FROM THE ARCHIVES OF USS GALAXY NCC-70637 REPRINTED WITH PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR:

"PostScript: Melancholy"
by Admiral Robert Edward Lee Price

"Admiral's Log. Stardate 50209.11."

"It's been over three months since I resigned my commission as Commanding officer of the USS Galaxy. I wish that I could say that the time passed quickly, but because of physical rehab and what seemed like countless hours of psychological counseling, things seemed to have dragged since my 'accident'."

Admiral Price glanced down at his hover chair that floated at his office desk located on Earth at Starfleet Head Quarters.

"It certainly hasn't been easy making the adjustment to loosing the use of my legs. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't rather be back on the Galaxy at my former rank with my former abilities. Not that they aren't making me feel welcome and accepted here at Starfleet Command. Admiral Louvois got together with several of the officers on the council yesterday and threw a welcome on board party' in my honor. Phillipa is always doing things like that. She's one of the more social members of the Starfleet council. I've received warm welcomes from several of the senior officers here. Admirals Okuda, Jellico whom I went through the academy with, Nakamura, and of course Admiral Paris who is probably the one most responsible for getting me a seat on the council. Unfortunately Admiral Casey was not available for the party. He and his wife are on holiday, but he did hail to wish me a distant welcome to Starfleet's top brass. Also not available was Admiral Hoth, which was sort of strange since it is my understanding that it was Jurgen's idea to originally nominate me for the promotion and seat on the council. Anyway, I 'ave no complaints about my new 'mates hospitality; They are all a great bunch of hard working people and I look forward to working with each of them in the coming months, running Starfleet Command from my position on the council."

Lee paused his dictation and moved his hover chair back slightly, while he glanced around his new office. It was quite spacious and high on the 43rd floor overlooking the city. The General had taken all of the souvenirs he formerly had decorating the ready room onboard the USS Galaxy and had used them to decorate this new office. New to the collection was a large titanium scale model of the USS Galaxy. Looking at the half-meter long replica turned the Admiral's thoughts to his former assignment and the friends he'd left to take this new position with Starfleet Command.

"Things have definitely changed. My understanding is that Captain Brhode will be permanently assigned as the USS Galaxy's commanding officer. A good third of the crew, along with most of the senior staff put in for transfer to new assignments once they heard that Brhode was my replacement." Lee smiled sheepishly, "Having had the unfortunate pleasure of serving with John before, I guess they figured to find greener pastures elsewhere. A bunch of my former crew transferred to the USS Miranda. A few went to the Istanbul and Relentless. It's hard to keep track of them all. Several officers on the Galaxy were promoted when Brhode took over to fill vacated positions left by the senior officer departures. I'm sure the 'mates will be able to handle anything that comes there way. They've been trained to handle anything, and over the years we pretty much have seen it all on the Galaxy."

Lee picked up a small quartz crystal that Counselor Dallas had given him before she took a hiatus from Starfleet and returned to Betazed. Rolling it around in his fingertips his thoughts turned to Karyn. Lee remembered Karyn's heartfelt apology for going against his orders and for letting him down in her eyes. Shaking his head he could remember telling her to have "no worries". It wasn't her fault some lunatic Breen idealists decided to kidnap him from his little fishing trip on lanjep. Lee had said it probably was his fault for taking shore leave in the first place. He had always said that vacations would be the death of him. Smiling he put the quartz column back down on his desk. He was pretty sure he'd helped to cheer Karyn up and convince her that he harbored no ill will towards her or her first command assignment because of her actions or the way things turned out. Still, he wondered if the Commander's hiatus from Starfleet and return to Betazed was actually going to turn into a resignation. Only time would tell.

Glancing at the briefing packet on his desk, Lee realized that he needed to pull himself out of the melancholy mood he'd placed himself in. Admiral Nechayev had given Lee the packet with summaries of the many different projects and issues currently on the schedule for Starfleet Command. He'd read through enough of it to realize there were quite a lot of important decisions regarding Starfleet and the safety of the Federation that needed to be made by the council. He'd certainly have his challenges ahead of him in getting fully up to speed with the rest of the council.

"Well, enough dilly dallying around. I need to get through the rest of this briefing material before the council meets at one this afternoon. Computer, close Admiral's log entry."

The computer responded with the correct tones even as Lee began opening the briefing packet to read through the rest of the summaries. While spreading them out on his desk to sort through them to find where he'd left off yesterday, his door chime sounded. Glancing up, Lee called out, "Come in 'mate, it's open."

The wooden doors opened and entering was an attractive yeoman. "Sorry to interrupt Admiral Price, but there is someone here to see you sir."

"G'day 'mate. Why don't you show them in Yeoman?"

The Yeoman hesitated for a moment, looking awkwardly towards the door and then back at the General. "Sir, it's a Borg..."

Lee gave his boyish grin, "No worries miss Spice. It's okay. You can let Three of Four in."

"Yes sir. Right away Admiral." Yeoman Spice nodded, still uncertain and a little disturbed at there being a Borg drone waiting in the reception area.

The Admiral continued sorting through the briefing papers, smiling to himself as he imagined how that conversation might have went...

"We will see Admiral Price."

"Excuse me? Do you have... an appointment with the Admiral?"

"Appointments are irrelevant. You will comply. We are Borg."

"I'm sorry miss?..." Spice might have asked.

"We are Three of Four. You will take us to see Admiral Price at once."

Lee used a hand to cover his grin at the way he imagined things might have gone. A short time later Three of Four came marching into his office.

"G'day 'mate. Please, close the door behind you."

Three of Four stopped and turned to look at the wooden door, almost as if she was annoyed that the device didn't automatically swish shut like the entrances on the USS Galaxy. After a moment, she complied, returning to manually shut the door and returning to the Admiral's desk.

"An inefficient mechanism."

Lee smiled. He never thought he'd be amused by something a Borg drone said, but somehow having Three of Four here reminded the Admiral of the many odd times he'd experienced on the USS Galaxy. "A bit old fashioned perhaps, but effective. So what can I do for you 'mate?"

Three of Four's head turned with a slight jerk, as if she were assimilating the question with her collective mind. Finally she responded. "Nothing. We are to observer and insure the conditions of our treaty are met."

Lee leaned back in his chair and looked at the Borg. "Yes, but wasn't your assignment to be served on board the USS Galaxy? I'd think you'd want to be there to see that the multi-phasic torpedoes are not used per our peace treaty with the Borg collective."

"We are to observe Robert Edward Lee Price. You will comply in accordance with the agreement." Three of Four stated unemotionally.

"But I'm no longer commanding the USS Galaxy. My recent injury has forced me to resign my commission as a starship captain and take a position here on the council of Starfleet Command. Wouldn't it be better to be stationed on board a starship to better observe that Starfleet is sticking to the treaty our people have agreed to 'mate?" Lee tried to reason.

"Your logic is flawed. Our assignment is clear. Observe Robert Edward Lee Price and ensure compliance with the terms of the treaty. Your damaged body is irrelevant. The assignment here gives you greater access to data throughout the fleet. Your promotion has insured a greater level of compliance." Three of Four corrected.

Lee gave a sigh. He had dealt with Three of Four long enough to know when she'd made up her mind about something. "Very well 'mate. Make your self comfortable and try to stay out of the way."

"Comfort is irrelevant." She stated.

Three of Four just continued to stand there, peering down at Admiral Price at his desk. After a moment, Lee shifted uncomfortably in his hover chair.

"Do you mind not standing right there 'mate? You make it hard to concentrate on my work." Lee asked.

Three of Four seemed to assimilate this request and then decided it was a reasonable one. Turning, she walked a few meters to the left and then turned and stood at a near by wall, still facing the General where she could observe his every move. "Is this location more satisfactory?"

Lee nodded, "Aye." He could tell that this new job with Starfleet Command was going to be filled with strange new challenges that he'd boldly have to overcome. He'd of given anything to turn back the clock and be his old self on board the Galaxy once again. But now that was behind him. His life changed forever by his injury and his new position as one of the Admirals on the Starfleet council. It was time to live up to his responsibilities and face the consequences of his actions of the past. If that meant baby-sitting a Borg drone for the next ten years to comply with an agreement that prevented a huge scale Borg war, then so be it. He just wondered how the other Admirals on the council were going to react to having a Borg Drone around.

Digging in, Lee began reading over the briefing reports for this afternoon's session of the council. He wasn't sure how it had happened, but somehow, the General had become a bureaucrat with Starfleet Command. As loathe as that sounded, his new position did have one perk that being the CO of the USS Galaxy had never afforded him in his twenty-year career. He now could eat real barbecue anytime he wanted, compliments of Head Quarters, Starfleet Command.

