Man, this is excellent. I find myself eagerly checking in every morning to see if there's a new update.... which there usually is. It's like Christmas, every day!
One small grammar mistake on this last one that I noticed:
<<<The surgeon shook his head. “It is an incredible accomplish, far beyond what the scientists behind the Eugenics Wars>>>
I think that should be accomplishment...
Love it!
Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
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masterarminas
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Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Nineteen (cont.)
Corporal Alvin Thiesman held up one hand as he heard the pounding of feet on the deck past the T-junction directly in front of his team. He knelt and raised his Type III/f phaser rifle, knowing the two Marines with him had his back. He pulled the weapon in tight against his shoulder and he took a deep, slow breathe; and then a gaggle of Nephkyrie burst into sight, shooting over their shoulders as they RAN.
Thiesman exhaled and pressed the firing stud repeatedly, sending one high-powered phaser stun beam into each of the alien troopers in front of him before they could respond. But he remained where he was as he heard an incoherent scream of rage and more thundering impacts of boots. And then a hyperventilating Lt. Pok came running up, shouting Tellarite imprecations at the stunned Nephkyrie.
The Marine lowered his weapon, but the ship’s quartermaster saw the motion and he spun, raising his own phaser pistol. “STAR FLEET MARINES!” Thiesman yelled, and he raised the rifle again. “SAFE THAT WEAPON, LIEUTENANT!”
Pok squinted and then he squealed as he lowered the phaser. “Didn’t . . . see . . . you,” he gasped, out of breath from the running. “I was chasing these cretins. Absolute morons,” the Tellarite said as he kicked one of unconscious soldiers. “They broke a vase from the Vasana Dynasty of Janus VII! Shattered it!” the Quartermaster wailed. “It was a priceless treasure, irreplacable, and they ruined it.”
“You were chasing them? Alone?” Thiesman asked in an amused voice.
“Of course, I am not alone! My assistants are right behind me . . .,” Pok turned and noticed that the corridor behind him was empty. He frowned. “They had best be stunned or they will be doing workouts with your Marines three times each day!”
“Lieutenant, why don’t you come with us; there are more of them on the lower decks.”
Pok nodded, then he grunted, and then he pointed the phaser at the unconscious Nephkyrie and shot each of them of them again. “They just knocked the vase right off the pedestal; as if they had no appreciation for its value.”
“Let’s go, Mister Pok,” the Marine said as he struggled not to laugh.
“Lead the way; we Tellarites aren’t that stealthy.” And he fired one final stun beam into the unconscious aliens as he followed the three Marines to the Jefferies tube.
*****************************************************
“They managed to breach the inhibitor field by a combination of factors, Captain,” the Trill engineer reported as he shook his head. “First, they massively increased their transporter power—far beyond the amount we had previously witnessed. The good news is that their entire vessels power reserves dropped precipitously when they did this, and based on their observed rate of power regeneration, it isn’t something they can do quickly or often.”
“Second, they showed a capacity for using an extremely high frequency of sub-space; a frequency that our inhibitor did not fully cover. Sensor logs from their transport indicate their transporter was refocused into the tau-bands.”
Chan shook his head in disbelief. “Didn’t the Federation abandon research into tau-band transporter frequencies because of cellular degradation?”
“Yes, and the surviving Nephkyrie boarders are showing some signs of cellular disruption; their armor incorporates a miniaturized pattern enhancer that alleviated the worst of effect, reinforcing their pattern and minimizing the damage. Still, multiple transports in the tau-band will be as fatal for them as it would be for us.”
“And finally,” Nat continued, “they made no attempt to gain a transporter lock. The boarding party they beamed across was a blind transport into open compartments their sensors had already identified. Of the one hundred and forty-four Nephkyrie beamed aboard ship, thirty-seven materialized either partially or fully within a deck, overhead, bulkhead, or piece of equipment.”
Several of Matt’s senior officers winced at the thought, but the captain only nodded his understanding. “Mister Malik, how soon can they regenerate their power reserves from this previous attempt?”
“They will have to spend at least an hour restoring their energy, Captain; that estimate is based only on the power production capability we have so far witnessed. If they have an additional means to produce the power, they might restore it faster.”
“Mister Beck?”
“We have all of the surviving Nephkyrie contained in Cargo Four, Sir. Our automated anti-intruder defenses, combined with the rapid reaction teams managed to neutralize their boarding party in short order. From our examination of their small arms, they lack the technology for hand phasers; however, their weapons are an early from of sonic disruptor that includes a stun setting. For the most part, they used the weapons on stun, perhaps in an attempt to gain more human subjects, but there were a few casualties among the crew. Their armor is lightweight and capable of absorbing and dissipating kinetic, laser, disruptor, and—to a limited extent—phaser energy. Tactically, their troops were well-trained in a basic manner, but appeared to lack actual combat experience. That may be due to their cramped conditions aboard that ship—but we shouldn’t underestimate them.”
“Individually, they are stronger, faster, and tougher than the majority of our personnel. It was their lack of experience in combat situations that allowed us to quickly overcome them. I don’t think they were prepared for our level of resistance, and they had no contingency plans and failed to coordinate their activities across the ship. If I am reading their insignia correctly, their senior officer materialized within a bulkhead on Deck Four, depriving them of leadership at a crucial moment.”
“Dr. Talbot?”
“The crew suffered numerous casualties in the engagement; thankfully, most of those are bruises and minor cuts, as well as hangovers from the stun weapons. We had a number of more severe injuries, but none—including Miss Biddle—are life-threatening. Dr. Tsien and I have been studying the Nephkyrie physiology based on our prisioners and we, along with Dr. Woolsey and the Biological Sciences division believe that given a few days we might well be able to fabricate a treatment option. We will have to test the serum to see if it is effective, however.”
Pavel Roshenko shook his head. “Why don’t they just clone the human DNA in vats; why do they need living, breathing humans?”
Quincy frowned. “In the short term, that might work. But it is their own cloning and genetic engineering techniques that have led to this problem. And since the majority of their population is in stasis—and according to the sensor scans conducted by Amanda, so are our colonists—they might not have the capacity in their medical labs to clone so much different tissue. I am guessing here, but I’d say, based on what I have seen of their ship’s internal layout, that much of their equipment is stored, to be unpacked when they reach New Columbia.”
“And their current numbers of crew are not nearly as overwhelming as we first estimated, Captain Dahlgren,” Amanda Tsien added. “Three hundred and forty eight thousand of the Nephkyrie are in stasis, along with all of our colonists, leaving around two thousand of them active aboard that ship. Well, about eighteen hundred now,” she finished with a sad smile.
“Miss Tsien, did our scans detect any anomalies in the colonists? Could they have started processing them within the stasis pods?” Matt asked as he tapped his stylus on the table.
“I managed to get a good look at the colonists, Sir. No. Their life signs matched what the records show; they are in a form of cyro-stasis with their bio-signs within the expected range—and apparently they did not want to provoke the other species of the Federation, sir. The two thousand colonists who were not human are also in stasis and their life signs are heartening.”
Matt nodded. “Doctors,” he said to Quincy and Amanda. “I want you full efforts on finding a treatment for the Nephkyrie—you are authorized to test your serum upon the prisoners. Consider that an order, Doctor Talbot!” Matt barked, cutting off Quincy as he began to snarl. “We have to know if it works. Mister Malik, make your repairs quickly and remove those fused Nephkyrie from my ship.”
The intercom whistled. “Bridge to Captain Dahlgren. Bridge to Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt tapped his comm badge. “Dahlgren.”
“Sir. Balao has just dropped out of warp and is moving to rendezvous with us at impulse power.”
“Acknowledge, Miss Montoya. I will be on the bridge momentarily. Hail Captain Carmichael and ask her if she would beam aboard so that I might brief her personally,” Matt turned back to the staff seated at the briefing table. “Ladies. Gentlemen. We got lucky here; these prisioners might give us the means of resolving this situation without any further violence—but only if you can come up with a treatment that works. I have confidence that you are capable of doing so; but I need not remind that time is not our ally in this circumstance. You are dismissed.”
*****************************************************
The door to Matt’s ready room slid open and Chan walked in, his arm in a sling. Behind him walked a dark-haired human woman who wore the three pips of a Commander on her collar. She beamed a smile as Matt stood.
“Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian said, “may I present Commander Samantha Carmichael, the commanding officer of USS Balao.”
Matt shook his head and he smiled as well. “You may, Mister Shrak. Commander, it is good to see you again; both of you take a seat,” he continued as he sat back down. “Care for a drink?”
“No thank you, Sir. I had lunch aboard Balao before we arrived. I see that we missed some excitement.”
“You could say that,” Matt answered with a sad chuckle. “But we learned a few things about these Nephkyrie—and we’ve got a few captives aboard as well.”
“More than few,” Chan chimed in, “we have them packed into Cargo Bay 4 like cattle, Commander Carmichael.”
“So they gave you Balao? I knew you would get a command, but I didn’t think they would give you such a . . . little ship.”
“It’s not the size of the waves, but the motion of the ocean, Sir,” the commander of Balao answered with a bright grin. “She’s got heart and she packs a wallop. On a good day, she can take any ship in the Fleet.”
“I have no doubt, Miss Carmichael,” Matt finished as he considered his former second officer—his Operations officer—from the old Kearsage.
“So how are the kids?” she asked.
“Cass starts Julliard this fall, if you can believe it. Amanda, she doesn’t like being called Amy anymore she declared in her last letter, has a crush on a young boy in her freshman class and is hoping he asks her to her first dance this fall. And Sarah is as rambunctious as ever.”
“And Melody?” Sam asked, her smile fading.
“We talk. Infrequently. I don’t blame her. It was my own fault for being away for so long; she deserved better.”
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but she didn’t have to leave you when you fighting for your life in the hospital.”
“Water under the bridge. The marriage was over long before I was beached. And she’s found someone who can be there for her, all the time; the way I wasn’t when she needed me.”
“At least they got you back into space, Sir,” Sam quickly changed the subject. “Even if they had to drag the Reprobate here off the scrap pile.”
“Watch it, Commander. Republic may be an old girl, but she blew the pants off of McHale and Rick Kessler.”
“I heard. And I’ve also heard some rumors over sub-space about the Cauldron and a mysterious ion storm.”
“If I told you the story, Sam, I’d have to have Chan jettison you out of an airlock. So stop fishing.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. What are we facing here?”
“The Nephkyrie are not quite like anything I’ve ever met. They have some highly advanced technology, and yet they have only the most basic weapons and warp drive. Chan has a full briefing already laid out for you and your people, but they are full of surprises. Our number one priority is to recover the New Columbia colonists, and I hope that can figure out a means to do that without having to blow that ship to hell. We are working on possible sol . . .”
The door chime beeped and Matt frowned. “Come!” he barked. The door parted and a grim-faced Quincy stormed in, trailed by Amanda. Quincy nodded curtly at Sam, and then he turned his glare on Matt.
“What’s the matter, Doctor?”
“We’ve just discovered something about these Nephkyrie that you need to know right now, Captain.”
Matt sat back and picked up his battered stylus and tapped it against the desk. “And that might be?”
“The prisioners—all of the prisioners, Captain—are children.”
“Excuse me?”
“Matt, they are clones. And they have been in stasis for god knows how long. They are children—the last children of the Nephkyrie race, put into stasis and sent thousands of light years to found a new home. Children whose bodies grew up slowly in the stasis tubes, but whose minds are still those of teenagers and goddamn prepubescent children!” The ship’s surgeon shook his head, and ran a hand through his grey hair. “They have had all of the Nephkyrie knowledge taught to them in stasis, their minds being impressed with the data of how to operate those ships, but emotionally? Developmentally? Every last one of them is still a child. And right now, those children, despite the fact that they stand as tall you as you and Chan, are scared. They are frightened, Captain, and they are huddled together and crying in confinement in that bare cold cargo bay. Damn whoever thought it was a good idea to turn them into soldiers, Captain, but they are traumatized! We can’t go back there and kill an entire ship full of children, Matt. We can’t!” the doctor thundered.
“And we won’t, Quincy. We will find another way,” Matt answered at last. “Computer, adjust temperature and light levels in Cargo Bay 4 to match those scanned on the interior of the Nephkyrie vessel—and play Brahms’s Lullaby on the speakers in that compartment.”
“Acknowledged.”
Matt sadly smiled. "It always calmed my kids, at least. Dahlgren to Counselor Trincullo,” Matt said tapping his comm badge.
“Sir?” Andrea Truncullo’s voice piped up.
“How are you with children, Counselor?”
“Sir?” her voice pitched up in question.
“Miss Trincullo . . .” and Matt shook his head. “Just meet me in Cargo Bay 4.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Matt stood, followed by Chan and Sam. “This is where you earn those Captain’s pips, Sam. I want you and Chan to go over every bit of our tactical data—and you two find me a way out of this that doesn’t involve killing three hundred and fifty thousand children. Doctors,” the captain continued as he picked up his cane and limped around his desk. “You two are with me.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” a chorus of voices answered.
Corporal Alvin Thiesman held up one hand as he heard the pounding of feet on the deck past the T-junction directly in front of his team. He knelt and raised his Type III/f phaser rifle, knowing the two Marines with him had his back. He pulled the weapon in tight against his shoulder and he took a deep, slow breathe; and then a gaggle of Nephkyrie burst into sight, shooting over their shoulders as they RAN.
Thiesman exhaled and pressed the firing stud repeatedly, sending one high-powered phaser stun beam into each of the alien troopers in front of him before they could respond. But he remained where he was as he heard an incoherent scream of rage and more thundering impacts of boots. And then a hyperventilating Lt. Pok came running up, shouting Tellarite imprecations at the stunned Nephkyrie.
The Marine lowered his weapon, but the ship’s quartermaster saw the motion and he spun, raising his own phaser pistol. “STAR FLEET MARINES!” Thiesman yelled, and he raised the rifle again. “SAFE THAT WEAPON, LIEUTENANT!”
Pok squinted and then he squealed as he lowered the phaser. “Didn’t . . . see . . . you,” he gasped, out of breath from the running. “I was chasing these cretins. Absolute morons,” the Tellarite said as he kicked one of unconscious soldiers. “They broke a vase from the Vasana Dynasty of Janus VII! Shattered it!” the Quartermaster wailed. “It was a priceless treasure, irreplacable, and they ruined it.”
“You were chasing them? Alone?” Thiesman asked in an amused voice.
“Of course, I am not alone! My assistants are right behind me . . .,” Pok turned and noticed that the corridor behind him was empty. He frowned. “They had best be stunned or they will be doing workouts with your Marines three times each day!”
“Lieutenant, why don’t you come with us; there are more of them on the lower decks.”
Pok nodded, then he grunted, and then he pointed the phaser at the unconscious Nephkyrie and shot each of them of them again. “They just knocked the vase right off the pedestal; as if they had no appreciation for its value.”
“Let’s go, Mister Pok,” the Marine said as he struggled not to laugh.
“Lead the way; we Tellarites aren’t that stealthy.” And he fired one final stun beam into the unconscious aliens as he followed the three Marines to the Jefferies tube.
*****************************************************
“They managed to breach the inhibitor field by a combination of factors, Captain,” the Trill engineer reported as he shook his head. “First, they massively increased their transporter power—far beyond the amount we had previously witnessed. The good news is that their entire vessels power reserves dropped precipitously when they did this, and based on their observed rate of power regeneration, it isn’t something they can do quickly or often.”
“Second, they showed a capacity for using an extremely high frequency of sub-space; a frequency that our inhibitor did not fully cover. Sensor logs from their transport indicate their transporter was refocused into the tau-bands.”
Chan shook his head in disbelief. “Didn’t the Federation abandon research into tau-band transporter frequencies because of cellular degradation?”
“Yes, and the surviving Nephkyrie boarders are showing some signs of cellular disruption; their armor incorporates a miniaturized pattern enhancer that alleviated the worst of effect, reinforcing their pattern and minimizing the damage. Still, multiple transports in the tau-band will be as fatal for them as it would be for us.”
“And finally,” Nat continued, “they made no attempt to gain a transporter lock. The boarding party they beamed across was a blind transport into open compartments their sensors had already identified. Of the one hundred and forty-four Nephkyrie beamed aboard ship, thirty-seven materialized either partially or fully within a deck, overhead, bulkhead, or piece of equipment.”
Several of Matt’s senior officers winced at the thought, but the captain only nodded his understanding. “Mister Malik, how soon can they regenerate their power reserves from this previous attempt?”
“They will have to spend at least an hour restoring their energy, Captain; that estimate is based only on the power production capability we have so far witnessed. If they have an additional means to produce the power, they might restore it faster.”
“Mister Beck?”
“We have all of the surviving Nephkyrie contained in Cargo Four, Sir. Our automated anti-intruder defenses, combined with the rapid reaction teams managed to neutralize their boarding party in short order. From our examination of their small arms, they lack the technology for hand phasers; however, their weapons are an early from of sonic disruptor that includes a stun setting. For the most part, they used the weapons on stun, perhaps in an attempt to gain more human subjects, but there were a few casualties among the crew. Their armor is lightweight and capable of absorbing and dissipating kinetic, laser, disruptor, and—to a limited extent—phaser energy. Tactically, their troops were well-trained in a basic manner, but appeared to lack actual combat experience. That may be due to their cramped conditions aboard that ship—but we shouldn’t underestimate them.”
“Individually, they are stronger, faster, and tougher than the majority of our personnel. It was their lack of experience in combat situations that allowed us to quickly overcome them. I don’t think they were prepared for our level of resistance, and they had no contingency plans and failed to coordinate their activities across the ship. If I am reading their insignia correctly, their senior officer materialized within a bulkhead on Deck Four, depriving them of leadership at a crucial moment.”
“Dr. Talbot?”
“The crew suffered numerous casualties in the engagement; thankfully, most of those are bruises and minor cuts, as well as hangovers from the stun weapons. We had a number of more severe injuries, but none—including Miss Biddle—are life-threatening. Dr. Tsien and I have been studying the Nephkyrie physiology based on our prisioners and we, along with Dr. Woolsey and the Biological Sciences division believe that given a few days we might well be able to fabricate a treatment option. We will have to test the serum to see if it is effective, however.”
Pavel Roshenko shook his head. “Why don’t they just clone the human DNA in vats; why do they need living, breathing humans?”
Quincy frowned. “In the short term, that might work. But it is their own cloning and genetic engineering techniques that have led to this problem. And since the majority of their population is in stasis—and according to the sensor scans conducted by Amanda, so are our colonists—they might not have the capacity in their medical labs to clone so much different tissue. I am guessing here, but I’d say, based on what I have seen of their ship’s internal layout, that much of their equipment is stored, to be unpacked when they reach New Columbia.”
“And their current numbers of crew are not nearly as overwhelming as we first estimated, Captain Dahlgren,” Amanda Tsien added. “Three hundred and forty eight thousand of the Nephkyrie are in stasis, along with all of our colonists, leaving around two thousand of them active aboard that ship. Well, about eighteen hundred now,” she finished with a sad smile.
“Miss Tsien, did our scans detect any anomalies in the colonists? Could they have started processing them within the stasis pods?” Matt asked as he tapped his stylus on the table.
“I managed to get a good look at the colonists, Sir. No. Their life signs matched what the records show; they are in a form of cyro-stasis with their bio-signs within the expected range—and apparently they did not want to provoke the other species of the Federation, sir. The two thousand colonists who were not human are also in stasis and their life signs are heartening.”
Matt nodded. “Doctors,” he said to Quincy and Amanda. “I want you full efforts on finding a treatment for the Nephkyrie—you are authorized to test your serum upon the prisoners. Consider that an order, Doctor Talbot!” Matt barked, cutting off Quincy as he began to snarl. “We have to know if it works. Mister Malik, make your repairs quickly and remove those fused Nephkyrie from my ship.”
The intercom whistled. “Bridge to Captain Dahlgren. Bridge to Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt tapped his comm badge. “Dahlgren.”
“Sir. Balao has just dropped out of warp and is moving to rendezvous with us at impulse power.”
“Acknowledge, Miss Montoya. I will be on the bridge momentarily. Hail Captain Carmichael and ask her if she would beam aboard so that I might brief her personally,” Matt turned back to the staff seated at the briefing table. “Ladies. Gentlemen. We got lucky here; these prisioners might give us the means of resolving this situation without any further violence—but only if you can come up with a treatment that works. I have confidence that you are capable of doing so; but I need not remind that time is not our ally in this circumstance. You are dismissed.”
*****************************************************
The door to Matt’s ready room slid open and Chan walked in, his arm in a sling. Behind him walked a dark-haired human woman who wore the three pips of a Commander on her collar. She beamed a smile as Matt stood.
“Captain Dahlgren,” the Andorian said, “may I present Commander Samantha Carmichael, the commanding officer of USS Balao.”
Matt shook his head and he smiled as well. “You may, Mister Shrak. Commander, it is good to see you again; both of you take a seat,” he continued as he sat back down. “Care for a drink?”
“No thank you, Sir. I had lunch aboard Balao before we arrived. I see that we missed some excitement.”
“You could say that,” Matt answered with a sad chuckle. “But we learned a few things about these Nephkyrie—and we’ve got a few captives aboard as well.”
“More than few,” Chan chimed in, “we have them packed into Cargo Bay 4 like cattle, Commander Carmichael.”
“So they gave you Balao? I knew you would get a command, but I didn’t think they would give you such a . . . little ship.”
“It’s not the size of the waves, but the motion of the ocean, Sir,” the commander of Balao answered with a bright grin. “She’s got heart and she packs a wallop. On a good day, she can take any ship in the Fleet.”
“I have no doubt, Miss Carmichael,” Matt finished as he considered his former second officer—his Operations officer—from the old Kearsage.
“So how are the kids?” she asked.
“Cass starts Julliard this fall, if you can believe it. Amanda, she doesn’t like being called Amy anymore she declared in her last letter, has a crush on a young boy in her freshman class and is hoping he asks her to her first dance this fall. And Sarah is as rambunctious as ever.”
“And Melody?” Sam asked, her smile fading.
“We talk. Infrequently. I don’t blame her. It was my own fault for being away for so long; she deserved better.”
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but she didn’t have to leave you when you fighting for your life in the hospital.”
“Water under the bridge. The marriage was over long before I was beached. And she’s found someone who can be there for her, all the time; the way I wasn’t when she needed me.”
“At least they got you back into space, Sir,” Sam quickly changed the subject. “Even if they had to drag the Reprobate here off the scrap pile.”
“Watch it, Commander. Republic may be an old girl, but she blew the pants off of McHale and Rick Kessler.”
“I heard. And I’ve also heard some rumors over sub-space about the Cauldron and a mysterious ion storm.”
“If I told you the story, Sam, I’d have to have Chan jettison you out of an airlock. So stop fishing.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. What are we facing here?”
“The Nephkyrie are not quite like anything I’ve ever met. They have some highly advanced technology, and yet they have only the most basic weapons and warp drive. Chan has a full briefing already laid out for you and your people, but they are full of surprises. Our number one priority is to recover the New Columbia colonists, and I hope that can figure out a means to do that without having to blow that ship to hell. We are working on possible sol . . .”
The door chime beeped and Matt frowned. “Come!” he barked. The door parted and a grim-faced Quincy stormed in, trailed by Amanda. Quincy nodded curtly at Sam, and then he turned his glare on Matt.
“What’s the matter, Doctor?”
“We’ve just discovered something about these Nephkyrie that you need to know right now, Captain.”
Matt sat back and picked up his battered stylus and tapped it against the desk. “And that might be?”
“The prisioners—all of the prisioners, Captain—are children.”
“Excuse me?”
“Matt, they are clones. And they have been in stasis for god knows how long. They are children—the last children of the Nephkyrie race, put into stasis and sent thousands of light years to found a new home. Children whose bodies grew up slowly in the stasis tubes, but whose minds are still those of teenagers and goddamn prepubescent children!” The ship’s surgeon shook his head, and ran a hand through his grey hair. “They have had all of the Nephkyrie knowledge taught to them in stasis, their minds being impressed with the data of how to operate those ships, but emotionally? Developmentally? Every last one of them is still a child. And right now, those children, despite the fact that they stand as tall you as you and Chan, are scared. They are frightened, Captain, and they are huddled together and crying in confinement in that bare cold cargo bay. Damn whoever thought it was a good idea to turn them into soldiers, Captain, but they are traumatized! We can’t go back there and kill an entire ship full of children, Matt. We can’t!” the doctor thundered.
“And we won’t, Quincy. We will find another way,” Matt answered at last. “Computer, adjust temperature and light levels in Cargo Bay 4 to match those scanned on the interior of the Nephkyrie vessel—and play Brahms’s Lullaby on the speakers in that compartment.”
“Acknowledged.”
Matt sadly smiled. "It always calmed my kids, at least. Dahlgren to Counselor Trincullo,” Matt said tapping his comm badge.
“Sir?” Andrea Truncullo’s voice piped up.
“How are you with children, Counselor?”
“Sir?” her voice pitched up in question.
“Miss Trincullo . . .” and Matt shook his head. “Just meet me in Cargo Bay 4.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Matt stood, followed by Chan and Sam. “This is where you earn those Captain’s pips, Sam. I want you and Chan to go over every bit of our tactical data—and you two find me a way out of this that doesn’t involve killing three hundred and fifty thousand children. Doctors,” the captain continued as he picked up his cane and limped around his desk. “You two are with me.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” a chorus of voices answered.
Last edited by masterarminas on 2012-06-04 12:46am, edited 3 times in total.
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masterarminas
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- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Nineteen (cont.)
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 53753.3, USS Republic. The revelation on the nature of the mental and emotional maturity of the Nephkyrie has complicated matters considerably. Through the efforts of Counselor Trincullo and the crew, assisted by personnel from the Balao, we have managed to calm these . . . children taken prisoner. In some regards, their mental state has worked to our advantage, as they have provided far more information on the Nephkyrie race and their technology than an adult in a similar position would have. Of particular interest is that not all of their elders are gone: Speaker Typhias and his inner circle are adult members of their race, amounting to less than one hundred aboard this ship alone. According to our POW children, there were over fifty thousand adults aboard when these ships departed from their home system long ago.”
“Where have those adults gone? Typhias has never told the children how they died, or why; but our scans of the vessel did not detect any signs of a previous confrontation. No external damage, no weapons scoring of the hull, nothing. We do know that Typhias was not a senior member of the Nephkyrie ruling class when this migration began—but he is now the leader of his entire race; and the children have no knowledge of how this came to pass.”
“Perhaps it is my own suspicious mind at work, but I believe that Typhias removed the other adults as they lay sleeping in stasis. I cannot prove it, but I have a nagging feeling in my gut that he murdered them. That would explain how a ship packed with refugees had enough vacant stasis pods to house the New Columbia colonists. But as disturbing as the mass murder of tens of thousands of his own peers might be, for now, I am beset with the problem of retrieving the colonists while keeping as many of these children alive as I can. Through subtle questioning, we have a basic idea of the intervals at which this fleet was dispatched. And that information provides us with an opportunity.”
“USS Arrogant arrived three hours ago, under the command of Captain William Myers. Bill has advocated a full-scale attack on the alien ship by our vessels and Independence when she comes out of warp in twenty-three hours. Fortunately, I have seniority over Bill and have overruled his proposal. That is not the case with Captain Salok aboard the Independence; and although Vulcans deplore violence, their adherence to logic may lead him into another confrontation with tragic consequences.”
“Commanders Shrak and Carmichael, along with Lieutenant Beck, have finalized plans for an assault boarding of the Nephkyrie vessel in the event that we are once again forced into action. However, this time we will endeavor to avoid the Nephkyrie children and strike instead for the head of this serpent: Typhias. Perhaps it is just my sub-conscious mind projecting my revulsion at those who turn children into shock troops onto him, but his attitude, his arrogance, his . . . malevolence lead me to the conclusion that he, and not these immature Nephkyrie, is the villain in this piece.”
“Computer, save log.”
“Log saved.”
“Captain’s Log, Stardate 53753.3, USS Republic. The revelation on the nature of the mental and emotional maturity of the Nephkyrie has complicated matters considerably. Through the efforts of Counselor Trincullo and the crew, assisted by personnel from the Balao, we have managed to calm these . . . children taken prisoner. In some regards, their mental state has worked to our advantage, as they have provided far more information on the Nephkyrie race and their technology than an adult in a similar position would have. Of particular interest is that not all of their elders are gone: Speaker Typhias and his inner circle are adult members of their race, amounting to less than one hundred aboard this ship alone. According to our POW children, there were over fifty thousand adults aboard when these ships departed from their home system long ago.”
“Where have those adults gone? Typhias has never told the children how they died, or why; but our scans of the vessel did not detect any signs of a previous confrontation. No external damage, no weapons scoring of the hull, nothing. We do know that Typhias was not a senior member of the Nephkyrie ruling class when this migration began—but he is now the leader of his entire race; and the children have no knowledge of how this came to pass.”
