from stability variances or reading inconsistencies is unclear. From this, I am assuming a displacement of approximately four million, two hundred metric tons. It is still emanating the warp decay products at the previously observed rate, and – surprisingly – maintaining it’s current course within the Mutaara Field.”

Ellison tapped his screen, and up came the plan view, one just about every sentient being in the Federation knew by heart. Two hundred and eighty-eight meters. Way too close.

And Starfleet is going to want to know. And know now.

Ellison was silent for a moment before sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. “People, I need some options. All of you here know how…sensitive…Starfleet Command is on this subject. They aren’t going to want to wait the – what, six days it would take to get a proper survey ship out here, so let’s assume we’re going to be the sharp end of this mess, and they’ll expect us to get a positive ID on the damned thing. Ideas?”

“Right now,” Soltek pointed out, “we are at the approximate minimum distance to the main body of the field. Any closer, and actual engagement with debris starts to become a possibility – and given the unusual nature of the Mutaara debris, that is dangerous.”

C’relle and Hardy both raised discreet eyebrows at that, and Terracis stepped in to explain. “There were…certain shortcuts taken during the creation of the Genesis device that leaves the debris itself unstable. A sufficient impact – even against something like our shields – could be enough to explode it, but there is no way to know if a given piece will explode violently or like a child’s toy. With that in mind, we must err on the side of caution.”

“Kind of Starfleet to let us know,” Hardy groused. “Sailing around a minefield is something a ship’s physician should be aware of, wouldn’t you think?” Ellison shot him a sideways glance. “Doc, you know – you know – I’ve never had any problems bringing you in on things you need to know, hell, sometimes I’ve told you things you shouldn’t know. Gonzo Station’s difficult enough; everybody knowing that would have made it worse. And it does not leave this room, understood? So now that we’ve officially established it’s dangerous out there, shall we get back to the subject at hand – to wit, how do we ID that thing in the field?”

A faint purring sound got everyone’s attention as C’relle, a tall, statuesque Caitian, lost herself in thought for a moment. The purring could be distractive, but no one ever mistook it for mildness. At past two meters tall, C’relle was anything but delicate, and a fondness for martial arts tended to reinforce that conclusion. She was also, Ellison would proudly tell anyone, the best damned comm officer in the fleet. Ellison discreetly cleared his throat, and C’relle quickly looked up. “My apologies, Captain,” she said. “I tend to forget myself sometimes.”

“Not a problem, Lieutenant. But if you have any ideas, I’d love to hear ‘em.”

“Of course. My thinking is that we don’t have to move in closer – we could use a probe to get into the field and get a good look at the bandit.”

Ellison reflected on that for a moment, then shook his head. “Good idea, but a probe couldn’t get in –“

“Perhaps it could.” Singh leaned forward, turning his desk screen so all could see it. “A Class I probe has terrain-following sensors – we could, perhaps…” - Singh searched for the words – “wrap the sensors around the probe. It could then, with a little luck, hunt its way through the field. Right now, the bandit is in a fairly light area of the field; and might have a good chance of making it through.”

Soltek considered this for a moment. “Mister Singh, the concept is a sound one, but there are some serious potential problems – not least of which would be fuel consumption. Normally a Class I would be able to cruise for several days in a straight line, but with all its reaction control thrusters firing to keep it away from debris impacts that would be drastically reduced – perhaps to as little as a few minutes. Communications between the probe and us would also be problematic. They would of necessity be line-of-sight, which still requires us to get in closer and keep station with the probe.”

“We could send a comms buoy out,” C’relle suggested, “between us and the probe. Opens the distance up a little bit, in any event.” Singh was tapping away at the touchboard at his screen and probably didn’t hear a word of what C’relle said before he turned the screen to the table. “We can do it, Captain. It will take a few hours, and –“

“ – A Class I probe, thank you, I definitely heard that part.” A cruiser might have a dozen Class Is, a proper survey ship forty or fifty, but a humble destroyer on a depressingly routine patrol in a dim, dusty corner of the galaxy had exactly one – twenty point four meters, thirty metric tons and several billion credits of the best sensor technology the Federation could devise, and woe unto the ‘can skipper who popped one off without an exceptionally good reason. But as Ellison looked around the table at the expectant faces of his staff, it was clear that whether he wanted it or not, he had an exceptionally good reason.

Okay, then. This is why you get the good pay and the big cabin with a view.

“All right,” Ellison concluded. “Singh, get to it. Whatever you need out of supply or the computer, you got it, but get it done. C’relle, start checking out the buoys and keep one ear on the comm channels – if Starfleet even sneezes in our direction, I want to know about it before the download’s finished. Terracis, you herd this whole operation, make it happen. Dismissed.”
Without question, no one in the briefing room was bored any more.



Singh left a skeleton crew in Engineering and took everybody he had, plus a handful of comm techs, cyber techs, and shuttle support crews, and got to work down in the hangar bay. Their sole Class I drone, an elongated lifting body shape nicknamed ‘Crazy Eddie’, was secured to the overhead in Poseidon’s cramped hangar bay, and it took a good half hour of respotting the two Greyhound –A shuttles far enough against the bulkheads to winch it down. Still wasn’t much room to work, but you got used to that on a tin can.

Another thing you got used to was waiting, and Ellison had gotten pretty good at it over the years – but this time, he didn’t feel like waiting at all, which was why he was surprised when he looked up at the clock they’d put onto the viewscreen.

Two hours had passed. Not a second more.

Crud. “Yeoman?”

“Sir.”

“Coffee, black with two sugars, please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Well, that killed a few more seconds. Turning to C’relle, Ellison asked, “Anything at all?” C’relle smiled, or at least passed for a smile with her race, and said, “No, Captain. When we do, you will be the first to know.”

Reports and reviews. That should help.

“C’relle, -“

“Sadly, sir, no.”

Two hours and forty-five minutes. Damn. I could just scream, Ellison thought, then remembered the running joke out here – on Gonzo Station, no one could hear you scream. Enough of this nonsense. Flicking the comm switch on his chair, Ellison said, “Mister Singh?”

“Yes, Captain?

“How goes it?”

Pause.

Pause.

“Not quite as quickly as we had originally forecast, Captain.”

Pause.

“That bad?”

“The sensors are not cooperating. They require a fair amount of adjustment, and we may not be able to achieve full wrap-around coverage.”

“Press on, Mister Singh. Can you give me a ballpark on completion?”

Pause. “Three to four hours.”

Great. “Understood, Mister Singh. Ellison out.”

Ellison sat back in the chair a bit, and only then noticed that everyone else on the bridge was studiously trying to avoid looking at him. Right, then. One of his earliest division heads had told him long ago that when all else failed, take a nap. Smart lady, she was, and he had Nav take the conn while he stepped into his day cabin.


Ellison’s head popped up with a slight jerk, and he focused first on the clock. Another ninety minutes had gone by, and that was an improvement, anyways. Putting his jacket back on, he stepped out to the calm, steady announcement of, “Captain on the bridge.”

“C’relle –“

“No.”

To the point, if nothing else. A quick tap of the comm badge. “Mister Singh, this is the Captain. Talk to me.”

“Much better news, Captain. We have discovered a work around for the sensor problem. The coverage will not be as complete as we had hoped, but we should still be able to get close enough to the bandit for an identification.”

“Best news I’ve heard this morning, Mister Singh, good work. Estimated completion time?”

“Forty five minutes, Captain. You may count on it.”

“Outstanding. Ellison out.” Ellison sat down in his chair, and the yeoman brought him a steaming coffee, and in his favorite mug, no less. See, he thought to himself, give the kids something to work for and they snap right out of it.

“Captain…”

The tone in Soltek’s voice was just enough to end any happy thoughts in Ellison’s mind. Stepping up to Science, Ellison leaned in over Soltek’s shoulder and quietly said, “Mister Soltek, I was just beginning to think we’d pull this off. PLEASE do not disappoint me.”