***

Epilogue:

It's a snow covered, blizzard filled planet. Swirls of cold and ice blow about, giving visible signs of the cold, cold temperatures of the hostile climate of this place. Through the blinding white flurries of frost, a heavily bundled figure comes marching towards the camera. The natural fur outer covering surrounds a more modern Starfleet thermal suit underneath. But still, it's not enough to keep the frostbite from nipping at the face of the poor soul inside. With an exhale of hot breath that immediately turns to steam clouds as the human heated air escapes the man's mouth and nostrils, the man comes closer through the muck and cold until he's fully in view.

"Gggggg-gggg-ggg-aaaa-wwwwww-ddddd ddddd-ddd-ddd-aaaaa-mmmm-nnnn!

Itssssss ffffffff-ffff-fffff-rrrrrrr-iiiii-ggg-ggg-ggg-gg-gg-in ccc-ccc-cc-ccccc-cccc-oooo-lllllll-dddd hhhhh-hhh-hh-hh-hh-hh-hhhhh-eeee-rrrr-rr-rrrrrrr-e!!" Commander Christopher Kell Thomas manages to stutter from the Federation Embassy Outpost on the planet Breen.

:: Cut to black, roll ending credits and musical score ::

***

NRPG: Well gang, as the immortal Captain James T. Kirk once said in cannon, "It's been fun."

I'm planning to keep the website I've sort of set the stage here for what Admiral Price's new position and surroundings are like at Starfleet Command head quarters back on earth. Those of you continuing your character adventures on other sims, or sticking with Galaxy TNG, feel free to use Admiral Price as an NPC in your stories. Just remember to role-play him true to form and remember, he's always one of the good guys.

Live long and prosper.

Mark Williams
Former GM - AES Email Sim: StarTrek: USS Galaxy NCC-70637
Formerly Aka - Admiral Robert Edward Lee Price
http://www.aesim.com/galaxy/

"Preface: Bhrode Gets Some News.."

By Fleet Captain John Q.Bhrode

* * * * *

Stardate 50307.02

The stars glittered down on the busy scene, lending their light to compete with that of the Kleig work lights mounted in banks on the assembly gantries. Laser arc welders threw pin point sparks of brilliance, as the Mars Planetia Utopia Fleet Shipyard scurried to finish the work on the 'Grand Dames' of the Starfleet. It was a never-ending choreographed ballet of flying pieces, workcrews and energy. The final culmination lay there under the harsh man made and stellar lights. Looking oddly fragile in the arrested stages of their births. . . ten Large Starcrafts sat there in the Consruction Yard Berths awaiting their turn to sail the Celestial Sea. The Red Planet loomed behind them, casting an odd red undertone to the scene.

It was here that the 'ships of the line' were constructed. Planetia Utopia Naval Shipyards. Any Spacedock or Orbital Repair Facility could swap out the modules for a NEBULEA class, or work on a STEAMRUNNER or AKIRA class ship. Hell, some of the newer ships could even replicate the parts for day to day repairs themselves. The smaller ships were constructed at StarDocks all over the Alpha Quadrant. Even the Orbital Facility at Station Gor'Vosh at the terminus of the Bazor Wormhole in DeltaQuadrant could produce DEFIANT class ships.

But, in the rarified world of the "Big Sisters" of the Fleet; for the PROMETHEUS, EXCELSIOR, and GALAXY class behemoths, Mars Planetia was the only home for them. The place that built the "Big Ships' from the first keel plate on up was pretty much the sole place they could be repaired or fixed.

Even Deep Space Nine couldn't handle a GALAXY class ship on an internal mooring hardpoint.

Through the skeletal arms of the three hulking Frame Assembly Berths and past the looming masses of the Orbital SpaceDocks, the comparatively tiny EXCELSIOR class ship made her nimble way. Swarms of runabouts, shuttles, warp-sled pinnaces and non warp workpods trundled their intricate way around everything in orbit. The lunky seeming workpods hauled engineers, workcrews, or cargo pods of supplies all the scene; over making snail-tracks of the towed personnel and/or cargo pods on the visual sensors.

A Klingon Vor'Cha class battlecruiser loomed next to one of SpaceDock Two's enourmous Hanger doors, held like the ships inside the massive bay by the flexible gangway umbilicals, connecting computer and power leads, and the electromagnetic 'mooring' tethers; to one spot in the X-Y-Z spatial continuim.

Upon seeing the EXCELSIOR class ship, the Klingon flashed her running lights in the traditional greeting to allied shipping.

The Federation cruiser did the same to her, gliding in to take an adjacant Transient berth. Her smooth lines complemented by the graceful way she moored herself to the graceless mass of the Spacedock. Moments after she settled into her berth, an Admiral's warp-sled shot from her opening bay to head for the Stardock below.

USS Prospero had returned home.

* * * * *

(Briefing Room Twenty Three, Deck 117, Stardock Two)

Fleet Captain John Q. Bhrode tugged his uniform tunic down and glared at the Marines flanking the door. With professional and icy scrutiny, he raked them from head to toe again, as he'd been doing for the last several minutes. Finally, he turned to his XO and remarked, with a disapproving sniff: "Waste of Tactical manpower, guarding some fat-bottomed Admiralty Board meeting. We're just waiting so they can feel important."

The green and black clad Marines didn't even flinch. Their stone faces and cold eyes had immediatly recognized the bright blue and white ribbon of the Federation Medal of Valour on Bhrode's immaculate white Dress Uniform. It sat perched atop a chestful of decorations, the symbol of the second hightst decoration the StarFleet gives.

The slim and elfin redhead next to him had only one diamond-studded ribbon on her jacket, not familiar to the Marines. Exactly two people since James Tiberious Kirk had ever recieved the Grankite Order of Tactics, and never with Diamond Starbursts before. She idly 'puffed' a crimson lock from her eyes before venturing her comment.

"Aye aye sir. If the Captain so says." she intoned in a monotone voice. Her cold and dead seeming brown eyes studied the Marines with all the warmth of a Breen Christmas. Something in her gaze told them that they really didn't want to know what she was thinking.

The Marines squirmed internally and wished they were elsewhere. It was with great relief that the door to the briefing room opened and Captain K'urana, the Mindarian stomped out. She glared over at Bhrode and his XO.

"Three years. . . three years I slave to pile honor on my name. Seventeen confirmed ship-kills in the war. Two years of sucking up to idiot Admirals, and I'm told I don't get a -real- command. A Hospital ship! They made me the CO of some Hospital ship!" she declared, the fine wirelike hairs on her arms bristling under her sleeveless tunic.

"Tough Break. The Fleet need Hospital ships, though. Someone has to command them." replied Bhrode, whose face clearly indicated nothing of the sort.

As the Mindarian left the room, the redheaded Commander turned her gaze to her superior for several long moments, her feelings unreadable in the ice-cold mask. Bhrode sighed and tugged his tunic lower.

"Just not me. Suckerrrrr. ..Number One, if you recite some number at me, telling me the chances we don't get screwed on this. I will personally transfer you to the Breen Embassy by way of my left boot. Yes, I am aware she was the last of the officers here when we arrived. Haven't I been sitting on my ass here with you for four hours now?" Bhrode demanded, clearly in a peevish mood.

The cold brown eyes regarded him a long moment. A year of dealing with the legendary Caprain Bhrode had long inured her to any fear or apprehension.

To his Executive Officer, Bhrode was like a mathematical problem. You just did what you had to, to the best of your abilities and the results were always the same.

"Chances of not getting. . . screwed are negligible. Sir. I can do them to three decimal places with an error margin of plus/minus. . . " she intoned, for all the world sounding like a computer.

"Ever make snowballs?" Bhrode barked.

"Sir?" she asked, a quizzical expression dancing briefly on her gamine-like face a moment, before it died a quick death.

"Once, in the Academy... we went camping in the high Sierras. It snowed and we had a Snow Ball fight." Bhrode mused.

Rebecca Von Ernst let her highly ordered little mind float back to the photographic memories of herself making snow angels in the deep Minnesota drifts near the farm. And other memories, of her Momma tossing soft, wet Minnesota snowballs at her giggling daughter, the pristine white flakes on their crimson locks making them look more like sisters.

The snow used to get so high, that the tiny redheaded child could literally be buried under the white drifts. Sometimes, in direct violation of parental orders, she'd take her little wood sled and tie a rope to the patient and longsuffering Miss Moo the Cow and get dragged at the slow trot around the winter paddock. Though, truth be told, winters usually meant she wasn't able to 'squish' mud barefoot at her favorite pond, and she thought winters were only good for catching snowflakes on her tongue and fluffy mittens and...

"Tommy Westran got one right in the schnozz. Blood flew everywhere. I'd put a rock in it. Right in the middle Did you know blood bounces on ice?" Bhrode continued, staring at the floor.