“Perhaps it is my own suspicious mind at work, but I believe that Typhias removed the other adults as they lay sleeping in stasis. I cannot prove it, but I have a nagging feeling in my gut that he murdered them. That would explain how a ship packed with refugees had enough vacant stasis pods to house the New Columbia colonists. But as disturbing as the mass murder of tens of thousands of his own peers might be, for now, I am beset with the problem of retrieving the colonists while keeping as many of these children alive as I can. Through subtle questioning, we have a basic idea of the intervals at which this fleet was dispatched. And that information provides us with an opportunity.”
“USS Arrogant arrived three hours ago, under the command of Captain William Myers. Bill has advocated a full-scale attack on the alien ship by our vessels and Independence when she comes out of warp in twenty-three hours. Fortunately, I have seniority over Bill and have overruled his proposal. That is not the case with Captain Salok aboard the Independence; and although Vulcans deplore violence, their adherence to logic may lead him into another confrontation with tragic consequences.”
“Commanders Shrak and Carmichael, along with Lieutenant Beck, have finalized plans for an assault boarding of the Nephkyrie vessel in the event that we are once again forced into action. However, this time we will endeavor to avoid the Nephkyrie children and strike instead for the head of this serpent: Typhias. Perhaps it is just my sub-conscious mind projecting my revulsion at those who turn children into shock troops onto him, but his attitude, his arrogance, his . . . malevolence lead me to the conclusion that he, and not these immature Nephkyrie, is the villain in this piece.”
“Computer, save log.”
“Log saved.”
Last edited by masterarminas on 2012-06-04 12:49am, edited 1 time in total.
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FaxModem1
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 7700
- Joined: 2002-10-30 06:40pm
- Location: In a dark reflection of a better world
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Whoa, that's a surprise. Here's hoping they can resolve it peacefully, but I get the ugly feeling the Solidarity is going to be be hurt.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty
Matt took one step into sickbay, and then stopped as he heard the raised voices of the two doctors.
“No, you bloodless, inhuman, piece of technology,” Quincy snarled, “the key is the Xi-227 protein chain! That single segment on chromosome 7 is what locked the changes!”
“You are mistaken, Doctor,” the holograph answered with a pained look on his face. “Xi-227 is inverted, making it a mirror copy of the Chi-083 chain on chromosome 10! We can’t treat Xi-227/7 without first correcting the engineering to Chi-083/10.”
Matt shook his head and then he spotted Amanda Tsien sitting on a biobed watching the argument intensely. The captain limped over to her side, and he whispered, “How long has this been going on?”
“Hours, Captain. I am barely following their arguments, but it is like watching Quincy argue with himself: it’s a train wreck and I can’t myself look away,” she whispered back, her eyes locked on the two medical professionals and their waving arms and pointing fingers.
Suddenly the noise level abated, as the scans of the Nephkyrie soldier ensconced in another biobed updated. “Hmmmmmm?” went both Doctors at the same time.
Matt cleared his throat, and the two doctors—one human and one holographic—looked up.
“When did you come in, Matt?” asked Quincy.
“We can call him Matt now?” the hologram interjected.
“No, you collection of assembled photon particles, we can’t call him that: I can call him that!”
“There is no reason to be rude,” the hologram replied. “Although considering your lack of social graces and overall good manners, I should have expected it.”
“Why you . . .”
“Doctors!” Matt snapped, causing both of the physicians to turn around and face him. “What is the status of your research?”
“We have . . .” Quincy began, as the hologram uttered at the same time, “There has . . .”
Both stopped and glared at each other.
“One at a time, gentlemen,” the captain said gently. “Quincy?”
“It’s going to take time, Matt. The engineered changes are extremely subtle in many cases and we have to go through and find those changes before we make any recommendations on a treatment.”
“Having a living Nephkyrie to examine, Captain,” Dr. Woolsey continued, “has only opened more questions. If we try to remove the modifications without examining all of the implications, it might have the effect of causing wide-spread genetic mutation—possibly fatal levels of mutation.”
“I concur,” Quincy snarled. “And no, Matt, we won’t have an answer before Independence arrives, not without the actual medical data on exactly how the Nephkyrie made these modifications and an example of the pre-modified genetic coding.”
“We can infer the species original genetic coding through the modification markers, Doctor,” the hologram added, “but it will take time to do an examination of each individual protein chain—the order of modification is more difficult to interpolate and remains quite open to interpretation.”
Quincy glared at the hologram, but then he at last nodded. “The protein chains are a like a lock, Matt; we can pick it, but without a key it might suffer damage.”
“How long?” Matt asked.
“Days? Weeks?” answered Quincy with a shrug.
“Months? Years?” Woolsey glumly whispered.
Matt nodded and he limped over to the intercom on the wall, pressing a stud. “Bridge, Dahlgren.”
“Go ahead, Sir,” Chan answered.
“Plan C, Mister Shrak. Inform Arrogant that she is to accompany us. And patch me through to Balao.”
“Carmichael.”
“Commander, we can’t count on the medical treatment; so we are going to try the third option. I want you and Balao to remain here on station. Use the probes to keep that vessel under observation and inform me at once if there are any changes.”
“Understood, Sir. Good hunting.”
Matt released the comm stud and he turned back around to face to the Doctors. “Gentlemen, continue your research; perhaps we will get lucky. Miss Tsien, we will need you on the bridge.”
And with that Matt limped out, trailed by the Science Officer.
Robert Woolsey pursed his lips. “He should really consider a prosthetic if the leg is bothering him that much. Why doesn’t he just go ahead and have the procedure?”
Quincy frowned and he shook his head. “He’s stubborn, Robert. And he wants to keep his natural limb, as irrational as that is when it’s been damaged this severely. We’ve tried every conventional treatment and nothing works: damn the Jem’Hadar and their polaron radiation weapons.”
The hologram nodded. “Have you considered an inverse replication transplant?”
Quincy stopped in his tracks and he turned around to face the hologram. “That only works on Klingons with their redundant internal physiology.”
“He has two legs, Doctor. From a certain point of view, he has—in this case—redundant internal physiology.”
Quincy slowly nodded, and then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss this later, Robert. For now, I want to map out Chromosome 12. Are you okay, son?” the doctor asked his Nephkyrie patient nee guinea pig.
“This is boring,” the child in a man’s body answered.
“If you are lucky, son,, then life is boring,” the doctor answered, as he looked around the sickbay and then took a lollipop out of his coat pocket and handed it to the Nephkyrie. “I haven’t been so lucky. Start new mapping routine, computer, Chromosome 12.”
“Acknowledged.”
*********************************************************
“Care for a cup of tea?” Andrea Trincullo asked the nervous Operations Officer sitting in a couch in her office.
Grace shook her head. “Look, Doctor Talbot has already cleared me for duty, Andrea . . . so why I am here?”
Andrea picked up her hot steaming saucer and cup and she walked back across the office and sat down on in a comfortable chair opposite Grace. She took a sip of the drink, heavily sweetened with honey, and then she set down the china cup.
“You know why you are here, Grace.”
Grace’s face turned red, and she shook head. “Look, I froze, okay? I was surprised and I froze: is that so hard to understand? It won’t happen again.”
“Are you certain?” the counselor asked. “Was it because the Nephkyrie surprised you—and the rest of the ship, or was it because of what happened on Delta Pavonis II?” The operations officer flinched, but Andrea pressed on. “Isn’t that incident what is really bothering you, Grace?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Grace whispered, as the color slowly faded from her skin, and beads of cold sweat started to appear on her forehead.
“Of course you don’t. No one wants to talk out things like this, Grace. But whether you choose to talk about it or not, you are still waking up in the middle of the night gasping as your nightmares relive time and time again, aren’t you?”
Grace trembled, but she directed her best command glare at Andrea—a glare that the counselor ignored completely.
“I thought so,” Andrea continued. “And no, no one has spied on your quarters, Grace. I have dealt with other officers going through what you are right now; so I know.”
“You know? You know? When have you fought the Jem’Hadar, Doctor?” Grace spat bitterly.
“I haven’t. And I haven’t got your experiences to further complicate the situation, Grace. But I read your file, and I know how troubled you are over this—how it is tearing you up inside. And, if problems in dealing with this are interfering in the operations of this ship, then it is my job to make certain you are ready to return to duty.”
Andrea picked back up the cup and took another sip. She sat it back down in the saucer and wiped her lips. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
Grace lowered her head and rubbed her forehead with a thumb and two fingers, and then she at last nodded. “Two sugars and cream. Thank you.”
Andrea stood and walked over to the replicator and punched in the order, and a fresh cup materialized. She brought the cup of tea back over and set it down in front of Grace, before she sat once again and crossed her legs.
“The caffeine helps with the headaches, right? And it keeps you awake until you are too tired to remember your dreams—but you still dream. Talk to me, Grace.”
The blond-haired woman took a sip, and then she sat back, still looking at the floor.
“I almost resigned, you know,” she whispered. “I had just finished filling out my papers when a friend at Headquarters commed to let me know that I had been selected for this slot here, on Republic. I figured it was karma, the garbage ship of the Fleet for the officers suited only for the trash-bin. I didn’t expect that we would be assigned anything important. I didn’t think we would be out here with a Captain demanding our best—I took this assignment because I thought it was the end of the road, Andrea.”
The counselor nodded her head, but didn’t say a word.
“I never thought I would have to pick up a phaser again,” Grace whispered as her voice trailed away.
For several minutes, the two women just sat there, sipping their tea, neither saying a word.
“It was supposed to a rescue mission,” Grace said bleakly. “Exeter had orders to evacuate a science station that was in the line of the Dominion and Cardassian offensive. All we had to do was get there, beam up the research team, and leave . . . but the Jem’Hadar got there first.”
“I was part of the away team, and we got into a fire-fight with their ground forces—we didn’t know the scientists were already dead. I’ve always been good with weapons, Andrea; I was on the Academy Marksmanship Team, you know.”
“I know,” the counselor answered. “And you took the Bronze at the Summer Olympics back in ’68 for competitive shooting. Which makes your current aversion to weapons . . . peculiar, to say the least.”
Grace shivered. “I hated them, Andrea. I hated the Jem’Hadar for all the death and destruction they caused; I hated them and the Founders and the Vorta and the Cardassians for unleashing this senseless, bloody war on us. So my phaser was locked on maximum. Because I didn’t want Jem’Hadar prisioners, I wanted them dead,” she said flatly.
“We were in cover, exchanging fire with the Jem’Hadar. And I got a shot at their leader—my adrenaline was high, and I was in the zone, tuning out everything else but my weapon and my target, and I remember, oh God, I remember my feeling of absolute certitude as I pressed the trigger.”
Grace drew in a deep breath, a tear crawling down her cheek. Andrea didn’t say a word.
“I didn’t even see Lieutenant Rasgon, Andrea. I was so fixated on my target, I never saw Paul get up and move into my line of fire until it was too late. My phaser beam caught him in the shoulder, and I watched him dissolve away into nothing! My shot killed him. Not the Vorta, not the Founders, not the Jem’Hadar; it was my shot that robbed him of his life! And I heard him scream as he was vaporized.”
Andrea stood up and she crossed over to the couch where Grace sat, and she sat down, rubbing the Operations Officer on the shoulder and back, and hugging her tight.
“I don’t remember the rest of the fight,” Grace whispered as the tears fell like rain. “Someone hauled me back aboard, and I came to in sickbay as Exeter was leaving the system.” Grace looked up at the counselor, and her lips twisted. “Did you know that you were sharing a couch with a murderer, Andrea?” she asked bitterly.
“It was an accident, Grace,” the counselor said soothingly. “You didn’t mean to shoot Lieutenant Rasgon, and you aren’t the only one who did hateful things in this war. What we have to do now, is get you to pull yourself together. You can’t change what you did on Delta Pavonis II, Grace. We can’t go back in time and take a mulligan on our actions—we’re only human. No, what we have to do is get you to a point where you can live with yourself, and accept that your past actions aren’t a prophecy for your future.”
Grace let out her breath, and she sobbed. “In a psych ward at Starfleet Medical, right?”
“Do you think that you are the only member of this crew carrying baggage from the war, Grace? The Captain alone has many, many dark secrets in his past—and he’s the one who suggested that I have a talk with you.”
“The Captain?”
“Yes, the Captain. He said to me,” and Andrea sat up straight, cleared her throat, and made a reasonably good impersonation of Matt Dahlgren’s tenor Southern drawl, “Counselor, she’s going through a bad time and she thinks she’s alone. Don’t judge, don’t tell her she should have done things differently; combat veterans don’t want to hear that from head-shrinkers. Just listen to her, and help her recover her own balance. Let her know she’s not alone—that we all did things that we regret, and that we can’t change.”
Grace burst out with a combination of a sob and a laugh. “That sounds just like him!”
“Well, while you were training for the Olympics, I was on the Drama Team at the Academy,” Andrea answered with a smile. “And you are not alone, Grace. We are going to get you to the point where you can live with yourself again, where you won’t freeze when you in a situation like the one on the bridge.”
Grace nodded sadly. “I’ll brief my assistant to take over the department and we’ll get . . .” she began, but Andrea cut her off.
“Absolutely not. Lieutenant Commander Grace Biddle, you will be resuming your duties on board this ship. We will be meeting twice a week—more if you need to talk—and we will work through this, together. But you aren’t getting off easy with a vacation in your cabin while the rest of us have to work for a living!”
Andrea extended a box of tissues, and Grace took one and wiped her face. “Thank you, Andrea,” she whispered. “I didn’t really want to leave.”
“I know,” the counselor said. “And we don’t want you to.”
Grace stood and she adjusted her uniform. “In that case, Counselor, perhaps I had best report for duty.” She paused, and then she turned back around. “About the Captain? What does he regret?”
Andrea shook her head. “His confidences are as sacred as yours,” she answered. Or they would be if he had opened up even once to me, she thought sourly.
The operations officer nodded. “Okay. Do I need to set up an appointment with you?”
“Check your schedule—it’s already there. And if you need to talk, Grace, at any time just come by.”
Grace nodded and then she exited the counselor’s office.
Matt took one step into sickbay, and then stopped as he heard the raised voices of the two doctors.
“No, you bloodless, inhuman, piece of technology,” Quincy snarled, “the key is the Xi-227 protein chain! That single segment on chromosome 7 is what locked the changes!”
“You are mistaken, Doctor,” the holograph answered with a pained look on his face. “Xi-227 is inverted, making it a mirror copy of the Chi-083 chain on chromosome 10! We can’t treat Xi-227/7 without first correcting the engineering to Chi-083/10.”
Matt shook his head and then he spotted Amanda Tsien sitting on a biobed watching the argument intensely. The captain limped over to her side, and he whispered, “How long has this been going on?”
“Hours, Captain. I am barely following their arguments, but it is like watching Quincy argue with himself: it’s a train wreck and I can’t myself look away,” she whispered back, her eyes locked on the two medical professionals and their waving arms and pointing fingers.
Suddenly the noise level abated, as the scans of the Nephkyrie soldier ensconced in another biobed updated. “Hmmmmmm?” went both Doctors at the same time.
Matt cleared his throat, and the two doctors—one human and one holographic—looked up.
“When did you come in, Matt?” asked Quincy.
“We can call him Matt now?” the hologram interjected.
“No, you collection of assembled photon particles, we can’t call him that: I can call him that!”
“There is no reason to be rude,” the hologram replied. “Although considering your lack of social graces and overall good manners, I should have expected it.”
“Why you . . .”
“Doctors!” Matt snapped, causing both of the physicians to turn around and face him. “What is the status of your research?”
“We have . . .” Quincy began, as the hologram uttered at the same time, “There has . . .”
Both stopped and glared at each other.
“One at a time, gentlemen,” the captain said gently. “Quincy?”
“It’s going to take time, Matt. The engineered changes are extremely subtle in many cases and we have to go through and find those changes before we make any recommendations on a treatment.”
“Having a living Nephkyrie to examine, Captain,” Dr. Woolsey continued, “has only opened more questions. If we try to remove the modifications without examining all of the implications, it might have the effect of causing wide-spread genetic mutation—possibly fatal levels of mutation.”
“I concur,” Quincy snarled. “And no, Matt, we won’t have an answer before Independence arrives, not without the actual medical data on exactly how the Nephkyrie made these modifications and an example of the pre-modified genetic coding.”
“We can infer the species original genetic coding through the modification markers, Doctor,” the hologram added, “but it will take time to do an examination of each individual protein chain—the order of modification is more difficult to interpolate and remains quite open to interpretation.”
Quincy glared at the hologram, but then he at last nodded. “The protein chains are a like a lock, Matt; we can pick it, but without a key it might suffer damage.”
“How long?” Matt asked.
“Days? Weeks?” answered Quincy with a shrug.
“Months? Years?” Woolsey glumly whispered.
Matt nodded and he limped over to the intercom on the wall, pressing a stud. “Bridge, Dahlgren.”
“Go ahead, Sir,” Chan answered.
“Plan C, Mister Shrak. Inform Arrogant that she is to accompany us. And patch me through to Balao.”
“Carmichael.”
“Commander, we can’t count on the medical treatment; so we are going to try the third option. I want you and Balao to remain here on station. Use the probes to keep that vessel under observation and inform me at once if there are any changes.”
“Understood, Sir. Good hunting.”
Matt released the comm stud and he turned back around to face to the Doctors. “Gentlemen, continue your research; perhaps we will get lucky. Miss Tsien, we will need you on the bridge.”
And with that Matt limped out, trailed by the Science Officer.
Robert Woolsey pursed his lips. “He should really consider a prosthetic if the leg is bothering him that much. Why doesn’t he just go ahead and have the procedure?”
Quincy frowned and he shook his head. “He’s stubborn, Robert. And he wants to keep his natural limb, as irrational as that is when it’s been damaged this severely. We’ve tried every conventional treatment and nothing works: damn the Jem’Hadar and their polaron radiation weapons.”
The hologram nodded. “Have you considered an inverse replication transplant?”
Quincy stopped in his tracks and he turned around to face the hologram. “That only works on Klingons with their redundant internal physiology.”
“He has two legs, Doctor. From a certain point of view, he has—in this case—redundant internal physiology.”
Quincy slowly nodded, and then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss this later, Robert. For now, I want to map out Chromosome 12. Are you okay, son?” the doctor asked his Nephkyrie patient nee guinea pig.
“This is boring,” the child in a man’s body answered.
“If you are lucky, son,, then life is boring,” the doctor answered, as he looked around the sickbay and then took a lollipop out of his coat pocket and handed it to the Nephkyrie. “I haven’t been so lucky. Start new mapping routine, computer, Chromosome 12.”
“Acknowledged.”
*********************************************************
“Care for a cup of tea?” Andrea Trincullo asked the nervous Operations Officer sitting in a couch in her office.
Grace shook her head. “Look, Doctor Talbot has already cleared me for duty, Andrea . . . so why I am here?”
Andrea picked up her hot steaming saucer and cup and she walked back across the office and sat down on in a comfortable chair opposite Grace. She took a sip of the drink, heavily sweetened with honey, and then she set down the china cup.
“You know why you are here, Grace.”
Grace’s face turned red, and she shook head. “Look, I froze, okay? I was surprised and I froze: is that so hard to understand? It won’t happen again.”
“Are you certain?” the counselor asked. “Was it because the Nephkyrie surprised you—and the rest of the ship, or was it because of what happened on Delta Pavonis II?” The operations officer flinched, but Andrea pressed on. “Isn’t that incident what is really bothering you, Grace?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Grace whispered, as the color slowly faded from her skin, and beads of cold sweat started to appear on her forehead.
“Of course you don’t. No one wants to talk out things like this, Grace. But whether you choose to talk about it or not, you are still waking up in the middle of the night gasping as your nightmares relive time and time again, aren’t you?”
Grace trembled, but she directed her best command glare at Andrea—a glare that the counselor ignored completely.
“I thought so,” Andrea continued. “And no, no one has spied on your quarters, Grace. I have dealt with other officers going through what you are right now; so I know.”
“You know? You know? When have you fought the Jem’Hadar, Doctor?” Grace spat bitterly.
“I haven’t. And I haven’t got your experiences to further complicate the situation, Grace. But I read your file, and I know how troubled you are over this—how it is tearing you up inside. And, if problems in dealing with this are interfering in the operations of this ship, then it is my job to make certain you are ready to return to duty.”
Andrea picked back up the cup and took another sip. She sat it back down in the saucer and wiped her lips. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
Grace lowered her head and rubbed her forehead with a thumb and two fingers, and then she at last nodded. “Two sugars and cream. Thank you.”
Andrea stood and walked over to the replicator and punched in the order, and a fresh cup materialized. She brought the cup of tea back over and set it down in front of Grace, before she sat once again and crossed her legs.
“The caffeine helps with the headaches, right? And it keeps you awake until you are too tired to remember your dreams—but you still dream. Talk to me, Grace.”
The blond-haired woman took a sip, and then she sat back, still looking at the floor.
“I almost resigned, you know,” she whispered. “I had just finished filling out my papers when a friend at Headquarters commed to let me know that I had been selected for this slot here, on Republic. I figured it was karma, the garbage ship of the Fleet for the officers suited only for the trash-bin. I didn’t expect that we would be assigned anything important. I didn’t think we would be out here with a Captain demanding our best—I took this assignment because I thought it was the end of the road, Andrea.”
The counselor nodded her head, but didn’t say a word.
“I never thought I would have to pick up a phaser again,” Grace whispered as her voice trailed away.
For several minutes, the two women just sat there, sipping their tea, neither saying a word.
“It was supposed to a rescue mission,” Grace said bleakly. “Exeter had orders to evacuate a science station that was in the line of the Dominion and Cardassian offensive. All we had to do was get there, beam up the research team, and leave . . . but the Jem’Hadar got there first.”
“I was part of the away team, and we got into a fire-fight with their ground forces—we didn’t know the scientists were already dead. I’ve always been good with weapons, Andrea; I was on the Academy Marksmanship Team, you know.”
“I know,” the counselor answered. “And you took the Bronze at the Summer Olympics back in ’68 for competitive shooting. Which makes your current aversion to weapons . . . peculiar, to say the least.”
Grace shivered. “I hated them, Andrea. I hated the Jem’Hadar for all the death and destruction they caused; I hated them and the Founders and the Vorta and the Cardassians for unleashing this senseless, bloody war on us. So my phaser was locked on maximum. Because I didn’t want Jem’Hadar prisioners, I wanted them dead,” she said flatly.
“We were in cover, exchanging fire with the Jem’Hadar. And I got a shot at their leader—my adrenaline was high, and I was in the zone, tuning out everything else but my weapon and my target, and I remember, oh God, I remember my feeling of absolute certitude as I pressed the trigger.”
Grace drew in a deep breath, a tear crawling down her cheek. Andrea didn’t say a word.
“I didn’t even see Lieutenant Rasgon, Andrea. I was so fixated on my target, I never saw Paul get up and move into my line of fire until it was too late. My phaser beam caught him in the shoulder, and I watched him dissolve away into nothing! My shot killed him. Not the Vorta, not the Founders, not the Jem’Hadar; it was my shot that robbed him of his life! And I heard him scream as he was vaporized.”
Andrea stood up and she crossed over to the couch where Grace sat, and she sat down, rubbing the Operations Officer on the shoulder and back, and hugging her tight.
“I don’t remember the rest of the fight,” Grace whispered as the tears fell like rain. “Someone hauled me back aboard, and I came to in sickbay as Exeter was leaving the system.” Grace looked up at the counselor, and her lips twisted. “Did you know that you were sharing a couch with a murderer, Andrea?” she asked bitterly.
“It was an accident, Grace,” the counselor said soothingly. “You didn’t mean to shoot Lieutenant Rasgon, and you aren’t the only one who did hateful things in this war. What we have to do now, is get you to pull yourself together. You can’t change what you did on Delta Pavonis II, Grace. We can’t go back in time and take a mulligan on our actions—we’re only human. No, what we have to do is get you to a point where you can live with yourself, and accept that your past actions aren’t a prophecy for your future.”
Grace let out her breath, and she sobbed. “In a psych ward at Starfleet Medical, right?”
“Do you think that you are the only member of this crew carrying baggage from the war, Grace? The Captain alone has many, many dark secrets in his past—and he’s the one who suggested that I have a talk with you.”
“The Captain?”
“Yes, the Captain. He said to me,” and Andrea sat up straight, cleared her throat, and made a reasonably good impersonation of Matt Dahlgren’s tenor Southern drawl, “Counselor, she’s going through a bad time and she thinks she’s alone. Don’t judge, don’t tell her she should have done things differently; combat veterans don’t want to hear that from head-shrinkers. Just listen to her, and help her recover her own balance. Let her know she’s not alone—that we all did things that we regret, and that we can’t change.”
Grace burst out with a combination of a sob and a laugh. “That sounds just like him!”
“Well, while you were training for the Olympics, I was on the Drama Team at the Academy,” Andrea answered with a smile. “And you are not alone, Grace. We are going to get you to the point where you can live with yourself again, where you won’t freeze when you in a situation like the one on the bridge.”
Grace nodded sadly. “I’ll brief my assistant to take over the department and we’ll get . . .” she began, but Andrea cut her off.
“Absolutely not. Lieutenant Commander Grace Biddle, you will be resuming your duties on board this ship. We will be meeting twice a week—more if you need to talk—and we will work through this, together. But you aren’t getting off easy with a vacation in your cabin while the rest of us have to work for a living!”
Andrea extended a box of tissues, and Grace took one and wiped her face. “Thank you, Andrea,” she whispered. “I didn’t really want to leave.”
“I know,” the counselor said. “And we don’t want you to.”
Grace stood and she adjusted her uniform. “In that case, Counselor, perhaps I had best report for duty.” She paused, and then she turned back around. “About the Captain? What does he regret?”
Andrea shook her head. “His confidences are as sacred as yours,” she answered. Or they would be if he had opened up even once to me, she thought sourly.
The operations officer nodded. “Okay. Do I need to set up an appointment with you?”
“Check your schedule—it’s already there. And if you need to talk, Grace, at any time just come by.”
Grace nodded and then she exited the counselor’s office.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty (cont.)
Matt finished signing off on the final piece of paperwork in the PADD that Yeoman Sinclair had given him as the turbolift doors opened and Grace Biddle walked onto the bridge. She walked across to stand in front of Matt.
“Permission to return to duty, Sir?” she asked.
Matt nodded crisply. “Permission granted, Miss Biddle. It’s good to have you back on the bridge—assume your station.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered, walking briskly over to the newly repaired Operations console and sitting down.
“Captain, we are being hailed by Arrogant,” Chan called out. “Captain Myers is asking to speak with you in private.”
“On screen, Mister Shrak.”
The Andorian shrugged and he adjusted a few controls, and then the image of Captain William Myers appeared on the main viewing screen. The Starfleet officer frowned as he saw the bridge behind Matt on his own display.
“Captain Dahlgren, may we speak privately?” he asked.
“Captain Myers, we will be heading out in a few moments. I don’t have time to waste, not if we are to make contact another Nephkyrie vessel before the arrival of Independence. If you have something personal to discuss, we can do so later. Otherwise spit it out.”
Bill frowned and he sat back in his command chair. “Captain Dahlgren, I wish to log a formal protest of your orders. As difficult as the Nephkyrie ships are to detect and the sheer volume of space that we must search . . . well there is little hope of finding another vessel. Furthermore, even if we do manage to locate one, what makes you think that they will respond any differently than the first one did? Right now, we have a face only eighteen hundred awake Nephkyrie—a difficult situation but one that we can handle once Independence arrives in twenty-one hours. We risk this second ship—if we locate it—providing reinforcements to this vessel, which will change the equation from something we are equipped to deal with to being gravely outnumbered.”
“Your protest is officially logged, Captain Myers. My orders, however, still stand. Is Arrogant prepared to move out?”
“We are, but I have an additional . . . request, Captain Dahlgren.”
“Go ahead.”
William leaned forward, his expression pained. “I would rather discuss this private, Captain Dahlgren.”
“Captain Myers, either this can wait or it cannot. Which is it?”
The Captain of the Arrogant sighed and he sat back. “I want you to relinquish tactical command.”
Matt sat perfectly still, and then tapped one finger on the arm of his command chair. “For what possible reason would I do that, Captain Myers?”
“Republic might be a cruiser, but she is almost obsolete, whereas Arrogant, while smaller, is a modern vessel. You have only four months seniority over me, Matt. Four months. And almost a year of that seniority you spent in hospital wards and running a desk at Starfleet Headquarters, not sitting in the commander’s chair. You aren’t physically in any condition to deal with the stress of command, and your ship . . .” William Myers paused and he grimaced. “Matt, the only reason Republic is even in service is that they hope you might pull off some miracle of turning that garbage scow into a Starfleet Starship! Between your crew, that relic, and your physical lack of well-being, I submit that you aren’t up to making the hard choices anymore. Hell, Admiral Parker sent you on a two-month trip to the Cygnus Sector, Matt! Admiral Hall doesn’t need more ships out there; he did it to get you and that mutinous rust-heap out of the way!”