Soltek never even looked up from the display as his fingers danced over the controls. “Sadly, Captain, you should prepare to be unhappy. The bandit appears to be changing course – please observe…” Soltek’s screen showed the red triangle still centered on the green course line that the computers had mapped out for it…but now, popping in and out at blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speeds, yellow lines were curving gently off from the triangle, horrifyingly complex mathematical equations appearing and disappearing beside them and every last blessed one of them heading deeper into the Field and away from Poseidon.

Dammit. “When did you pick this up?”

“Just a minute or two ago. I ran a brief diagnostic to insure we were not dealing with a malfunction. I would say we have – at most – approximately twenty minutes to launch the probe, after which Mister Singh’s wizardry shall avail us not.”

DAMMIT. “Show me the absolute, no-kidding limit for us to get up against the Field.” Soltek had apparently been expecting that request, and before Ellison could realize it, the Field and Poseidon were there on the screen, varying color bands emanating from the Field showing the extent of the danger. They were just where an orange band started to merge into yellow, and the yellow band wasn’t very wide at all. Soltek pointed at the junction of the red and yellow bands and quietly said, “Once we are into the yellow band, the possibility of a collision increases exponentially. In the orange band, we can safely assume that our sensors will warn us of any possible collisions, regardless of size. Into the yellow, and the sheer number of possible targets begins to overwhelm the sensors.”

Ellison nodded, taking it in. Okay, then. We stay where we are, and we might just have to hand this off to the big boys. No shame in admitting you can’t do something -

“Captain Ellison!” C’relle’s voice rang across the bridge. “Message from Echo Five Base!” That was home, and he reflexively looked at the master clock – somebody must have really pumped that message out, he thought. Ellison stepped over to Communications, where C’relle gave him a piece of crystal readout sheet – nearly weightless and infinitely recyclable – with the usual nonsense and addresses at the top, but the only one that interested him was the heading CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET followed by:

TO COMMANDING OFFICER USS POSEIDON NCC 2895

1 INVESTIGATE AND CONFIRM IDENTITY OF UNKNOWN CONTACT AND REPORT IMMEDIATELY RPT IMMEDIATELY

2RESOURCE PRIORITY IS X RAY


They teach you a lot of things in your first year at the Academy, and one of them
are the Priority Codes, simple words that tell you just how much effort you should put into a given task or mission, and there were some you really didn’t want to hear, because they were essentially a direct order to use every tool you had, and risk their loss – as well as that of your crew and if you especially unlucky, your ship.

X-Ray was one of them.

Terracis was back on the bridge now, and Ellison motioned her over and wordlessly handed over the message sheet. The XO quickly scanned it before handing it back and saying quietly, “On the bright side, Captain, we seem to have permission to use the probe.”

“Yeah, just cheered me right the hell up. We need another hour or two, and for that thing to stand still.”

Terracis nodded and replied, “True as that may be, Captain, it is what I believe you humans refer to as, ‘Showtime’.”

Ellison looked back up at the main viewscreen for a long second, and then growled, “Get ‘em to Yellow. We got work to do.”

To Be Continued....

Mike

Ellison is having a bad day which is about to spread.

I missed that the probe was called Crazy Eddie. You sir win a double thumbs up!

...Yellow alert is a slightly less insistent sound than the nightmare-sound buzzwhoop that accompanies Red, but it’s still an unforgettable reminder – something very bad may or may not happen, so it’s best to be ready, don’t you think? Poseidon’s crew knew that perfectly well, and was at their stations in sufficient time to keep even Terracis pleased – if not happy – and as the activity ramped up, Ellison tapped the comm switch.

“Mister Singh.”

“Captain?”

Here we go. “Bad news - you’ve got about five minutes, no way around it. Button it up and get out of there.”

Singh’s voice didn’t hesitate. “I need seven, and then it’s all yours, Captain.”

“Understood. Ellison out.” Turning to C’relle, Ellison said, “Mister C’relle, get that comm buoy out now.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” C’relle’s paws almost floated over the panel as she prepared the comm buoy for launch from its resting place in the lower primary hull. Okay, Ellison thought, let’s get this done. “Helm, bring us about ninety degrees port, synch us up with the bandit.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Had to admit, this never got old. Ellison was almost enjoying it until Terracis got his attention. “Yes, XO?”

“Captain, allow me to suggest that we tell the crew something. They will certainly assume that we are investigating an object or objects in the Field, and curiosity tends to distract from duty performance.”

“Can’t argue with that, Mister Terracis.” A brief flick of the comm switch, and the familiar three-note trill of a bosun’s whistle sounded throughout his ship. “Attention all hands, this is Captain Ellison. You may have noticed we’ve had a busy few hours – the short version is that we have an…extremely odd contact in the Field.” Pause. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said. Starfleet, however, has asked us to poke around a bit and see if we can get some data on it. Given the more dangerous aspects of the Field, and the fact that we’re going to have to get a bit closer than I’d normally like, I thought it was a good idea to bring our readiness up a notch before we did. We’re going to get the festivities under way in a moment, and we should be back to normal in about half an hour. Ellison out.” Another click. “Mister Singh?”

“Stand by, Captain. Last covers going on now. She’s not pretty, and I still have some reservations about how well it will work.”

“Life wouldn’t be any fun without some reservations, Mister Singh. Let me know.” Ellison looked up at the clock, reset and now down to three minutes. Dare I hope –?

“Captain!” C’relle’s voice was strained and that alone was enough to get Ellison’s attention, had the strident tone coming from her panel not been enough to already do so.

Apparently not.

“Captain, number one buoy is down, showing a fail on long micro sideband and selective retransmit, it’s a no-go!”

“Goddammit!” That one got past all his filters, but at this point Ellison didn’t care. It wasn’t but a jump over to the comm station, and Ellison had to remember not to close in too fast on C’relle. The display screen was showing a plan view of the number one buoy, the offending components blinking an unpleasant red.

“Run the diagnostics again.”

“Twice already, Captain.” C’relle shut off the alarm and looked up at Ellison. “One is out of action for at least an hour or so until we can get a tech down in the hole to get hands on it –“

“Launch two.”

C’relle shook her head, her mane flying. “Captain, I have to have one functioning buoy for emergencies, those are the regulations.” Ellison wanted to swear even more loudly, but this time he bit his tongue. Right was right, and the way the day had been going he might very well need that second buoy. That was that, and it only left him one option. “Mister Soltek?”

“Captain?”

“Link up with the helm, get us in as close as we need to be. Helm, bring up the shields and work with Mister Soltek.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

Some days…

Poseidon was quickly pivoting and heading for a point well within Mister Soltek’s yellow band, and almost immediately, small flashes – little pinpoints, quite lovely really, orange/red/white – began to appear on the viewscreen. Not many, almost slow enough to count if you were inclined, but Ed Ellison wasn’t right now and he devoutly hoped no one else was. Terracis was beside him, arms folded and looking as nonchalant as she could, and Soltek was quietly looking between his screen and the big one, calm scientific detachment as always –

“Captain, Singh here, we are clear of the shuttle bay, all clear!”

The clock wound down to one minute and counting. Bless you, Mister Singh. “Mister Singh, acknowledged, Mister Soltek, launch now!” Soltek coolly pushed a single button, and they could feel the rumble of the shuttle bay doors opening.

Outside the shuttle bay, Singh and his crew stood in the gallery at the forward end and watched as the doors seemed to glide open, revealing velvet blackness and countless diamonds glide past as Poseidon brought her stern about to the Field. There was a POP, audible even through the heavy plexisteel windows and an eerie blue-white glow as Eddie’s thrusters lit off and she purposefully nosed her way through the bay doors. There was a flare of light and then she moved off, the doors closing behind her. Singh tapped an intercom panel near the hatch. “Captain, Eddie is on her way. We are returning to Engineering.”