Rebecca shook the memories of her more benign childhood aside. "Yes Sir. Temperature differential, sir. Blood is at Human Body temperature of ninety. . ." she began, in her Ice Queen mode, dredging the numbers from the depths of her mind and burying the memories of the precisely mathematical snowflakes melting on her Pink Fuzzy Bunny Mittens that Great Aunt Petunia had knitted for her.

"The punk had asked for it. Tried to make me look dumb on the Obstacle Course. He never could keep up with me. Tommy trained that idiot who just left, before he died in the Chin'Toka Badlands. 'Seventeen Ship Kills' my left nut. Like anyone can't top that, or bothers counting anymore. I can't even count how many bastards I've planted behind me. I'll be damned if I start figuring it out and waving it like a flag. She's lucky they didn't plonk her on a DEFIANT class." Bhrode groused.

"I believe that the record for kills of Capital Ships of the Line goes to the Borg, Locutus. His resounding defeat of Admiral Hanson. . . " Rebecca intoned.

One of the Marines gasped and dropped his Phaser Rifle with a clatter at the memory of the staggering losses at Wolf's 359 and theb almost obscene lack mof compassion in her voice. Bhrode fixed the young Corporal with a steely gaze.

"Pick that up! What? You don't like hearing that we damn near lost to the damned Borg? Well we did. A whole fleet died and didn't even stop one cube. Thousands of lives were lost. . . " Bhrode barked out, his face flushing red.

"That was a long time ago. Never again. Hello John. Rebecca." a new voice floated into the room.

Bhrode eyed the form in the doorway wearing the Admiral's uniform and grunted.

"Admiral on the Deck! Atten-HUT!" snapped off the Marine Guards, as Rebecca popped to 'Attention" and Bhrode came up from his chair behind her, albeit slower and with a look of disgust on his face.

"Jurgen." Bhrode intoned to Admiral Jurgen Hoth, Chief of Tactical Planning and Operations for Starfleet. Hoth's full lips compressed to a displeased, tight line at the breech of protocol.

"At ease. As you were. You see Okuda, Jellico and Paris yet?" Hoth's eyes drifted back to Rebecca's freckled face, his eyes tracking the still-bloodless white scar on her cheek.

"No. It's been the old "hurry up and wait" since T'Paal got the message to bust a nut getting here. I'm assuming it's time for the annual 'Shuffle of Comamnds,' since I see that the room was packed with Commmanders, Captains and a few of us esteemed Fleet Captains when we got here. No one tells me anything. I suppose Nakamura is here too." Bhrode snapped.

"Can't say, John. Mystery to me too." Hoth lied, his eyes still on Rebecca VonErnst. Bhrode snorted his belief in the statement.

It'd been a long time since he'd been face to face with her. She'd told him off a year ago via comlink, and aside from some purely formal meetings via subspace, he'd left her alone. Rebecca met his questioning and appraising gaze with a leaden eyed and sullenly diapassionate stare of her own.

With a grunt, Admiral Hoth disappeared into the briefing room.

"Shit. That fat little toad is up to something. Why's he here?" whispered Bhrode.

Rebecca let her eyes drift and kept her mouth shut. She was 96.23% sure the Fleet Captain had meant the question rhetorically.

Everyone knew that Jurgen Hoth was the axe-man for the Admiralty board, in the new 'Up or Out' Starfleet. The Career-breaker.

Rebecca wasn't surprised that every Officer and Aide who passed them, going into the Briefing room all had identical folders and PADDS bearing the Alpha- One Security clearance.

The name on the few she could read did cause one tiny red eyebrow to arch in speculative amusement.

~~Project Archangel had a third component?~~ she asked herself.

One hundred and twenty silent minutes later, after the last Aide had scurried inside, a Yeoman popped out and asked Captain Bhrode to step inside himself.

Alone.

* * * * *

Personal Log, John Q. Bhrode

Stardate 50307.04 (4 July 2379)

Admiral T'Paal was summoned to an 'Emergency Meeting' of the Fleet Admiralty Board at Stardock Two, Mars , Sol System. Of course, yours truely had to move this bucket of rust USS Prospero from Starbase 212 to Planetia Utopia shipyards to accomodate the request.

Actually, I do this crew a disservice. When I took Prospero over, it was a mess, almost as bad as Galaxy had been. The crew has really pulled together, and gotten down to basics. Our Combat Response time in drills has improved 34% in the last year, and the Flagship is the baddest assed ship in the Second Fleet. Not bad for a patched together EXCELSIOR class bucket. I'd be proud to lead this crew into battle.

While at Stardock Two, I was summoned to appear before the Admiralty Board. I hadn't killed any one lately, and the JAG office has been surprisingly clear of complaints from bedwetting sissies. Well, I don't want anyone who can't or won't cut it, serving under me. I won't lose sleep every time the Thomas' and Queversonn's of the world go crying about their delicate sensibilities to the shrinkie-poos who get paid to listen to the poltroons. Let them go elsewhere, they're a liability to those of us who wish to serve with honor and not get anyone else killed in the process.

You can imagine my surprise to discover that every Admiral in the fleet was there, or on com link. Even old R.E.L Price commed in from his cushy desk on Earth. T'Paal hadn't said a word about it, which was surprising. A year of being CO of her Flagship, you'd think she'd extend me some common curtesy. Damn Vulcans.

The whole thing boiled down to several simple facts, as they kept harping on them.

Jean Luc Picard was having some structural problems with the new SOVERIEGN class Enterprise-E and the Fleet's "Flagship' won't be ready for protracted duties for another few months. Or years.

The Fleet's a mess. They're throwing these poor halftrained kids onto hulls as fast as they can. Half the new ships have design problems, and the older ones are showing their age. We can't build them fast enough or fix the older ones fast enough. Too many good people died fighting off the Borg, the Breen and the Dominion. Not to mention the constant mess in the Cardassian Occupied Territories. The Badlands are still a good place to get yourself killed.

Lee Price's Galaxy was the next ship in line to replace Enterprise, but apprently she still had some problems from my spin in her out in the Mako Nebulea. The Novas forbid that the over-coddled Engineers there actually have fixed anything.

So, guess who the Admiralty Board, in their Collective Wisdom, decided should take over the Captaincy of USS Galaxy? Again?

That's right, yours truely.

To top it all off. . . they've been monkeying with the ship for the last year. Ever since Lee got himself kidnapped and shot, they've had her here in Spacedock. They told everyone that the 'Bhrode Retrograde Manuever' had done some bad damage to the space frame, that they'd get her out any day now. . .

They lied.

The whole time, they were gutting and refurbishing her. They have some cock-a- mamie idea to 'improve' the Galaxy class. And they picked the class prototype to be the 'Guinea Pig' for the new subclass.

So not only do I have to take a relatively new crew and whip them into shape, but I have to do it on a ship that's half recycled junk from 2357 and half untested crapola from 2379.

They looked a little surprised when I told them I'd do it, under one condition.

That this time. . . I get to pick my crew. Every last one of them. No more inheriting some mouthbreathing idiot from the previous 'Captain.' No more screw ups and the dregs of whatever fleet I happened to be in, unsaddled on the "Garbage Ship' right before someone sends for Johhny Q. Bhrode to come and fix it.

I pick every last one of them aboard, or I retire myself.

And they agreed.

They bought my bluff!

Like I'd enjoy being retired.

I thought Phillipa Louvois was going to spit, she looked so mad. And that . . . words fail me here... Jurgen Hoth. He just sat there and smirked some more. Like he knew all about it and was amused. Like he saw it coming.

He's up to something. I'd love to find out what, and toss a monkey wrench into it. Just for shits and giggles.

I never did like him. Even those days on the USS al-Kabari.. I'm pretty sure he'd have let me and those men die, just so he could notch up another ship on his kill-record. He doens't understand what it is to be a warrior.

I just know he's with this Guignon guy, and helping push this 'Hawk' agenda through the Federation Council. What these "Reform" people are blathering on the newswires. . . it's what Jurgen was telling us all those years ago, in that damned jungle as we all fought to see yet another morning.

But then, any civilian puke who's willing to screech about 'rights' without any concept of the duties they need to earn them is scum in my book. I still think that no one should be allowed to vote in the Federation until they retire from the Fleet. They abuse it... going to strip clubs and other crapola things like the mindless little lemmings they are. I'd like to get my hands on them, the little milk-suckers, and I bet I could make a responsible citizen out of... 50% of the little lost souls.

A ship of my own. . . and a fairly brand new one to boot.

Between myself and whoever reads this Log, years from now, I'm a bit excited about the whole thing.

It's going to be a strange ride from here on out.

End Log.

"Preface: Free as a bird"
by Lt. Vladimir 'Sonic' Malgin, ACMO, Starbase 'Novo Moscovia'

Freeee... As a bird.....