“Are you done, Captain Myers?” Matt asked in a soft voice that made even Chan Shrak shiver with the chill he conveyed.
“I did ask to say my piece in private, Captain Dahlgren. You forced my hand on this, however.”
“I will log your statement for the record, Captain Myers, but your request is denied.”
“Matt, just think about this for a . . .”
“Captain Myers!” Matt snapped. “You will address me as Captain Dahlgren, or Sir! Is that understood?”
“It is,” William replied through clenched teeth. “Sir.”
“Whether my seniority over you is a matter of four minutes, four days, four weeks, four months, four years, or four decades, Captain Myers, it remains that I am, in fact, senior to you; and the senior officer on this station. Despite her age, Republic is a cruiser, and carries a heavier armament than your own ship. Is that not correct, Captain Myers?”
“It is, Sir.”
“As I have been cleared by Star Fleet Medical, Star Fleet Command, and this ship’s surgeon for duty, my physical health and well-being is none of your concern, Captain. I will note your objections and your statement in my log, but just so we are clear on this issue, Captain Myers, do you intend to follow my orders or must I order your executive officer to relieve you of command and place you in confinement within your own brig?”
William inhaled sharply. “You wouldn’t dare . . .”
“Don’t think that for one second, Captain Myers,” Matt interrupted. “You and I are both aware that Captain Salok can recite verbatim the exact text of the regulations you are on the verge of breaking, without once resorting to reading the information from a PADD. You know that he will endorse my relief of you—for cause, Captain Myers!—and he will recommend you stand a general court-martial.”
Arrogant’s captain sat heavily back, but he finally nodded. “I hoped to convince you, for the good of the service, Captain Dahlgren. I will, of course, follow regulations and obey your orders until the arrival of your senior officer, Captain Salok.”
“Good. Is there anything else you need, Captain Myers?”
“No, Sir.”
“Very well. Let me make one additional thing crystal clear to you. If you ever refer to this ship and her crew in those terms again, either in public or in private, then by god, Sir, I will see you broken out of the service, then I will track you down to a system where dueling is still legal, and then God as my witness, I will put either a foot of cold steel or a slug through your heart. Is that understood, Captain Myers?”
“Yes, Sir,” William whispered in a cold fury as he stared at the screen.
“Good. Then let us put this . . . conversation behind us, Captain Myers. Have you received the coordinates my helmsman transmitted?”
“We have, Captain Dahlgren. Why aren’t we splitting up to search for the Nephkyrie ship—and why are we starting so close? Those coordinates are just over a third of a light-year away?”
“Because we have already located the second Nephkyrie ship, Captain Myers; or did you forget that Republic deployed over two dozen high-speed probes over the past few days?”
The other captain sat sharply upright. “You didn’t tell me you located them!” he barked.
Matt stared at the screen in cold contempt until William finally relaxed and uttered one more word. “Sir.”
“The probes detected the second ship less than fifteen minutes ago, Captain Myers. Right where the children we have prisoner stated it would be, if it were launched four months after the first according to the schedule as they understood it.”
“But we don’t even know their relative measure of hours or days; how did you . . .”
“We talked to them, Captain Myers. And we found out how long their hours were, approximately, and how many of their hours were in a day, and how many of their days in a week; in short we used our brains and our humanity to gently ask questions instead of interrogating them as if they were Jem’Hadar shock troops.”
“I want you to hold Arrogant at two million kilometers, Captain Myers. From there, you will act as my reserve in the event these Nephkyrie prove as hostile and intractable as those of the first ship. Republic will make contact and attempt to initiate a discussion. You are to take NO hostile action, regardless of provocation, unless I order you to do so, I am incapacitated, or Republic has been destroyed. Is that understood, Captain Myers?”
“Yes, Sir,” William answered sourly.
“Very well. We warp out in two minutes, Captain. Get your ship ready and bring your inhibitor on-line.” Matt didn’t wait for a reply and he cut the transmission from his own panel on the arm of his command chair. And then he frowned. He rotated his command chair to look at Chan.
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
Chan’s antennae quivered. “I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren,” he answered with a sly smile. “All-ship broadcast is now terminated.”
“Thank you, Mister Shrak,” the Captain said as he rotated his command chair back forward.
“Miss Montoya, is our course plotted?”
“Yes, Sir, and the engines are ready.”
“Mister Malik, set transporter inhibitor to full-strength.”
“Full strength, aye, aye, Sir.”
“Mister Shrak. Sound General Quarters and set Red Alert throughout the ship.”
“Sounding General Quarters . . . all compartments report secure for action.”
Matt sat back in his seat. “We will show that son-of-a-bitch just how much difference there is between our Republic and a rusting out garbage scow of mutineers,” he whispered just loud enough that the bridge crew could pretend that they hadn’t heard him utter the words—but Matt saw the wide grins on their faces.
“Engage, Miss Montoya.”
*************************************************
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”
And with that, the ship’s intercom cut out down in Deflector Control. Chris turned his chair around and looked over the men and women of his section, and then he stared at Chief Bronson, who was chuckling and shaking his head.
“Damn,” the burly NCO said. “I thought that the Old Man was tough on us! Guess he meant what he said about going to bat for us—and we aren’t going to let him down are we?”
“No, Chief,” came back a chorus of voices. To which Chris added his own.
The Red Alert klaxon sounded, and the lights in the compartment automatically dimmed. Chris turned back to his station. “Bring the main deflector on-line, deflection set to automatic, secondary and tertiary systems engaged,” he ordered sharply.
The replies came fast and furious and Chief Bronson took his seat beside the Ensign. He examined his panel and touched a series of controls. “Dish is on-line and ready, Mister Roberts. Warp engines are warming up.”
“Mister Roberts?” one of the techs called out from his station.
“Yes, Thompson?”
“Mister Roberts, we aren’t going to let Arrogant get away with saying those things about the ship, right, Sir?”
Chris glanced over at the Chief, who was struggling to control his own laughter and shaking his head. “Warp engines are on-line, bring the deflector to standard power,” the Ensign said as Republic began to surge forward, and then she shot past light-speed.
The Ensign watched the readings settle down and he nodded.
“Thompson,” he said, “rest assured that Arrogant and Jupiter Station both will get what they deserve.” Chris smiled. “I heard a rumor that Senior Chief Callaghan has been working on getting back at the Jupiters; I imagine that his fiendish mind went into overdriving upon hearing that broadcast.”
“Damn,” the deflector tech whispered. “Loosing the Senior Chief on them? Man, it almost makes you feel sorry for them. Almost.”
“Atrias, watch that intercooler temperature—it spiked last time we had to go to Warp in a hurry,” Chris cut in, bringing his crew back to their jobs.
“On it, Sir.”
************************************************************
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”
“Well, he really isn’t fit for duty,” Robert Woolsey said as he worked at the medical research station opposite of Quincy.
“Star Fleet Medical says he is, and I say he is. Does he need a good leg to sit in a damn chair?”
“Well no, but he can’t pass the physical in his current condition. So technically, he should be relieved and reassigned . . .”
“Robert, there are times when we go by the book and there are times when we use our own judgment. This is one of the latter. As long as he sits down, he can do his job. Would you rather than SOB Myers in charge? I mean you are now part of this ship—from a certain point of view, he called you a piece of garbage.”
The hologram looked up in alarm. “Perhaps I should report him for insulting a fellow Starfleet officer. Doctor Talbot, if they scuttle the ship—will they remove me first?”
“Matt won’t let that happen.”
“He’s only a Captain! He’s doesn’t get to decide these things.”
“He won’t let that happen.”
“Tell me again, why are we preparing this solution of Golian Fireseed Extract?” the hologram asked. “Ninety-nine point seven percent of the races in the Federation have a mild allergic reaction to this substance; and it has no medical use. In fact, it can cause severe skin irritation and itching if even a minute effect is ingested.”
“It’s a special project for Senior Chief Callaghan.”
“Oh,” the hologram replied. And then he stopped and looked up again. “What does he need this solution for?”
“Trust me, Doctor Woolsey,” the ship’s surgeon answered with broad grin, “you don’t want to know.”
************************************************************
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”
Gustaf Vasa reclined back in his comfortable seat, and he twisted the hairs of his thick blonde mustache. Finally, he nodded to himself. “Computer, load the physical profile for Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer, USS Republic.”
“Loaded.”
Vasa, Lieutenant and Crown Prince of a small Nordic political province on Earth, tapped the console and brought up data patterns on a variety of different instruments. Selecting one he added it to the physical profile of the Captain.
“Computer, adjust specifications on Replicator Program Vasa 8934-Tau to ergonomically match the physical profile of Matthew Dahlgren. Adjust length, mass, width, and grip to conform to his profile.”
“Adjusting . . . complete.”
Vasa smiled and he sat up and began typing in additional data. No, this ship wasn’t boring by any means, and if his Captain, if Gustaf Vasa’s Captain, was going to threaten to fight another Starfleet officer in a duel, then Gustaf Vasa would make certain that the Captain had a sword fit for a King.
“Computer, commence replication.”
“Replication underway . . . seventeen minutes will required to complete the program.”
Gustaf leaned back in his chair and he smiled. A sword fit for a King.
Matt finished signing off on the final piece of paperwork in the PADD that Yeoman Sinclair had given him as the turbolift doors opened and Grace Biddle walked onto the bridge. She walked across to stand in front of Matt.
“Permission to return to duty, Sir?” she asked.
Matt nodded crisply. “Permission granted, Miss Biddle. It’s good to have you back on the bridge—assume your station.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered, walking briskly over to the newly repaired Operations console and sitting down.
“Captain, we are being hailed by Arrogant,” Chan called out. “Captain Myers is asking to speak with you in private.”
“On screen, Mister Shrak.”
The Andorian shrugged and he adjusted a few controls, and then the image of Captain William Myers appeared on the main viewing screen. The Starfleet officer frowned as he saw the bridge behind Matt on his own display.
“Captain Dahlgren, may we speak privately?” he asked.
“Captain Myers, we will be heading out in a few moments. I don’t have time to waste, not if we are to make contact another Nephkyrie vessel before the arrival of Independence. If you have something personal to discuss, we can do so later. Otherwise spit it out.”
Bill frowned and he sat back in his command chair. “Captain Dahlgren, I wish to log a formal protest of your orders. As difficult as the Nephkyrie ships are to detect and the sheer volume of space that we must search . . . well there is little hope of finding another vessel. Furthermore, even if we do manage to locate one, what makes you think that they will respond any differently than the first one did? Right now, we have a face only eighteen hundred awake Nephkyrie—a difficult situation but one that we can handle once Independence arrives in twenty-one hours. We risk this second ship—if we locate it—providing reinforcements to this vessel, which will change the equation from something we are equipped to deal with to being gravely outnumbered.”
“Your protest is officially logged, Captain Myers. My orders, however, still stand. Is Arrogant prepared to move out?”
“We are, but I have an additional . . . request, Captain Dahlgren.”
“Go ahead.”
William leaned forward, his expression pained. “I would rather discuss this private, Captain Dahlgren.”
“Captain Myers, either this can wait or it cannot. Which is it?”
The Captain of the Arrogant sighed and he sat back. “I want you to relinquish tactical command.”
Matt sat perfectly still, and then tapped one finger on the arm of his command chair. “For what possible reason would I do that, Captain Myers?”
“Republic might be a cruiser, but she is almost obsolete, whereas Arrogant, while smaller, is a modern vessel. You have only four months seniority over me, Matt. Four months. And almost a year of that seniority you spent in hospital wards and running a desk at Starfleet Headquarters, not sitting in the commander’s chair. You aren’t physically in any condition to deal with the stress of command, and your ship . . .” William Myers paused and he grimaced. “Matt, the only reason Republic is even in service is that they hope you might pull off some miracle of turning that garbage scow into a Starfleet Starship! Between your crew, that relic, and your physical lack of well-being, I submit that you aren’t up to making the hard choices anymore. Hell, Admiral Parker sent you on a two-month trip to the Cygnus Sector, Matt! Admiral Hall doesn’t need more ships out there; he did it to get you and that mutinous rust-heap out of the way!”
“Are you done, Captain Myers?” Matt asked in a soft voice that made even Chan Shrak shiver with the chill he conveyed.
“I did ask to say my piece in private, Captain Dahlgren. You forced my hand on this, however.”
“I will log your statement for the record, Captain Myers, but your request is denied.”
“Matt, just think about this for a . . .”
“Captain Myers!” Matt snapped. “You will address me as Captain Dahlgren, or Sir! Is that understood?”
“It is,” William replied through clenched teeth. “Sir.”
“Whether my seniority over you is a matter of four minutes, four days, four weeks, four months, four years, or four decades, Captain Myers, it remains that I am, in fact, senior to you; and the senior officer on this station. Despite her age, Republic is a cruiser, and carries a heavier armament than your own ship. Is that not correct, Captain Myers?”
“It is, Sir.”
“As I have been cleared by Star Fleet Medical, Star Fleet Command, and this ship’s surgeon for duty, my physical health and well-being is none of your concern, Captain. I will note your objections and your statement in my log, but just so we are clear on this issue, Captain Myers, do you intend to follow my orders or must I order your executive officer to relieve you of command and place you in confinement within your own brig?”
William inhaled sharply. “You wouldn’t dare . . .”
“Don’t think that for one second, Captain Myers,” Matt interrupted. “You and I are both aware that Captain Salok can recite verbatim the exact text of the regulations you are on the verge of breaking, without once resorting to reading the information from a PADD. You know that he will endorse my relief of you—for cause, Captain Myers!—and he will recommend you stand a general court-martial.”
Arrogant’s captain sat heavily back, but he finally nodded. “I hoped to convince you, for the good of the service, Captain Dahlgren. I will, of course, follow regulations and obey your orders until the arrival of your senior officer, Captain Salok.”
“Good. Is there anything else you need, Captain Myers?”
“No, Sir.”
“Very well. Let me make one additional thing crystal clear to you. If you ever refer to this ship and her crew in those terms again, either in public or in private, then by god, Sir, I will see you broken out of the service, then I will track you down to a system where dueling is still legal, and then God as my witness, I will put either a foot of cold steel or a slug through your heart. Is that understood, Captain Myers?”
“Yes, Sir,” William whispered in a cold fury as he stared at the screen.
“Good. Then let us put this . . . conversation behind us, Captain Myers. Have you received the coordinates my helmsman transmitted?”
“We have, Captain Dahlgren. Why aren’t we splitting up to search for the Nephkyrie ship—and why are we starting so close? Those coordinates are just over a third of a light-year away?”
“Because we have already located the second Nephkyrie ship, Captain Myers; or did you forget that Republic deployed over two dozen high-speed probes over the past few days?”
The other captain sat sharply upright. “You didn’t tell me you located them!” he barked.
Matt stared at the screen in cold contempt until William finally relaxed and uttered one more word. “Sir.”
“The probes detected the second ship less than fifteen minutes ago, Captain Myers. Right where the children we have prisoner stated it would be, if it were launched four months after the first according to the schedule as they understood it.”
“But we don’t even know their relative measure of hours or days; how did you . . .”
“We talked to them, Captain Myers. And we found out how long their hours were, approximately, and how many of their hours were in a day, and how many of their days in a week; in short we used our brains and our humanity to gently ask questions instead of interrogating them as if they were Jem’Hadar shock troops.”
“I want you to hold Arrogant at two million kilometers, Captain Myers. From there, you will act as my reserve in the event these Nephkyrie prove as hostile and intractable as those of the first ship. Republic will make contact and attempt to initiate a discussion. You are to take NO hostile action, regardless of provocation, unless I order you to do so, I am incapacitated, or Republic has been destroyed. Is that understood, Captain Myers?”
“Yes, Sir,” William answered sourly.
“Very well. We warp out in two minutes, Captain. Get your ship ready and bring your inhibitor on-line.” Matt didn’t wait for a reply and he cut the transmission from his own panel on the arm of his command chair. And then he frowned. He rotated his command chair to look at Chan.
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
Chan’s antennae quivered. “I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren,” he answered with a sly smile. “All-ship broadcast is now terminated.”
“Thank you, Mister Shrak,” the Captain said as he rotated his command chair back forward.
“Miss Montoya, is our course plotted?”
“Yes, Sir, and the engines are ready.”
“Mister Malik, set transporter inhibitor to full-strength.”
“Full strength, aye, aye, Sir.”
“Mister Shrak. Sound General Quarters and set Red Alert throughout the ship.”
“Sounding General Quarters . . . all compartments report secure for action.”
Matt sat back in his seat. “We will show that son-of-a-bitch just how much difference there is between our Republic and a rusting out garbage scow of mutineers,” he whispered just loud enough that the bridge crew could pretend that they hadn’t heard him utter the words—but Matt saw the wide grins on their faces.
“Engage, Miss Montoya.”
*************************************************
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”
And with that, the ship’s intercom cut out down in Deflector Control. Chris turned his chair around and looked over the men and women of his section, and then he stared at Chief Bronson, who was chuckling and shaking his head.
“Damn,” the burly NCO said. “I thought that the Old Man was tough on us! Guess he meant what he said about going to bat for us—and we aren’t going to let him down are we?”
“No, Chief,” came back a chorus of voices. To which Chris added his own.
The Red Alert klaxon sounded, and the lights in the compartment automatically dimmed. Chris turned back to his station. “Bring the main deflector on-line, deflection set to automatic, secondary and tertiary systems engaged,” he ordered sharply.
The replies came fast and furious and Chief Bronson took his seat beside the Ensign. He examined his panel and touched a series of controls. “Dish is on-line and ready, Mister Roberts. Warp engines are warming up.”
“Mister Roberts?” one of the techs called out from his station.
“Yes, Thompson?”
“Mister Roberts, we aren’t going to let Arrogant get away with saying those things about the ship, right, Sir?”
Chris glanced over at the Chief, who was struggling to control his own laughter and shaking his head. “Warp engines are on-line, bring the deflector to standard power,” the Ensign said as Republic began to surge forward, and then she shot past light-speed.
The Ensign watched the readings settle down and he nodded.
“Thompson,” he said, “rest assured that Arrogant and Jupiter Station both will get what they deserve.” Chris smiled. “I heard a rumor that Senior Chief Callaghan has been working on getting back at the Jupiters; I imagine that his fiendish mind went into overdriving upon hearing that broadcast.”
“Damn,” the deflector tech whispered. “Loosing the Senior Chief on them? Man, it almost makes you feel sorry for them. Almost.”
“Atrias, watch that intercooler temperature—it spiked last time we had to go to Warp in a hurry,” Chris cut in, bringing his crew back to their jobs.
“On it, Sir.”
************************************************************
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”
“Well, he really isn’t fit for duty,” Robert Woolsey said as he worked at the medical research station opposite of Quincy.
“Star Fleet Medical says he is, and I say he is. Does he need a good leg to sit in a damn chair?”
“Well no, but he can’t pass the physical in his current condition. So technically, he should be relieved and reassigned . . .”
“Robert, there are times when we go by the book and there are times when we use our own judgment. This is one of the latter. As long as he sits down, he can do his job. Would you rather than SOB Myers in charge? I mean you are now part of this ship—from a certain point of view, he called you a piece of garbage.”
The hologram looked up in alarm. “Perhaps I should report him for insulting a fellow Starfleet officer. Doctor Talbot, if they scuttle the ship—will they remove me first?”
“Matt won’t let that happen.”
“He’s only a Captain! He’s doesn’t get to decide these things.”
“He won’t let that happen.”
“Tell me again, why are we preparing this solution of Golian Fireseed Extract?” the hologram asked. “Ninety-nine point seven percent of the races in the Federation have a mild allergic reaction to this substance; and it has no medical use. In fact, it can cause severe skin irritation and itching if even a minute effect is ingested.”
“It’s a special project for Senior Chief Callaghan.”
“Oh,” the hologram replied. And then he stopped and looked up again. “What does he need this solution for?”
“Trust me, Doctor Woolsey,” the ship’s surgeon answered with broad grin, “you don’t want to know.”
************************************************************
“Mister Shrak. It appears that this conversation was just broadcast throughout the entire ship—with the exception of the bridge loudspeakers.”
“I must have accidently activated the intercomm, Captain Dahlgren.”
Gustaf Vasa reclined back in his comfortable seat, and he twisted the hairs of his thick blonde mustache. Finally, he nodded to himself. “Computer, load the physical profile for Matthew Dahlgren, commanding officer, USS Republic.”
“Loaded.”
Vasa, Lieutenant and Crown Prince of a small Nordic political province on Earth, tapped the console and brought up data patterns on a variety of different instruments. Selecting one he added it to the physical profile of the Captain.
“Computer, adjust specifications on Replicator Program Vasa 8934-Tau to ergonomically match the physical profile of Matthew Dahlgren. Adjust length, mass, width, and grip to conform to his profile.”
“Adjusting . . . complete.”
Vasa smiled and he sat up and began typing in additional data. No, this ship wasn’t boring by any means, and if his Captain, if Gustaf Vasa’s Captain, was going to threaten to fight another Starfleet officer in a duel, then Gustaf Vasa would make certain that the Captain had a sword fit for a King.
“Computer, commence replication.”
“Replication underway . . . seventeen minutes will required to complete the program.”
Gustaf leaned back in his chair and he smiled. A sword fit for a King.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty (cont.)
Republic came out of warp some six hundred thousand kilometers distant from the second of the Nephkyrie ships, her hull barely showing as a small dot in the depths of the view screen.
“Magnify,” Matt said, as he secured his restraining safety belt. The screen flashed, and the sleeper ship grew much larger.
“Miss Montoya, match velocity and vector with that ship.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
The Starfleet cruiser altered her heading and began to parallel the ancient vessel.
“Captain Dahlgren,” Chan said from his station, “we are being scanned. Their weapons are off-line.”
“Hail them, Mister Shrak.”
The Andorian pressed a few controls and then he shook his head. “No response.”
“Very well. Miss Montoya, take us in to a range of 400,000 kilometers—slowly and smartly.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Matt rotated his command chair, to face his science officer. “Miss Tsien. Scan that vessel, stem to stern, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. I have altered the sensor beam modulations based on the data from our first encounters; we should be able to get a clearer picture with this one. Configuration identical to the first ship, weapon systems identical, hull composition identical . . . sir, I am detecting close to five hundred thousand life-forms, but all of them appear to be in stasis.” Amanda frowned. “Make that one hundred and fifty thousand adult life-forms and three hundred and fifty thousand juveniles—physical juveniles, Sir! There are no signs of them aging in stasis. The majority of interior compartments are in vacuum, with no power and no life support.” She paused. “Correction, the ship is diverting power and life support to a cluster of compartments—and I am now detecting several dozen active life signs.”
Matt nodded and he rotated his seat back to face the main viewer. “Let’s give them a moment to wake up, shall we. Miss Montoya, what is the range to that ship?”
“484,000 kilometers, Sir.”
“Hold position.”
“Aye, sir; holding position relative to the Nephkyrie vessel.”
For two long minutes, there was absolute silence on the bridge, other than the hum of the instrumentation. And then Chan looked up.
“Captain Dahlgren, we are being hailed.”
“On screen.”
The viewer flickered and then the image of a Nephkyrie appeared. “Greetings. I am Shipmaster Voltanis, representing the Nephkyrie Solidarity.”
Matt unbuckled his belt and he stood. “And I am Matthew Dahlgren, commander of the Federation Starship Republic.”
Voltanis bowed his head. “Forgive me for asking, Matthew Dahlgren, but my sensors indicate that this ship remains in deep space . . . how did you manage to locate us?”
“Yours is not the first Nephkyrie vessel which we have encountered, Shipmaster Voltanis. And that first contact was . . . a difficult one which we wish to ask your assistance in resolving.”
“Difficult, Matthew Dahlgren?”
“Your Speaker, Typhias, has not been willing to . . .”
The Nephkyrie jerked on the screen. “Typhias is not Speaker! He is a clerk to the Speaker!”
Matt waited and then he nodded. “Regardless, he claims to be Speaker of the Nephkyrie Solidarity. The government of races that I represent—the Federation—did not understand your markers, Shipmaster Voltanis, and we placed a colony upon the world which your ships are travelling to, a world we call New Columbia. My ship discovered that Typhias abducted all twelve thousand of our citizens, beaming them aboard his ship, and placing them in stasis.”
“Has he gone mad?” A second Nephkyrie voice came across through the viewer, and a regally attired being stepped forward. “How may I address you, Matthew Dahlgren? I am Belagon, and I Speak for the Solidarity upon Ark Two.”
“My proper title is Captain Dahlgren, or simply Captain, mister Speaker,” Matt said with a bow of his own.
“What you say cannot be true, Typhias’s action would never be permitted by those chosen to lead Ark Prime.”
“Mister Speaker, he did beam aboard our entire colony—claiming that my species was compatible with the Nephkyrie and could serve as a means to cure your genetic damage. Unlike this vessel, there are only a few hundred adult members of your race aboard his ship—and they had sufficient stasis pods to place my people in hibernation sleep.”
Belagon’s shoulders slumped. “Compatible?! He follows the teachings of the Harvesting then.”
“The Harvesting? He used a very similar phrase when we spoke, mister Speaker.”
“Long ago, Captain Dahlgren, when our race discovered that our genetic diversity had been lost and the damage to our chromosomes proved too wide spread to treat, a small cabal of the Solidarity refused to wait on the advances of science to find a cure. They called themselves the Harvesting, and they took samples from all of the species that surrounded our dying sun. They altered them and they distilled them, and they found a way to negate—for a time—our damage. But then the Solidarity learned of their methods in finding this treatment, and they were tried as criminals of the first order. We thought them long dead and gone from our society. Your vessel carries at least as many crew as you claim Typhias has, Captain Dahlgren. And of multiple species, no less. Impressive. Why have you not recovered your colonists from him? Why have you sought out the Solidarity, risking that we would be like him?”
“His crew consists of only a few hundred adults, it is true. But there are many hundreds of other Nephkyrie awake aboard the ship.” Matt paused. “Your stasis pods appear to stop the physical aging process; are they the same as the ones installed aboard your Ark Prime?”
“Yes. He has waked the children? They children are not mature—surely you can handle them?”
“Mister Speaker,” Matt paused . . . there was no easy way to say this. “He has, to the best of our knowledge, altered the pods so that those within still age. Your children on Ark Prime are physically mature—and he is arming and training them as soldiers.”
“You lie!” Voltanis snapped. “Not even a Harvester would dare do such a thing! It . . . it . . . it is an abomination!”
“I am sorry that I must be the one to convey this information, Shipmaster, mister Speaker. But we have one hundred and seven of your children—mature in body, but not in mind—that Typhias trained, armed, and sent aboard my ship to capture it. You are welcome to speak with them.”
The Nephkyrie Shipmaster began to speak, but Belagon touched his shoulder and shook his head. “I will beam aboard your ship, then, Captain. I will see for myself what horrors Typhias has committed; and I will hear the truth of the words spoken by these children.”
Matt shook his head. “We are well aware that your race can deliver fusion warheads via the transporters; however, I will allow you to beam aboard one of our shuttles, which will then carry you back to this vessel.”
“That is a reasonable precaution, Captain Dahlgren. I shall await your shuttle then.”
The screen blanked, and Matt let out a deep breath, and sat back down, wincing as his leg sent a deep stabbing pain into his thigh. He rotated the seat and faced his executive officer.
“Mister Shrak. Launch a shuttle and prepare to receive Speaker Belagon. Have a Marine detail standing by to render full Presidential honors.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt punched a stud on his chair. “Doctor Talbot, meet me in my ready room,” he said. He stood up, and took his cane. “Miss Biddle. You have the conn.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered as Matt limped across the bridge.
Republic came out of warp some six hundred thousand kilometers distant from the second of the Nephkyrie ships, her hull barely showing as a small dot in the depths of the view screen.
“Magnify,” Matt said, as he secured his restraining safety belt. The screen flashed, and the sleeper ship grew much larger.
“Miss Montoya, match velocity and vector with that ship.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
The Starfleet cruiser altered her heading and began to parallel the ancient vessel.
“Captain Dahlgren,” Chan said from his station, “we are being scanned. Their weapons are off-line.”
“Hail them, Mister Shrak.”
The Andorian pressed a few controls and then he shook his head. “No response.”
“Very well. Miss Montoya, take us in to a range of 400,000 kilometers—slowly and smartly.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
Matt rotated his command chair, to face his science officer. “Miss Tsien. Scan that vessel, stem to stern, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. I have altered the sensor beam modulations based on the data from our first encounters; we should be able to get a clearer picture with this one. Configuration identical to the first ship, weapon systems identical, hull composition identical . . . sir, I am detecting close to five hundred thousand life-forms, but all of them appear to be in stasis.” Amanda frowned. “Make that one hundred and fifty thousand adult life-forms and three hundred and fifty thousand juveniles—physical juveniles, Sir! There are no signs of them aging in stasis. The majority of interior compartments are in vacuum, with no power and no life support.” She paused. “Correction, the ship is diverting power and life support to a cluster of compartments—and I am now detecting several dozen active life signs.”