“Copy that, Mister Singh, well done.” Singh enjoyed the compliment, of course, but in the back of his mind he was worried, as any engineer would be, about just how well done.

On the bridge, the viewscreen showed Eddie heading for the field, her projected path in green and optimistically intercepting the bandit in just over ten minutes. The flare of her impulse engine remained bright and steady as she got closer and closer to the field, then suddenly dimmed and began to jerk unsteadily. Ellison turned to Soltek, who said, “The probe is entering the field proper, Captain. Terrain avoidance sensors are working, she appears to be functioning well so far…though fuel consumption is already climbing, as I had feared.”

“We’ll send Starfleet Probe Ops a stern note. Any video yet?”

“Stand by.” The main viewscreen flickered, and turned into a black/white/gray picture from Hell, misshapen blobs rushing past and spinning around Eddie’s long axis, and that in turn pivoting leftrightupdown and at that point Ellison had to look away for a second before he started getting vertigo. Wouldn’t do for the Captain to get spacesick on the bridge, after all.

There was near absolute silence as Eddie plunged through the whirlpool of rock and debris, the only sound the comforting beeps and tones that were the constant accompaniment of life on the bridge. Ellison didn’t think he’d ever seen everyone this quiet before, but he had to admit the show was amazing, if a little low quality visually. The picture was starting to fuzz and flicker, and Ellison turned back to Soltek. “Mister Soltek, I hope the data feed is better than the video.”

“Fear not, Captain. There are some dropouts on the margins, but for the most part we are –“

-THUMP
-
-And the Poseidon vibrated like a bell –
-
-“MISTER SOLTEK!”

“Captain, it appears we took a strike from a piece of debris, shields are holding!”

“Reinforce all the way around, Engineering, bring up the structural integrity fields
to maximum!”

“Captain, the SIF adjustments may not be necessary –“

“No, but they’ll make me feel better.”

“Aye aye, sir!”

“Soltek, how long?” This was starting to get a bit worrisome.

“Captain, I am showing approximately three minutes to close visual scanning range…if the fuel holds out. Data is showing excessive fuel consumption far beyond even what I expected. It is possible that the probe has taken damage –“

-thumpthumpthumpBANG, and this time Poseidon’s bow heeled up just a little, but enough to make Ellison grab the armrests. Oh, boy… Engineering station called, “Captain, that one was pretty solid –“

“No kidding –“

“Shield reinforce is holding, but if we take a lot of those –“

-thumpcrack –

“Thank you, Engineering, I get the idea. Mister Singh?”

“On it, Captain!”

That was approximately when it started, with 2:20 on the clock – a low rumble that got progressively longer, starting on the port rear quarter and moving up the length of the ship until it was a constant drumbeat, felt and heard, but unnerving just the same. Ellison remembered staying with his cousins in Ohio once when he was ten, and one of those gawdawful thunderstorms they get there broke loose in the middle of the night, with crack after crash after roar of thunder merging into one colossal sound that seemed like it personally wanted to find you out and hurt you…and for one ice-cold moment in his soul, Ed Ellison was sure that storm was about to break again.

Get a grip, dammit. You’re the Captain; behave like it.

“Captain, on screen.” Soltek kept his voice calm, but there was something just beneath the surface – surprise? Amazement? Ellison looked up and saw the frantic whirlpool of stone and energy still gyrating wildly, but this time there was a white square superimposed over a shape in one corner of the display, flickering and staticky, but clearly readable:

BANDIT ONE

Jackpot.

“Mister Soltek, how long –“

“Another minute, Captain, but the probe’s fuel state is critical. It is not likely to reach the bandit before primary drive fuel is gone. Thruster fuel will be available slightly longer, but then it loses maneuverability –“

“Screw it. Divert the thruster fuel to the primary.”

Soltek gave Ellison a look that said, “Remember, this was your idea,” then sent the commands. C’relle leaned towards Terracis and whispered, “XO, what does ‘screw it’ mean?”

Terracis started to answer, then thought about it for a moment and simply replied, “It’s an old Earth English expression that doesn’t…exactly…translate. More of a concept than a term.”

“Ah.”

Bandit One was still locked firmly in the white tracking square, the oblong shape slowly, almost tantalizingly starting to resolve itself diagonally from upper left to lower right, and the viewfield was getting – well, less crowded…?

“Soltek, do you see –“

“I do, Captain, though I am at a loss to explain it. It is possible the bandit is in a ‘pocket’ with a lower concentration of debris – that would explain –“

-thumpthumpthumpThumpThumpThumpRUUUUMMMMMMMBLE, and now Poseidon was actually shaking from stem to stern, and out of the corner of one eye Ellison saw flickering lights at the Engineering station, mostly yellow but one flash of bright, warning red. This was starting to get close –

“Captain, probe fuel exhaustion in three, two, one – empty.”

“I thought we’d get more time.”

“I was mistaken, Captain. It does not happen all that often; let us leave it at that. I am trying to – there.” The screen rolled, flickered, -

-And there was the Bandit. No possibility of mistake now, no chance this had all been some incredible misunderstanding, no possible way they could avoid rewriting the history holos now. That shape was all wrong, huge portions missing, what should have been white was black, black as midnight in a dilithum mine, the aspect all wrong with her bow down and almost over on her back, but it was her my LORD it was her –

The probe was still closing on the Bandit, and Ellison barked, “Soltek, it looks like the probe will still pass close aboard, get those cams locked on her!”

“One step ahead of you, Captain…” and the cameras were now showing what was left of the primary hull in fuzzy but comprehensible detail and God he’d never seen anything like that why the hell didn’t the whole ship come apart and down the back of the pylon now, the strongback rippled and twisted between two burned and crumpled and bent warp nacelles and there was where the shuttle bay doors should have been but they were gone and the camera swung down and back by computerized reflex as it cleared the fantail and the NAME letters gone along with chunks of plating –

Silence for a heartbeat, with only the drumbeat of the asteroid impacts until Ellison asked, mouth dry, “Soltek, tell me you got that…” Soltek didn’t answer immediately, and Ellison turned to see Soltek looking at the screen with the same surprise/shock everyone else was. Might be hope for him yet, Ellison grinned to himself, then turned back to the screen as the camera swung up almost convulsively as a shadow crossed it, and there wouldn’t have been enough time for even a computer to understand that it was dead as solid black shape blotted out the screen and the image disappeared, snapping back to the main viewscreen. BANDIT ONE was still there, and a blinking yellow circle marked PROBE 1 CRAZY EDDIE and below that SIGNAL LOST. And even before anyone could do anything about it, small pinpoints of light began to appear at the yellow circle, quickly multiplying into what looked like a lightning bolt, only growing in size and from the looks of it, intensity –

-coming THEIR way -

With far more calm than he felt, Ellison said, “Red alert, helm, get us out of here NOW and brace for collision!” The buzzwhoop sounded throughout the ship, rattling speakers as he felt Poseidon begin to respond.

And all Ed Ellison could think right now was, Storm’s comin’.

To Be Continued....

Mike

Putting it mildly.