This song of more-than-just-famous group 'Beatles' reflected the day (or righter to say 'remainings of the day') of Lieutenant Vladimir Malgin. Being ACMO on such a big station as Novo Moscovia of course has got its pluses... A little bit of 'em. But minuses are horrific. At least from his side of view...

"... And I expected it to be better? Ye olde Galaxy was a mess, that's a sure damn thing. But this pigsty, named Novo Moscovia plainly kills me. It is an...evil usage of great city's name. I thought that damned Corgan was the worst man in the Universe. Well, I have to admit, I was wrong. Operations Chief of this 'place' is 100% more buckethead than that 'JC'! He dares to even tell me that I am f**king surgeon after all I did to him! Well, I am too much irritated after this damned hell, named 'shift'. At last I am free as a bird. Beatles were right, freedom is what man needs most. Especially after sickbay. Computer, end of personal log entry."

"Acknowledged"

Vladimir fallen on the bed and let out sound of happiness as he hugged his pillow. In last year it was his best friend. He adored it, because it gave him the needed relax. He knew, that in few minutes, he will at last fall into huggings of Greek God of dreams, Morpheus. He didn't even took off his tunic. But by 'Code of Evil Laws' he wasn't destined to have sleep enough in this day... however, was it evil law?..

Female computer voice said "Wake up, lieutenant".

Vladimir only turned on another side and mumbled "Yeah, yeah... Whatever."

"Lieutenant, message from BUPERS awaits"

"Tell it to wait outside. I am too tired to... WHAT?!" Vladimir instantly sat up "WHAAAT?! BUPERS?!. And this means that... I am out of this pigsty or I am sentenced to live here for rest of service?.. On screen!"

=======

To: Vladimir Malgin, Lieutenant, ACMO of Starbase 'Novo Moscovia'
From: Starfleet Command, Bureau of Personnel
Date: 50307.04
Re: Transfer orders.

You are hereby ordered, by Starfleet Command, to report to StarDock Two at Planetia Utopia Shipyards for assignment to the following ship, prior to her launch. You are authorized to use any available transit and/or shipping to report as soon as possible. USS GALAXY NCC-70637/A

In our hand, this stardate:
Fleet Admiral Nakamura, Commander in Chief, UFP-StarFleet
Commodore George Irwin, Commander, BUPERS

========

...It was folk dance. Mixed with acrobatic rock'n'roll, sambo, and God-knows-what-more. Vladimir was happy. No! He was extatic! "OUTTA HERE! Outta here! YEEEAH! This finally happened! God exists and he hears me!" plus other idioms from Great and Powerful Russian language.

Some time later, when Vladimir finally calmed down, he re-read message. Now he saw the name of vessel. "A? Galaxy?" Apparently if human brains were mechanical, room could be filled by clicking. "A? Unbelievable! Back to the cradle of service!.. Computer, who is the commanding officer of USS Galaxy NCC-70637-A? Robert Price?"

"Negative. Commanding officer of USS Galaxy is John Q. Bhrode".

Vladimir's eyes widen. He whispered "This was too much like a dream... Like a barrel of honey. In which someone added a spoon of oil... Oil is Bhrode here... DAMNIT!"

TBC...

"Preface: Shipping Out with New Orders"
By Electra Reece

Lexa looked up at the ensign handing her the PADD and sighed. Ever since her recovery from her coma and temporary assignment at Starfleet Medical as an operations officer, her days had been overflowing with paperwork. Her desk was piled with multiple stacks of PADDs and crewmen, ensigns, and various medical personnel were in and out of her office all day.

~ It was calmer when it was just me in here. ~

"Thank you, ensign." Nodding, the young woman turned to leave only to look down at a box in her hands. She turned on her heel and biting her lip in a sheepish fashion, she laid the box on the desk. "Sorry, ma'am." Lexa gave a little smile and nodded at the nervous youngster. "No problem." The ensign left.

~ They let them out younger and younger every year. ~

Turning her attention to the PADD, Lexa read:

* * * * *

To: Electra Reece, Lieutenant Commander, Chief of Operations, USS Galaxy
From: Starfleet Command, Bureau of Personnel
Date: 50307.04
Re: Transfer orders.

You are hereby ordered, by Starfleet Command, to report to StarDock Two at Planetia Utopia Shipyards for assignment to the following ship, prior to her launch. You are authorized to use any available transit and/or shipping to report as soon as possible. USS GALAXY NCC-70637/A

In our hand, this stardate:
Fleet Admiral Nakamura, Commander in Chief, UFP-StarFleet
Commodore George Irwin, Commander, BUPERS

* * * * *

Her eyes widened in shock as she read the first line. ~ Lieutenant Commander? Chief of Operations? Galaxy? Well, when they reassign you, they really reassign you. ~

She put the PADD down and turned her attention to the box, now knowing what was in it. She reached out and opened it, revealing two full pips and one blackened pip. As she stared into the box the room darkened and she saw the blood covering the rank insignia. "Red alert! All hands --"

"LEXA!!!"

Blinking, Lexa looked up and saw Dr Gerren Kareevis, one of her bosses and the doctor most familiar with her case standing in front of her desk, one hand waving in front of her face. "Off again, was I?" She placed the box on her desk, the clean, golden pips reflecting the bright lights shining through the window.

The human-Bajoran doctor frowned. "I have been standing here for a good five minutes. I called your name repeatedly, shook you and tried to introduce my hand as visual stimuli in front of your face. Nothing worked until I said your name for the ninth time."

"Much as normal."

The tall doctor sighed. "Yes, much as normal. What did you see, Lexa?"

She shook her head.

"I know you don't like to talk. But come now. What did you see?"

The statuesque woman sighed. "Kareevis ... it was dark and I saw pips covered in blood and a voice was calling for Red Alert." She turned her back on the concerned physician and strode purposefully to the window Gazing out on the beautiful Earth scenery, she gave a wry smile. "Perhaps ... only a memory of things past, my friend. Not to come." She nodded to the PADD and box on her desk.

Picking it up, the man scanned it quickly. "A promotion? And immediate shipping out? What will we do without you, Lexa? Are you sure you are ready?"

Turning back to him, she nodded and picked up the pips from the box. Removing the two she wore, she carefully placed them on the desk. Cocking her head to the side, she placed her shiny new insignia on her collar. She stood behind the desk, shoulders back, head up, eyes straight ahead, almost a posture of attention.

"Very well. I hope it was a memory. Do not lose touch. And keep up your diary of occurrences. You are fascinating, my dear." The doctor smiled sadly as he patted the young woman on the shoulder. "Good luck, Electra Reece." He turned, leaving the bright office and a thoughtful, quiet woman behind.

A woman who knew it had not been a memory she had experienced.

“Preface: Back Home”
By: Lt. Commander Rose Isis MacAllen-Corina, Asst.
Chief Science Officer, USS
Galaxy

**CSO Office, USS Istanbul**

After visiting Science Lab One and scary some new Ensigns that just got posted on the ship the young Betazoid walked in with her one year old daughter Karyn Shinta, Rose was forced to drop the little girls other middle name Autumn after both Rose and that stupid of an bitch ex-CMO of the USS Galaxy broke off there on and off again friendship this time for good.

It been an year since she left the Galaxy, since then she married Lt (jg) Corina an young man who is an close friend of Autumn’s husband and the second man she loved and lost to another woman name Wilhem. Along with that she had an new outlook on life that the young Science Officer cut her hair and dyed it blond a little, but when Rashid her husband looked at it he was in shocked but he also loved it.

Her husband Rashid is the Asst. Chief Enginneer Officer and one hell of an good one, now Rose had the perfect life she always dreamed of. As the young woman sat down at her desk in her posh office that the Captain of the Istanbul help remodel she found an PADD with an message that made her very happy:

To: Rose Isis MacAllen-Corina, Lt.Commander, Chief Science Officer/Second Officer, USS Istanbul
From: Starfleet Command, Bureau of Personnel
Date:50307.04
Re: Transfer orders.

You are hereby ordered, by Starfleet Command, to report to StarDock Two at Planetia Utopia Shipyards for assignment to the following ship, prior to her launch. You are authorized to use any available transit and/or shipping to report as soon as possible. USS GALAXY NCC-70637/A

In our hand, this stardate:
Fleet Admiral Nakamura, Commander in Chief,
UFP-StarFleet
Commodore George Irwin, Commander, BUPERS

* * * * *

“YES, MY GODS OF MY PEOPLE WERE GOING BACK HOME!” Rose shouted while dancing around with little Karyn who was smiling and laughing as both mother and daughter was dancing around the office.

When Rose told her husband that night about her transfer order he was happy for his young wife but also sad that he won’t be with her for an while until he gets his transfer order which would take another year or so.