Matt nodded and he rotated his seat back to face the main viewer. “Let’s give them a moment to wake up, shall we. Miss Montoya, what is the range to that ship?”
“484,000 kilometers, Sir.”
“Hold position.”
“Aye, sir; holding position relative to the Nephkyrie vessel.”
For two long minutes, there was absolute silence on the bridge, other than the hum of the instrumentation. And then Chan looked up.
“Captain Dahlgren, we are being hailed.”
“On screen.”
The viewer flickered and then the image of a Nephkyrie appeared. “Greetings. I am Shipmaster Voltanis, representing the Nephkyrie Solidarity.”
Matt unbuckled his belt and he stood. “And I am Matthew Dahlgren, commander of the Federation Starship Republic.”
Voltanis bowed his head. “Forgive me for asking, Matthew Dahlgren, but my sensors indicate that this ship remains in deep space . . . how did you manage to locate us?”
“Yours is not the first Nephkyrie vessel which we have encountered, Shipmaster Voltanis. And that first contact was . . . a difficult one which we wish to ask your assistance in resolving.”
“Difficult, Matthew Dahlgren?”
“Your Speaker, Typhias, has not been willing to . . .”
The Nephkyrie jerked on the screen. “Typhias is not Speaker! He is a clerk to the Speaker!”
Matt waited and then he nodded. “Regardless, he claims to be Speaker of the Nephkyrie Solidarity. The government of races that I represent—the Federation—did not understand your markers, Shipmaster Voltanis, and we placed a colony upon the world which your ships are travelling to, a world we call New Columbia. My ship discovered that Typhias abducted all twelve thousand of our citizens, beaming them aboard his ship, and placing them in stasis.”
“Has he gone mad?” A second Nephkyrie voice came across through the viewer, and a regally attired being stepped forward. “How may I address you, Matthew Dahlgren? I am Belagon, and I Speak for the Solidarity upon Ark Two.”
“My proper title is Captain Dahlgren, or simply Captain, mister Speaker,” Matt said with a bow of his own.
“What you say cannot be true, Typhias’s action would never be permitted by those chosen to lead Ark Prime.”
“Mister Speaker, he did beam aboard our entire colony—claiming that my species was compatible with the Nephkyrie and could serve as a means to cure your genetic damage. Unlike this vessel, there are only a few hundred adult members of your race aboard his ship—and they had sufficient stasis pods to place my people in hibernation sleep.”
Belagon’s shoulders slumped. “Compatible?! He follows the teachings of the Harvesting then.”
“The Harvesting? He used a very similar phrase when we spoke, mister Speaker.”
“Long ago, Captain Dahlgren, when our race discovered that our genetic diversity had been lost and the damage to our chromosomes proved too wide spread to treat, a small cabal of the Solidarity refused to wait on the advances of science to find a cure. They called themselves the Harvesting, and they took samples from all of the species that surrounded our dying sun. They altered them and they distilled them, and they found a way to negate—for a time—our damage. But then the Solidarity learned of their methods in finding this treatment, and they were tried as criminals of the first order. We thought them long dead and gone from our society. Your vessel carries at least as many crew as you claim Typhias has, Captain Dahlgren. And of multiple species, no less. Impressive. Why have you not recovered your colonists from him? Why have you sought out the Solidarity, risking that we would be like him?”
“His crew consists of only a few hundred adults, it is true. But there are many hundreds of other Nephkyrie awake aboard the ship.” Matt paused. “Your stasis pods appear to stop the physical aging process; are they the same as the ones installed aboard your Ark Prime?”
“Yes. He has waked the children? They children are not mature—surely you can handle them?”
“Mister Speaker,” Matt paused . . . there was no easy way to say this. “He has, to the best of our knowledge, altered the pods so that those within still age. Your children on Ark Prime are physically mature—and he is arming and training them as soldiers.”
“You lie!” Voltanis snapped. “Not even a Harvester would dare do such a thing! It . . . it . . . it is an abomination!”
“I am sorry that I must be the one to convey this information, Shipmaster, mister Speaker. But we have one hundred and seven of your children—mature in body, but not in mind—that Typhias trained, armed, and sent aboard my ship to capture it. You are welcome to speak with them.”
The Nephkyrie Shipmaster began to speak, but Belagon touched his shoulder and shook his head. “I will beam aboard your ship, then, Captain. I will see for myself what horrors Typhias has committed; and I will hear the truth of the words spoken by these children.”
Matt shook his head. “We are well aware that your race can deliver fusion warheads via the transporters; however, I will allow you to beam aboard one of our shuttles, which will then carry you back to this vessel.”
“That is a reasonable precaution, Captain Dahlgren. I shall await your shuttle then.”
The screen blanked, and Matt let out a deep breath, and sat back down, wincing as his leg sent a deep stabbing pain into his thigh. He rotated the seat and faced his executive officer.
“Mister Shrak. Launch a shuttle and prepare to receive Speaker Belagon. Have a Marine detail standing by to render full Presidential honors.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt punched a stud on his chair. “Doctor Talbot, meet me in my ready room,” he said. He stood up, and took his cane. “Miss Biddle. You have the conn.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” she answered as Matt limped across the bridge.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty One
Belagon’s face twisted as he stepped into the cargo hold and saw the mass of Nephkyrie children assembled there. The noise of talk and games died down as one by one, the prisioners spotted their elder and each slowly came to his feet, or turned around, their eyes wide.
“Second Speaker?” one whispered, taking a step forward. “You are dead, Second Speaker . . . the Speaker told us.”
“Who are you, child?” Belagon softly asked.
“Talondra Dal, Second Speaker. I . . . I remember you—but you haven’t aged.”
Belagon swayed, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Talondra. I remember you, child. You were barely post adolescence, and your father was assigned as Shipmaster Prime.”
The prisoner nodded. “He was killed in the attack that destroyed the rest of the Fleet . . . but you are here? How?”
“There was no attack on the Fleet, Talondra. The rest of the Arks are intact. And Typhias . . . Typhias has much for which to answer.”
“But . . . but,” Talondra stammered, and he too began to cry. “If there wasn’t an attack, then why is Father dead?”
Belagon’s only answer was to step forward and hold the weeping adult-sized child tightly in his arms.
******************************************************
Voltanis shook his head. “I never believed that I would use my knowledge of the Arks to aid someone in attacking them, Second Speaker,” he sadly stated. “But in this case, I believe that you are correct.” The Nephkyrie Shipmaster laid a device on the table in Republic’s briefing room and he touched one side, causing a holographic display to spring into life over the device, rotating to show all surfaces of the Ark ships.
“There are five separate transporter emitters on the outer surface of the hull of Ark Prime,” he continued as five blinking dots appeared. “Eliminate these and the primary transporters—the most powerful transporter units—will be disabled until repairs can be made. It was by combining all five of these emitters that Typhias was able to beam his boarding party across through your shields and inhibitor field. In addition, there are twenty-two secondary transporter emitters which are capable of delivering fusion warheads outside your shields.” And more blinking dots appeared. “Once the transporter emitters have been removed, you should be able to eliminate the weapons batteries that bear and close until your own transporters are within range. The central command compartment is located here,” he touched another section of the surface and the image transformed into an internal schematic and zoomed in to display a series of connected compartment deep within the ship’s hull.
“From this compartment, the ship can be controlled; it is the nerve center through which all commands are passed. There is an auxiliary control center here,” and the image moved quickly towards the stern, “which duplicates the controls of the central command compartment; it too must you take to gain control of Ark Prime.” The Nephkyrie Shipmaster shook his head. “And you must be fast. All of our Arks, you see, are outfitted with scuttling charges in the event that they were overrun by a hostile race. The Second Speaker has the overrides, but once they are activated you will have only three minutes to enter the codes before the charges detonate.”
Matt nodded and he looked at his senior officers seated around the table. Captain Myers cleared his throat, and then he spoke up as the staff and their guests turned around to look at him. “How powerful are the charges, Shipmaster?”
“Taken all together, seventeen point four of the units of explosive force you refer to as gigatons,” the Shipmaster said with a wry smile. “We did not want our technology to be looted and these were to serve as our parting gift to any who fought their way to victory over us.”
For a moment there was only utter silence at the table, and then Chan shook his head. “That sounds simple enough. Three minutes should be more than sufficient time if Typhias’s children soldiers are representative of your ground combat technology.”
Voltanis snorted, and Belagon shook his head. “Those were civilian arms and armor, meant only for self-defense that Typhias supplied to our children. Our military weapons, Commander Shrak, are far more deadly.”
“To start,” interjected Voltanis, “each of our actual soldiers are clad from head to toe in true combat armor that is designed to resist energy weapons fire by absorbing the energy, dissipating its effect. Having seen a demonstration of your weapons, I can assure you that our military grade armor will resist a single hit from your highest settings—once. It will take multiple strikes to disable or kill a single one of our soldiers.”
“In addition to carrying a hand weapon similar to that our children used against you, our soldier’s main weapon was a derivative of our transporter technology. It projects a beam that disperses the material composition of the target, literally beaming away into nothing the object that the beam strikes. Rather part of the object or target; it only affects approximately one-half of your cubic feet at a time. Further, our military armor contains an integral inhibitor field meshed to the frequency of our weapons, as well as a pattern enhancer that allows our transporters to beam through shielded areas. Because of that, the weapon contains a secondary system that projects a disruption beam, that will cause molecular disentigration at close range.”
“Lovely,” muttered Lieutenant Beck. “So they can beam away our arms, legs, torsos, or heads, or hit us with the Klingon disruptor rifles.”
Belagon nodded. “Which is why I have already ordered Ark Two to wake our complement of soldiers—Typhias is our problem, and our soldiers deal with his crimes, Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt tapped his stylus against the table. “From what I have learned from my conversation with the Shipmaster here, your complement of actual soldiers is very small—not more than fifty per ship. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“In which case, I must insist that you let us augment your assault force with our own personnel; the fate of the Federation colonists is my problem, Second Speaker.”
Myers shifted in his seat, but he kept his mouth closed, as Chan glared at him.
“If we are unsuccessful, Captain Dahlgren, your Federation will hold our race responsible for those deaths—and those of your crews. I beg of you, let us prove our worth in this instance.”
“Second Speaker, the United Federation of Planets does not hold the crimes of an individual, or a small group of individuals, against an entire race. Speaking on behalf of the Federation, I can assure you that regardless of the outcome, we will remove our colonists from New Columbia so that you may have your new home. And the Federation will offer to extend to you their hand in friendship and provide any assistance that you may need—our doctors and scientists aboard this ship are already working on finding a treatment for your genetic damage.”
Voltanis sat back, barely breathing in surprise. But Belagon only met Matt’s eyes, and then he nodded. “Agreed. We have years in which my people will sleep before we reach the planet; so that discussion can be held later. But I am honored that you would treat with us fairly, after what Typhias has wrought.”
Matt stood, and he winced with pain before he regained his composure. The two guests and the remaining Starfleet officers stood in response. “Second Speaker, Starfleet’s mission is to seek out new life, and new civilizations; to make peaceful contact and begin a dialogue between our different peoples. It is we who are honored to make First Contact with your civilization. Contact that I hope will be ongoing once you establish your colony.”
Belagon bowed his head. “The Shipmaster and I will return to Ark Two, to prepare our men. It should not take more than hour.”
“We will expect your return.”
And with that, the two Nephkyrie exited the briefing room, escorted away by an honor Guard of Beck's Marines.
Bill Myers turned around and laid both his hands on the table. “Captain Dahlgren, you can’t promise that—that is for the Council to decide!”
“I can and I have. They laid claim to the planet first, Captain Myers. Would you rather we fight them?”
“Of course not, but we can find them another planet! And this haphazard assault can go terribly wrong, Captain Dahlgren, Sir. People, our people, will die. We can wait for Independence, she’s just sixteen hours out!”
“And if Typhias starts to process, to distill, our people in the meantime, Captain Myers? No. We aren’t waiting. Thank you for your suggestions.”
Bill opened his mouth again, and Matt interrupted him. “You are dismissed, Captain Myers. Make certain Arrogant is prepared.”
“Assume your stations, people,” Matt finished, and his officers, along with the CO of USS Arrogant, filed out.
*************************************************
“End program,” snarled Erwin Beck, and the computer in Holodeck One obediently reverted back to its normal configuration. “This isn’t a game, Marines!” he snapped. “We have the exact deck plans of the target; we have a perfect simulation of the environment; we have better intelligence on the capabilities of these Nephkyrie than we ever had on the Jem’Hadar; and you people are still moving too slowly! One hundred and fifty seconds from the moment we beam in is all the time we can count on, Marines. Because one second after that we are all dead! The colonists are dead! Those Nephkyrie children press-ganged into soldiers are dead! The three hundred and forty-eight thousand innocent Nephkyrie still in stasis are dead!”
Erwin ran his hand through the thinning hair atop of his head. “We have to cut our way to the command consoles where the deactivation codes can be entered—and those codes have to be entered to stop the count-down. That means if Parker or Karalis get hit, one of you has to take their place! Why do you think I gave each of you the code? Winning the fire-fight is for after we stop that bloody bombs from going off, Marines! Do you get me?”
“WE GET YOU, SIR!” a ragged chorus of voices answered.
“And you Starfleet Security personnel had best get your act together! I know that your training included close-quarters combat drills, so get the lead out of your pants and move!”
One of Arrogant’s security officers muttered something, and Beck briskly walked across the deck until he was nose to nose with the officer.
“You have something to add, Jenkins? What was that that you said?”
“We’re doing our best, Lieutenant; that’s what I said! We’ve never trained for this Marine sh- . . . stuff.”
“God, I hope not; because if that is your best, Jenkins, then we are totally screwed and twelve thousand Federation colonists will lose their lives!”
Erwin took a step back and put his hands on his hips. “It isn’t fair that the Old Man pulled your asses off of Arrogant and Balao; it isn’t fair that you are beaming aboard a deathtrap to stop a maniac from killing himself and more than three hundred and sixty thousand innocent people! It isn’t fair that your training means in this instance you are quite likely to die! Get over that! The universe isn’t fair! No, this isn’t your normal away mission, and this isn’t about protecting a Starfleet vessel from hostile boarders; this is about saving the lives of people who can’t defend themselves! And if you think that is something only for Starfleet Marines, Jenkins, then you are a sorry excuse for a crewman and perhaps you need to rethink your career choice!”
“Run it again, and get it right this time! Computer, run Ark Prime Assault from the top!” Beck shouted as he exited the Holodeck and reentered the adjacent compartment where he was observing the drill.
*******************************************************
Matt flinched as Quincy gentled probed the swollen flesh. The surgeon frowned and he ran a tricorder over the inflamed thigh and shook his head. “I was afraid of this, Matt,” he said quietly. “The bone is infected again. Luckily, we caught it early this time.”
“Just give me the shot, Quincy,” Matt said through clenched teeth. “I’ve got to get back on the bridge.”
“Matt, the Ladoculkaine VII is what’s causing this; it stopped the pain, but it has also suppressed your immune system, which is why the infection has flared up so quickly. I can’t risk giving you another dose. It’s one of the known side-effects of the drug, but only in about eleven percent of cases; I’d hoped we would get lucky and avoid this complication.”
“So what are our options, Doctor?” Matt growled.
“We fight the infection—and you’ve got to face reality here, Matt. We are approaching the point where that leg has to come off,” Quincy’s voice trailed off, and then he grimaced. “Or we try something radical and unproven.”
The surgeon pressed a hypospray against the thigh and it hissed as he injected the tissue with a powerful compound to fight the infection. Matt flinched.
“How radical?”
“Dr. Woolsey has suggested that we attempt a Klingon procedure known as an inverse replication transplant. Basically, we scan your good leg, invert it to match your bad leg, and replicate the tissue. And then we go in and cut away the bad and attach the good. The problem is that it has never been performed on a human subject, Matt. It works on Klingons because of their redundant physiology, but has never been used on their limbs. It is used to restore damaged internal organs, primarily.”
“How long would it take?”
“It’s major surgery, Matt. We are talking twelve hours for the actual procedure, and you will be in bed for three or four more days afterwards, if not a week. If it works. If it doesn’t, then the leg will have to removed completely, and we will have to look at a prosthetic or an organic replacement.”
“Quincy, I can’t spare that kind of time at this moment!”
“I know. We’ve got a few days for you to make up your mind, Matt, but the pain is going to get worse. I’ll put this off until after you deal with the Nephkyrie, but then I want you on my table, Captain. And if the infection spreads, it won’t matter how busy you are or how much you are needed; I’ll relieve you and haul your ass down to sickbay for the procedure.”
“I can live with that.”
“You can die with that if the bone turns septic, Captain. I can give you one of your old pain meds, but . . .”
“But, they cloud my thinking. I’ll manage, Quincy.”
The surgeon nodded and he closed his medical bag. “I’m sorry, Matt. I thought the Ladoculkaine VII would give you time to heal.”
“Not your fault, Quincy. Help me up, would you?”
The old doctor bent down, and Matt placed an arm around his shoulder, and together the two men got the Captain back to his feet. “And before you tell me, I am planning on staying in my chair.”
“Glory hallelujah. He does have some common sense, after all,” the doctor snorted as Matt pulled up his trousers and fastened them.
“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the intercom announced.
“Go ahead,” Matt said as he tapped his comm badge, then took his cane from Quincy.
“Sir, all ships report ready; we can bring the operation upon your command,” Chan said.
“Very well, Mister Shrak. Sound Red Alert; I am on my way to the bridge. Dahlgren out.”
Matt took two limping steps to the door and then he turned around. “And you best get to sickbay, Quincy.”
“Hah. After I escort you to the bridge, Matt. Don’t want you to fall over in the turbolift and have to call for assistance in getting back up.”
Belagon’s face twisted as he stepped into the cargo hold and saw the mass of Nephkyrie children assembled there. The noise of talk and games died down as one by one, the prisioners spotted their elder and each slowly came to his feet, or turned around, their eyes wide.
“Second Speaker?” one whispered, taking a step forward. “You are dead, Second Speaker . . . the Speaker told us.”
“Who are you, child?” Belagon softly asked.
“Talondra Dal, Second Speaker. I . . . I remember you—but you haven’t aged.”
Belagon swayed, and a tear rolled down his cheek. “Talondra. I remember you, child. You were barely post adolescence, and your father was assigned as Shipmaster Prime.”
The prisoner nodded. “He was killed in the attack that destroyed the rest of the Fleet . . . but you are here? How?”
“There was no attack on the Fleet, Talondra. The rest of the Arks are intact. And Typhias . . . Typhias has much for which to answer.”
“But . . . but,” Talondra stammered, and he too began to cry. “If there wasn’t an attack, then why is Father dead?”
Belagon’s only answer was to step forward and hold the weeping adult-sized child tightly in his arms.
******************************************************
Voltanis shook his head. “I never believed that I would use my knowledge of the Arks to aid someone in attacking them, Second Speaker,” he sadly stated. “But in this case, I believe that you are correct.” The Nephkyrie Shipmaster laid a device on the table in Republic’s briefing room and he touched one side, causing a holographic display to spring into life over the device, rotating to show all surfaces of the Ark ships.
“There are five separate transporter emitters on the outer surface of the hull of Ark Prime,” he continued as five blinking dots appeared. “Eliminate these and the primary transporters—the most powerful transporter units—will be disabled until repairs can be made. It was by combining all five of these emitters that Typhias was able to beam his boarding party across through your shields and inhibitor field. In addition, there are twenty-two secondary transporter emitters which are capable of delivering fusion warheads outside your shields.” And more blinking dots appeared. “Once the transporter emitters have been removed, you should be able to eliminate the weapons batteries that bear and close until your own transporters are within range. The central command compartment is located here,” he touched another section of the surface and the image transformed into an internal schematic and zoomed in to display a series of connected compartment deep within the ship’s hull.
“From this compartment, the ship can be controlled; it is the nerve center through which all commands are passed. There is an auxiliary control center here,” and the image moved quickly towards the stern, “which duplicates the controls of the central command compartment; it too must you take to gain control of Ark Prime.” The Nephkyrie Shipmaster shook his head. “And you must be fast. All of our Arks, you see, are outfitted with scuttling charges in the event that they were overrun by a hostile race. The Second Speaker has the overrides, but once they are activated you will have only three minutes to enter the codes before the charges detonate.”
Matt nodded and he looked at his senior officers seated around the table. Captain Myers cleared his throat, and then he spoke up as the staff and their guests turned around to look at him. “How powerful are the charges, Shipmaster?”
“Taken all together, seventeen point four of the units of explosive force you refer to as gigatons,” the Shipmaster said with a wry smile. “We did not want our technology to be looted and these were to serve as our parting gift to any who fought their way to victory over us.”
For a moment there was only utter silence at the table, and then Chan shook his head. “That sounds simple enough. Three minutes should be more than sufficient time if Typhias’s children soldiers are representative of your ground combat technology.”
Voltanis snorted, and Belagon shook his head. “Those were civilian arms and armor, meant only for self-defense that Typhias supplied to our children. Our military weapons, Commander Shrak, are far more deadly.”
“To start,” interjected Voltanis, “each of our actual soldiers are clad from head to toe in true combat armor that is designed to resist energy weapons fire by absorbing the energy, dissipating its effect. Having seen a demonstration of your weapons, I can assure you that our military grade armor will resist a single hit from your highest settings—once. It will take multiple strikes to disable or kill a single one of our soldiers.”
“In addition to carrying a hand weapon similar to that our children used against you, our soldier’s main weapon was a derivative of our transporter technology. It projects a beam that disperses the material composition of the target, literally beaming away into nothing the object that the beam strikes. Rather part of the object or target; it only affects approximately one-half of your cubic feet at a time. Further, our military armor contains an integral inhibitor field meshed to the frequency of our weapons, as well as a pattern enhancer that allows our transporters to beam through shielded areas. Because of that, the weapon contains a secondary system that projects a disruption beam, that will cause molecular disentigration at close range.”
“Lovely,” muttered Lieutenant Beck. “So they can beam away our arms, legs, torsos, or heads, or hit us with the Klingon disruptor rifles.”
Belagon nodded. “Which is why I have already ordered Ark Two to wake our complement of soldiers—Typhias is our problem, and our soldiers deal with his crimes, Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt tapped his stylus against the table. “From what I have learned from my conversation with the Shipmaster here, your complement of actual soldiers is very small—not more than fifty per ship. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“In which case, I must insist that you let us augment your assault force with our own personnel; the fate of the Federation colonists is my problem, Second Speaker.”
Myers shifted in his seat, but he kept his mouth closed, as Chan glared at him.
“If we are unsuccessful, Captain Dahlgren, your Federation will hold our race responsible for those deaths—and those of your crews. I beg of you, let us prove our worth in this instance.”
“Second Speaker, the United Federation of Planets does not hold the crimes of an individual, or a small group of individuals, against an entire race. Speaking on behalf of the Federation, I can assure you that regardless of the outcome, we will remove our colonists from New Columbia so that you may have your new home. And the Federation will offer to extend to you their hand in friendship and provide any assistance that you may need—our doctors and scientists aboard this ship are already working on finding a treatment for your genetic damage.”
Voltanis sat back, barely breathing in surprise. But Belagon only met Matt’s eyes, and then he nodded. “Agreed. We have years in which my people will sleep before we reach the planet; so that discussion can be held later. But I am honored that you would treat with us fairly, after what Typhias has wrought.”
Matt stood, and he winced with pain before he regained his composure. The two guests and the remaining Starfleet officers stood in response. “Second Speaker, Starfleet’s mission is to seek out new life, and new civilizations; to make peaceful contact and begin a dialogue between our different peoples. It is we who are honored to make First Contact with your civilization. Contact that I hope will be ongoing once you establish your colony.”
Belagon bowed his head. “The Shipmaster and I will return to Ark Two, to prepare our men. It should not take more than hour.”
“We will expect your return.”
And with that, the two Nephkyrie exited the briefing room, escorted away by an honor Guard of Beck's Marines.
Bill Myers turned around and laid both his hands on the table. “Captain Dahlgren, you can’t promise that—that is for the Council to decide!”
“I can and I have. They laid claim to the planet first, Captain Myers. Would you rather we fight them?”
“Of course not, but we can find them another planet! And this haphazard assault can go terribly wrong, Captain Dahlgren, Sir. People, our people, will die. We can wait for Independence, she’s just sixteen hours out!”
“And if Typhias starts to process, to distill, our people in the meantime, Captain Myers? No. We aren’t waiting. Thank you for your suggestions.”
Bill opened his mouth again, and Matt interrupted him. “You are dismissed, Captain Myers. Make certain Arrogant is prepared.”
“Assume your stations, people,” Matt finished, and his officers, along with the CO of USS Arrogant, filed out.
*************************************************
“End program,” snarled Erwin Beck, and the computer in Holodeck One obediently reverted back to its normal configuration. “This isn’t a game, Marines!” he snapped. “We have the exact deck plans of the target; we have a perfect simulation of the environment; we have better intelligence on the capabilities of these Nephkyrie than we ever had on the Jem’Hadar; and you people are still moving too slowly! One hundred and fifty seconds from the moment we beam in is all the time we can count on, Marines. Because one second after that we are all dead! The colonists are dead! Those Nephkyrie children press-ganged into soldiers are dead! The three hundred and forty-eight thousand innocent Nephkyrie still in stasis are dead!”
Erwin ran his hand through the thinning hair atop of his head. “We have to cut our way to the command consoles where the deactivation codes can be entered—and those codes have to be entered to stop the count-down. That means if Parker or Karalis get hit, one of you has to take their place! Why do you think I gave each of you the code? Winning the fire-fight is for after we stop that bloody bombs from going off, Marines! Do you get me?”
“WE GET YOU, SIR!” a ragged chorus of voices answered.
“And you Starfleet Security personnel had best get your act together! I know that your training included close-quarters combat drills, so get the lead out of your pants and move!”
One of Arrogant’s security officers muttered something, and Beck briskly walked across the deck until he was nose to nose with the officer.
“You have something to add, Jenkins? What was that that you said?”
“We’re doing our best, Lieutenant; that’s what I said! We’ve never trained for this Marine sh- . . . stuff.”
“God, I hope not; because if that is your best, Jenkins, then we are totally screwed and twelve thousand Federation colonists will lose their lives!”
Erwin took a step back and put his hands on his hips. “It isn’t fair that the Old Man pulled your asses off of Arrogant and Balao; it isn’t fair that you are beaming aboard a deathtrap to stop a maniac from killing himself and more than three hundred and sixty thousand innocent people! It isn’t fair that your training means in this instance you are quite likely to die! Get over that! The universe isn’t fair! No, this isn’t your normal away mission, and this isn’t about protecting a Starfleet vessel from hostile boarders; this is about saving the lives of people who can’t defend themselves! And if you think that is something only for Starfleet Marines, Jenkins, then you are a sorry excuse for a crewman and perhaps you need to rethink your career choice!”
“Run it again, and get it right this time! Computer, run Ark Prime Assault from the top!” Beck shouted as he exited the Holodeck and reentered the adjacent compartment where he was observing the drill.
*******************************************************
Matt flinched as Quincy gentled probed the swollen flesh. The surgeon frowned and he ran a tricorder over the inflamed thigh and shook his head. “I was afraid of this, Matt,” he said quietly. “The bone is infected again. Luckily, we caught it early this time.”
“Just give me the shot, Quincy,” Matt said through clenched teeth. “I’ve got to get back on the bridge.”
“Matt, the Ladoculkaine VII is what’s causing this; it stopped the pain, but it has also suppressed your immune system, which is why the infection has flared up so quickly. I can’t risk giving you another dose. It’s one of the known side-effects of the drug, but only in about eleven percent of cases; I’d hoped we would get lucky and avoid this complication.”
“So what are our options, Doctor?” Matt growled.
“We fight the infection—and you’ve got to face reality here, Matt. We are approaching the point where that leg has to come off,” Quincy’s voice trailed off, and then he grimaced. “Or we try something radical and unproven.”
The surgeon pressed a hypospray against the thigh and it hissed as he injected the tissue with a powerful compound to fight the infection. Matt flinched.
“How radical?”
“Dr. Woolsey has suggested that we attempt a Klingon procedure known as an inverse replication transplant. Basically, we scan your good leg, invert it to match your bad leg, and replicate the tissue. And then we go in and cut away the bad and attach the good. The problem is that it has never been performed on a human subject, Matt. It works on Klingons because of their redundant physiology, but has never been used on their limbs. It is used to restore damaged internal organs, primarily.”
“How long would it take?”
“It’s major surgery, Matt. We are talking twelve hours for the actual procedure, and you will be in bed for three or four more days afterwards, if not a week. If it works. If it doesn’t, then the leg will have to removed completely, and we will have to look at a prosthetic or an organic replacement.”