Great update

BOHICA

A Clio-class destroyer might have been cramped, short on computer power and iffy on recreational facilities but it was a by-God warship and it was as nimble as a helmsman’s skill and Federation technology could possibly make it – something Ellison was silently grateful for as Poseidon began to spin to starboard, along the direction of the Field’s rotation. There was a low rumble as the thrusters, compact ion reactors mounted along the ship, fired daggers of white-golden light into space and Newtonian physics took over with their iron rule.
The kids on the helm made sure the main screen was still locked on where the probe had been, and even as Poseidon began to heel to starboard, a slow, steady acceleration that Ellison was bracing himself against, the lightning bolt was still growing and moving towards them, and –

Soltek’s voice was calm, but pitched higher than he’d ever heard a Vulcan’s before. “Captain, I do not believe we will outrun it –“

Dear God that thing was big –

There was a CRACK/THUD and Poseidon trembled, her stern lifting a degree or two –

-Seen worse –

-And Ellison’s brain had just enough time to remind him of a detail from an
energy wave course at the Academy, that there are always two parts to a shockwave in vacuum, the precursor, and then the pri –

All of it happened so fast and simultaneously that Ellison would tell the Board that he could not remember their order, only that they all happened. The flash that overloaded the main screen and filled the bridge with a harsh white flare, the BOOM of the primary wave impacting, the actual, real scream of tortured tritanium structural members as stabilizers fought and failed to stop the shockwave. Poseidon’s stern reared up as if a giant had carelessly flicked it with his fingers, and Ellison’s stomach dropped as he saw the main screen suddenly swing down and in front of him and he was going forward until he slammed into the command chair, wrapping his arms around it as he felt himself hanging from it, legs dangling into the air. Every alarm on the bridge was shouting to be heard, and there were screams from his crew as the stern kept going higher, an incongruous yowl from C’relle as she held onto the bridge railing for dear life.

The temporal distortion kicked in about then, Ellison told the Board. No, not a capital-T temporal; nothing like that had ever been spotted in the Mutaara sector before and he was referring to the phenomenon where, in times of danger, the human brain seems to slow down time itself as a survival mechanism. He’d always remember how the flashes of disintegrating electronics would flicker through the bridge, how Weapons went tumbling slowly through the air past him, a curiously detached expression on his face as he missed the helm console and slammed into the rail, bending around it, his breath knocked out of his lungs. There was, he reported, little or no sound – there was a muffled roar as if he was standing outside a stadium full of beings, the dozens of separate alarms sounding just then submerged into an unintelligible wave of noise.

That was when the lights went out completely.

Ellison would tell the Board that he did not actually remember the ship settling back on a more or less even keel, just suddenly realizing he was on the deck with his arms still wrapped in a death grip around the command chair pedestal, the red emergency lights on, smoke and some flames flickering in one corner of the bridge, and all of that just long enough to realize that he was still alive and so was his ship. Staggering to his feet, he looked around at the shambles that had been his bridge, trying to think of what to do next.

You’re the goddamned Captain, do something.

What?

Find out what the hell is going on, you idiot.

Ellison swatted the comm switch on the command seat, and was mildly surprised to see the green ‘GO’ LED pop obediently on. “Engineering, this is the Captain, what do we got???”

A pause that lasted just long enough for his heart to catch before Chief Barry’s voice crashed through the speakers. “Bridge, this is Chief Barry, Mister Singh is down, we’re administering first aid! I have a lot of red panels down here, sir – showing at least one or two depressures, too!! Stand by for a full report!”

Dear God. A depressurization was the personal nightmare of just about everyone who took more than a few seconds to think about the sheer lunacy of being in deep space in a glorified sardine can – if whatever opened up the hull didn’t kill you outright, you had long enough to realize what was happening before your blood boiled at minus four hundred and fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

Okay, enough nonsense. Save your ship.




For the first time in hours, Ellison thought to look at his wrist chrono as the rest of the staff walked – no, staggered – into the briefing room and took their seats. Soltek, a bandage just below his hairline and a greenish stain peeking out from under it. Singh, his left arm in a magnetic cast, his face dark. Terracis limping badly, her uniform trousers shredded. C’relle, her face composed but her mane still literally standing on end and her tail twitching madly.

Doc Hardy, his uniform stained with blood of a half dozen races.

Three hours since the damn Field had tried to swat them clean out of space, about an hour and a half since the DC parties had secured the ship, or at least sufficiently for Ellison to stop thinking about that yellow and black switch on the command chair that activated the abandon ship protocols. Ellison looked at his officers and wanted to tell them that they would be okay, that they had done a job to be proud of, that this was the kind of thing they had trained so hard to be prepared for and had saved their ship. But all he could really think of to say was, “All right. Doc, you first. How bad?”

Hardy took a deep breath. “The good news is that no one’s dead. The bad news is I can’t guarantee it’s going to stay that way. We have a third of the crew injured to one extent or another. Sickbay is full, I’ve got some folks in the mess hall. I have two crewmembers in the stasis chambers – one with a broken back, the other with severe head injuries. There’s no way I can do anything for them here; the best thing was to get them into the stasis chambers and hold ‘em together until we get back to Echo Five – and we are going back to Echo Five, right?”

Ellison looked at Singh, who nodded, then said, “Our patrol is over, Captain. We have structural distortion at the end of the engine nacelle, and that in turn has distorted the warp field, and the impulse engines are at approximately sixty-six percent efficiency – we might make warp two five if we take our time accelerating.”

Two five. Ellison didn’t need a computer to tell him that it translated to nearly ten days back to Echo Five. Usually a two-day trip without even thinking about it. Ellison nodded in acceptance, then said, “I know that’s not the end if it.”

“No sir. The shuttle bay and approximately eleven percent of our internal structure are in vacuum. The bay doors were collapsed inwards when the shockwave hit; we lost both shuttles. The other areas are mostly concentrated along the strongback in the carbon beds and logistics storage –“

“In other words, we’re out of food as well.”

Terracis replied, “Not quite out, but we are on rations as of right now. Water should not be a problem.”

Ellison absorbed this, then turned to C’relle. “Mister C’relle, can we still talk to anybody?”

“Yes, Captain. Long side band is down, but we won’t need that to talk to Five.”

“Good. Tell ‘em we’re coming home; make sure they get the damage report.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

And then, he thought, transmit my request for a shore tour. “All right, everyone. Make sure your beings are safe and warm and secure – I don’t expect anyone in this room to be unless they are first. Get your reports written; the Commodore will want ‘em the minute we get back. I’ll be through the ship starting in a few minutes, I want to see everybody face to face.”

“All right, Mister Terracis. Get us home. Carefully, please.”


A few minutes later, Poseidon – battered and bruised but still intact, turned slowly onto a heading for Echo Five Base. There was no daring leap into warp, no brisk command for speed, just a careful, painful turn to port and a steady acceleration under impulse power to the point where the twisted warp engine could start to push them home. It took nearly an hour for the sound of the ascending whine to appear, and then she disappeared into a streak of white light that vanished into a starburst at its far end, then winked out.


It was another hour, by our reckoning, before he spoke.

“Are they gone?”

There was a pause while the sensors were scanned one more time to make sure. This was not someone one wanted to give an inaccurate report to. “Yes, Commander. They are outside of their best sensor range.”

They could actually hear him think. They knew better than to say anything, even the necessary duty chatter to one another. He wanted silence on his bridges, the better to think.

It had been a long time since anyone broke that silence.

“Course for home,” he finally said. “Sciences, meet me at my cabin. I have questions.” The science officer was used to being ignored; in a warrior race you usually were. Attention from any captain was usually not good, from this one it could be fatal. So be it. It could, after all, be a good day to die.

An observer still remaining on the edge of the Mutaara Field would have seen a patch of space suddenly – move – shimmer, as heat waves rising off a desert surface. The patch executed a smooth turn in the opposite direction from the path the Federation ship had taken, and there was a red flare that turned into an elongated streak of light that disappeared into a crimson pinwheel at its far end, then vanished as a dust trail on a road.

To Be Continued...

Mike

How do you say "Holystone" in Klingonaase?

Poohbah wrote: ↑Wed Sep 27, 2023 4:46 pm How do you say "Holystone" in Klingonaase?

QIch

It's about to hit several fans the size of Daystrom Spheres.

Dammit. I MISSED this.