“Don’t worry my love, we will be together very soon we will just have to call and write alot until the gods bring us back together again.” Rashid said then kissed her very passionate showing their deep and everlasting love for each other because it maybe the last time they will see each other for an while.

**Captain Ready Room ** USS Istanbul

"I hate to lose you Rose your an good officer and you will be missed greatly." said her commanding officer Ron Cooper while walking up to her with an smile on his face but the young Betaziod can feel the pain in the young Captain heart to lose her to another ship and commanding officer but there was nothing the young woman can do her hands are tied.

But the Galaxy launched her career thanks to Captain Price and she owned him that much to go to the new ship the Galaxy and to do the same work for her new commanding officer as she did for Price during though three years.

Captain Cooper huged the young woman tight as Rose can still feel his pain as she rubbed his silky brown hair.

"There will be an party in your honor before you leave the ship..to show how much you mean to us and to Starfleet. Your dismissed, Commander the party will be at 2000 hours tonight in Ten-Foward." Ron said retreating back to his deck going some more paperwork trying to look more business like.

As Rose was walking off the bridge of the Nova class ship she looked around one more time trying to remember everything about the ship, every person who had faith in her and her work that even became her friends.

Then the young Commander left the bridge as she needed to start packing for her new home..the USS Galaxy.

"Preface: A moment of peace"
by Lt. Edith Monaghan, Counselor

::USS BABYLON::

The Lieutenant continued reading the document she had written minutes earlier. "Well, it's mine..." she said to herself. "I recognise those bloody typos..."

She sighed and stood up, walking to the computer. A new message, she noticed. With a sigh, she got it onscreen. She hated these written things more than the devil.

To: Edith Monaghan, Lieutenant, Counselor on USS BABYLON
From: Starfleet Command, Bureau of Personnel
Date: 50307.04
Re: Transfer orders.

You are hereby ordered, by Starfleet Command, to report to StarDock Two at Planetia Utopia Shipyards for assignment to the following ship, prior
to her launch. You are authorized to use any available transit and/or shipping to report as soon as possible. USS GALAXY NCC-70637/A

In our hand, this stardate:
Fleet Admiral Nakamura, Commander in Chief, UFP-StarFleet
Commodore George Irwin, Commander, BUPERS

She looked at the orders and grinned. "Bloody 'ell..." she started laughing and walked to her padd. She deleted the document. She had to tell Hugo about this. She let out a laughter and shook her head. "USS Galaxy...doesn't sound that bad..."

"Careful What You Wish For"
Lt. Jeremy Savoie Flight Control Officer, USS Lexington

"Deck ten." Lieutenant Jeremy Savoie's voice dully evaporated into the empty turbolift as the doors to the bridge closed behind him. It was another end to another shift on another day aboard this ship.

He had been serving on the Lexington for over three months now, hating every minute of it.

Like clockwork, the turbolift doors 'swished' open and the joyless Lieutenant made his way down the corridor to his quarters, making eye contact with no one along the way. Not that he would have exchanged words with anyone if he had. No, for the last three months, Jeremy worked hard to keep his mind focused and his mouth shut. After all, if he had learned to do that a few months ago, he wouldn't be here in the first place.

Back then -- an appropriate choice of words for what seemed like the faded memory of years past -- he had successfully climbed another rung of Starfleet's ladder, one step further on the long path to a command of his own someday. Assistant Chief Helmsman of the USS City of Saint Louis might not have been a particularly prestigious position but Jeremy knew he only had to take things one day at a time.

Then he screwed up.

Again.

It wasn't incompetance or dereliction of duty that got him in trouble. No, anyone would be hard pressed to find a reason to question his ability as a pilot.

From a very young age, Jeremy had demonstrated a knack for piloting; as an adult, he had proven time and again that he could fly almost anything under almost any circumstances. Be it a shuttle or a starship, Jeremy Savoie could control anything with a helm and engines.

It was his mouth he couldn't control. Or rather, his mouth coupled with his temper.

It was no secret that the relationship between the St. Louis' Chief Helmsman and Assistant Chief Helmsman was strained -- on a good day. There were petty jealousies, clashing desires for recognition, and the incendiary mix of two headstrong personalities with little tolerance for anyone who got in the way. Jeremy knew that his 'boss' -- a term he loathed when used to describe -that- person's relationship to him -- had it out for him. He also knew that the two of them were locked in a strange little power struggle that threatened the stability of St. Louis' whole flight control team.

What he didn't know was that he was on the losing side of that struggle. After a department meeting he was running while the chief was on an away mission, Jeremy was called in by his XO in response to a grievance filed by another helm officer regarding 'inappropriate' references made about the absent department head. Calling one's department head a 'horse's ass' is never a good thing. Referring to one's XO as the 'mutant freak jockey' who 'consistently kisses the horse's ass' is even worse. With the stack of complaints regarding the escalating war of egos between his most senior helmsmen mounting daily, the captain had decided to put an end to it. In less than a week, Jeremy was unceremoniously transferred to the Lexington.

Unfortunately, Jeremy's past came with him. He was 'persona non grata' from the moment he set foot aboard his new assignment, with all the rights and privileges thereof. The captain didn't want him. The XO and chief helmsman didn't trust him. The rest of the flight control crew avoided him. So his ritual began: report for duty, do your job, go back to your quarters, report for duty, do your job, go back to your quarters . . . . for three months, the cycle continued as Jeremy remained an outcast on his own ship.

Little did he know, this day would mark the end of that cycle.

As usual, upon arriving at his quarters, Jeremy replicated a hamburger and a glass of milk and sat down at his terminal to check mail.

The first thing he read almost sent a gulp of the milk out through his nose:

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

To: Jeremy Savoie, Lieutenant, Flight Control Officer, USS Lexington
From: Starfleet Command, Bureau of Personnel
Date: 50307.04
Re: Transfer orders.

You are hereby ordered, by Starfleet Command, to report to StarDock Two at Planetia Utopia Shipyards for assignment to the following ship, prior to her launch. You are authorized to use any available transit and/or shipping to report as soon as possible. USS GALAXY NCC-70637/A

In our hand, this stardate:
Fleet Admiral Nakamura, Commander in Chief, UFP-StarFleet
Commodore George Irwin, Commander, BUPERS

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Concerned that this was some sort of hoax, Jeremy excitedly re-read the communiqué and triple-checked its source information.

This was the real thing. "Aaaiiyyyeeeee!!" he yelled, using a common exclamation from his Cajun heritage, something he very rarely did.

It was the first time he had smiled since coming onboard. His wish had come true. Several weeks earlier, Jeremy had quietly sent a transfer request to Starfleet for re-assignment to a different ship, -any- ship. At last, he was getting out of this hell-hole of an assignment.

Dying to find out whatever he could about his new assignment, Jeremy sifted the Starfleet databases for anything he could find about the USS Galaxy. "Galaxy class refit, serving as flagship of the fleet, good, good . . . . commanding officer: John Q. Bhrode."

Jeremy had heard about Bhrode from a friend who had served under him on the Prospero. He could think of only one thing to say.

"Oh shit."

Suddenly, he wasn't sure if this transfer order was a prayer answered from heaven or a curse sent from hell.

"Better to Ask For Forgiveness Than to Ask For Permission"
Lt. Jeremy Savoie
Flight Control Officer, USS Lexington

[OOC: Occurs one day after "Careful What You Wish For".]

"Mister Savoie, may I see you in my ready room?" the captain demanded.

Those dreaded words. Whenever Jeremy heard them, they almost always indicated he was in trouble for something.

Rising from his seat at the helm, Jeremy followed solemnly, passing the rest of the bridge crew's condemning side glances and through the open doors into the captain's ready room -- ready to be read the riot act or given a stern reprimand for something.

As the two arrived in the ready room, their respective postures immediately set the tone for the tête-à-tête. The captain placed himself erectly in the tall chair behind his desk while Jeremy stood facing him at attention, focusing his gaze somewhere above and past the dour CO.

"Lieutenant," the captain began calmly, "a curious message was brought to my attention by our XO today. It seems you've been granted a transfer."

Jeremy hadn't yet actually said anything to anyone about it. He knew they would be informed through official channels as well and given his 'ugly stepchild' status on the Lexington, he figured that was better than having to talk to anyone.

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged stiffly, offering nothing more than a confirmation of the captain's statement.

The captain regarded him with a mix of contempt and curiosity. He didn't care for Savoie. He didn't care for any officer who demonstrated such a knack for simultaneously sticking his foot in his mouth and pissing people off. The captain hadn't had a choice when this maverick pilot was assigned to his ship. The USS City of St. Louis needed to quickly dump him and somehow he had been the lucky contestant. Since the first day Savoie reported to the bridge for duty, the captain was prepared for problems.

So far however, the unwanted officer had said nothing to anybody except when duty required it.