“Quincy, I can’t spare that kind of time at this moment!”
“I know. We’ve got a few days for you to make up your mind, Matt, but the pain is going to get worse. I’ll put this off until after you deal with the Nephkyrie, but then I want you on my table, Captain. And if the infection spreads, it won’t matter how busy you are or how much you are needed; I’ll relieve you and haul your ass down to sickbay for the procedure.”
“I can live with that.”
“You can die with that if the bone turns septic, Captain. I can give you one of your old pain meds, but . . .”
“But, they cloud my thinking. I’ll manage, Quincy.”
The surgeon nodded and he closed his medical bag. “I’m sorry, Matt. I thought the Ladoculkaine VII would give you time to heal.”
“Not your fault, Quincy. Help me up, would you?”
The old doctor bent down, and Matt placed an arm around his shoulder, and together the two men got the Captain back to his feet. “And before you tell me, I am planning on staying in my chair.”
“Glory hallelujah. He does have some common sense, after all,” the doctor snorted as Matt pulled up his trousers and fastened them.
“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the intercom announced.
“Go ahead,” Matt said as he tapped his comm badge, then took his cane from Quincy.
“Sir, all ships report ready; we can bring the operation upon your command,” Chan said.
“Very well, Mister Shrak. Sound Red Alert; I am on my way to the bridge. Dahlgren out.”
Matt took two limping steps to the door and then he turned around. “And you best get to sickbay, Quincy.”
“Hah. After I escort you to the bridge, Matt. Don’t want you to fall over in the turbolift and have to call for assistance in getting back up.”
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty-One (cont.)
“Mister Shrak,” Matt asked as he took his seat on the bridge. “Is the ship prepared for action?”
“She is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. Arrogant and Balao are standing by as well.”
“Very good. Inform Captains Carmichael and Myers that we will execute the operation in one minute from . . . mark.”
Matt pressed a stud on the arm of his chair and a count-down timer appeared over the main viewing screen. He took a moment to rotate his chair and look over each of the men and women who manned his bridge, Republic’s bridge. They were a far cry from the demoralized and unhappy officers and crew who had first boarded the ship not too many months before. He nodded with approval as each went through their duties with quiet confidence; calm and collected with the own sense of worth.
He completed his rotation and faced the main viewer once more, as the timer slowly ticked down towards zero.
“Miss Montoya . . . EXECUTE!” he snapped.
Republic raced forward, crossing the light-speed barrier and she soared through space before she dropped to sub-light speeds once more, her phasers immediately spitting golden beams of energy at Ark Prime.
Explosions racked the surface of the Nephkyrie vessel as the transporter emitters on the outer hull erupted in balls of fire; Arrogant and Balao adding their own fury. Ark Prime’s weapons came on-line, and pulses of red-shifted lasers and bright blue-white phase cannon bolts tore through space to strike home against the shields of all three ships.
“Primary and secondary emitter arrays are disabled, Captain Dahlgren,” Shrak called out.
Matt opened a comm channel. “Mister Malik, drop the inhibitor field. Mister Beck, you may begin boarding operations. Shield status, Mister Shrak?”
“Eighty-three percent; numerous hits.”
“Mister Roshenko, eliminate those weapon batteries.”
Isabella corkscrewed the ship through a series of evasive maneuvers, and more phaser beams ripped out from Republic’s arrays, each one connecting against a laser or phase cannon emplacement.
*****************************************************************
Erwin materialized in the depths of the Nephkyrie Ark amid a raging firefight of phaser beams, transporter weapons, and disruptor blasts. He dove for cover and armed a stun grenade, then hurled it in the direction of the heavily armored Nephkyrie shock troopers. Erwin winced as one of his Marines took a direct hit from the transporter beam weapons, his scream of agony cut off as his upper chest and throat dissolved, before the corpse collapsed to the deck, its feet twitching, and hot blood gushed out to cover the deck plates.
Well-trained troops, confident in their armor’s ability to dissipate the energy, would have ignored the grenade and continued firing: Typhias’s minions were not well-trained. They dove for the deck as the grenade detonated, sending a pulse of stun energy harmlessly cascading across their armor.
But Beck’s Marines and Voltanis’s security personnel were already moving in, firing pulse after pulse of disruptor and phaser energy into the prone targets. Private Karalis was at the central command facilities control panel and he entered the long code that Belagon had given him.
“Auxiliary control secured,” a Marine reported over Erwin’s comm. “The kids are counter-attacking, LT!”
“Understood. Hold your position,” Erwin answered. “Stun settings only.”
The Efrosian Private completed entering the final sequence and he pressed the acceptance button, but the machine just beeped twice, and Nephkyrie numerals continued to scroll across the screen. One the Nephkyrie security personnel cursed. “Typhias has altered the command codes!”
“Beck to Republic,” Erwin snapped as he hit his comm badge, fresh beams of energy coming into the control room as the Nephkyrie children began attacking here as well. “We’ve got a problem.”
*****************************************************************
“Time to detonation, Mister Shrak?” Matt asked with a chill running down his spine.
“Two minutes, fourteen seconds, mark,” the Andorian answered. Matt nodded. “Open all-ship’s all-hand’s frequency. Initiate emergency action plan—all transporters beam those scuttling charges out of the ship. Don’t waste time getting locks, just beam them out and disperse them!”
“Captain!” Pavel Roshenko called out. “One of their shuttlecraft—five hundred and fifty meters overall length—has exited Ark Prime; it just entered Warp on a heading to New Columbia.”
“Typhias,” Matt growled. “We’ll deal with him later, concentrate on getting those . . .”
“GELAK COR!” yelled Chan from Mission Ops, then he shook his head and turned to look down at Matt, who startled at the sudden explosion of Andorian curses had rotated his chair. “Arrogant just went into pursuit, Captain Dahlgren. She beamed her security people back aboard and has now entered Warp.”
“Hail them!” Matt snapped, and he turned back around to the main viewer as Captain Myers appeared on screen. “Return to station immediately, Captain!’
“And let this criminal go? No, Captain Dahlgren. You and Republic have managed to get enough of our people killed today; I will capture the man who began this, so that he may answer for his crimes.”
The screen cut off, and Matt started to swear; he stopped, clenched a fist, and slammed it against the arm of his command chair. “Status on those charges?”
“One hundred and forty-five removed, Captain,” answered Amanda from the science station, “two hundred and sixteen remaining.”
“Time to detonation?”
“One minute, ten seconds, mark,” answered Chan.
Matt pressed the stud that opened that opened the ship’s intercom. “Activate the transporters aboard the shuttles and gigs; tie them into the bridge Science stations for control." Matt cut the intercom and rotated back to Shrak. “Mister Shrak, order Balao . . .”
“Both of Balao’s shuttles have begun transport, along with all twelve of Republic’s shuttles and the gig, Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt nodded, and he made himself sit back and appear calm. “Status?” he asked after a few moments.
“Sixty-five seconds mark; one hundred and eight charges remaining.”
Matt closed his eyes; he could hear Amanda Tsien, Grace Biddle, Pavel Roshenko, and Chan Shrak issuing orders as they assigned transporters on the spot to each charge after the next. He pulled up the schematics of Ark Prime on his arm-mounted display, and he saw the blinking strobes of the explosive charges vanishing rapidly; Republic' transporters moving towards the stern, and Balaos moving forward.
“Time?”
“Eight seconds, fifteen charges remaining, mark.”
“Last one!” shouted Amanda, as the timer display over the view ticked down to zero. “It’s in the matter stream!”
But she was a micro-second too late, as the high-yield fusion device had already begun to detonate when it was captured by the transporter system. Republic shuddered as the warhead poured its energy into the matter stream, and then the dim red lighting flickered, and the ship stablized as though it had avoided the worst. Then Republic lurched as her control panels exploded with the backlash of energy that the plasma conduits had never been designed to contain. A tidal wave of energy cascaded through the Republic's power distribution network, overwhelming the buffers and the safeties and exploding in fury wherever the energy overloaded a piece of equipment.
Matt started to bark a command, and then there was a flash of light and a wave of heat burst out of the deck at the captain's feet—he screamed in agony as his leg was twisted by the explosion that flipped his chair end over end. And then all went dark.
************************************************************
Chris grunted as Republic bucked violently beneath him. The instrumentation and control panels in Deflector Control were sparking and smoking as the young Ensign worked desperately to rearrange the isolinar chips. “Chief, link the primary, second, and tertiary systems together—they have to handle the power!”
They have to, Chris thought as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He slid the last chip back into place, and the deflector controls switched from red to green. “We’re up!” he shouted.
Chief Bronson grunted in answer as he punched in commands into his own control unit, ducking as another station exploded with the barely contained fury of the cascading energy ripping through the ship’s plasma power conduits. “Main Deflector now configured for firing, Mister Roberts! I hope you know what you are doing, Sir!”
Chris swallowed; he had read about the tactic that Enterprise used in their attempt to stop the Borg before Wolf-359, but although he had gone over the steps of how it could be done in exercises, he had before actually done it. He licked his dry lips. “On three, Chief Bronson, trigger the pulse—and maintain it until the system goes down or the power levels drop to within safety limits. One.” Chris wiped away the sweat again as Republic rocked under another internal explosion. “Two.” Oh God, let this work, he quickly prayed. “THREE!” He yelled as he slapped the panel controls to life.
Bronson triggered the Deflector Dish, and the ship began to shudder and shiver and shake as an extremely loud hum filled the compartment. Chris looked up and out of the armored glass panel and he squinted in pain as a searing blue-white beam of incredible energy shot forward, extending deep into empty space.
“Power levels are dropping rapidly, Mister Roberts! Five hundred eighteen percent maximum load; three hundred forty-four percent; one seventeen; eighty-four!”
“Shut it down!” Chris yelled as he ripped out the control chip and the energy beam died away.
Smoke rose from all of the instrumentation, and the young officer could taste the ozone of the burnt polymers and alloy plates. He turned around, and he looked at the older Chief Petty Officer, who was slowly nodding. “Plasma relay systems holding at fifty-two percent of rated capacity, Mister Roberts. We managed to dump the excess energy, Sir.”
A rasping cough came from the other end of the compartment, and Crewman Thompson spoke up. “The dish is off-line, Mister Roberts. We’ve got warning lights on all the systems; we’re dead in the water.”
Chris nodded, and then an alert siren began to blare, and a strobing red light began to flash. “Hull breach! Evacuate the compartment, Chief give me a head count!”
He could hear a whistling noise that was growing louder, and Chris hurriedly glanced beneath consoles and under debris, making certain that his men and women got out; then he saw the seam of the hull plating start to split open—and the black of space behind it. Oh shit, he thought, and he closed his eyes expecting to be pulled out through the fracture into the vacuum beyond.
But then a strong hand clamped on his forearm, and Chief Bronson haulted him towards the exit, his other hand firmly clasped by two of the crewmen; who in turn had their free hands secured by the rest of the his section. Together, they fought the growing gale of winds that threatened to suck them all into space, until at last Chris crossed the threshold and Bronson slapped the manual override control on the door, dropping the blast shield into place and sealing off the breach from the rest of the ship.
Two crewmen ran down the corridor towards them, carrying medical equipment and emergency tools. They passed around an oxygen bottle to each of Chris’s people, and the Ensign slowly gave them a thumbs-up as he panted and tried to regain his breath.
Someone passed him a bottle and he took a long pull of the oxygen, and slowly his heart began to wind down its frantic race. Chris shook his head and started to grin as he handed the tank to another of member of his team. “Well that’s two hull breaches in Deflector Control on this tour, Chief. If we have a third do we get a prize?”
“If we get a third, Mister Roberts, I’m putting in my retirement papers,” Isaac Bronson slowly answered as he held an O2 mask in his hand.
********************************************************
“Sir, we are being by hailed by Independence. Captain Salok is asking to speak with the Captain.”
“On screen, Miss Biddle,” Chan Shrak answered calmly.
The main viewer flickered, it filled with static, and then it cleared to reveal the regal Vulcan seated in his command chair.
“Commander Shrak? I asked to speak with Captain Dahlgren.”
“Sir, Captain Dahlgren is in surgery at the moment,” the Andorian answered.
Salok arched an eyebrow in response. “Surgery? Why wasn’t I notified?”
“Captain Salok, we knew that your ship was making her best time already; you could not have arrived any sooner if we had hailed you. Twelve hours ago, we secured the Nephkyrie vessel in a joint assault from Republic, Balao, Arrogant, and a contingent of Nephkyrie troops from Ark Two. Typhias had altered the command codes of Ark Prime, however, and we were forced into beaming away from Ark Prime the individual scuttling charges—a task made more difficult by Arrogant breaking away to pursue Typhias.”
“I am aware of those facts, Commander Shrak; Commander Carmichael kept me informed of the situation while Independence was en route. Why was I not so informed of Captain Dahlgren’s medical emergency?”
“You have my apologies, Captain Salok; I had assumed that Commander Carmichael would have, as senior officer on station, informed you. Captain Dahlgren was injured when we beamed away the final charge—a charge already initiating detonation. The transport absorbed the energy of that fusion explosion directly into the matter stream, and proved far too intense for the buffer to contain. The feedback overloaded every plasma power conduit on the ship, sparking internal explosions and two separate hull breaches. Captain Dahlgren suffered a concussion and additional damage to his already wounded leg.”
Salok nodded. “Very well. When will Captain Dahlgren’s surgery be complete?”
“We do not yet know, Captain Salok. He has been in surgery for over eleven hours so far.”
“And you have assumed command of Republic, Commander Shrak?”
“Temporary command, yes Sir.”
“Your status?”
“Warp engines remain off-line, along with impulse engines. We were on emergency reserve power until two hours ago when Commander Malik managed to get a single generator up and running. Our casualties include seventeen dead and forty-four seriously wounded—including the Captain. Structural integrity field is off-line, shields are down, weapons are inoperative, our sensors are inoperative, and the main Deflector Dish is damaged beyond the repair of onboard spare parts. Long-range communications are down as well, but all decks now have gravity and life support restored.”
“I see. I notice that Arrogant is not appearing on my long-range scans, Commander Shrak. Has she not returned?”
“No, Sir. And neither we nor Balao have received any answer to our hails.”
“Odd,” the Vulcan mused as he folded his hands together. “Independence will arrive on station in fourteen minutes, Commander Shrak. Does Republic require assistance?”
Chan grimaced, and his antennae shrunk, but then he slowly nodded his head. “We would be grateful, Sir.”
“And the situation on Ark Prime?”
“Speaker Belagon has arranged a cease-fire with the Nephkyrie children that are not in stasis. His . . . presence has been a stabilizing factor that put an end to the hostilities very quickly. However, Ark Prime suffered heavy damage in our assault; inadvertent damage resulting in beaming away the charges and the surrounding sections of the vessel without a proper transporter lock. They are losing power and will have to evacuate the ship within the next three days. Detachments from Republic and Balao are assisting the Speaker and Shipmaster Voltanis in powering up the eleven shuttles,” and Chan chuckled, shaking his head at that word.
“Is something humorous, Commander?” the Vulcan asked.
“Captain Salok, Ark Prime—each of their Arks—carries a dozen shuttlecraft each the size of a Nebula-class starship. They are capable of reaching speeds of up to Warp 6 for limited periods of time; but even with all eleven remaining and our own shuttles, it will require two round trips for them to evacuate all of the Nephkyrie children and our own colonists in stasis. The cargo carried will require an additional ten round trips.”
“So they are warp-capable then; the Prime Directive was not violated, as Captain Myer’s reports suggested.”
“I haven’t seen those reports, Captain Salok, so I cannot comment upon them,” Chan answered in a clipped manner.
“Why then weren’t their Arks equipped with warp drives of their own? Why generational sleeper ships?”
Chan nodded. “That is a question that we asked Voltanis and Belagon ourselves; the answer being dilithium, Captain Salok. Or rather a lack thereof. Their home system and none of the systems they had explored contained dilithium reserves; so their warp drives are more primitive, energy intensive, and slower systems that rapidly deplete their onboard supplies of fuel. If their ships had been Warp capable with their current technology, they would have run out of fuel and power less than a third of the way into the voyage.”
“That explains the matter,” the Vulcan calmly answered. “I will presume that you and Commander Carmichael are planning on moving the Nephkyrie and our own colonists from this vessel to New Columbia?”
“We are. It is the closest class-M planet, well within the limited range of their Warp drives. Close enough, in fact, that the . . . shuttles,” and Chan’s antennae twitched, “will be able to make at least a dozen round trips to retrieve needed pre-fabricated buildings and essential supplies from Ark Prime’s cargo holds. Shipmaster Voltanis has already sent a message to Ark Two and Ark Three, each of which are preparing to launch their own shuttles to join the children of Ark Prime on New Columbia; those shuttles will have Nephkyrie adults aboard to handle the assimilation of the Ark Prime children back into Nephkyrie society.”
The Vulcan nodded once. “Starfleet Command will be dispatching a transport capable of evacuating the New Columbia colonists; although there are several members of the Federation Council who wish to have a word with Captain Dahlgren over his . . . usurpation of their authority in this matter.”
“Actually, Captain Salok, it might be not necessary to evacuate New Columbia. Speaker Belagon and Shipmaster Voltanis have indicated that they intend to settle a different continental land-mass. They have agreed to allow the colonists to remain in place; and Speaker Belagon wishes to send an Emissary to meet with the Federation Council. He hopes that through the collaboration of our scientists and medical professionals that together we can find a successful treatment for the genetic damage his people are suffering from.”
The Vulcan raised one eyebrow. “Indeed. Given your own—quite heavy—damage to Republic, I believe that I will request that USS Portsmouth be diverted to New Columbia. Unless, of course, that you object to having a yard-ship on hand to assist in your repairs, Commander?”
“No objections, Captain Salok. Not a single one,” answered Chan with a smile.
“Very good, Commander Shrak; we shall arrive on station in . . . twelve minutes, Commander. I will beam aboard Republic upon my arrival to survey the damage and speak with both you and Commander Carmichael in person. And then we can begin the talks with Speaker Belagon and the Nephkyrie people. Continue your preparations on readying those shuttlecraft for space, Commander. Independence out.”
The screen flickered and then died. Chan put both his hands behind his back and he turned to face Amanda Tsien, seated behind him at her science station—one of the few that hadn’t exploded.
“Any word on the Captain, Miss Tsien?” he asked softly. And she shook her head. Chan nodded. “I will be in my office should there be an emergency, Miss Tsien. You have the conn,” he finished as his antennae twitched once more. What’s left of it, he thought.
“Mister Shrak,” Matt asked as he took his seat on the bridge. “Is the ship prepared for action?”
“She is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. Arrogant and Balao are standing by as well.”
“Very good. Inform Captains Carmichael and Myers that we will execute the operation in one minute from . . . mark.”
Matt pressed a stud on the arm of his chair and a count-down timer appeared over the main viewing screen. He took a moment to rotate his chair and look over each of the men and women who manned his bridge, Republic’s bridge. They were a far cry from the demoralized and unhappy officers and crew who had first boarded the ship not too many months before. He nodded with approval as each went through their duties with quiet confidence; calm and collected with the own sense of worth.
He completed his rotation and faced the main viewer once more, as the timer slowly ticked down towards zero.
“Miss Montoya . . . EXECUTE!” he snapped.
Republic raced forward, crossing the light-speed barrier and she soared through space before she dropped to sub-light speeds once more, her phasers immediately spitting golden beams of energy at Ark Prime.
Explosions racked the surface of the Nephkyrie vessel as the transporter emitters on the outer hull erupted in balls of fire; Arrogant and Balao adding their own fury. Ark Prime’s weapons came on-line, and pulses of red-shifted lasers and bright blue-white phase cannon bolts tore through space to strike home against the shields of all three ships.
“Primary and secondary emitter arrays are disabled, Captain Dahlgren,” Shrak called out.
Matt opened a comm channel. “Mister Malik, drop the inhibitor field. Mister Beck, you may begin boarding operations. Shield status, Mister Shrak?”
“Eighty-three percent; numerous hits.”
“Mister Roshenko, eliminate those weapon batteries.”
Isabella corkscrewed the ship through a series of evasive maneuvers, and more phaser beams ripped out from Republic’s arrays, each one connecting against a laser or phase cannon emplacement.
*****************************************************************
Erwin materialized in the depths of the Nephkyrie Ark amid a raging firefight of phaser beams, transporter weapons, and disruptor blasts. He dove for cover and armed a stun grenade, then hurled it in the direction of the heavily armored Nephkyrie shock troopers. Erwin winced as one of his Marines took a direct hit from the transporter beam weapons, his scream of agony cut off as his upper chest and throat dissolved, before the corpse collapsed to the deck, its feet twitching, and hot blood gushed out to cover the deck plates.
Well-trained troops, confident in their armor’s ability to dissipate the energy, would have ignored the grenade and continued firing: Typhias’s minions were not well-trained. They dove for the deck as the grenade detonated, sending a pulse of stun energy harmlessly cascading across their armor.
But Beck’s Marines and Voltanis’s security personnel were already moving in, firing pulse after pulse of disruptor and phaser energy into the prone targets. Private Karalis was at the central command facilities control panel and he entered the long code that Belagon had given him.
“Auxiliary control secured,” a Marine reported over Erwin’s comm. “The kids are counter-attacking, LT!”
“Understood. Hold your position,” Erwin answered. “Stun settings only.”
The Efrosian Private completed entering the final sequence and he pressed the acceptance button, but the machine just beeped twice, and Nephkyrie numerals continued to scroll across the screen. One the Nephkyrie security personnel cursed. “Typhias has altered the command codes!”
“Beck to Republic,” Erwin snapped as he hit his comm badge, fresh beams of energy coming into the control room as the Nephkyrie children began attacking here as well. “We’ve got a problem.”
*****************************************************************
“Time to detonation, Mister Shrak?” Matt asked with a chill running down his spine.
“Two minutes, fourteen seconds, mark,” the Andorian answered. Matt nodded. “Open all-ship’s all-hand’s frequency. Initiate emergency action plan—all transporters beam those scuttling charges out of the ship. Don’t waste time getting locks, just beam them out and disperse them!”
“Captain!” Pavel Roshenko called out. “One of their shuttlecraft—five hundred and fifty meters overall length—has exited Ark Prime; it just entered Warp on a heading to New Columbia.”
“Typhias,” Matt growled. “We’ll deal with him later, concentrate on getting those . . .”
“GELAK COR!” yelled Chan from Mission Ops, then he shook his head and turned to look down at Matt, who startled at the sudden explosion of Andorian curses had rotated his chair. “Arrogant just went into pursuit, Captain Dahlgren. She beamed her security people back aboard and has now entered Warp.”
“Hail them!” Matt snapped, and he turned back around to the main viewer as Captain Myers appeared on screen. “Return to station immediately, Captain!’
“And let this criminal go? No, Captain Dahlgren. You and Republic have managed to get enough of our people killed today; I will capture the man who began this, so that he may answer for his crimes.”
The screen cut off, and Matt started to swear; he stopped, clenched a fist, and slammed it against the arm of his command chair. “Status on those charges?”
“One hundred and forty-five removed, Captain,” answered Amanda from the science station, “two hundred and sixteen remaining.”
“Time to detonation?”
“One minute, ten seconds, mark,” answered Chan.
Matt pressed the stud that opened that opened the ship’s intercom. “Activate the transporters aboard the shuttles and gigs; tie them into the bridge Science stations for control." Matt cut the intercom and rotated back to Shrak. “Mister Shrak, order Balao . . .”
“Both of Balao’s shuttles have begun transport, along with all twelve of Republic’s shuttles and the gig, Captain Dahlgren.”
Matt nodded, and he made himself sit back and appear calm. “Status?” he asked after a few moments.
“Sixty-five seconds mark; one hundred and eight charges remaining.”
Matt closed his eyes; he could hear Amanda Tsien, Grace Biddle, Pavel Roshenko, and Chan Shrak issuing orders as they assigned transporters on the spot to each charge after the next. He pulled up the schematics of Ark Prime on his arm-mounted display, and he saw the blinking strobes of the explosive charges vanishing rapidly; Republic' transporters moving towards the stern, and Balaos moving forward.
“Time?”
“Eight seconds, fifteen charges remaining, mark.”
“Last one!” shouted Amanda, as the timer display over the view ticked down to zero. “It’s in the matter stream!”
But she was a micro-second too late, as the high-yield fusion device had already begun to detonate when it was captured by the transporter system. Republic shuddered as the warhead poured its energy into the matter stream, and then the dim red lighting flickered, and the ship stablized as though it had avoided the worst. Then Republic lurched as her control panels exploded with the backlash of energy that the plasma conduits had never been designed to contain. A tidal wave of energy cascaded through the Republic's power distribution network, overwhelming the buffers and the safeties and exploding in fury wherever the energy overloaded a piece of equipment.
Matt started to bark a command, and then there was a flash of light and a wave of heat burst out of the deck at the captain's feet—he screamed in agony as his leg was twisted by the explosion that flipped his chair end over end. And then all went dark.
************************************************************
Chris grunted as Republic bucked violently beneath him. The instrumentation and control panels in Deflector Control were sparking and smoking as the young Ensign worked desperately to rearrange the isolinar chips. “Chief, link the primary, second, and tertiary systems together—they have to handle the power!”
They have to, Chris thought as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He slid the last chip back into place, and the deflector controls switched from red to green. “We’re up!” he shouted.
Chief Bronson grunted in answer as he punched in commands into his own control unit, ducking as another station exploded with the barely contained fury of the cascading energy ripping through the ship’s plasma power conduits. “Main Deflector now configured for firing, Mister Roberts! I hope you know what you are doing, Sir!”
Chris swallowed; he had read about the tactic that Enterprise used in their attempt to stop the Borg before Wolf-359, but although he had gone over the steps of how it could be done in exercises, he had before actually done it. He licked his dry lips. “On three, Chief Bronson, trigger the pulse—and maintain it until the system goes down or the power levels drop to within safety limits. One.” Chris wiped away the sweat again as Republic rocked under another internal explosion. “Two.” Oh God, let this work, he quickly prayed. “THREE!” He yelled as he slapped the panel controls to life.
Bronson triggered the Deflector Dish, and the ship began to shudder and shiver and shake as an extremely loud hum filled the compartment. Chris looked up and out of the armored glass panel and he squinted in pain as a searing blue-white beam of incredible energy shot forward, extending deep into empty space.
“Power levels are dropping rapidly, Mister Roberts! Five hundred eighteen percent maximum load; three hundred forty-four percent; one seventeen; eighty-four!”
“Shut it down!” Chris yelled as he ripped out the control chip and the energy beam died away.
Smoke rose from all of the instrumentation, and the young officer could taste the ozone of the burnt polymers and alloy plates. He turned around, and he looked at the older Chief Petty Officer, who was slowly nodding. “Plasma relay systems holding at fifty-two percent of rated capacity, Mister Roberts. We managed to dump the excess energy, Sir.”
A rasping cough came from the other end of the compartment, and Crewman Thompson spoke up. “The dish is off-line, Mister Roberts. We’ve got warning lights on all the systems; we’re dead in the water.”
Chris nodded, and then an alert siren began to blare, and a strobing red light began to flash. “Hull breach! Evacuate the compartment, Chief give me a head count!”
He could hear a whistling noise that was growing louder, and Chris hurriedly glanced beneath consoles and under debris, making certain that his men and women got out; then he saw the seam of the hull plating start to split open—and the black of space behind it. Oh shit, he thought, and he closed his eyes expecting to be pulled out through the fracture into the vacuum beyond.
But then a strong hand clamped on his forearm, and Chief Bronson haulted him towards the exit, his other hand firmly clasped by two of the crewmen; who in turn had their free hands secured by the rest of the his section. Together, they fought the growing gale of winds that threatened to suck them all into space, until at last Chris crossed the threshold and Bronson slapped the manual override control on the door, dropping the blast shield into place and sealing off the breach from the rest of the ship.
Two crewmen ran down the corridor towards them, carrying medical equipment and emergency tools. They passed around an oxygen bottle to each of Chris’s people, and the Ensign slowly gave them a thumbs-up as he panted and tried to regain his breath.
Someone passed him a bottle and he took a long pull of the oxygen, and slowly his heart began to wind down its frantic race. Chris shook his head and started to grin as he handed the tank to another of member of his team. “Well that’s two hull breaches in Deflector Control on this tour, Chief. If we have a third do we get a prize?”
“If we get a third, Mister Roberts, I’m putting in my retirement papers,” Isaac Bronson slowly answered as he held an O2 mask in his hand.
********************************************************
“Sir, we are being by hailed by Independence. Captain Salok is asking to speak with the Captain.”
“On screen, Miss Biddle,” Chan Shrak answered calmly.
The main viewer flickered, it filled with static, and then it cleared to reveal the regal Vulcan seated in his command chair.
“Commander Shrak? I asked to speak with Captain Dahlgren.”