They were called, long ago, Fort Baker and Fort Barry – ‘coast defense’ sites for the old US Army, intended to stop someone trying to invade San Francisco. Of course, when aircraft were invented, they were instantly obsolete but that didn’t stop the old Army from hanging onto them well into the 20th century. They became parks and museums and office buildings and served the city well.

They didn’t see war – real, brutal, unlike anything the city of San Francisco or for that matter the world had seen before until the Augments came. And they were followed by the horrors of the war that even now, two hundred and forty years later, is still known simply as ‘Three’. Still, San Francisco managed to survive – in fact, it was just about the largest (mostly) undamaged city on Earth at one point, and that’s why the United Earth was founded there, and logically, why the old United Earth Fleet had its headquarters there when it became Starfleet. Baker and Barry were perfect sites for the buildings that were needed, and when they were full the Fleet built its new HQ at another ancient military site, the Presidio. That means, of course, that Starfleet pretty much owns both sides of the Golden Gate now, something that never ceases to annoy the good citizens of San Francisco.

For instance, since BART has firmly refused to run a tunnel under the Gate, Jim Kirk had to take BART to Starfleet HQ at the Presidio, catch a lift to the South AirTram Terminal at Immigrant Point Overlook, and then hop across to Old Starfleet so he could catch the shuttle orbitside. The shuttle to orbitside would probably be an order of magnitude faster, but one could take solace in the fact that going the long way around would have been worse. And of course, the tram pilots – all brand new Lieutenant J.G.s right out of flight school – were by-the-book, don’t-screw-it-up nuggets waiting for their first squadron postings, they were going to take their time and do it right. Which meant, as Kirk was already running a little late, he was going to be later.

The AirTram did its prescribed circle-in-place as it lifted off to clear its path, and Kirk saw a beautiful panorama of San Francisco and Starfleet and the Academy rotate slowly past the ports, and it was like flipping a switch in his memory – seeing his father leave from here for the last time, the first terrifying days at the Academy, leaving here for his change of command ceremony aboard Enterprise.

Was late that day too, he remembered with a smile. That day – what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight years ago? – he was the most junior Captain in Starfleet, which meant absolutely nothing to the already harried shuttle dispatchers, so he ended up bluffing his way past the techs at the transporter station and got up to Spacedock in the nick of time. Not quite fast enough to avoid disapproving looks from then-Commodore Nogura, Bob April, and Chris Pike, but close enough, and his mom couldn’t stop crying and smiling. So, he broke even.

Bluffs and breaking even. Story of his life, really. For all the – well, fame, and the medals and the autographs and interviews and everything else that came with it, he’d gotten there by bluffing and breaking even. The end result was that for all of that, he had gone from the most junior Captain in Starfleet to the most senior Captain in Starfleet, and there wouldn’t be any more promotions. Not that he wanted one, really, but the clock was running, ticking inexorably down to a zero hour that had seemed impossibly remote even a few years ago and at the beginning of his career was a concept that didn’t even bear thinking about. That which can’t last forever, won’t. Sometime soon, and he’d seen it happen to others who brought far less to the table, there would be a summons to the big gray fortress at the Presidio, the one he could see every morning from his apartment and tried to avoid like the plague.

If it was Fleet Admiral Nogura making the summons – and with his health right now, that wasn’t a sure thing – there’d be handshakes and coffee and reminiscing and laughter and finally, a gentle nudge that Time, at last, was Up. There would be proper ceremonies, more interviews, retrospectives on the VidNets, and a quiet fading away into a peaceful and boring retirement. Maybe teaching at the Academy…now, that wouldn’t be bad, and he could get orbitside every now and then.

If it was Vice CINC Bill Smillie, you could strike the handshakes, coffee, reminiscing, laughter, and gentle nudge. Smillie would give him a cold salute, and tell him flat out that it was time to put in his papers, and dismiss him with an unfelt, “Good luck.” There might be an almost hidden ceremony aboard his ship – but honestly, that would be the only place that mattered with the only people that mattered – and it would be done, and Bill would see to it that sweeping the hallways at the Academy would be closed to him, much less teaching there.

The gentle bump of the AirTram touching down jolted Kirk from his thoughts, and when the green light went on over the door, he rose with everyone else and politely waited to disembark. A quick nod and ‘good morning’ to the able spacer who stood by the hatch, and the girl returned it with a smile as if she’d been patted on the head by the Good Lord Himself. A few steps away from the AirTram, and his B4 bag hadn’t swung once as he turned towards the maglev that would take him to the shuttle terminal and he looked up and saw –

“Spock.”

“Jim. Now that we have identified one another, I strongly suggest we depart for the shuttle terminal. I have transportation waiting, and Doctor McCoy is no doubt pacing a hole in the terminal deck waiting for us. I have also taken the liberty of asking the terminal dispatcher to hold the shuttle for a few minutes past the scheduled departure time, he has quite graciously agreed.”

“How did you know I was going to be late?”

Spock reflected for a moment before replying, “Simple study of your recent habits. You have become, of late, consistently behind on your timing for events and appointments. I therefore assumed that since nothing seems to have happened to change that pattern, you would therefore be late – or almost so – again today.”

Kirk had to grin. “Can’t argue with logic.”

“Indeed. I would never consider doing so.” They strode out into the sunshine of a gorgeous California afternoon, the sound of the surf swimming up into Kirk’s consciousness, the seagulls and their raucous cries, the smell of the sea. It was easy to understand why the old sailors couldn’t stay too far from the sea, why he loved this place so much.

The Starfleet hover got them to the shuttle terminal in no time flat, priority blinkers going, but no one seemed to mind all that much when they saw the faces inside the car, and they got the same thousand-Mv smile from the driver that they always got from people who realized that they were hauling around history. The doors to the shuttle terminal hissed open, and the atmosphere was different in here – lots of Starfleet civilians at the AirTram terminal, but almost everyone here was active duty. There was bustling activity, but it meant something, it had purpose, it was reassuring. Jim Kirk had been planetside for two months while Enterprise had gotten a much needed yard visit, and he was just about done with civilian planetside chaos. Back to the world that was his, and his alone, bounded by bulkheads and warp nacelles and friends and the best damned crew in the Fleet.

“About time,” came the growl with just a touch of a Southern accent, and there was Bones, leaning against a pillar with his bag at his feet. “You’re getting downright tardy in your old age, Jim.”

“Hadn’t noticed. Scotty’s already aboard?”

“Since yesterday,” Spock answered. “Keeping him from his ship was, frankly, a futile effort. I suspect he will be looking into every corner he can find, and several he has not previously located.”

“He’d better be,” Kirk smiled. “This is one trip that can’t have any unexpected engineering surprises.” That was for sure; Enterprise leading Cruiser Division 1 on the biggest Fleet exercises in years was going to bring her under a lot of scrutiny, and Kirk wanted his people and his ship to look good. They had gotten briefing after briefing about RIMFROST 93, as the exercises had been christened, and it was going to be impressive. Every ship they could pull in from the sectors was going – cruisers, carriers, and even two of the massive Dreadnaughts had been pulled out of ‘warm storage’, and given mostly complete crews, though they had to call up a couple of Reserve units to do it. Every race in the Federation was sending observers, and even the Allied races – the Gorn, of course, the Kzin surprisingly enough, and stunningly even the Tholians were sending an observer ship, though the word had been laid down that they were to be left severely alone.