"Is there something wrong with serving on this ship?" the captain queried, his eyes narrowed to steely dark slits.

If the captain had been Betazoid, Jeremy would have needed a change of underwear. ~~~What was -right- about serving on this ship? his mind practically screamed. Everyone hates me, I'm stuck here without a fucking prayer for promotion, and frankly,this ship is more boring than a Vulcan funeral.~~~

That's what he wanted to say, anyway. Fortunately, he summoned enough self control to just spit out a flat "No, sir."

"Well, -lieutenant-, I prefer my officers be up front with me and not go secretly requesting transfers for 'no' apparent reason," the CO hissed, emphasizing Jeremy's rank as if it were an undeserved gift. "But since you're officially no longer one of my officers, there isn't much I can do about it in this case."

Jeremy wasn't sure which of them was happier about that fact.

"As you know," the captain continued firmly, "we are due to arrive at Starbase Sixteen in another day. Personally, I would prefer to leave you there and let you find your own way to Utopia Planetia, but seeing as Star Fleet Command wants you to report immediately, that's not an option."

Suddenly Jeremy felt like a filthy old sack of sweaty laundry that was way overdue to be dropped off at the cleaners. Amazing what the 'supportive' words of a CO can do for one's morale.

"So I'm authorizing you to use one of our shuttles to get yourself there. Our next stop after Starbase Sixteen is Earth, so we'll be in the neighborhood to pick it up then. I expect it to be waiting in one piece when we get there," the captain added contemptuously.

"Yes, sir," Jeremy replied, just barely restraining himself from spitting in the old man's face. -No one- questioned Jeremy's abilities as a pilot.

"One more thing, Savoie," the captain said slowly, "I recommend you find a way to change your attitude about things mighty quickly. John Bhrode will chew you up and vomit you out like a bad plate of gagh if you so much as cough wrong." It was the closest thing to 'fatherly advice' Jeremy had ever heard from the man.

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied coolly. He already had his own concerns about serving under Bhrode, he didn't need to hear any more warnings.

The captain of the Lexington just sat staring icily at his former helmsman for what a moment. Crack pilot or not, he was glad the troublemaker was being taken off his hands. Then he mercifully decided to bring the 'conversation' to an end.

"Finish out your shift and then proceed immediately to Utopia Planetia. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," Jeremy flatly responded again. Turning sharply on his heels, he couldn't help but mutter under his breath as he started for the door, "Fuck you, sir."

"Excuse me, lieutenant?" the captain said suspiciously, thinking he had heard something.

Jeremy halted but remained facing the door to the bridge. "I said, 'thank you, sir'," he lied, then resumed his course out of the hated ready room.

Both he and the hostile captain would have preferred that Jeremy just keep walking right off the ship.

”Stroke of luck or blessings from hell?”
Lt. Edith Monaghan, Counselor, USS BABYLON
NPC: Special guest appearance from Lt. Commander Vanessa Gil, Chief Flight Controller, USS BABYLON

The problem with getting transfer-orders was that after you get them, you usually couldn’t focus on anything. A state of mind that could be quite deadly if you were in medical, or flight control or engineering. But if you were a counsellor...then it just got annoying...

“Lieutenant? Have you heard anything I have said?” the Lieutenant Commander asked as he tucked a stray dark hair behind her ear.

Edith looked at her, her eyes refocusing to the ‘real’ world. “I’m sorry, ‘Commander. I’ve got me transfer-orders and I’m afraid I’m lost in a daze...” the Scot admitted reluctantly.

Lt. Commander Vanessa Gil gave her a small smile. “It’s quite all right, Lieutenant...what ship?”

Monaghan sat back, a look of pride crossing her features briefly. “USS Galaxy,” she said, as if the name was as sacred as her countless antique books and plays.

It seemed as if a light had gotten turned on behind the Lt. Commander’s eyes. “The Galaxy? I used to serve there...Who is commanding her now?”

“Brhode,” Edith said and met her eyes. She saw the light disappearing. “What?”

“I’ve served under Brhode, Monaghan...It ain’t pretty. His words are law...he’s the god onboard his ship,” Vanessa said in a deadly calm.

Edith laughed lightly. “Is that not how it has been since the dawn of time? The Captains are the gods onboard a ship, until anything else is decided”

Gil shook her head with mild disgust. “Brhode was the worse Captain ever. He was too...hard. Too stubborn as well”

“Ah, Scottish ancestors aye?” Edith asked and arched a brow. She was still smiling though. “My experience tells me one thing...not everyone are as eldrich as they seem. Besides...my plans onboard this ship has gone a little but wonky...Got on the wrong foot with the Captain and all...” she shook her head and gave a theatrical sigh.

Gil just looked at her. “Mark my words...stay away from Brhode if you can. He’s bad news”

With a shrug, Edith dismissed her words. “I’m married to a former Marine...how bad can it be?” she asked.

Vanessa stood up and held out her hand. “I wish you luck, Monaghan...you’ll need it,” she said before leaving.

Edith’s smile faded as she sat back, thinking about her words. Not what you wished to hear before transferring. Now, the question that came into her
mind was if this truly was a stroke of luck, or a blessing from hell...Either way, she had to go. And she would need to ask Hugo for advice. After all, she
was married to him and he would have to come to the Galaxy with her.

At least she sure hoped so! Or else, he would be in mucho problemo after she was through with him.

After a few annoying minutes, she got up and headed to the Captain’s ready-room. She might get some answers there, or advice...

"A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Utopia Planetia . . . ."
Lt. Jeremy Savoie
Flight Control Officer, USS Galaxy

[OOC: Occurs about 8 hours after "Better to Ask For Forgiveness han For Permission".]

It had taken Jeremy Savoie less than an hour after the end of his shift to get together the few personal items he had on the Lexington and report to the shuttle bay. Having no friends onboard made it easy. No long goodbyes to go through.

Gratefully arriving at the shuttle bay, Jeremy eagerly anticipated getting the hell out of there. The officer on duty gruffly indicated that the warp-capable shuttle 'Charon' was prepped for his departure. Apparently Jeremy had gained some notoriety around the ship, but he didn't give a rat's ass. Fuck them all.

'Charon', Jeremy thought ironically as he calmly walked over to where the shuttle was waiting, exuding an almost palpable defiance with every step. The ferryman of the dead to the underworld. It was like some sort of sick joke that that was the shuttle he would pilot to his new assignment.

He was sure it was intentional.

===================

[OOC: About 2 hours later.]

The routine launch and departure had gone smoothly and Jeremy had set course for Mars. The next twenty-or-so hours were his to enjoy.

That would have been a heck of a lot easier to do if he could have cleared his mind of questions about this new assignment. From what his friend on the Prospero had told him, Bhrode was no picnic to serve under. And exactly what -was- this new assignment? The Star Fleet communiqué made no mention of position. For all Jeremy knew, old piss-and-vinegar Bhrode wanted him onboard to clean sonic shower heads with a toothbrush.

Hell, even that would be better than remaining on the Lexington.

Jeremy leaned back comfortably in his seat, now listening to an old Earth song, "Freebird", a selection that only seemed appropriate given his new, if temporary, status. The Lynyrd Skynyrd song was one of many selections he requested from the music database, spanning approximately three-hundred years of Terran pop music, each one related somehow to the theme of 'freedom'.

Suddenly, Jeremy's pop/rock-induced bliss was violently interrupted as the craft shuddered. A familiar but unwelcome computer warning beep halted the music.

::Warning, enemy tractor beam engaged. Warp drive off line.::

"What the hell . . .?" Jeremy exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in his seat, his fingers madly flying across the console as he tried to figure out what was going on and how to get out of the apparently bad situation.

"Computer, identify the source of the tractor beam!" he yelled.

::Enemy vessel is Borg.:: the computer calmly replied.

"Borg?!" Jeremy almost choked. What the hell were the Borg doing here? Entering Federation space, not to mention attacking a Federation vessel, was clearly a violation of their mutual non-aggression treaty.

Opening a comm channel, Jeremy attempted to communicate with his Borg attackers. "Borg vessel, this is Lieutenant Jeremy Savoie of the Federation shuttlecraft Charon," he announced. "Your presence here is in violation of . . . ."

::WE ARE BORG. YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.:: the reply interrupted in that creepy, multi-person monotone the Borg were so fond of using.

Futile. Yep, that pretty much summed it up.

"Computer, broadcast a distress call on all channels," Jeremy commanded. He was sure no one could get there in time to help him, but he had to at least alert Star Fleet to the Borg presence.

Just then, Jeremy felt the tingle of a transporter beam. "Shit, what have I gotten myself into?" he thought, as the Borg removed him from his shuttlecraft.