“Sir, Captain Dahlgren is in surgery at the moment,” the Andorian answered.
Salok arched an eyebrow in response. “Surgery? Why wasn’t I notified?”
“Captain Salok, we knew that your ship was making her best time already; you could not have arrived any sooner if we had hailed you. Twelve hours ago, we secured the Nephkyrie vessel in a joint assault from Republic, Balao, Arrogant, and a contingent of Nephkyrie troops from Ark Two. Typhias had altered the command codes of Ark Prime, however, and we were forced into beaming away from Ark Prime the individual scuttling charges—a task made more difficult by Arrogant breaking away to pursue Typhias.”
“I am aware of those facts, Commander Shrak; Commander Carmichael kept me informed of the situation while Independence was en route. Why was I not so informed of Captain Dahlgren’s medical emergency?”
“You have my apologies, Captain Salok; I had assumed that Commander Carmichael would have, as senior officer on station, informed you. Captain Dahlgren was injured when we beamed away the final charge—a charge already initiating detonation. The transport absorbed the energy of that fusion explosion directly into the matter stream, and proved far too intense for the buffer to contain. The feedback overloaded every plasma power conduit on the ship, sparking internal explosions and two separate hull breaches. Captain Dahlgren suffered a concussion and additional damage to his already wounded leg.”
Salok nodded. “Very well. When will Captain Dahlgren’s surgery be complete?”
“We do not yet know, Captain Salok. He has been in surgery for over eleven hours so far.”
“And you have assumed command of Republic, Commander Shrak?”
“Temporary command, yes Sir.”
“Your status?”
“Warp engines remain off-line, along with impulse engines. We were on emergency reserve power until two hours ago when Commander Malik managed to get a single generator up and running. Our casualties include seventeen dead and forty-four seriously wounded—including the Captain. Structural integrity field is off-line, shields are down, weapons are inoperative, our sensors are inoperative, and the main Deflector Dish is damaged beyond the repair of onboard spare parts. Long-range communications are down as well, but all decks now have gravity and life support restored.”
“I see. I notice that Arrogant is not appearing on my long-range scans, Commander Shrak. Has she not returned?”
“No, Sir. And neither we nor Balao have received any answer to our hails.”
“Odd,” the Vulcan mused as he folded his hands together. “Independence will arrive on station in fourteen minutes, Commander Shrak. Does Republic require assistance?”
Chan grimaced, and his antennae shrunk, but then he slowly nodded his head. “We would be grateful, Sir.”
“And the situation on Ark Prime?”
“Speaker Belagon has arranged a cease-fire with the Nephkyrie children that are not in stasis. His . . . presence has been a stabilizing factor that put an end to the hostilities very quickly. However, Ark Prime suffered heavy damage in our assault; inadvertent damage resulting in beaming away the charges and the surrounding sections of the vessel without a proper transporter lock. They are losing power and will have to evacuate the ship within the next three days. Detachments from Republic and Balao are assisting the Speaker and Shipmaster Voltanis in powering up the eleven shuttles,” and Chan chuckled, shaking his head at that word.
“Is something humorous, Commander?” the Vulcan asked.
“Captain Salok, Ark Prime—each of their Arks—carries a dozen shuttlecraft each the size of a Nebula-class starship. They are capable of reaching speeds of up to Warp 6 for limited periods of time; but even with all eleven remaining and our own shuttles, it will require two round trips for them to evacuate all of the Nephkyrie children and our own colonists in stasis. The cargo carried will require an additional ten round trips.”
“So they are warp-capable then; the Prime Directive was not violated, as Captain Myer’s reports suggested.”
“I haven’t seen those reports, Captain Salok, so I cannot comment upon them,” Chan answered in a clipped manner.
“Why then weren’t their Arks equipped with warp drives of their own? Why generational sleeper ships?”
Chan nodded. “That is a question that we asked Voltanis and Belagon ourselves; the answer being dilithium, Captain Salok. Or rather a lack thereof. Their home system and none of the systems they had explored contained dilithium reserves; so their warp drives are more primitive, energy intensive, and slower systems that rapidly deplete their onboard supplies of fuel. If their ships had been Warp capable with their current technology, they would have run out of fuel and power less than a third of the way into the voyage.”
“That explains the matter,” the Vulcan calmly answered. “I will presume that you and Commander Carmichael are planning on moving the Nephkyrie and our own colonists from this vessel to New Columbia?”
“We are. It is the closest class-M planet, well within the limited range of their Warp drives. Close enough, in fact, that the . . . shuttles,” and Chan’s antennae twitched, “will be able to make at least a dozen round trips to retrieve needed pre-fabricated buildings and essential supplies from Ark Prime’s cargo holds. Shipmaster Voltanis has already sent a message to Ark Two and Ark Three, each of which are preparing to launch their own shuttles to join the children of Ark Prime on New Columbia; those shuttles will have Nephkyrie adults aboard to handle the assimilation of the Ark Prime children back into Nephkyrie society.”
The Vulcan nodded once. “Starfleet Command will be dispatching a transport capable of evacuating the New Columbia colonists; although there are several members of the Federation Council who wish to have a word with Captain Dahlgren over his . . . usurpation of their authority in this matter.”
“Actually, Captain Salok, it might be not necessary to evacuate New Columbia. Speaker Belagon and Shipmaster Voltanis have indicated that they intend to settle a different continental land-mass. They have agreed to allow the colonists to remain in place; and Speaker Belagon wishes to send an Emissary to meet with the Federation Council. He hopes that through the collaboration of our scientists and medical professionals that together we can find a successful treatment for the genetic damage his people are suffering from.”
The Vulcan raised one eyebrow. “Indeed. Given your own—quite heavy—damage to Republic, I believe that I will request that USS Portsmouth be diverted to New Columbia. Unless, of course, that you object to having a yard-ship on hand to assist in your repairs, Commander?”
“No objections, Captain Salok. Not a single one,” answered Chan with a smile.
“Very good, Commander Shrak; we shall arrive on station in . . . twelve minutes, Commander. I will beam aboard Republic upon my arrival to survey the damage and speak with both you and Commander Carmichael in person. And then we can begin the talks with Speaker Belagon and the Nephkyrie people. Continue your preparations on readying those shuttlecraft for space, Commander. Independence out.”
The screen flickered and then died. Chan put both his hands behind his back and he turned to face Amanda Tsien, seated behind him at her science station—one of the few that hadn’t exploded.
“Any word on the Captain, Miss Tsien?” he asked softly. And she shook her head. Chan nodded. “I will be in my office should there be an emergency, Miss Tsien. You have the conn,” he finished as his antennae twitched once more. What’s left of it, he thought.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty-two
Matt heard a low whisper of voices, and he shook off the fog of his sleep, forcing his eyes open . . . and then he remembered. He sat up suddenly, but he wasn’t on the bridge; he was in sickbay.
“Ah, the sleeper wakes,” Dr. Woolsey said pleasantly as the hologram walked across the ward and placed a realistic feeling hand on the Captain’s forehead. “And here I thought you were going to just keep sleeping, Captain Dahlgren. No fever, that’s good.”
Matt started to speak, but his dry throat caused him to cough instead and Robert Woolsey picked up a covered cup with a straw and held it Matt’s lips. “Drink,” he ordered. “Slowly . . . easy . . . that’s enough.”
He sat down the cup and glared down at the Captain. “Are we feeling better, now?”
Matt coughed. “The ship?”
“Is fine. Well, not exactly fine, but doing well. For a given definition of well. If you consider having no shields, no weapons, no sensors, no impulse drive, and no warp drive well. We do have internal life support, gravity, and power for the sick bay, so we are better than we could be.”
Matt threw back the sheets, and looked down at his bare legs peeking out from beneath a green hospital gown. “Where are my clothes, Doctor? I need to get to the bridge.”
Robert shook his head and pulled the sheets back up. “The situation is well in hand and I want to keep you here under observation for a while longer.”
Matt pushed them off again and swung his legs over the side of the bed. But then he stopped. His leg didn’t hurt. He pulled up the gown and examined the bare thigh beneath it—no scar tissue.
“You and Quincy both are knife-hungry sadists,” he snarled. “I said after we dealt with the Nephkyrie!”
Quincy’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Didn’t have a choice, Matt. The bone shattered when your chair flipped after that explosion on the bridge. Gave you one hell of a concussion and it twisted your leg until the bone gave way under the strain. At least you were unconscious and unable to argue,” the chief medical officer finished with a shrug.
“I need to get . . .”
“Well, Captain. You need to get well. However, I think that the inverse replication transplant suggested by my colleague here has taken off quite well. That and the seventy-two hours I’ve kept you unconscious.”
“SEVENTY-TWO HOURS!” Matt thundered at he jumped onto his feet, and swayed with a brief spell of dizziness. Robert caught him, however, and helped him back into the bed.
“I did warn you,” Robert said to Quincy as he pulled up the sheets again. “I said that he would not like being kept unconscious; although it did give him a chance to recover without stress and strain.”
“You did, but it is a prerogative of the chief medical officer of starship. Whose medical opinion overrides the orders of said starship’s commanding officer,” Quincy said as he unfolded his arms, walked over, and examined the sensor readings from the diagnostics bed. “Everything looks good, Matt. We just have a few tests to run and then you will be released.”
“Quincy, I need to speak with Chan and Captain Salok should already here and . . .”
“Both of them are on the way to Sickbay, Matt. So shut up, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and say AAH. While Robert here goes ahead and takes a blood sample.”
*********************************************************
“. . . and so we should have partial impulse power restored within the hour, Captain Dahlgren, along with shields and the structural integrity field generators. Independence will tow us into New Columbia orbit and will remain as we complete the repairs we are able to accomplish for ourselves. Portsmouth is scheduled to arrive in twelve days, and she will perform the tasks for which we are not equipped,” Chan finished.
“And the Nephkyrie? What have you decided to do with them, Captain Salok?” Matt asked from the where he lay on the diagnostic bed.
“Speaker Belagon and I have had quite fruitful discussions. I have assured him that the Federation will not abandon his people and will assist his own medical specialists and scientists in searching for a treatment for their genetic disorders. The colonists from New Columbia are . . . they are taking the entire matter far better than I would have expected, given their racial makeup. For the most part, they were beamed directly into stasis by Typhias and were not even aware of having been abducted or of the passage of time. Their leaders, however, have agreed to share the planet with the Nephkyrie. The location of the colony on a sub-continental island land mass leaves quite a bit of the planet untouched for the Nephkyrie to establish their own colony.”
The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow. “The Federation is sending an Ambassador to conclude a formal agreement with Speaker Belagon, however. And that delegation has expressed a wish to speak with you as well, Captain Dahlgren; a small matter of the preogatives of the Council and headstrong Star Fleet officers who make promises on their behalf. They will not be arriving for at least two months, though, so you should have ample time to complete your repairs once Portsmouth arrives on station.”
“And Captain Myers? His actions directly led to Republic’s current condition, Captain Salok.”
The Vulcan paused, and Chan’s antennae shrank slightly. “We located the remains of Arrogant yesterday, Captain Dahlgren. The emergency buoy ejected just before the ship was destroyed. The bridge recorder indicates that Captain Myers did intercept Typhias and that he forced him out of warp. He then prepared to beam aboard his own security forces and secure the vessel; upon dropping his inhibitor field, Typhias transporter several warheads aboard Arrogant—there were no survivors. The Nephkyrie shuttle is comprised of the same hull material as their Arks, making long-range sensors useless in detecting his vessel. As a precaution, I have dispatched Balao to New Columbia in the event that Typhias decides upon a scorched earth policy in regards to the colony. In addition, I have kept Commander Philips and White Cloud on station to assist the Nephkyrie in assembling their housing and making repairs on Republic.”
Matt nodded slowly. “I see. And his reports? I am aware that he filed several with you . . . indicating his displeasure with my actions.”
Salok’s expression did not change. “For the most part, his complaints were petty and emotional biased; you perhaps did not realize that two of his siblings and their families had settled on Omicron Cygnii II.”
Matt winced.
“It was nothing personal, I am certain, Captain Dahlgren,” the Vulcan continued calmly. “Any officer commanding this starship, with its history and . . . involvement in the destruction of that colony, would have provoked much the same reaction, I believe. His more serious charges, that you violated the Prime Directive by initiating contact with Ark Two were baseless. Not only do the Nephkyrie on that vessel possess warp technology, but they provided the information that allowed you to retrieve the colonists without losing one of their number. It is my intention, at this time, to fully endorse your actions. I have already submitted a preliminary report to Admiral Parker at Starfleet Command and Admiral Hansen at Starbase 114.”
“Both concur with my assessment. Of course, politics being what they are in today’s Starfleet,” and the Vulcan’s mouth twisted in a rare showing of mild distaste. “Command has decided that the details of the loss of Arrogant would be counter-productive to the morale of Starfleet and the Federation. Accordingly, she was—officially—destroyed while assisting you and Balao in beaming out the suicide charges from Ark Prime. Captain Myers reports have been sealed and filed away.”
Dr. Talbot walked back into the ward where Chan and Salok stood beside Matt’s bed. “The final test results came back, Captain Dahlgren. I hereby pronounce you well enough. You are cleared to resume duty; light duty, for now, if you please, Sir. Don’t make me ask Captain Salok to make it an order,” Quincy said with a smile.
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “And I most certainly would order it if your surgeon requested, Captain Dahlgren.”
“I surrender, gentlemen. Light duty it is. Thank you, Captain Salok.”
“Gratitude is not necessary, Captain Dahlgren. I only did my duty according to my oath of commission. From the evidence available to me, not only of your actions here with the Nephkyrie but from the incident in the Cauldron, I can only conclude that duty was what drove you as well.”
“Captain Dahlgren, Commander Shrak,” he continued. “I will leave several work parties from Independence aboard this ship until your repairs are complete—or I am forced by other duties to leave this sector. Good day, gentlemen.”
And with that, the Vulcan turned on his heel and exited the sickbay.
Matt pulled off the sheet and he stood up from the bed. “Okay, Quincy. So where are my pants?”
“You do realize that we had to cut your pants off of you, Captain?” the doctor said with a smirk. “But I have already informed Yeoman Sinclair and she is . . . here,” he finished as the doors opened the Captains yeoman walked in carrying a neatly folded uniform, a set of underwear, a pair of socks, and freshly polished boots.
Matt heard a low whisper of voices, and he shook off the fog of his sleep, forcing his eyes open . . . and then he remembered. He sat up suddenly, but he wasn’t on the bridge; he was in sickbay.
“Ah, the sleeper wakes,” Dr. Woolsey said pleasantly as the hologram walked across the ward and placed a realistic feeling hand on the Captain’s forehead. “And here I thought you were going to just keep sleeping, Captain Dahlgren. No fever, that’s good.”
Matt started to speak, but his dry throat caused him to cough instead and Robert Woolsey picked up a covered cup with a straw and held it Matt’s lips. “Drink,” he ordered. “Slowly . . . easy . . . that’s enough.”
He sat down the cup and glared down at the Captain. “Are we feeling better, now?”
Matt coughed. “The ship?”
“Is fine. Well, not exactly fine, but doing well. For a given definition of well. If you consider having no shields, no weapons, no sensors, no impulse drive, and no warp drive well. We do have internal life support, gravity, and power for the sick bay, so we are better than we could be.”
Matt threw back the sheets, and looked down at his bare legs peeking out from beneath a green hospital gown. “Where are my clothes, Doctor? I need to get to the bridge.”
Robert shook his head and pulled the sheets back up. “The situation is well in hand and I want to keep you here under observation for a while longer.”
Matt pushed them off again and swung his legs over the side of the bed. But then he stopped. His leg didn’t hurt. He pulled up the gown and examined the bare thigh beneath it—no scar tissue.
“You and Quincy both are knife-hungry sadists,” he snarled. “I said after we dealt with the Nephkyrie!”
Quincy’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Didn’t have a choice, Matt. The bone shattered when your chair flipped after that explosion on the bridge. Gave you one hell of a concussion and it twisted your leg until the bone gave way under the strain. At least you were unconscious and unable to argue,” the chief medical officer finished with a shrug.
“I need to get . . .”
“Well, Captain. You need to get well. However, I think that the inverse replication transplant suggested by my colleague here has taken off quite well. That and the seventy-two hours I’ve kept you unconscious.”
“SEVENTY-TWO HOURS!” Matt thundered at he jumped onto his feet, and swayed with a brief spell of dizziness. Robert caught him, however, and helped him back into the bed.
“I did warn you,” Robert said to Quincy as he pulled up the sheets again. “I said that he would not like being kept unconscious; although it did give him a chance to recover without stress and strain.”
“You did, but it is a prerogative of the chief medical officer of starship. Whose medical opinion overrides the orders of said starship’s commanding officer,” Quincy said as he unfolded his arms, walked over, and examined the sensor readings from the diagnostics bed. “Everything looks good, Matt. We just have a few tests to run and then you will be released.”
“Quincy, I need to speak with Chan and Captain Salok should already here and . . .”
“Both of them are on the way to Sickbay, Matt. So shut up, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and say AAH. While Robert here goes ahead and takes a blood sample.”
*********************************************************
“. . . and so we should have partial impulse power restored within the hour, Captain Dahlgren, along with shields and the structural integrity field generators. Independence will tow us into New Columbia orbit and will remain as we complete the repairs we are able to accomplish for ourselves. Portsmouth is scheduled to arrive in twelve days, and she will perform the tasks for which we are not equipped,” Chan finished.
“And the Nephkyrie? What have you decided to do with them, Captain Salok?” Matt asked from the where he lay on the diagnostic bed.
“Speaker Belagon and I have had quite fruitful discussions. I have assured him that the Federation will not abandon his people and will assist his own medical specialists and scientists in searching for a treatment for their genetic disorders. The colonists from New Columbia are . . . they are taking the entire matter far better than I would have expected, given their racial makeup. For the most part, they were beamed directly into stasis by Typhias and were not even aware of having been abducted or of the passage of time. Their leaders, however, have agreed to share the planet with the Nephkyrie. The location of the colony on a sub-continental island land mass leaves quite a bit of the planet untouched for the Nephkyrie to establish their own colony.”
The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow. “The Federation is sending an Ambassador to conclude a formal agreement with Speaker Belagon, however. And that delegation has expressed a wish to speak with you as well, Captain Dahlgren; a small matter of the preogatives of the Council and headstrong Star Fleet officers who make promises on their behalf. They will not be arriving for at least two months, though, so you should have ample time to complete your repairs once Portsmouth arrives on station.”
“And Captain Myers? His actions directly led to Republic’s current condition, Captain Salok.”
The Vulcan paused, and Chan’s antennae shrank slightly. “We located the remains of Arrogant yesterday, Captain Dahlgren. The emergency buoy ejected just before the ship was destroyed. The bridge recorder indicates that Captain Myers did intercept Typhias and that he forced him out of warp. He then prepared to beam aboard his own security forces and secure the vessel; upon dropping his inhibitor field, Typhias transporter several warheads aboard Arrogant—there were no survivors. The Nephkyrie shuttle is comprised of the same hull material as their Arks, making long-range sensors useless in detecting his vessel. As a precaution, I have dispatched Balao to New Columbia in the event that Typhias decides upon a scorched earth policy in regards to the colony. In addition, I have kept Commander Philips and White Cloud on station to assist the Nephkyrie in assembling their housing and making repairs on Republic.”
Matt nodded slowly. “I see. And his reports? I am aware that he filed several with you . . . indicating his displeasure with my actions.”
Salok’s expression did not change. “For the most part, his complaints were petty and emotional biased; you perhaps did not realize that two of his siblings and their families had settled on Omicron Cygnii II.”
Matt winced.
“It was nothing personal, I am certain, Captain Dahlgren,” the Vulcan continued calmly. “Any officer commanding this starship, with its history and . . . involvement in the destruction of that colony, would have provoked much the same reaction, I believe. His more serious charges, that you violated the Prime Directive by initiating contact with Ark Two were baseless. Not only do the Nephkyrie on that vessel possess warp technology, but they provided the information that allowed you to retrieve the colonists without losing one of their number. It is my intention, at this time, to fully endorse your actions. I have already submitted a preliminary report to Admiral Parker at Starfleet Command and Admiral Hansen at Starbase 114.”
“Both concur with my assessment. Of course, politics being what they are in today’s Starfleet,” and the Vulcan’s mouth twisted in a rare showing of mild distaste. “Command has decided that the details of the loss of Arrogant would be counter-productive to the morale of Starfleet and the Federation. Accordingly, she was—officially—destroyed while assisting you and Balao in beaming out the suicide charges from Ark Prime. Captain Myers reports have been sealed and filed away.”
Dr. Talbot walked back into the ward where Chan and Salok stood beside Matt’s bed. “The final test results came back, Captain Dahlgren. I hereby pronounce you well enough. You are cleared to resume duty; light duty, for now, if you please, Sir. Don’t make me ask Captain Salok to make it an order,” Quincy said with a smile.
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “And I most certainly would order it if your surgeon requested, Captain Dahlgren.”
“I surrender, gentlemen. Light duty it is. Thank you, Captain Salok.”
“Gratitude is not necessary, Captain Dahlgren. I only did my duty according to my oath of commission. From the evidence available to me, not only of your actions here with the Nephkyrie but from the incident in the Cauldron, I can only conclude that duty was what drove you as well.”
“Captain Dahlgren, Commander Shrak,” he continued. “I will leave several work parties from Independence aboard this ship until your repairs are complete—or I am forced by other duties to leave this sector. Good day, gentlemen.”
And with that, the Vulcan turned on his heel and exited the sickbay.
Matt pulled off the sheet and he stood up from the bed. “Okay, Quincy. So where are my pants?”
“You do realize that we had to cut your pants off of you, Captain?” the doctor said with a smirk. “But I have already informed Yeoman Sinclair and she is . . . here,” he finished as the doors opened the Captains yeoman walked in carrying a neatly folded uniform, a set of underwear, a pair of socks, and freshly polished boots.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty-Two (cont.)
“Come!” Matt snarled as the chime rang. He remained facing the mirror set over the sink in the lavatory adjacent to his main cabin as he heard the door slide open. Finally, the clasp in the collar of his dress white shirt slid into place. Matt smoothed it down and he walked out into the cabin, to find his senior officers standing there, alongside of one additional Lieutenant. Like the Captain, each of the department heads were also clad in their dress uniform; although all of them (unlike the Captain) were completely dressed.
“Mister Shrak. I take it there is a reason that my staff has assembled here?” Matt asked.
The Andorian’s antennae leaned forward. “There is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. On behalf of the officers and crew, Sir, we would like to present to you a gift.”
“A gift? For working you until you were ready to drop? For pushing you to your limits? Gentlemen, ladies; that was a gift in and of itself.”
“For making us stand tall, Captain Dahlgren; for forcing us to remember why we joined Starfleet in the first place,” said the Counselor. “You made us better than we were, Sir. You made us—and this ship—proud once more.”
Matt said nothing, but then he slowly nodded.
“Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren,” Chan continued, “please accept from your assembled officers this gift. May it serve you well in the future. And if I am truly blessed, perhaps I will be able to see it used,” he finished with a quiver of his antennae. “Lieutenant Vasa?”
The stocky, solidly-built, blonde officer stepped forward and he clicked his heels together and bowed slightly before presenting Matt with a polished ebony case more than a meter and half in length.
Matt took the case, surprised at the weight and he laid it on the table. Two clasps secured the front and he pressed them, upon which signal the case top raised up to reveal a velvet lined interior in royal blue. And a slender curving basket hilted sword, along with a scabbard covered in polished brilliant blue enamel, chased with gleaming platinum with a brilliant sapphire set amidst the gleaming metalwork, attached to a supple leather belt.
Matt whistled softly and he lifted the sword, feeling the grip match his own hand perfectly; the balance was superb. The wire hilt was adorned with small gemstones set within the intertwinning cage of polished metal that bore the emblem of a majestic eagle's head. He turned the sword and stared at the engraved blade. "To Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren", it read, "Master and Commander of the United Federation of Planets Starship Republic (NCC-51497). May your voyages never end." And on the reverse, the image of Republic amid streaking stars was proudly etched.
The Captain placed the sword back in the case, and he shook his head, flinching slightly as he nicked his thumb along the edge.
“Perhaps I should have warned that it is extremely sharp, Captain,” the Lieutenant said in apology as he took a cleaning cloth and wiped the blade free. Quincy just opened his medical case and took out a dermal knitter and restored the minor cut without a single word—his broad grin said more than enough.
“I am . . . I am . . ." Matt swallowed heavily, " . . . thank you,” hefinally said. “If I may ask, gentlemen, ladies; why a sword?”
“Ah,” the Swedish replicator officer spoke up. “You did threaten Captain Myers with a duel, Sir. His choice of blade or slug-thrower. I thought that you might need an appropriate weapon. Mister Pok donated the precious gems and metals which adorn it, Mister Malik handled the engraving, Miss Tsien hand-drew the image of Republic, and Mister Roshenko contributed the ebony for the case. Mister Beck personally enameled the scabbard, and Mister Shrak declared that royal blue was indeed your favorite color.” Gustaf Vasa frowned. "Dr. Talbot merely gave advice amidst his hysterical laughter, but Miss Biddle suggested the waist-band sash and insisted the belt be able to accomdate a phaser pistol; Miss Montoya hand-sewed the tassels, and Mister Bowen replicated the two large sapphires without a single flaw."
Matt blinked once, and then twice. “Very . . . considerate of you, Mister Vasa. Ladies, gentlemen, I am touched and honored by the gift; I will meet you on the bridge for the ceremony. Mister Shrak, would you stay?”
The senior staff filed out, leaving only Matt and Chan standing there in Matt’s quarters. “Chan, you didn’t tell them that I have never, not once, in my entire life, so much as lifted a sword in my hand before today?”
The antennae of the executive officer quivered again. “The Lieutenant had already crafted the sword—and such a work of art it is indeed. Mister Pok provided him with the gemstones adorning the pommel and hilt, as well as the gold, silver, and platinum that form the wire wrapped, leather covered grip and the basket hilt. By the time I discovered what they had planned, everyone had contributed; I didn't want to disappoint them with the news that you were only bluffing. I fear that it would have broken Lieutenant Vasa’s heart. They even made sure it hangs on your right side, since you are left-handed, my Captain.”
“What the hell am I going to do with a sword? A real, live, sharper than a serpent’s tooth sword?”
“Hang it on your wall? Wear it with your dress uniform?” Chan answered as his antennae continued to twitch. “I do have some excellent swordsmanship Holodeck programs in case you actually want to learn how to use it.”
“A sword,” repeated Matt as he shook his head. “Remind me to watch what I say in the future, Chan.”
“I always do, and you say that was different. And then you ask me, again, to remind you in the future to watch what you say.”
The Andorian reached down and he lifted up the sword and then the scabbard; he slid the weapon into its sheath. He sat down the weapon and took out a long deep blue sash, which he wrapped four times around the Captains waist, and then with a curt command of, “Hold this, Sir,” he once again picked up the sword and belt and he fastened it tightly about Matt’s waist, over the sash. He picked up Matt's white coat held it as the Captain slid his arms into the sleeves and gave the short jacket a stiff tug to properly seat the shoulders.
“There,” the Andorian laughed and shook his head. “You do look perfectly ridiculous, but it would be good for the crew’s morale if you wore it.”
Matt walked back over to his mirror and he took a long hard look, turning left and then right, his right hand resting on the pommel of the sword that peeked out from beneath the edge of his jacket.
“Yeoman Sinclair will have a fit; the jacket isn’t tailored for this style and it will wrinkle. Still, it does look dashing, does it not?”
“If you were a pirate captain, then it might, Captain Dahlgren.”
“And you usually like such things, Chan.”
“Oh, I do, I do indeed, Captain, Sir. I’m just wondering how you plan on sitting while wearing that piece of finely forged steel?”
Matt frowned. And then he shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mister Shrak. Now, I believe we have a ceremony to attend.”
“That we do, Sir. That we do.”
******************************************************
Chris began to step out of the turbolift onto the bridge, but he stopped in mid-step. Every one of the ship’s senior officers were present; all of them standing, facing the turbolift, and wearing their dress uniforms. And the Captain! The Captain was in their midst, and he was wearing a sword! An honest-to-God sword in a belt at his side. The young man swallowed, wondering if he had missed reading a memo.
“Mister Roberts,” the Captain said in strict and somber voice. “Why are you standing on my bridge? What are you doing on my ship when you are not in proper uniform?”
Chris swallowed and he took a step forward, allowing the turbolift doors to whisper shut. “I-I-I was told to report to the bridge, Captain, Sir.”
“I see. That does not explain why you are out of uniform, Mister Roberts. I believe that, by now, the crew and officers of this ship are well aware of my thoughts on the proper dress code.”
“No excuse, Sir. I-I will change into my dress uniform at once, if I may be dismissed!”