It was complex, it would be hideously expensive, and it was brutally necessary. The Klingons were marching again, and this time it was starting to look like they meant it. Kirk couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t a threat, and all it took was a millisecond’s memory of David to remember that he had far more personal reasons to mistrust them. Diplomacy, the occasional gunfight, the beings known as the Organians, and just plain dumb, blind luck had kept them from an Armageddon in deep space – the Federation outnumbered in superior ships, the Klingons in wave after wave of competent ships. Place your bets.
They’d somehow managed to keep a lid on things all these years, but there was a new generation of Klingon warrior leaders there who didn’t remember the close calls, didn’t accept that peace was far, far preferable to unending galactic war, and their Chancellor was ill – ill enough that the infighting over the succession had started, and the Warriors were making their moves. A raid here, a deranged diplomatic demand there, a gunfight over some godforsaken rock in the outer quadrants – it was starting to add up. Last political briefing they’d gotten said that the minister for industry, a relatively – for a Klingon – peaceful technocrat named Gorkon, was angling to take over but he was faced with a fleet full of warriors who wanted only a glorious death in battle. If they took the Federation and Empire with them, that was icing on the cake.


Politics, though, weren’t Jim Kirk’s business. Admittedly, it had ended up that way sometimes, but he’d handed it off to the diplomats as soon as it was decently possible to do so. Right now, it was his business – his job, his first, best destiny – to take out a starship and bring it and its crew back in one piece. Right, then.

“In any event,” Kirk said, “I’ll trust Scotty’s judgment. He hasn’t let us down yet.”

“In fairness,” McCoy interjected, “He did take us to that one little bistro on Rigel VI. Not his best choice.”

“Fortunately, Doctor, Mister Scott’s professional judgment is not in question here,” Spock shot back. “On the other hand, I would not be prepared to blindly follow any restaurant recommendations. Now, gentlemen, if you please…?” Spock gestured discreetly towards departure pad six B, where a holosign said:

SIX BRAVO
DEPARTING
NCC 1701-A


To be continued…


The shuttle pilot, a stocky Andorian, poked his head out the hatch, antennae twitching and looking around until he saw Kirk, Spock, and McCoy striding towards him. He hopped out and saluted, saying, “Good afternoon gentlemen, and welcome aboard. Please strap in as quickly as you can; we are moving out fast.” Kirk and Spock returned the salutes, McCoy gave something that was a cross between a wave and shooing flies, and they bundled into the shuttle, bags and briefcases being thrown under seats and into overheads while the hatch purred smoothly into place with a muffled thump. Kirk dropped into his seat and buckled his seat restraints, but Spock had already done so and was surveying the entire scene with an air of nonchalant dignity. Bones, on the other hand, was muttering something thoroughly unbecoming a Starfleet officer as he tried to wrestle his way into the four-point harness.

“Problems, Bones?” Kirk asked sotto voce.

“Damn harnesses more likely to strangle you than protect you!”

Spock’s voice was calm and reassuring. “I completely understand, Doctor. We could always ask to beam up instead –“

“Dammit, Spock – “ there was a whine of repulsors and the almost subliminal hum of the shuttle’s fusion reactors winding up as they lifted slightly and began to pivot towards the bay doors – “is there any situation you can’t make just a little more unpleasant?”

“I am not at all sure, Doctor, but if you would like, I shall endeavor to find out –“

“All right,” Kirk laughed, “let’s keep it down, young man up there has a shuttle to fly –“

The pilot’s voice came through the overhead speakers with a slight mechanical buzz. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Shuttle Control has cleared us for a direct ascent to Enterprise’s mooring in order to save some time, but we’re still going to have to accelerate a bit faster than usual to make the docking hack –“

McCoy’s voice had just a touch of concern. “Does that mean –“

Spock nodded lugubriously. “It does, Doctor. Hold on.”

Kirk knew what was coming too, and clamped his hands down on the seat’s armrests as the pilot said, “ – So here we go.” No gentle rise to 1g per minute to equilibrium here, this was a leap upwards at easily two gees and Kirk was pressed, not at all kindly, back into his seat. Wasn’t that unpleasant; he kept his shuttle qualifications and threw one around every few months so it wasn’t that bad. Spock always handled high gees better; Vulcan’s gravity was just a bit more than one and a quarter Terran gees and it took a fair kick to even get him to notice. McCoy, on the other hand, gave a gasp that showed the extent of his surprise. Kirk couldn’t help but smile – not too much, of course, it wouldn’t do to make light of a friend’s discomfort.

Wispy clouds shot past the windscreen, and the sky was a beautiful shade of light blue filling the view before them, not so much as a contrail marring it. The crosswinds at altitude must have been rough, with the shuttle rocking slightly as the nose pulled even higher. Now there was a faint glow around the windscreen’s edges as the shuttle passed Mach five and atmospheric heating began to pile up around them, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came when the windscreen began to darken, like someone turning a dimmer switch, very slowly, on a room’s lights – from blue, to purple, to violet, to black. It was only then that Kirk looked at his wrist chrono and realized that all of that had taken only seven minutes.

There was a little bounce; the tickle-in-your-stomach feeling as the shuttle cleared the thermosphere and the pilot pulled the throttles back, a brief push against their harnesses before they settled back into their seats again. The click of the speakers popped through the cabin and the pilot called back, “Gentlemen, we are in orbit. We’re headed directly for Enterprise and there’s no traffic between them and us so I expect we’ll be there in about five more minutes. Please relax and enjoy the view.”

“Now, that I can do,” McCoy said with the smile clear in his voice, and even Kirk had to admit that it never got old. The stars glowed like blue-white diamonds, and it amazed him still how many of those stars he’d been to, how much of that space he’d crossed in his ships. There were other diamonds, closer and even brighter, white with flashing green and red spots that said, ‘Be careful, we’re here.” Given their heading it was easy to pick out a specific group of diamonds, purposefully gathered together at their mooring. Six of them, to be precise, with distinctly un-jewel-like names:

Lexington.

Saratoga.

Eagle.

Constellation.

Hood.



Enterprise.

Kirk was glad the other ships were there; knew their skippers well, liked and respected them, but Enterprise was the only one that counted, the only one that held his heart. She waited for him as a lady waits for her man, as alive as any woman Jim Kirk had ever known. Far more demanding, too, but the rewards were beyond words.

Enterprise was in the center of the formation, and from their angle of approach they were bow-on to her, closing at orbital velocity – and right on cue, the reaction thrusters fired, slowing the shuttle down to a manageable approach speed. A few more seconds and the diamonds were resolving themselves into individual ships, and for all that they looked alike, Kirk knew which was his even if he hadn’t known her spot in the formation the way you know someone when seen from far away. A few more minutes, and he’d be on her deck again. Where he was supposed to be.

- And moving away -?

It took a second for Kirk to realize that the shuttle was pulling to port, and his ship was curving away –

What the hell -?

“Captain Kirk, would you please come forward for a moment?”

Gladly.

Unbuckling in one fluid motion, Kirk pulled himself up out of the seat to see puzzlement on Spock’s face, and flat-out confusion on McCoy’s. Stepping into the cockpit, Kirk leaned over the pilot’s shoulder, and before he could even ask, the pilot looked up and quietly said, “Sir, I have a message from Starfleet Shuttle control – we’re to one-eighty immediately and return to San Francisco.”

“Any particular reason why?”

The Andorian shook his head. “None that they gave me, Captain. We’ll be back on the ground in about twenty-five minutes.”

“We’re not going anywhere –“

“Captain Kirk, I have my orders, and they say return to Starfleet. You’re welcome to call them yourself to see if they can give you some kind of explanation.”

Kirk looked up again, and his ship – his ship – was starting to slide out of sight, slipping away again – then turned back to the pilot and said, “Works for me. Headset.” The pilot wordlessly handed Kirk a headset, it’s tiny green LED showing it was already connected to the comm system. Kirk bent the mic to an inch away from his lips, reflexively cleared his throat, and asked, “What’s our designation?”

“Shuttle Two Eight Nine Papa.”

“Starfleet Shuttle Control, this is Two Eight Nine Papa.”

“Eight Nine Papa, Starfleet copies. Go.”

“Starfleet, what’s going on with this return order?”