Panic really set in for the pilot when he found himself standing between two expressionless Borg drones on some dark Borg vessel. To his surprise, the drones simply grabbed him by either arm and 'escorted' him down a long passageway.

"I thought you guys assimilated first and asked questions later," he joked, while simultaneously struggling vainly to get out of their iron grip.

::YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED CEASE :: came the disembodied reply.

"What the hell's going on here?" Jeremy demanded, becoming more terrified by the second. "What do you want with me? I'm not of any value or threat to your precious collective!" he yelled as he struggled harder but with no more effect. The drones were practically dragging him down the increasingly dark passageway.

Finally, they arrived at a door that slowly slid open to reveal a large chamber with a myriad of strange lights, tubes and other unfamiliar technology. At the center of the chamber stood a solitary Borg figure, facing away from where Jeremy was brought in. Dimly lit from the front, the figure was only discernable as an imposing silhouette.

The drones came to a halt about two feet away from the figure at the center of the chamber, holding their captive firmly in place. No amount of struggling budged them even a millimeter.

"Who the hell are you?" Jeremy shrieked, as his fear and anger coalesced into one explosive burst of energy.

All that came back was a deep, sinister laugh, followed by the usual ::YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.::

Then, slowly, the figure began to turn toward him, arm extended, bringing its assimilation tubules closer. As its laughter reached a fever pitch, Jeremy saw that the figure was a man. A stern, angry-looking man with a razor-sharp crewcut. Jeremy's eyes widened in terror as the man reached up and released the assimilation tubules into Jeremy's neck.

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!......" the captive pilot screamed as everything suddenly went black . . . .

------------------------------------

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!......" Jeremy was screaming as he hit the floor of the shuttlecraft with a dull 'thud'. Scrambling to his feet, he looked around, wild-eyed and breathing heavily.

Everything was fine. The shuttle was on course, the stars streaking by in their familiar pattern. A late twenty-second century Terran pop song called 'Gone' played in the background. There was no sign of any other vessel, Borg or otherwise.

Jeremy stood up, shaking his head slightly, trying to clear his mind of the residual sleep-induced haze.

It had all been a dream. A bad dream.

It was clear to him what this was about. In his mind, he recognized the figure at the center of the Borg chamber. It matched perfectly with the description his friend had given him of John Bhrode. Jeremy was soon to be assimilated into Bhrode's 'collective'.

And deep down, hidden even from himself, it frightened him.

"A Call To Arms!"

Featuring Lt. Raven Darkstar, former Security officer of the USS Galaxy and the one and only... Leo Streely! Saviour of the Universe, Former Jedi Master and one of the 'Richest Men in the Universe' according to Fortune Holomagazine 2379 (Also featuring a couple of NPC's - C'mon, like you didn't expect that from a Joe Ammo post?!)

Time: One year after the USS GALAXY returned from it's mission to Ianjep

Location: The Black Hills Mountains, North America, Earth

*********************************************

The Pillar of Sorrow.

A pillar of solid rock, nearly twenty feet in diameter, reaching upwards of 300 feet.

For as far back as can be recalled, members of the Manuata tribe of North American Indians who were suffering a terrible loss or feeling of despair would venture out into the dense forests of the Black Hills Mountain Range completely unarmed -- a trek in itself that nearly a dozen Indians had not completed. Those who successfully made it up the perilous trails, through the raging waters, and past the creatures who called the forest their home -- found themselves at the base of the Pillar of Sorrow.

Once there, using nothing but their bare hands they would scale the pillar's sheer face. Those who made it to the top would then -- legend says -- be able to look into the eyes of the Ancients and ask them to remove the burden their heart carried that they could return to the tribe healed again.

The current Chief of the Manuata himself was believed to have spent 13 days and 13 nights atop the rock, returning only after his visions showed him the path to walk after he had lost his wife.

And so it was that once again, the strong, battle scarred hands of a Manuata warrior fought for a hand hold on the Pillar of Sorrow.

Like his father, and his father's father before him, Raven Darkstar worked his fingertips into the tiny crevices that weaved around the rock. His muscles strained as he pulled himself closer and closer to the heavens. Sweat beaded across his brow and rolled lazily into his face, stinging his eyes.

He had come to this place looking for his own path. He had been grievously injured at the hands of Iglom the Yiridian. His abdomen still bore the scars of his wound and he could feel sharp pains in his stomach as he exerted himself on his climb.

He had been sent home to heal and to rehabilitate himself. When he was finally able to walk again somewhat effortlessly, Raven found himself once again reunited with Leo Streely at some interstellar nude dance club. Only a few months after it opened, Leo was srongarmed by Klingons of all people who somehow managed to wrest away the business from the former reporter.

Darkstar grimaced as he continued to strain to climb higher. He knew there was something more to the whole situation than what was on the surface, but that was Leo for you. Last he heard from him, the little man was zipping off to the Breen Embassy on some hair brained hunt for former Galaxy First Officer Chris Thomas.

Ready for duty once again, Raven found himself considered 'damaged goods' by Starfleet. His reluctance to see counselors or continue his therapy played a part in Commanding Officers passing him over for prime assignments. The Smithsonian Institute recently released the hull of an old Constitution Class Starship - the USS BRANT - for it's anniversary. The ship and a skeleton crew would take a short cruise with invited guests and their families.

Darkstar was one of the few security guards assigned to the ship.

After the Brant returned to the mothballs, the brooding Indian found himself once again a man without a purpose. Without a path to follow. So upon returning home, he ventured out to find his way in the manner his people always had.

The pillar of Sorrow.

And finally, over 4 hours after he first set out, Raven Darkstar pulled himself atop the flat summit of the pillar. He let out a triumphant scream and its echo seemed to carry across the treetops below.

He fell to his knees and gazed out at the sky filled with stars -- the very same stars that he had sailed through for so long. No longer did the wind swirl around him as it did while climbing. There was an eerie unnatural calmness atop the stone. The sound of the crickets and wolves could no longer be heard. It was as if he had stepped out of the world itself.

He closed his eyes and opened himself up. (Not in a friend of Sansky way!)

And then he heard the voice......

"Darkstar..."

He opened his eyes and gazed out at the forest below, then to the heavens above.

"Darkstar.." he heard again, pinpointing the sound coming from behind him. He turned around and saw an Indian female in a Starfleet uniform. He furrowed his brow, not quite understanding where this particular vision was going.

"Lt. Raven Darkstar?" the woman seemed to ask this time. He shook his head and the woman reached out her hand and dropped a PADD into his lap. He was more than a bit startled to actually FEEL the instrument. He didn't know that visions could...visions...unless...

He stopped and looked at the PADD's screen and read the first few words...

"Newest Assignment ...."

Somewhat surprised, he looked at the woman. She smirked and said: "What, you thought I was a vision or something? And by the way...you have been served." Then disappeared into the all too familiar blue shimmer of a transporter.

***** Aboard a civilian transport ship...destined for the Utopia Shipyards *****

"A marine. huh?" Leo Streely asked the middle aged man sitting ram rod straight in the seat adjacent to his. Sergeant Irving Creetch simply shook his head once in affirmation and continued to stare straight ahead, his eyes squinting.

"I knew a Starfleet marine once. A Japanese guy Kurasaki or Kuraulta..or was it Caligula? I'm not really sure. Hey do you guys play with canons? I hear a lot of cannon talk whenever anyone refers to you guys." Leo pestered, seemingly endlessly like he had since their trip began.

Sergeant Creetch just grunted and gripped the armrests of his seat a little tighter.

"Hey I bet your wondering what I'm doing here, right? Am I right? OK You see OK, OK, OK I got this telegram addressed to Deputy Streely. See I was officially deputized by that Jii guy. You ever hear of Jii? Me and Jii, we were, see, like you and me..not Sansky..."

The no-nonsense marine just frowned, even deeper than he normally did.

Leo continued to babble on. "You guys shave your heads like that for a reason? I mean you look pretty goofy with that little patch up there. It's like a woman..either shave it all off or leave it all bushy. Why bother getting cutsey? But I suppose having such short hair has its perks. Hey, I bet you never get lice! I remember a time when I had pubic lice...this chic was ..URK!!!!!!!"

The little man gulped as he found the business end of a thermite grenade wedged in his mouth. Sergeant Creetch seemed to smile just a bit before he swallowed the grenade's pin.

"Now you open your mouth and that there grenade will detonate immediately unless its pin is replaced. I just swallowed that pin and by my estimation, the pin will exit my body in about 4 and a quarter hours. At that time I will reinsert the pin and you may safely remove the incendiary device. Until then, you may just want to keep silent. Is that understood, DEPUTY?" the Marine rasped as he settled back in his chair.

The other passengers began to applaud.

Leo just grumbled.