The executive officer stepped forward, his pale blue skin and white hair the perfect complement to his dress whites. “Captain Dahlgren, if I may?” he asked. "I believe that I can correct the problem with Mister Robert's uniform."
“Very well, Mister Shrak. Mister Roberts . . . STAND AT ATTENTION!” Matt barked. “Miss Tsien, open the all-hands channel, please.”
“All hands is now open, Sir,” she said as the whistle of the all-hands alert sounded throughout the corridors and compartments of Republic.
“This is the Captain speaking. Attention to orders! Let it known, that on Stardate 53753.4, when engaged in action against the Nephkyrie vessel known as Ark Prime, that Ensign Christopher Jonah Roberts, did, upon his own initiative reconfigure the main deflector dish of USS Republic, redirecting and expelling energy absorbed from the detonation of a Nephkyrie fusion scuttling charge contained in a transporter matter stream. The backlash of energy throughout USS Republic exceeded the capacity of internal power relays to contain, and it was only through the quick-thinking and independent action of Ensign Roberts that the ship remained intact. Therefore, by the authority of Starfleet Command, as of Stardate 53753.9, let it published that Christopher Jonah Roberts is hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, Junior Grade. May God have mercy upon his soul.”
Chris stared as Chan stepped forward and removed his collar insignia, replacing them with the twin pips of a Lieutenant, j.g. The executive officer then stepped back and saluted; a salute that Chris quickly returned.
“Lieutenant Roberts,” the Captain said, “you should also be aware that Lt. Commander Biddle, Commander Shrak, Commander Carmichael, Captain Salok, and myself have all written letters of commendation which will be added to your permanent file. I have also recommended to Starfleet Command that you be officially honored for your valor, your initiative, and your courage for those actions in Deflector Control by receiving the Starfleet Medal of Valor. Captain Salok has endorsed that recommendation. Regardless of how Starfleet Command makes its final decision on the Medal of Valor, Mister Roberts, the ship and crew have an award of their own they wish to make. Miss Biddle?”
The Operations Officer stepped forward, holding a ribbon suspended between her two hands; a round disk hanging from its lower edge. Chris bowed his head and she placed the ribbon around his neck; then she smoothed out the dark purple and grey swath of silk. “Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Christopher Jonah Roberts; the officers and crew of USS Republic do hereby present to you the Order of the Ts’kaba. An award made to remind you, young Lieutenant, that prior bad acts and indiscretions, as well as accidents of clumsiness, do not serve as an appropriate judge of an individual’s worth or character. Congratulations, Mister Roberts.”
Chris blushed fiercely, and then the Captain stepped forward—without a limp!—and he took Chris’s hand and shook it. “Well done, Mister Roberts. Well done indeed.”
“Come!” Matt snarled as the chime rang. He remained facing the mirror set over the sink in the lavatory adjacent to his main cabin as he heard the door slide open. Finally, the clasp in the collar of his dress white shirt slid into place. Matt smoothed it down and he walked out into the cabin, to find his senior officers standing there, alongside of one additional Lieutenant. Like the Captain, each of the department heads were also clad in their dress uniform; although all of them (unlike the Captain) were completely dressed.
“Mister Shrak. I take it there is a reason that my staff has assembled here?” Matt asked.
The Andorian’s antennae leaned forward. “There is indeed, Captain Dahlgren. On behalf of the officers and crew, Sir, we would like to present to you a gift.”
“A gift? For working you until you were ready to drop? For pushing you to your limits? Gentlemen, ladies; that was a gift in and of itself.”
“For making us stand tall, Captain Dahlgren; for forcing us to remember why we joined Starfleet in the first place,” said the Counselor. “You made us better than we were, Sir. You made us—and this ship—proud once more.”
Matt said nothing, but then he slowly nodded.
“Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren,” Chan continued, “please accept from your assembled officers this gift. May it serve you well in the future. And if I am truly blessed, perhaps I will be able to see it used,” he finished with a quiver of his antennae. “Lieutenant Vasa?”
The stocky, solidly-built, blonde officer stepped forward and he clicked his heels together and bowed slightly before presenting Matt with a polished ebony case more than a meter and half in length.
Matt took the case, surprised at the weight and he laid it on the table. Two clasps secured the front and he pressed them, upon which signal the case top raised up to reveal a velvet lined interior in royal blue. And a slender curving basket hilted sword, along with a scabbard covered in polished brilliant blue enamel, chased with gleaming platinum with a brilliant sapphire set amidst the gleaming metalwork, attached to a supple leather belt.
Matt whistled softly and he lifted the sword, feeling the grip match his own hand perfectly; the balance was superb. The wire hilt was adorned with small gemstones set within the intertwinning cage of polished metal that bore the emblem of a majestic eagle's head. He turned the sword and stared at the engraved blade. "To Captain Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren", it read, "Master and Commander of the United Federation of Planets Starship Republic (NCC-51497). May your voyages never end." And on the reverse, the image of Republic amid streaking stars was proudly etched.
The Captain placed the sword back in the case, and he shook his head, flinching slightly as he nicked his thumb along the edge.
“Perhaps I should have warned that it is extremely sharp, Captain,” the Lieutenant said in apology as he took a cleaning cloth and wiped the blade free. Quincy just opened his medical case and took out a dermal knitter and restored the minor cut without a single word—his broad grin said more than enough.
“I am . . . I am . . ." Matt swallowed heavily, " . . . thank you,” hefinally said. “If I may ask, gentlemen, ladies; why a sword?”
“Ah,” the Swedish replicator officer spoke up. “You did threaten Captain Myers with a duel, Sir. His choice of blade or slug-thrower. I thought that you might need an appropriate weapon. Mister Pok donated the precious gems and metals which adorn it, Mister Malik handled the engraving, Miss Tsien hand-drew the image of Republic, and Mister Roshenko contributed the ebony for the case. Mister Beck personally enameled the scabbard, and Mister Shrak declared that royal blue was indeed your favorite color.” Gustaf Vasa frowned. "Dr. Talbot merely gave advice amidst his hysterical laughter, but Miss Biddle suggested the waist-band sash and insisted the belt be able to accomdate a phaser pistol; Miss Montoya hand-sewed the tassels, and Mister Bowen replicated the two large sapphires without a single flaw."
Matt blinked once, and then twice. “Very . . . considerate of you, Mister Vasa. Ladies, gentlemen, I am touched and honored by the gift; I will meet you on the bridge for the ceremony. Mister Shrak, would you stay?”
The senior staff filed out, leaving only Matt and Chan standing there in Matt’s quarters. “Chan, you didn’t tell them that I have never, not once, in my entire life, so much as lifted a sword in my hand before today?”
The antennae of the executive officer quivered again. “The Lieutenant had already crafted the sword—and such a work of art it is indeed. Mister Pok provided him with the gemstones adorning the pommel and hilt, as well as the gold, silver, and platinum that form the wire wrapped, leather covered grip and the basket hilt. By the time I discovered what they had planned, everyone had contributed; I didn't want to disappoint them with the news that you were only bluffing. I fear that it would have broken Lieutenant Vasa’s heart. They even made sure it hangs on your right side, since you are left-handed, my Captain.”
“What the hell am I going to do with a sword? A real, live, sharper than a serpent’s tooth sword?”
“Hang it on your wall? Wear it with your dress uniform?” Chan answered as his antennae continued to twitch. “I do have some excellent swordsmanship Holodeck programs in case you actually want to learn how to use it.”
“A sword,” repeated Matt as he shook his head. “Remind me to watch what I say in the future, Chan.”
“I always do, and you say that was different. And then you ask me, again, to remind you in the future to watch what you say.”
The Andorian reached down and he lifted up the sword and then the scabbard; he slid the weapon into its sheath. He sat down the weapon and took out a long deep blue sash, which he wrapped four times around the Captains waist, and then with a curt command of, “Hold this, Sir,” he once again picked up the sword and belt and he fastened it tightly about Matt’s waist, over the sash. He picked up Matt's white coat held it as the Captain slid his arms into the sleeves and gave the short jacket a stiff tug to properly seat the shoulders.
“There,” the Andorian laughed and shook his head. “You do look perfectly ridiculous, but it would be good for the crew’s morale if you wore it.”
Matt walked back over to his mirror and he took a long hard look, turning left and then right, his right hand resting on the pommel of the sword that peeked out from beneath the edge of his jacket.
“Yeoman Sinclair will have a fit; the jacket isn’t tailored for this style and it will wrinkle. Still, it does look dashing, does it not?”
“If you were a pirate captain, then it might, Captain Dahlgren.”
“And you usually like such things, Chan.”
“Oh, I do, I do indeed, Captain, Sir. I’m just wondering how you plan on sitting while wearing that piece of finely forged steel?”
Matt frowned. And then he shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mister Shrak. Now, I believe we have a ceremony to attend.”
“That we do, Sir. That we do.”
******************************************************
Chris began to step out of the turbolift onto the bridge, but he stopped in mid-step. Every one of the ship’s senior officers were present; all of them standing, facing the turbolift, and wearing their dress uniforms. And the Captain! The Captain was in their midst, and he was wearing a sword! An honest-to-God sword in a belt at his side. The young man swallowed, wondering if he had missed reading a memo.
“Mister Roberts,” the Captain said in strict and somber voice. “Why are you standing on my bridge? What are you doing on my ship when you are not in proper uniform?”
Chris swallowed and he took a step forward, allowing the turbolift doors to whisper shut. “I-I-I was told to report to the bridge, Captain, Sir.”
“I see. That does not explain why you are out of uniform, Mister Roberts. I believe that, by now, the crew and officers of this ship are well aware of my thoughts on the proper dress code.”
“No excuse, Sir. I-I will change into my dress uniform at once, if I may be dismissed!”
The executive officer stepped forward, his pale blue skin and white hair the perfect complement to his dress whites. “Captain Dahlgren, if I may?” he asked. "I believe that I can correct the problem with Mister Robert's uniform."
“Very well, Mister Shrak. Mister Roberts . . . STAND AT ATTENTION!” Matt barked. “Miss Tsien, open the all-hands channel, please.”
“All hands is now open, Sir,” she said as the whistle of the all-hands alert sounded throughout the corridors and compartments of Republic.
“This is the Captain speaking. Attention to orders! Let it known, that on Stardate 53753.4, when engaged in action against the Nephkyrie vessel known as Ark Prime, that Ensign Christopher Jonah Roberts, did, upon his own initiative reconfigure the main deflector dish of USS Republic, redirecting and expelling energy absorbed from the detonation of a Nephkyrie fusion scuttling charge contained in a transporter matter stream. The backlash of energy throughout USS Republic exceeded the capacity of internal power relays to contain, and it was only through the quick-thinking and independent action of Ensign Roberts that the ship remained intact. Therefore, by the authority of Starfleet Command, as of Stardate 53753.9, let it published that Christopher Jonah Roberts is hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, Junior Grade. May God have mercy upon his soul.”
Chris stared as Chan stepped forward and removed his collar insignia, replacing them with the twin pips of a Lieutenant, j.g. The executive officer then stepped back and saluted; a salute that Chris quickly returned.
“Lieutenant Roberts,” the Captain said, “you should also be aware that Lt. Commander Biddle, Commander Shrak, Commander Carmichael, Captain Salok, and myself have all written letters of commendation which will be added to your permanent file. I have also recommended to Starfleet Command that you be officially honored for your valor, your initiative, and your courage for those actions in Deflector Control by receiving the Starfleet Medal of Valor. Captain Salok has endorsed that recommendation. Regardless of how Starfleet Command makes its final decision on the Medal of Valor, Mister Roberts, the ship and crew have an award of their own they wish to make. Miss Biddle?”
The Operations Officer stepped forward, holding a ribbon suspended between her two hands; a round disk hanging from its lower edge. Chris bowed his head and she placed the ribbon around his neck; then she smoothed out the dark purple and grey swath of silk. “Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Christopher Jonah Roberts; the officers and crew of USS Republic do hereby present to you the Order of the Ts’kaba. An award made to remind you, young Lieutenant, that prior bad acts and indiscretions, as well as accidents of clumsiness, do not serve as an appropriate judge of an individual’s worth or character. Congratulations, Mister Roberts.”
Chris blushed fiercely, and then the Captain stepped forward—without a limp!—and he took Chris’s hand and shook it. “Well done, Mister Roberts. Well done indeed.”
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Captain’s Log; Stardate 53756.7, USS Republic. With the assistance of the crews of Portsmouth, Independence, and Balao, as well as Mister Philips engineers, Republic has finally managed to complete all of our needed repairs. Seven weeks of near constant work in orbit over New Columbia has managed to restore this ship to operational status once again. I must say, however, that both Captain Salok and Captain Terrance (of the Portsmouth) were taken aback by my insistence on installing ablative armor panels on the outer hull, as well as the internal bulkheads and decks surrounding the warp core and anti-matter pods. Salok was concerned that such an ‘unauthorized’ alteration of the ship might have unforeseen consequences with our sensor coverage; whereas Denise Terrance feared that the additional plating might overstress our hull. Computer simulations—exhaustive simulations—convinced both of them that the installation would not result in either increased strain and stress or decreased sensor resolution. While pleased that they did sign off on the improvements, I was prepared to simply add the plating after their ships depart New Columbia. The added protection is more than worth any discomfort they or others might feel as being ‘overly militaristic’ in nature.”
“The evacuation of Ark Prime has been successfully completed as well, with the Nephkyrie children and a selection of adults from Ark Two establishing their colony on the continental mainland to the west of New Columbia. We have worked to assist the Nephkyrie in constructing their first city, which they have named Lethtran; their word for ‘New Beginnings’. The transfer of their colony supplies and equipment from Ark Prime impressed all of us Starfleet officers; the sheer magnitude of the equipment and stores which they managed to outfit this colonial expedition with boggles most belief. We should have expected it, for the Nephkyrie never developed replication technology; an oversight which should be corrected before long given the closeness with which we are working with them.”
“With full access to the Nephkyrie medical databanks, rapid progress has been made on finding a treatment for the genetic damage suffered by this race. Even the most pessimistic of the Starfleet medical personnel now believes that we will have a perfected treatment within a matter of months at the most. Our own engineers and scientists have finally had the opportunity to examine in detail the Nephkyrie transporter technology, a technology that has the potential to revolutionize modern Federation life. Commander Malik was discussing this issue with Captain Salok only last night, at my farewell dinner for my fellow Captain, debating on how far this technology will change us. The Nephkyrie transporters are capable, if we understand the system correctly, of beaming an individual at distances of up to 25 light-years—provided that they have a target beacon at the intended destination. Imagine living on Earth and beaming to work on Vulcan, or Andor, or Denobula each day, returning home in the evening. With the proper placement of beacons and strategically placed long-range transporter units, it might be possible to beam from the two most distant points in the entire Federation in just a few hours time.”
“There remains one final task to accomplish before Captain Salok departs the New Columbia system with Independence. Inderi. Commander Philips promised that she would go free—a promise that he made on my behalf. I must support him, and yet I am keenly aware that without her willing assistance, the Nephkyrie would not have abducted the colonists in the first place. I believe that my officers and I have come up with an equitable solution in the matter, however.”
“Typhias has vanished into the depths of space. Probes and patrols conducted by Balao and Independence have revealed no clue of his current whereabouts. The children aboard Ark Prime informed us that the shuttle Typhias took was outfitted with additional fuel reserves; he could anywhere within a region of ten Sectors by now. Admiral Hansen, in light of this villain remaining at large, has ordered that Captain Carmichael and her Balao remain here in the New Columbia system—at least until the Nephkyrie defenses begin to come on line later this year. Portsmouth is also overhauling and strengthening the shields, weaponry, and sensor net for our own New Columbia colonists. Combined with the two dozen Nephkyrie shuttles in orbit, all of which are armed, this should be more than adequate if Typhias comes calling.”
“The fast transport Vancouver will be arriving tomorrow as well, with the delegation from the Federation council. After speaking with them, perhaps Republic can depart from here and continue on to the Cygnus Sector. We shall see.”
“Computer, save log.”
“Log saved.”
********************************************************
Inderi was escorted into Matt’s ready room by two of Beck’ Marines. Matt looked up from the monitor on his desk and glowered over the reading glasses at the Antaran woman—the criminal—standing there before him.
“Commander Philips made a deal with you, Miss Delon,” he said sourly. “It is a deal that I am loath to keep, but he made it in my name. You are free to go.”
“Just like that? I’m free to go? Go where?” the smuggler spat. “You destroyed my ship, along with all of my belongings. I have nothing! Starfleet owes me compensation, you owe me . . .”
“Nothing. We owe you nothing, Feringil Delon. But since your shuttle was destroyed by the Nephkyrie, I am having you transferred about White Cloud. Baron Jowar owned two Orion shuttles that he stored in his hangers on that ship—pick one and take it. And Miss Delon? This is your one free pass. Don’t let me catch you in Federation space again,” Matt warned, and he turned back to the monitor screen. “Get her off my ship, Marines.”
***********************************************************
“I’ll take this one,” Inderi said sourly. “You people cost me several thousand strips of latinum I had hidden on my old shuttle—and this piece of Orion crap is the best that you can do?”
Sean Philips pursed his lips. “That Orion Scorpion is only two years old, Inderi. It is faster, more maneuverable, and longer-ranged than your old Shirak. And it doesn’t have inadequate reactor shielding. It is warp capable, it is armed, and it has shields, not to mention a two-person transporter and a replicator. I think you are getting a better deal out of this than you deserve.”
“Like I care what you think,” the Antaran spat. “I was all set to retire into luxury, and now I have start all over!”
“Be grateful that you are still alive, Inderi,” Sean answered. “Typhias would have killed you to cover his trail, you know.”
The woman didn’t answer; she was still frowning at the shuttle. Finally, she turned and looked directly at Sean. “Jowar had a fortune aboard this ship, stored in his vault. The least you can do is replace what I lost—four thousand, three hundred, and eighty-seven strips of latinum. It’s only fair.”
“Life isn’t fair—and I think the value of this ship is worth the difference. This is your last chance, Inderi; try and avoid Star Fleet in the future.”
Inderi didn’t argue any further. She walked up the ramp and pressed the control to raise it, buttoning up the small vessel. Sean and the two Marines from Republic walked out of the shuttle bay and entered the hanger control room.
“Depressurize bay and open doors; spot the shuttle for launch,” the engineer ordered one of his men. Slowly the twin doors at the stern of the ship slid open and a tractor beam lifted the shuttle from its berth and placed it on the center of the flight deck.
A blow glow began to appear in the small vessel’s nacelles, and then it lifted up, hovered for a moment, and then exited the bay. Sean pressed a switch on the control panel. “Philips to Republic. She’s free and clear, Sir.”
“Thank you, Mister Philips,” Matt’s voice instantly responded. “Resume your preparations for the return to Earth. Republic out.”
***********************************************************
Inderi sat back in the pilot’s seat and smiled as the auto-pilot took her smoothly away from the planet. She turned and walked back towards the passenger/cargo section, before coming to a halt before one non-descript panel that repeated the engineer status. Picking up a tool that she had taken from the shuttle’s engineering kit earlier, she pried the panel loose, revealing a small safe buried into the hull. In seconds she had it cracked open, and was gazing with eyes of avarice upon the pile of gold-plated latinum bars Jowar had stored here: his rainy day fund as he had called it.
Those idiots, she thought. They didn’t even search the shuttle, at least not properly! She made herself ignore the treasure and reached in to extract a small, elegant, and utterly lethal weapon—a Varon-T disruptor; the last original Varon-T still in existence. She buckled the holster and gun-belt around her waist and then returned to her seat.
She sat and plotted a course to Havalis II, smiling again at her freedom from the inept and utterly clueless Federation. The course plotted, she engaged the Warp engines, and the shuttle shook—just as all of her systems went off-line and the power flow from everything but her batteries died.
***********************************************************
“Captain Dahlgren,” Chan spoke up from his console. “The Orion shuttlecraft given to Inderi has lost all power; she’s drifting on emergency reserve batteries with thirty-two minutes of life support remaining.”
Matt rotated his command and smiled at Chan. “Now how could that have happened? Perhaps she should have conducted a pre-flight inspection?”
“Indeed, Captain Dahlgren,” his XO answered gamely. “Those Orion ships are veritable death-traps, as poorly maintained as they often are.”
Matt turned back around and faced the main viewer. “In that case, she is clearly a disabled vessel in distress, ladies and gentlemen. We have no choice but to provide assistance, as we are the closest ship.”
“Ah, Captain?” spoke up Grace as she turned around to face Matt, her eyes dancing as she tried to maintain a straight face. “Actually we are not the closest ship; Independence is.”
“Thank you, Miss Biddle. Mister Shrak, would you hail Captain Salok, please?”
The main viewer blanked and then the Vulcan officer appeared on the screen. “Captain Dahlgren. We were preparing to warp out but our sensors have detected a vessel in distress. An Orion shuttlecraft.”
“Yes, Captain Salok. We detected it as well. Your ship is the closest, and I believe that regulations require you to go to her assistance.”
“They do indeed, Captain Dahlgren. Has a customs inspection been given this vessel previously?”
“It has not, Captain Salok,” Matt answered. Philip’s crew did go over the shuttle with a fine-tooth tricorder, but technically, there had not been an actual ‘customs’ inspection.
Salok raised an eyebrow, and he started to speak . . . but then closed his mouth. He nodded, and then he spoke again. “Is that not the same class of shuttle that you provided to the criminal Feringil Delon?”
“The same class, the same shuttle, Captain Salok. Perhaps it has a defect that the Orions missed.”
“A defect. I see,” the Vulcan answered. “You should be aware, Captain Dahlgren, that neither I nor my ship were bound by your promise to Feringil Delon. She does have several outstanding warrants for her arrest.”
“Captain Salok, I agreed to let her depart—but both Commander Philips and I warned her to avoid future contact with Starfleet vessels. A warning that she has chosen to ignore.”
“Then we shall render assistance to the vessel in question. And conduct a proper inspection. Independence out.”
Matt sat back. And he folded his hands together, his fingers tapping against each other, as he smiled. I promised you that I would let you go, Inderi; now try talking your way out of your crimes and possession of an illegal Varon-T disruptor with a Vulcan.
“Captain’s Log; Stardate 53756.7, USS Republic. With the assistance of the crews of Portsmouth, Independence, and Balao, as well as Mister Philips engineers, Republic has finally managed to complete all of our needed repairs. Seven weeks of near constant work in orbit over New Columbia has managed to restore this ship to operational status once again. I must say, however, that both Captain Salok and Captain Terrance (of the Portsmouth) were taken aback by my insistence on installing ablative armor panels on the outer hull, as well as the internal bulkheads and decks surrounding the warp core and anti-matter pods. Salok was concerned that such an ‘unauthorized’ alteration of the ship might have unforeseen consequences with our sensor coverage; whereas Denise Terrance feared that the additional plating might overstress our hull. Computer simulations—exhaustive simulations—convinced both of them that the installation would not result in either increased strain and stress or decreased sensor resolution. While pleased that they did sign off on the improvements, I was prepared to simply add the plating after their ships depart New Columbia. The added protection is more than worth any discomfort they or others might feel as being ‘overly militaristic’ in nature.”
“The evacuation of Ark Prime has been successfully completed as well, with the Nephkyrie children and a selection of adults from Ark Two establishing their colony on the continental mainland to the west of New Columbia. We have worked to assist the Nephkyrie in constructing their first city, which they have named Lethtran; their word for ‘New Beginnings’. The transfer of their colony supplies and equipment from Ark Prime impressed all of us Starfleet officers; the sheer magnitude of the equipment and stores which they managed to outfit this colonial expedition with boggles most belief. We should have expected it, for the Nephkyrie never developed replication technology; an oversight which should be corrected before long given the closeness with which we are working with them.”
“With full access to the Nephkyrie medical databanks, rapid progress has been made on finding a treatment for the genetic damage suffered by this race. Even the most pessimistic of the Starfleet medical personnel now believes that we will have a perfected treatment within a matter of months at the most. Our own engineers and scientists have finally had the opportunity to examine in detail the Nephkyrie transporter technology, a technology that has the potential to revolutionize modern Federation life. Commander Malik was discussing this issue with Captain Salok only last night, at my farewell dinner for my fellow Captain, debating on how far this technology will change us. The Nephkyrie transporters are capable, if we understand the system correctly, of beaming an individual at distances of up to 25 light-years—provided that they have a target beacon at the intended destination. Imagine living on Earth and beaming to work on Vulcan, or Andor, or Denobula each day, returning home in the evening. With the proper placement of beacons and strategically placed long-range transporter units, it might be possible to beam from the two most distant points in the entire Federation in just a few hours time.”
“There remains one final task to accomplish before Captain Salok departs the New Columbia system with Independence. Inderi. Commander Philips promised that she would go free—a promise that he made on my behalf. I must support him, and yet I am keenly aware that without her willing assistance, the Nephkyrie would not have abducted the colonists in the first place. I believe that my officers and I have come up with an equitable solution in the matter, however.”
“Typhias has vanished into the depths of space. Probes and patrols conducted by Balao and Independence have revealed no clue of his current whereabouts. The children aboard Ark Prime informed us that the shuttle Typhias took was outfitted with additional fuel reserves; he could anywhere within a region of ten Sectors by now. Admiral Hansen, in light of this villain remaining at large, has ordered that Captain Carmichael and her Balao remain here in the New Columbia system—at least until the Nephkyrie defenses begin to come on line later this year. Portsmouth is also overhauling and strengthening the shields, weaponry, and sensor net for our own New Columbia colonists. Combined with the two dozen Nephkyrie shuttles in orbit, all of which are armed, this should be more than adequate if Typhias comes calling.”
“The fast transport Vancouver will be arriving tomorrow as well, with the delegation from the Federation council. After speaking with them, perhaps Republic can depart from here and continue on to the Cygnus Sector. We shall see.”
“Computer, save log.”
“Log saved.”
********************************************************
Inderi was escorted into Matt’s ready room by two of Beck’ Marines. Matt looked up from the monitor on his desk and glowered over the reading glasses at the Antaran woman—the criminal—standing there before him.
“Commander Philips made a deal with you, Miss Delon,” he said sourly. “It is a deal that I am loath to keep, but he made it in my name. You are free to go.”
“Just like that? I’m free to go? Go where?” the smuggler spat. “You destroyed my ship, along with all of my belongings. I have nothing! Starfleet owes me compensation, you owe me . . .”
“Nothing. We owe you nothing, Feringil Delon. But since your shuttle was destroyed by the Nephkyrie, I am having you transferred about White Cloud. Baron Jowar owned two Orion shuttles that he stored in his hangers on that ship—pick one and take it. And Miss Delon? This is your one free pass. Don’t let me catch you in Federation space again,” Matt warned, and he turned back to the monitor screen. “Get her off my ship, Marines.”
***********************************************************
“I’ll take this one,” Inderi said sourly. “You people cost me several thousand strips of latinum I had hidden on my old shuttle—and this piece of Orion crap is the best that you can do?”
Sean Philips pursed his lips. “That Orion Scorpion is only two years old, Inderi. It is faster, more maneuverable, and longer-ranged than your old Shirak. And it doesn’t have inadequate reactor shielding. It is warp capable, it is armed, and it has shields, not to mention a two-person transporter and a replicator. I think you are getting a better deal out of this than you deserve.”
“Like I care what you think,” the Antaran spat. “I was all set to retire into luxury, and now I have start all over!”
“Be grateful that you are still alive, Inderi,” Sean answered. “Typhias would have killed you to cover his trail, you know.”
The woman didn’t answer; she was still frowning at the shuttle. Finally, she turned and looked directly at Sean. “Jowar had a fortune aboard this ship, stored in his vault. The least you can do is replace what I lost—four thousand, three hundred, and eighty-seven strips of latinum. It’s only fair.”
“Life isn’t fair—and I think the value of this ship is worth the difference. This is your last chance, Inderi; try and avoid Star Fleet in the future.”
Inderi didn’t argue any further. She walked up the ramp and pressed the control to raise it, buttoning up the small vessel. Sean and the two Marines from Republic walked out of the shuttle bay and entered the hanger control room.
“Depressurize bay and open doors; spot the shuttle for launch,” the engineer ordered one of his men. Slowly the twin doors at the stern of the ship slid open and a tractor beam lifted the shuttle from its berth and placed it on the center of the flight deck.
A blow glow began to appear in the small vessel’s nacelles, and then it lifted up, hovered for a moment, and then exited the bay. Sean pressed a switch on the control panel. “Philips to Republic. She’s free and clear, Sir.”
“Thank you, Mister Philips,” Matt’s voice instantly responded. “Resume your preparations for the return to Earth. Republic out.”
***********************************************************
Inderi sat back in the pilot’s seat and smiled as the auto-pilot took her smoothly away from the planet. She turned and walked back towards the passenger/cargo section, before coming to a halt before one non-descript panel that repeated the engineer status. Picking up a tool that she had taken from the shuttle’s engineering kit earlier, she pried the panel loose, revealing a small safe buried into the hull. In seconds she had it cracked open, and was gazing with eyes of avarice upon the pile of gold-plated latinum bars Jowar had stored here: his rainy day fund as he had called it.