There was a pause before the answer came back, and it was clear from the controller’s tone that he thought he was still talking to the pilot. “Eight Nine Papa, none of our business, and that’s it. Return to launch pad ASAP, and do it now.”

Oh, hell no, thought Kirk. He didn’t like doing what came next, but this called for it. Command voice, go. “Starfleet Shuttle Control, this is Enterprise Actual. I want to speak to the Duty Controller, and right the hell now. Over.”

There was fear in the controller’s voice as he realized what he’d just been told, and by whom. A quavering, “Enterprise Actual, aye aye sir, please stand by,” came back. Kirk looked down for a second and saw the pilot pointedly looking at his instruments before the headset activated again. “Enterprise Actual, this is Lieutenant Commander Wright, how can I help you, sir?”

“You can tell me why I’m not docking with my ship.”

“Enterprise Actual, sir, I’m sorry – “ and the tone of his voice said so – “but I have no other information. We got it just a minute or so back, with a Priority One code.”

No damn sense, thought Kirk. “Who signed it?”

A long pause now, and the blue and white ball that was home was filling the windscreen again. “Enterprise Actual, it’s tagged Admiral Smillie.” That was all it took to set off Kirk’s temper, but before the explosion got away from him he bit it off and simply growled, “Copy. Enterprise Actual out.” It was all he could do to keep from throwing the headset down on the instrument panel as he strode back to the passenger section.


“Jim, what the blazes is going on?” McCoy kept his voice down, but it was clear he wasn’t happy. Spock said, “I must confess my bewilderment as well. We cannot possibly make Enterprise now and sail with her.”

Kirk was listening as he opened up the comm panel in the seat back ahead of him. “Gentlemen,” he replied, “I don’t know, but you can be damned sure I’m going to find out.” With that, Kirk stabbed the keyboard and the screen lit up to show a Vulcan lieutenant, a desk, and a Starfleet insignia on the wall behind her. “Vice CINC’s office, Lieutenant S’oren. How may I assist you, Captain Kirk?”

“You can let me speak to Admiral Smillie.”

S’oren didn’t flinch. “I apologize, Captain. Admiral Smillie is away from his office and will not be back today –“

“Can it, Lieutenant. He just signed an order bringing me back and taking me away from my ship. Put him through or so help me, I will land this shuttle on the front lawn of Building One and leave it there until I find him.” Give her this, S’oren didn’t even blink. “Of course, Captain. One moment, please.” The screen discreetly flashed and there was Bill Smillie, jacket slightly opened and his usual semi-snarl on his face. No greeting, not even a reasonably pleasant expression when he saw Kirk, just a growled, “What?”

“Bill, why the hell have we been turned around? Enterprise leaves in eight hours –“

“I could give you a long, detailed explanation – over an unsecured line – or I could simply point out that I’m an Admiral and you’re a Captain, and leave it at that. Would that be sufficient, Captain?”

That was enough to stop Kirk in his tracks, and unfortunately Smillie had a point. Taking a deep breath, Kirk started again. “Bill –“

Smillie allowed one eyebrow to lift –

“Admiral.”

-and the eyebrow went back down.

“Admiral, I’m sorry, but I think this warrants an explanation. I need to be on my
ship, with the crew that’s trained so hard for this exercise.”

“Kirk, let me put this simply. Your orders have changed. You and your staff will be taking on a project by direct order of the Commander In Chief, Starfleet. Pretty straightforward, I’d think.”

“But Enterprise –“

“Sulu can take Enterprise out with no problems. He’s been through the Charm School –“ the nickname for the Prospective Commanding Officer’s School at Utopia Plantitia – “and he’s going out to Excelsior in three months, so I don’t see why he can’t command a smaller and older ship on an exercise. Unless of course you don’t think he’s up to it, in which case I’ll cancel his orders and get someone else –“

“Admiral, I didn’t say that - Sulu and Chekov and Scotty can handle Enterprise fine –“

“Scott’s packing his bags to join you.”

Dear Lord, Kirk thought. What in the hell is going on?

“In any event,” Smillie continued, “because of this mess I have work to do. You and your staff are to be at CINC’s residence at 1900 hours – civilian clothes.”

“Most of our gear is aboard –“

“I know. It’s coming back down with Scott. Any other questions you’d like to throw at my authority before you go?”

Jim Kirk wasn’t often speechless, and he honestly wasn’t this time either. But even he knew when discretion was the better part of valor and simply shook his head. “No, Admiral. I just wish I had some better idea of what’s going on.”

Smillie’s face hardened – went downright angry red, in fact – as he looked into the screen, and for a moment Kirk felt like he was back on the Academy parade ground with berserk upperclassmen and deranged drill instructors about to tear into him for some real or imagined slight. “Oh, that I can tell you, Kirk.”

“We’re going to talk about old times.”

To Be Continued….

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The geography of SFHQ has a bit of a starring role in this installment; so let me give a ROUGH idea of where everything is.

Starfleet now (2291) owns both sides of the Golden Gate, though there are still many parks and rec areas open to the public. North Post – the north side of the Golden Gate and still usually referred to as ‘Old Starfleet’ – was the original UESPA HQ built in 2135 and which later became SFHQ. Many of these buildings are still in use as administrative facilities, and Building One – HQ Starfleet itself – is on the old Fort Baker grounds, though a far newer (2275) building. Old Starfleet is bounded by the Fort Baker grounds to the east, to the north by Sausalito Boulevard and then a line going due west from there to the Pacific. The Presidio and Fort Barry grounds on the south side of the Gate comprise ‘New Starfleet’. The orbital shuttlepads are at the site of old Battery Townsley, while the VOQ itself is at the approximate location of today’s Presidio Riding Club.

South Post originally referred only to the Academy, but now encompasses New Starfleet as well. The Academy grounds are bounded by Golden Gate Park to the south, Veterans Boulevard to the east, and the 101 to the north – but Old Crissy Field has become the parade ground for both the Academy and SFHQ. ‘New Starfleet’ – the new HQ campus built in 2260 – is bounded by Veterans Boulevard to the west, Pacific Avenue to the south, and Lyon Street to the east. New Starfleet consists primarily of the individual command HQs, housing, medical, and support facilities.

The ride back to Starfleet was without a doubt the quietest shuttle flight Jim Kirk could ever remember. No one said a word – Kirk quietly furious, Spock contemplating outcomes, and Bones knowing better than to interrupt either one of them, and the only sounds to be heard was the rumble of wind past the shuttle’s hull and the staccato conversation between the pilot and Shuttle Control. When they finally landed at 1630, it was more of a relief than anything else. At that point though there was nothing left for it other than to find someplace to change and consider whatever fate had up its myriad sleeves for them. The Visiting Officers’ Quarters – Building Fifty, AKA Archer Hall, AKA The Arch – had three rooms available, and working clothing replicators for a change, so there was that. Scotty had arrived just after 1845, and in a monumental dudgeon about being taken away from his ship. Kirk tried explaining – or at least explaining as much as he knew up to that point but it was no use; parting a Scotsman from his ship is a fool’s errand - Kirk, Spock, Scott and McCoy met outside the main entrance at 1825, and sized each other up for a moment.

“Spock,” McCoy said, “you look positively dignified. Black becomes you.” Spock considered this for a moment, then replied, “Your compliment is appreciated, Doctor, but I am still at a loss to understand why the clothing replicators have a setting labeled ‘Vulcan’. It is a tradition, not a style.” Kirk straightened his jacket before saying, “At least you only had to deal with one choice. Dear Lord, how hard can it be to create something called, ‘civilian casual’? Twenty minutes to get through the menu.”

McCoy grinned. “See, that’s one problem with being in Starfleet. You get used to being in a uniform so much that you forget how to wear civvies.” Kirk shook his head and replied, “Bones, I can wear civilian clothes just fine – it’s just that all of them are either en route here, fifteen miles away at my apartment, or heading out somewhere towards Proxima Centauri right about now. See, Scotty has the right idea – basic civilian.” Scott smiled and replied, “In fairness, Jim, I’m an engineer – I’ve only got two civilian suits, and the other one looks just like this.” Kirk chuckled, paused, then looked around and asked, “Where’s the hover? It’s going to take us till 1900 to get to Admiral
Nogura’s.”

In reply, Spock turned and inclined his head towards a blue Starfleet staff hover gliding up the driveway towards The Arch. “Ask,” he intoned, “and ye shall find.”


Quarters One, a massive Spanish Colonial Revival mansion, sits on the corner of Fisher Loop and Infantry Terrace on the old Presidio grounds, and by Starfleet standards it’s a positively ancient building, going back to 2150. All of the Chiefs of Staff residences - Ops, Logistics, Engineers, Transport, and Terrestrial Forces – are within a short walk, their design mimicking that of Quarters One though smaller. It goes without saying, of course, that the residence of the Commandant, Starfleet Marines is the odd man out, a bit further away at the corner of Lincoln and Halleck, but that’s perfectly fine with the Marines. But between the Commandant’s Residence and the CINCs are dozens of beautifully designed homes that shelter Starfleet’s leadership, and Kirk, Spock, Scott and McCoy watched them glow on manicured grounds as the hover hummed south down the old 101.

“Jim,” McCoy asked, “I feel bad I never got around to visiting you when you were stationed here, it looks like a great place to live after you’ve been cooped up in a starship for a few years. Which one was yours?”

Kirk smiled gently, almost to himself before replying, “None of them, actually. Ops told me to pick one, ‘the least they could do for the captain of the Enterprise’. Didn’t like them, though…way too big, especially without a family, not to mention the social obligations that come with them. I kept my place downtown, and it drove them up a wall. Spock, where did you stay down here?”

Spock thought for a moment, and then said, “If my father was at the Embassy, I would stay with him if at all possible. It tended to keep social niceties at bay, and frankly the food was better than that of the VOQ. If however my father were away, I would stay at a charming lodge in Argus, California, called ‘The Twenty Mule Team’ near Death Valley – the area is very much like Vulcan.” Kirk just smiled and shook his head, but McCoy couldn’t resist. “Only you, Spock – come to a planet that’s seventy-five percent water, and stay in its most hostile desert.”

Spock looked almost hurt. “Doctor, I fail to see your amusement. A desire to be somewhere that reminds one of one’s home is hardly a drawback.”

“Staying somewhere that can kill you if you look away for a moment is hardly a selling point.”

“Death is not that bad, Doctor. Trust me on that account.”

McCoy gave Spock a sideways look, and quickly changed tack. “Scotty, how about you – no, wait, I already know the answer to that.”

Scotty’s grin almost lit up the hover’s interior. “Only one place for an engineer, Doctor, and that’s with his bairns. Not to mention it was a lot easier to keep an eye on those ham-handed shipfitters while I was up there instead of some barracks down here. On the other hand, there used to be a wee hotel near –“

“If you two can hold off on the travelogues for a moment...” Kirk motioned up towards Quarters One, filling the hover’s windshield as the driver nosed it smoothly into place. The driver leapt out and opened the doors, salutes and “Good evenings” all around as they strode up to the massive wooden doors and Kirk touched the bell plate. Westminster chimes sounded softly from deep inside the house, and one door swung open to reveal a Major of Marines who came smoothly to attention. “Good evening and welcome, gentlemen. CINC and Admiral Smillie are expecting you, please come in.” As they walked through the door, there was a bosun’s whistle followed by a Starfleet Standard Computer voice saying, “Enterprise, arriving.”

“Follow me, please.” The Major led them down the entry hall, all flagstone and wood and paintings of all the men who had served as CINC Starfleet, and of the old UESF before that. Kirk remembered the many of the names without a second’s hesitation – Fitzpatrick, ‘First and Foremost’ they had called him at the Academy, the man who had shepherded a dozen separate fleets into something vaguely resembling unity. Lingundam, tall and ascetic and the right man at the right time to lead the fleet to Axanar. Tended not to remember the others too readily until they got to Buchinsky, the man who’d shook his hand and returned his salute, his first as a Starfleet officer, that beautiful California morning on the parade ground at Old Crissy Field. Comsol, all ‘fuss and feathers’, Kirk remembered, more locked in on uniforms and social engineering until they’d gotten their backsides handed to them a couple times, and followed by –

-Nogura Heihachiro .

The painting showed him in the new 2271 pattern uniform – well, new twenty years ago, anyways - standing on the CINC’s balcony at Building One, the Golden Gate and the Academy in the background. Kirk remembered coming up from Ops to talk to him – no, browbeat him about getting Enterprise back while the painter was there, and Nogura was standing there with his usual stony expression while the artist did some sketching.

“…Admiral, s’il vous plait, a smile – a small smile for history is too much?” Nogura didn’t even blink.

“I am smiling.”

Kirk remembered having to suppress a grin harder than he’d ever had to before in his life, lest he come under the gun next. He knew the real Nogura – a kind, tolerant man who on more than a few occasions had covered expenses for junior enlisted out of his own pocket (followed of course by a detailed explanation of how to keep it from happening again), or personally making sure that the family of a lost Starfleet officer had everything straightened out before coming home, and then meeting them at the shuttleport. And with all that, a ferocious combat commander with utterly no mercy towards his enemies, whose tactics and victories would be studied for centuries. In no small way, what Starfleet was today was because of Heihachiro Nogura, and that was just fine with Jim Kirk. And for that matter, Jim Kirk was in no small way what he was because of Nogura as well.

“In here.”

Bill Smillie’s head poked out into the corridor from the big conference room on the right, and he nodded at the three officers. “Kirk – Mister Spock, Scott -…” and with even more distaste than usual, he snarled, “…McCoy….” As they turned into the room, Spock leaned to McCoy and said, “Doctor, I know why Jim and Admiral Smillie do not get along, but I was unaware that you and the Admiral had a…history.”

McCoy glanced conspiratorially from side to side and whispered, “Well, Spock, it’s like this – I was down here TDY once years ago, and had to give the good Admiral – a Lieutenant then – a trigamma globulin injection. And you know how much they hurt, especially since you can only give them in the backside.”

Spock considered this for a moment, then replied, with some puzzlement, “Doctor, the trigamma globulin injection can be given in the…gluteus maximus, but it can also be given in the biceps – and as I recall, far more painlessly.” McCoy’s only response was a wicked grin, and holding his finger to his lips and whispering, “Shhh.” It took a moment for it to register with Spock, but a look of dawning comprehension passed over his face and he nodded as they strode into the conference room.

Smillie and Kirk were already seated, Smillie tapping away at a keyboard. “Take a seat,” he said. “We’ll be getting dinner in a few minutes as soon as the Admiral comes down and our other guests get here.”

Kirk raised one eyebrow. “ ‘Other guests’?” I assumed just we were the honored ones tonight.”

“Hardly,” Smillie said without looking up. “It’s going to take more than just you four to straighten things out.” The Westminster chimes echoed gently once more, and the Major’s footsteps sounded in the distance. A second or two, then the bosun’s whistle and Computer called,

“Blue Ridge, arriving.”

To Be Continued....

Mike

Mikey. You are the only author- maybe aside from Vonda McIntyre- whose Spock I hear in Nimoy’s voice. I said it three years ago, your work is easily as good if not better than the best published Trek out there.

Craiglxviii wrote: ↑Tue Oct 03, 2023 7:29 pm Mikey. You are the only author- maybe aside from Vonda McIntyre- whose Spock I hear in Nimoy’s voice. I said it three years ago, your work is easily as good if not better than the best published Trek out there.

Agree