Those idiots, she thought. They didn’t even search the shuttle, at least not properly! She made herself ignore the treasure and reached in to extract a small, elegant, and utterly lethal weapon—a Varon-T disruptor; the last original Varon-T still in existence. She buckled the holster and gun-belt around her waist and then returned to her seat.
She sat and plotted a course to Havalis II, smiling again at her freedom from the inept and utterly clueless Federation. The course plotted, she engaged the Warp engines, and the shuttle shook—just as all of her systems went off-line and the power flow from everything but her batteries died.
***********************************************************
“Captain Dahlgren,” Chan spoke up from his console. “The Orion shuttlecraft given to Inderi has lost all power; she’s drifting on emergency reserve batteries with thirty-two minutes of life support remaining.”
Matt rotated his command and smiled at Chan. “Now how could that have happened? Perhaps she should have conducted a pre-flight inspection?”
“Indeed, Captain Dahlgren,” his XO answered gamely. “Those Orion ships are veritable death-traps, as poorly maintained as they often are.”
Matt turned back around and faced the main viewer. “In that case, she is clearly a disabled vessel in distress, ladies and gentlemen. We have no choice but to provide assistance, as we are the closest ship.”
“Ah, Captain?” spoke up Grace as she turned around to face Matt, her eyes dancing as she tried to maintain a straight face. “Actually we are not the closest ship; Independence is.”
“Thank you, Miss Biddle. Mister Shrak, would you hail Captain Salok, please?”
The main viewer blanked and then the Vulcan officer appeared on the screen. “Captain Dahlgren. We were preparing to warp out but our sensors have detected a vessel in distress. An Orion shuttlecraft.”
“Yes, Captain Salok. We detected it as well. Your ship is the closest, and I believe that regulations require you to go to her assistance.”
“They do indeed, Captain Dahlgren. Has a customs inspection been given this vessel previously?”
“It has not, Captain Salok,” Matt answered. Philip’s crew did go over the shuttle with a fine-tooth tricorder, but technically, there had not been an actual ‘customs’ inspection.
Salok raised an eyebrow, and he started to speak . . . but then closed his mouth. He nodded, and then he spoke again. “Is that not the same class of shuttle that you provided to the criminal Feringil Delon?”
“The same class, the same shuttle, Captain Salok. Perhaps it has a defect that the Orions missed.”
“A defect. I see,” the Vulcan answered. “You should be aware, Captain Dahlgren, that neither I nor my ship were bound by your promise to Feringil Delon. She does have several outstanding warrants for her arrest.”
“Captain Salok, I agreed to let her depart—but both Commander Philips and I warned her to avoid future contact with Starfleet vessels. A warning that she has chosen to ignore.”
“Then we shall render assistance to the vessel in question. And conduct a proper inspection. Independence out.”
Matt sat back. And he folded his hands together, his fingers tapping against each other, as he smiled. I promised you that I would let you go, Inderi; now try talking your way out of your crimes and possession of an illegal Varon-T disruptor with a Vulcan.
-
masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Epilogue
“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the speaker announced. Matt frowned and he sat back in his chair in his ready room and tapped his comm badge. “Go ahead, Mister Shrak.”
“Captain, Vancouver has transported the Council Delegation to the surface—with one exception. Ambassador Delena Mar has transported to the ship. She is demanding a private meeting with you.”
Matt sighed, “Escort her to my ready room, Mister Shrak.”
The Captain stood, and smoothed out the wrinkles in his uniform as the chime sounded.
“Come.”
The door slid open and the Ambassador, her aide, and Chan entered Matt’s office. “Captain Dahlgren, may I pre . . .”
“He knows who I am,” the Ambassador snapped. “You are excused.”
“Madame Ambassador, welcome aboard Republic. Commander Shrak, would you care to join us—please everyone take a seat.”
Mar glared at Matt. “I said he was excused; my business is with you.”
“Unfortunately, Madame Ambassador, you are not in command here,” Matt answered as he took his seat without waiting for the Councilwoman. “I am.”
Chan’s antennae quivered as the Argellian’s skin flushed red and her aide had a pained look on his face. “Captain Dahlgren, if you would excuse me, I am supervising the transfer of the final load of stores from Portsmouth to our cargo holds.”
“Of course, Mister Shrak. I will join you shortly on the bridge.”
The Andorian nodded his head, smartly turned on his heel, and exited the ready room, antennae still twitching.
Matt took off his reading glasses and set them down on the desk in front of him. He sat back and folded his hands in front of him. “And what may I do for the Federation Council today, Madame Ambassador?”
Mar took her seat, her aide still standing off to one side behind her. “You can resign,” she hissed.
“Request denied,” Matt answered with a small twitch of his lips.
“I’ve read the reports on the Lorsham affair, Captain Dahlgren. I am fully aware that despite that charade of a court-martial, you are guilty of breaking the Prime Directive. You do not deserve to wear that uniform and this ship does not deserve to remain on active duty.”
“And yet, here we both are, Madame Ambassador. I do hope that you did not travel for more than seven standard weeks to New Columbia in order simply to ask me to resign; you could have easily have gotten my answer over sub-space radio.”
“No, Captain, I intend to fully participate in the Council Inquiry into exactly what happened here at New Columbia. You are an anachronism, a throw-back to the bad old times, a myrmidon who relishes in the power at your fingertips in the form of phasers and torpedoes. You are consumed with violence, and it is always your first answer—and that Captain is an abomination to the Federation. And I will uncover the Truth of your activities out here, no matter how deeply your Starfleet buries it.” The Ambassador straightened her spine and she sniffed. “I had hoped that some small portion of your intelligence might remain that has not been overcome by your naked aggression; that you would see the sense in what I ask and resign to spare yourself—and others—the shame of what is to come.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Madame Ambassador; what precisely is to come?”
“Sooner or later, Captain, you will cross the line. This ship will reveal its true dishonor to the entire galaxy. And when that day arrives, I intend to see that you get everything you so richly deserve.”
Matt frowned, and he rocked back and forth in his chair for a moment. “Madame Ambassador, I fear that you will have a long wait.”
“Really? This coming from a Starfleet Captain who threatened a fellow officer with murder. A Captain who condones the theft of weapons of mass destruction. A Captain who ignores the regulations when they do not suit him. No, Captain Dahlgren, your history indicates that you will go too far one day, and one that day, I will be waiting.”
“But not today, Madame Ambassador,” Matt replied.
Delena Mar smiled cruelly. “No, not today, Captain Dahlgren. Today you are a hero of the Federation, a brave Captain whose actions resulted in the loss of an entire starship and her crew; but you did save the colonists of New Columbia and establish peaceful contact with the Nephkyrie. Of course, you did abduct a being in neutral space, you lied to our Romulan allies, you took it upon yourself to decide Federation policy in lieu of the Council—so I thought that you appreciate reading our preliminary report.”
She extended her hand and her aide placed a PADD in it. She set the PADD on the desk and slid it across to Matt. Matt picked up his reading glasses and placed them in position and he scrolled through the document; he read it again and then he sat the PADD down and removed the eyewear, folding its legs and placing them atop of the electronic device.
“I see that the art of fiction writing is still alive and well, Madame Ambassador. It was kind of you to at least mention Republic in that dispatch where you give credit to Captains Myers and Salok, as well as Commander Carmichael and Philips for resolving the situation. Although, your mention implies that were it not for Republic there would not have been a situation to resolve in the first place.”
“That part is true, Captain Dahlgren. Without your ship arriving here unscheduled, it would have been another Starfleet vessel—a more reputable and honored Starfleet vessel—that would have dealt with the Nephkyrie. And with your penchant for issuing threats—threats that could be considered conduct unbecoming a Starfleet officer—it is for the best that your role here be . . . understated.”
“Madame Ambassador, whatever your problems with me,” Matt said slowly, “this crew deserves for their valor to be acknowledged.”
“Captain Dahlgren, I don’t give a damn about this crew or this ship. Or you, for that matter. All of you are guilty of crimes against the Federation—and you will suffer for that. Today, you get yet another chance to postpone the reckoning. I will be the next President of the United Federation of Planets, Captain Dahlgren. In two years time, I will become the Chief Executive; it is . . . arranged. Which means that Captains and ships alike that displease me will find themselves without support. Why do you not just spare yourself the shame and humiliation of what will happen when that day arrives, Captain Dahlgren: resign. It will also spare your family.”
Matt sat upright, and he coldly stared at Mar. “What was that, Ambassador?”
Delena Mar very sadly nodded her head. “Your conviction, and there will be a conviction, Captain; they are oh-so-closely associated with you. Their future careers will suffer for your decisions of today. I will spread the word that the office of the President will be most displeased with anyone who employees your children, your ex-wife, your friends. And as a society,” she sighed. “Well, we have not yet to totally eliminate violence. And your daughters are so very, very young . . . so very, very vulnerable.”
Matt licked his lips and he forced himself to unclench his hand and sit back in his chair once more. “Madame Ambassador, I cannot quite decide whether you are an idiot or a fool.” She jerked and opened her mouth, but Matt drove on. “Computer. Replay Ambassador Mar’s last comments.”
But only silence greeted his command, and Mar laughed. “Your computer is not recording this meeting, Captain. I have taken precautions, you see.”
Matt saw red, and he nodded. “No, madame Ambassador, you are neither an idiot nor a fool. I stand corrected.”
She stood. “I will be watching you closely, Captain Dahlgren. You and your ship. I will be counting votes in the Council very carefully as well; so tread lightly and please consider my request for your resignation. If your family actual means anything to you, that is, my dear Captain. Or get yourself killed on the frontier—that would make my job so much simpler.”
Matt stood as well. “If you harm them in any way, then I swear to God, Madame Ambassador, I will kill you.”
“And in attempting to do so, Captain Dahlgren, you will complete the journey into dishonor and contempt which you and this ship have already begun. You have no evidence, nothing to support your claims against me. Meanwhile, my agents are invisible and in place, and are prepared to offer you a harsh lesson in civility.”
She smiled a cold smile. “It is a lot to digest, Captain Dahlgren. You have a year to make your choice. Fight me and watch your family suffer, or allow the true order of things to come to pass. I so hope that you make the right choice, my dear Captain.”
And without another word, the Ambassador and her aide turned and left Matt’s ready room.
Matt stood there motionless for several moments, and then he sat down heavily. He turned in his chair and he opened a small cabinet, taking out a dark green bottle and four crystal glasses. He the bottle on the desk and tapped his comm badge. “Dr. Talbot, Mister Shrak, Commander Carmichael; join me in my ready room immediately.”
***********************************************************
Quincy blinked once, then twice. Chan just sat as still as a rock. Sam’s jaw dropped. And Matt took a sip of his smooth whiskey as he watched them process what he had just related.
“Is she insane?” the physician whispered.
“Irrelevant,” said Chan. “The only question is what do we do now?”
Matt grimaced. “I should inform Admiral Parker and the President immediately,” he said.
“Agreed,” added Sam. “She can’t become President.”
“BUT,” the Captain continued with a pained look, “she’s from Argellius II. They never take physical action of this nature themselves—and that means she has people on Earth. People who can get to Cass and Amy and Sarah and Melody; people that are perfectly capable of the physical violence she isn’t. She isn’t dumb—she’s the Councilwoman for her system. She may already have orders in the system for her people to act if she goes down.”
“Damn,” whispered Sam. “Admiral Parker can put your family in protection, though.”
“For how long, Sam? Right now, we’ve got time. She’s threatened my family and we must presume that she has the means of carrying out that threat. Time to find the goods on her and her supporters.”
“Until she decides she wants something else, Matt,” Chan added. “This is no balance of terror; she has threatened you, this ship, and your family.”
“None of which we can prove,” Quincy snarled. “Of course, the computer is recording us right now—and it shows a big blank spot while she was aboard. That alone should raise some eyebrows.”
“It won’t prove anything, however,” Sam said sourly. “And if we level an accusation like this against a member of the Federation Council, we need hard evidence.”
Matt nodded. “And we are going to get that evidence. I have a few friends on Earth that I can trust . . . without question. We will find out who she’s using—and make certain they can’t pull this off. And once we do that, my friends, Delena Mar will discover that Starfleet officers don’t always play by her rules.”
Chan sighed. “It is a shame that we Andorians no longer have an assassin caste. Still, crushing her dreams and shattering her political career should prove almost as satisfying; almost.”
Matt nodded and he took another sip. “For now, my friends, we wait. Until we know that my family is safe and we gather hard evidence on her activities.”
“And when that happens?” asked Quincy.
“Then she learns why you don’t threaten a man’s family, Quincy,” Matt growled.
**************************************************************
“We are clear of Portsmouth, Sir,” Isabella called out from her station. “Course heading Two-Two-Seven Mark Forty.”
“Increase to half-impulse, Miss Montoya,” Matt said quietly. “When we clear Balao’s perimeter patrol take us to Warp 9. Next stop, the Cygnus Sector.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman answered sharply. “Accelerating to Warp Factor 9.”
And Republic surged forward and shot past the light-speed barrier.
**************************************************************
Delena Mar watched as the streak of light Republic left in her wake faded. She turned away from her window of her cabin aboard Vancouver and walked back over to the table her aide and two other men were sitting at.
“We can try to convince the rest of the delegation that he is a loose cannon,” he aide said. “We have his threats to Myers and his actions on McKinley Station; those in the Cauldron as well; surely that will be enough . . .”
“No, Jas,” Delena answered as she took her seat and picked up a cup of tea. “I cannot afford to expend the political capital over this matter just yet; not if I intend become President in two short years. But then, perhaps we do not have to deal with Dahlgren and his ship ourselves. Isn’t that correct, Lord Mak’vegh?”
“That p’tahk cost my House dearly; he destroyed the plans of many years. Yes, Ambassador, he has many enemies, and I shall be the one who drinks of his blood,” the Klingon answered.
“Chancellor Martok has declared you a renegade, Lord Mak’vegh; you understand that I cannot and will not come to your defense?” Mar asked.
“Martok’s end draws nigh, Ambassador. I may well be in exile, but I retain more than enough strength to pay Dahlgren for what he cost me. What a pair we shall make—Chancellor and President, ushering in a new era for the Federation and Empire.”
Mar smiled and she took a sip of her tea. “After you remove Dahlgren and his ship from play, Mak’vegh, we can discuss how our future realm shall be arranged. For now, pay attention to the present. I believe that Jas here has those schematics you requested—complete plans for Republic, including her command codes.”
The Klingon barked out a laugh and he took the data-card Jas held out to him. “Your thorn will soon be no more, Madame President.”
She lifted her cup of tea in a salute, and Mak’vegh drank deep of his blood-wine. But then the fourth member of the cabal leaned forward into the light.
“Regardless of the fate of Dahlgren and his ship,” the being hissed, “his family must suffer in full for the price of his blasphemy. Such is the will of Ordan, my brethren,” the Lorsham priest said gravely. “He desecrated our Temple and destroyed our Relics, but he knows Ordan not—and he suspects not that Ordan still lives within us. And while we hear the Voice of Ordan, we know that he cannot destroy our faith—but our faith can destroy him and all that he loves. Rest assured, the Day of Vengeance against Dahlgren and Republic fast approaches.”
The three converts to Ordan around the table nodded in agreement, and the priest smiled, as he spoke the ritual invocation. “Blessed be Ordan.”
“Blessed be Ordan,” Mak’vegh, Mar, and her aide answered in unison.
“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” the speaker announced. Matt frowned and he sat back in his chair in his ready room and tapped his comm badge. “Go ahead, Mister Shrak.”
“Captain, Vancouver has transported the Council Delegation to the surface—with one exception. Ambassador Delena Mar has transported to the ship. She is demanding a private meeting with you.”
Matt sighed, “Escort her to my ready room, Mister Shrak.”
The Captain stood, and smoothed out the wrinkles in his uniform as the chime sounded.
“Come.”
The door slid open and the Ambassador, her aide, and Chan entered Matt’s office. “Captain Dahlgren, may I pre . . .”
“He knows who I am,” the Ambassador snapped. “You are excused.”
“Madame Ambassador, welcome aboard Republic. Commander Shrak, would you care to join us—please everyone take a seat.”
Mar glared at Matt. “I said he was excused; my business is with you.”
“Unfortunately, Madame Ambassador, you are not in command here,” Matt answered as he took his seat without waiting for the Councilwoman. “I am.”
Chan’s antennae quivered as the Argellian’s skin flushed red and her aide had a pained look on his face. “Captain Dahlgren, if you would excuse me, I am supervising the transfer of the final load of stores from Portsmouth to our cargo holds.”
“Of course, Mister Shrak. I will join you shortly on the bridge.”
The Andorian nodded his head, smartly turned on his heel, and exited the ready room, antennae still twitching.
Matt took off his reading glasses and set them down on the desk in front of him. He sat back and folded his hands in front of him. “And what may I do for the Federation Council today, Madame Ambassador?”
Mar took her seat, her aide still standing off to one side behind her. “You can resign,” she hissed.
“Request denied,” Matt answered with a small twitch of his lips.
“I’ve read the reports on the Lorsham affair, Captain Dahlgren. I am fully aware that despite that charade of a court-martial, you are guilty of breaking the Prime Directive. You do not deserve to wear that uniform and this ship does not deserve to remain on active duty.”
“And yet, here we both are, Madame Ambassador. I do hope that you did not travel for more than seven standard weeks to New Columbia in order simply to ask me to resign; you could have easily have gotten my answer over sub-space radio.”
“No, Captain, I intend to fully participate in the Council Inquiry into exactly what happened here at New Columbia. You are an anachronism, a throw-back to the bad old times, a myrmidon who relishes in the power at your fingertips in the form of phasers and torpedoes. You are consumed with violence, and it is always your first answer—and that Captain is an abomination to the Federation. And I will uncover the Truth of your activities out here, no matter how deeply your Starfleet buries it.” The Ambassador straightened her spine and she sniffed. “I had hoped that some small portion of your intelligence might remain that has not been overcome by your naked aggression; that you would see the sense in what I ask and resign to spare yourself—and others—the shame of what is to come.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Madame Ambassador; what precisely is to come?”
“Sooner or later, Captain, you will cross the line. This ship will reveal its true dishonor to the entire galaxy. And when that day arrives, I intend to see that you get everything you so richly deserve.”
Matt frowned, and he rocked back and forth in his chair for a moment. “Madame Ambassador, I fear that you will have a long wait.”
“Really? This coming from a Starfleet Captain who threatened a fellow officer with murder. A Captain who condones the theft of weapons of mass destruction. A Captain who ignores the regulations when they do not suit him. No, Captain Dahlgren, your history indicates that you will go too far one day, and one that day, I will be waiting.”
“But not today, Madame Ambassador,” Matt replied.
Delena Mar smiled cruelly. “No, not today, Captain Dahlgren. Today you are a hero of the Federation, a brave Captain whose actions resulted in the loss of an entire starship and her crew; but you did save the colonists of New Columbia and establish peaceful contact with the Nephkyrie. Of course, you did abduct a being in neutral space, you lied to our Romulan allies, you took it upon yourself to decide Federation policy in lieu of the Council—so I thought that you appreciate reading our preliminary report.”
She extended her hand and her aide placed a PADD in it. She set the PADD on the desk and slid it across to Matt. Matt picked up his reading glasses and placed them in position and he scrolled through the document; he read it again and then he sat the PADD down and removed the eyewear, folding its legs and placing them atop of the electronic device.
“I see that the art of fiction writing is still alive and well, Madame Ambassador. It was kind of you to at least mention Republic in that dispatch where you give credit to Captains Myers and Salok, as well as Commander Carmichael and Philips for resolving the situation. Although, your mention implies that were it not for Republic there would not have been a situation to resolve in the first place.”
“That part is true, Captain Dahlgren. Without your ship arriving here unscheduled, it would have been another Starfleet vessel—a more reputable and honored Starfleet vessel—that would have dealt with the Nephkyrie. And with your penchant for issuing threats—threats that could be considered conduct unbecoming a Starfleet officer—it is for the best that your role here be . . . understated.”
“Madame Ambassador, whatever your problems with me,” Matt said slowly, “this crew deserves for their valor to be acknowledged.”
“Captain Dahlgren, I don’t give a damn about this crew or this ship. Or you, for that matter. All of you are guilty of crimes against the Federation—and you will suffer for that. Today, you get yet another chance to postpone the reckoning. I will be the next President of the United Federation of Planets, Captain Dahlgren. In two years time, I will become the Chief Executive; it is . . . arranged. Which means that Captains and ships alike that displease me will find themselves without support. Why do you not just spare yourself the shame and humiliation of what will happen when that day arrives, Captain Dahlgren: resign. It will also spare your family.”
Matt sat upright, and he coldly stared at Mar. “What was that, Ambassador?”
Delena Mar very sadly nodded her head. “Your conviction, and there will be a conviction, Captain; they are oh-so-closely associated with you. Their future careers will suffer for your decisions of today. I will spread the word that the office of the President will be most displeased with anyone who employees your children, your ex-wife, your friends. And as a society,” she sighed. “Well, we have not yet to totally eliminate violence. And your daughters are so very, very young . . . so very, very vulnerable.”
Matt licked his lips and he forced himself to unclench his hand and sit back in his chair once more. “Madame Ambassador, I cannot quite decide whether you are an idiot or a fool.” She jerked and opened her mouth, but Matt drove on. “Computer. Replay Ambassador Mar’s last comments.”
But only silence greeted his command, and Mar laughed. “Your computer is not recording this meeting, Captain. I have taken precautions, you see.”
Matt saw red, and he nodded. “No, madame Ambassador, you are neither an idiot nor a fool. I stand corrected.”
She stood. “I will be watching you closely, Captain Dahlgren. You and your ship. I will be counting votes in the Council very carefully as well; so tread lightly and please consider my request for your resignation. If your family actual means anything to you, that is, my dear Captain. Or get yourself killed on the frontier—that would make my job so much simpler.”
Matt stood as well. “If you harm them in any way, then I swear to God, Madame Ambassador, I will kill you.”
“And in attempting to do so, Captain Dahlgren, you will complete the journey into dishonor and contempt which you and this ship have already begun. You have no evidence, nothing to support your claims against me. Meanwhile, my agents are invisible and in place, and are prepared to offer you a harsh lesson in civility.”
She smiled a cold smile. “It is a lot to digest, Captain Dahlgren. You have a year to make your choice. Fight me and watch your family suffer, or allow the true order of things to come to pass. I so hope that you make the right choice, my dear Captain.”
And without another word, the Ambassador and her aide turned and left Matt’s ready room.
Matt stood there motionless for several moments, and then he sat down heavily. He turned in his chair and he opened a small cabinet, taking out a dark green bottle and four crystal glasses. He the bottle on the desk and tapped his comm badge. “Dr. Talbot, Mister Shrak, Commander Carmichael; join me in my ready room immediately.”
***********************************************************
Quincy blinked once, then twice. Chan just sat as still as a rock. Sam’s jaw dropped. And Matt took a sip of his smooth whiskey as he watched them process what he had just related.
“Is she insane?” the physician whispered.
“Irrelevant,” said Chan. “The only question is what do we do now?”
Matt grimaced. “I should inform Admiral Parker and the President immediately,” he said.
“Agreed,” added Sam. “She can’t become President.”
“BUT,” the Captain continued with a pained look, “she’s from Argellius II. They never take physical action of this nature themselves—and that means she has people on Earth. People who can get to Cass and Amy and Sarah and Melody; people that are perfectly capable of the physical violence she isn’t. She isn’t dumb—she’s the Councilwoman for her system. She may already have orders in the system for her people to act if she goes down.”
“Damn,” whispered Sam. “Admiral Parker can put your family in protection, though.”
“For how long, Sam? Right now, we’ve got time. She’s threatened my family and we must presume that she has the means of carrying out that threat. Time to find the goods on her and her supporters.”
“Until she decides she wants something else, Matt,” Chan added. “This is no balance of terror; she has threatened you, this ship, and your family.”
“None of which we can prove,” Quincy snarled. “Of course, the computer is recording us right now—and it shows a big blank spot while she was aboard. That alone should raise some eyebrows.”
“It won’t prove anything, however,” Sam said sourly. “And if we level an accusation like this against a member of the Federation Council, we need hard evidence.”
Matt nodded. “And we are going to get that evidence. I have a few friends on Earth that I can trust . . . without question. We will find out who she’s using—and make certain they can’t pull this off. And once we do that, my friends, Delena Mar will discover that Starfleet officers don’t always play by her rules.”
Chan sighed. “It is a shame that we Andorians no longer have an assassin caste. Still, crushing her dreams and shattering her political career should prove almost as satisfying; almost.”
Matt nodded and he took another sip. “For now, my friends, we wait. Until we know that my family is safe and we gather hard evidence on her activities.”
“And when that happens?” asked Quincy.
“Then she learns why you don’t threaten a man’s family, Quincy,” Matt growled.
**************************************************************
“We are clear of Portsmouth, Sir,” Isabella called out from her station. “Course heading Two-Two-Seven Mark Forty.”
“Increase to half-impulse, Miss Montoya,” Matt said quietly. “When we clear Balao’s perimeter patrol take us to Warp 9. Next stop, the Cygnus Sector.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman answered sharply. “Accelerating to Warp Factor 9.”
And Republic surged forward and shot past the light-speed barrier.
**************************************************************
Delena Mar watched as the streak of light Republic left in her wake faded. She turned away from her window of her cabin aboard Vancouver and walked back over to the table her aide and two other men were sitting at.
“We can try to convince the rest of the delegation that he is a loose cannon,” he aide said. “We have his threats to Myers and his actions on McKinley Station; those in the Cauldron as well; surely that will be enough . . .”
“No, Jas,” Delena answered as she took her seat and picked up a cup of tea. “I cannot afford to expend the political capital over this matter just yet; not if I intend become President in two short years. But then, perhaps we do not have to deal with Dahlgren and his ship ourselves. Isn’t that correct, Lord Mak’vegh?”
“That p’tahk cost my House dearly; he destroyed the plans of many years. Yes, Ambassador, he has many enemies, and I shall be the one who drinks of his blood,” the Klingon answered.
“Chancellor Martok has declared you a renegade, Lord Mak’vegh; you understand that I cannot and will not come to your defense?” Mar asked.
“Martok’s end draws nigh, Ambassador. I may well be in exile, but I retain more than enough strength to pay Dahlgren for what he cost me. What a pair we shall make—Chancellor and President, ushering in a new era for the Federation and Empire.”
Mar smiled and she took a sip of her tea. “After you remove Dahlgren and his ship from play, Mak’vegh, we can discuss how our future realm shall be arranged. For now, pay attention to the present. I believe that Jas here has those schematics you requested—complete plans for Republic, including her command codes.”
The Klingon barked out a laugh and he took the data-card Jas held out to him. “Your thorn will soon be no more, Madame President.”
She lifted her cup of tea in a salute, and Mak’vegh drank deep of his blood-wine. But then the fourth member of the cabal leaned forward into the light.
“Regardless of the fate of Dahlgren and his ship,” the being hissed, “his family must suffer in full for the price of his blasphemy. Such is the will of Ordan, my brethren,” the Lorsham priest said gravely. “He desecrated our Temple and destroyed our Relics, but he knows Ordan not—and he suspects not that Ordan still lives within us. And while we hear the Voice of Ordan, we know that he cannot destroy our faith—but our faith can destroy him and all that he loves. Rest assured, the Day of Vengeance against Dahlgren and Republic fast approaches.”
The three converts to Ordan around the table nodded in agreement, and the priest smiled, as he spoke the ritual invocation. “Blessed be Ordan.”
“Blessed be Ordan,” Mak’vegh, Mar, and her aide answered in unison.
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masterarminas
- Jedi Master
- Posts: 1039
- Joined: 2012-04-09 11:06pm
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Ladies and Gentlemen,
That concludes Book I. I shall begin posting Book II sometime this week, as I still working on the first chapter trying to make it fit properly into what I have crafted here. It might be a little slower, but I turned out all of the above work in just forty days earlier this year. Anyway, I hope that you have enjoyed the ride.
Feel free to post any comments, advice, or suggestions.
Master Arminas
That concludes Book I. I shall begin posting Book II sometime this week, as I still working on the first chapter trying to make it fit properly into what I have crafted here. It might be a little slower, but I turned out all of the above work in just forty days earlier this year. Anyway, I hope that you have enjoyed the ride.
Feel free to post any comments, advice, or suggestions.
Master Arminas
-
FaxModem1
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 7700
- Joined: 2002-10-30 06:40pm
- Location: In a dark reflection of a better world
Re: Star Trek: Republic (Book I: Wounded Warriors)
Well, that was unexpected. I do like the symbolism of the Republic becoming a whole ship at the same time the Captain becomes a whole one.