"Crew?!"
By. Lt. Vladimir "Sonic" Malgin, ACMO, USS Galaxy

Location: Shuttle enroute to Mars

Free Space. Space from capital 'S'... It is a vacuum (as all know from physics lessons), but for Vladimir Malgin it was like a mountain air after smog of the city. Just after he recieved that message from Bureau of Personnel, he started packing. Packing everything that he had. However all his belongings filled only 2 bags. The only thing Vladimir thought in that moment was ~I didn't even knew that I am so poor man. If compare quantity of my belongings with Autumn's ones, it will be like full toy bucket and full 18-wheeler truck~. Without any parties, meetings or anything to bid farewell, he just reported to his superior and said "This place is cheap! No entertainment and a lot of jackasses! I'm outta here. I received transfer orders on USS Galaxy. Thanks for giving me a year of hell... Farewell!" And after nod from chief he left the station 'Novo Moscovia'. Hopefully forever.

So now he was in a Shuttle with only two men aboard. One of 'em was him Another one was Ensign Romantsev, which piloted the shuttle, since doc couldn't do it. It was surely a bad company, but Vladya didn't wanted himself to pilot the vessel into Delta Quandrant , so he had to agree. Even to spend time with officer, he despised almost as Corgan.

Now in about 30 hours he will be able to stare in moving stars. It was picture that he hadn't saw for a whole year. Good feelings to return back into the cradle. And of course everything good contained something bad. Something like crew manifest... Even not yet completely filled, it was... Well, it was bad to say the least. ~First of all...~

BHRODE.

~Once again this name. So I will surely tell you that this assignment won't be piece of cake. He is a beast. And beasts don't need medical attention. Already good. He won't show up in sickbay...~

CORGAN.

~NOOO! Somebody recall my transfer! I don't want to get there! He will stuck to me again with his glasses, his scratches et cetera, at cetera, et cetera! Already two horrors on this ship. Why, dear God? You want me to die? Then just blow this shuttle, so I will die quickly. Not in torments with Jimmy Corgan!~

HAWKSLEY.

Only nervous laugh was in reaction...

TBC...

"The Listener”
Lieutenant Adrian An’quinsos
Counselor

***Betazed: Villa outside Guardian City***

The balcony doors were opened while Adrian read quietly in his private study. The books were not the typical ones found in Libraries in most homes, or for that matter most worlds. They were a compiled selection of books in El-Aurian, recopied from El-Aurian authors, and carefully sent to the El-Aurian Lieutenant.

However, his thoughts lay elsewhere. His eldest sister, Admiral An’quinsos spoke to him of rumors that their people have invested a slight interest in searching for a new Homeworld, preferably beyond the borders of the present empires, where they could rebuild their ancient civilization. At first, they were whispered ideas, not heretical, just whispered. After all, what the El-Aurian people did, and more importantly could do was frankly no one’s business. However, the thought had swept through the entire El-Aurian community in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. News traveled fast, especially within the Listener race. It was unknown if any in the Delta or Gamma quadrants knew about this.

His thoughts were disturbed when he heard laughter, of both a mother and a child. Closing his book, he went out on the balcony and saw a woman in a simple gray frock peering into the bushes.

“Maxim?” She called out. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Behind her stood their son, who happened to look up on the balcony and his finger over his lips. Adrian smiled at the sandy-blonde haired child and gave him two thumbs up. The child grinned and approached his mother with all the caution a one year old could…

“Right here mommy!”

Zerhi jumped with surprise as Adrian laughed.

“Maxim, you scarred me!” She said picking him up, and then looking up. “And that father of yours didn’t help very much either”

“Daddy good hide and seeker!” He proclaimed.

“Of course daddy is!” Adrian added. “I certainly found your mother, and she found me!” He stopped a moment in thought. “Your mom’s a great hide and seeker, why yesterday she hid those brownies from us, and…”

“Adrian!” She declared. “You are terrible!”

“I love you too!”

***Later that Evening***

“Thank you.” Zerhi replied receiving the padd.

The man nodded and left.

In the dining room, Maxim was helping his father set the table, which was working very well. Every time Adrian gave him an item to put on the table, it ended up being played with. He was just thankful the plate hadn’t become Frisbees yet. He sighed and shook his head with a grin ‘All part of being a father I suppose!’

Zerhi came into the room, gracefully avoiding a spoon that was flung past her head, and a fork that skidded across the surface of the floor. She caught both and handed them to her husband who put them in the sink with the rest of the used utensils.

“Mommy!” He shouted with elation. “You caught it! Hooray!”

“Where did he get his boundless energy again?” He asked

“We’ve talked this over before dear,” She grinned before giving him a kiss. “From your side of the family.”

“Ha, ha!”

“This just came in for you.” She handed it to him. “The guy at the door said it was urgent.”

“Hmm… I’ll look.”

To: Adrian An’quinsos, Lieutenant, Counselor, USS Miranda
From: Starfleet Command, Bureau of Personnel
Date: 50307.04
Re: Transfer orders.

You are hereby ordered, by Starfleet Command, to report to Star Dock Two at Planetia Utopia Shipyards for assignment to the following ship, prior to her launch. You are authorized to use any available transit and/or shipping to report as soon as possible. USS GALAXY NCC-70637/A

In our hand, this stardate:
Fleet Admiral Nakamura, Commander in Chief, UFP-Starfleet
Commodore George Irwin, Commander, BUPERS

The El-Aurian male looked with a bit of surprise. He looked over at his wife who had an expectant look, and his son who stopped what he was doing and came walked up to his dad.

“I’m to report to the Planetia Utopia Shipyards immediately.”

“You never could have a decent vacation.” She responded. “What ship is it this time?”

“The USS Galaxy Zerhi.”

“So, will you able to at least stay for supper?” She replied. “Because if you don’t, all of this food will either going to go to waste or Maxim will play ‘chef!’

“I’m sure they won’t mind me spending one last night with family!” He chuckled. “After dinner, I’ll book a flight on the first ship that leaves.”

“Back Again, My Old Friend”
By Lieutenant James Lionel Corgan
Starfleet Liason Officer, Federation Border Patrol.

Location: A Border Cutter currently patrolling the Federation/Klingon Border

From the birth of the Federation to its modern day operations, the Federation Border Patrol has kept diligence over its borders, protecting it’s sovereignty and holding back the floodwaters of refugees, invasions, and illegal contraband. It was a force unto itself, separate from Starfleet but with the similar goal of keeping the peace in their small section of the galaxy.

Drifting alone in space on small cutters and aging Miranda class starships, the Border Patrol watches all that goes on near their borders, and makes sure than none of its defenses are pierced. Thousands of tiny craft spread out along the border, from the Neutral Zone to the Breen Border, like watchful birds of prey, waiting to call the flock on anyone who interrupted their watchfulness. Thousands of birds, thousands of ways to get caught. The Border Patrol, though lightly armed with old equipment, was not a force to be trifled with.

One Border Patrol Cutter was alone near the Klingon border, keeping a steady eye on the border traffic and sniffing out smugglers. This was FBPC 2872, nicknamed the SS Edmund Teach. She was a small ship barely worthy of capital status. Slim and torpedo like, she didn’t hold the saucer configuration that other Federation vessels held, but did keep a distinctly Starfleet like edge. Her curves were smooth and beautiful. The bridge section sloped like an upraised chin, standing up proud and firm. She bore scratches and stings from previous encounters with smugglers all over her hull. Her warp nacelles jutted out from each side; they were technology from a previous era, common on Miranda’s and Kirk era ships.

Most cutters, approximately half the size of a Bird of Prey, trapped fifty plus crew on a voyage that could last for months. So far, the ‘Teach’ had been traveling for nearly six months, and was nearing the end of her tour of duty. Much to the relief of the crew, they were going to go home soon.

But not before making one last nab!

Off on the port side of the Medina was an Orion Blockade Runner, a Freelancer O-981 frigate class to be exact. Painted black and spotted with artificial stars, the wickedly fast and deadly appearance of the ship was intimidating compared to the simple old cutter. But the Orion ship was nabbed, and it stopped willingly rather than be beat up by an old rustbucket.

On board the blockade runner’s hold, Border Patrol Security and two officers beamed in, surprising the Orion Captain and his crew of privateers. The security officers surrounded the Orion crew, keeping their guns dangerously close to their quick hands.

The two suspected leaders of the party looked sternly around the cargo hold, and then at each Orion. The smugglers were sweating stembolts, judging by their nervousness. None of them could look at the Border Patrol Captain and his Federation Liason without feeling a twinge of fear, and looking away.

Intimidating people was the part that James Corgan loved the most. All his life he wasn’t that intimidating. In fact, he was more of a joke during childhood, an outcast during secondary school, and a sociopath at the Academy and for most of his career. There was always something that prevented people from taking him seriously. He could threaten all he wanted, but get a laugh in return.

That was not the case today, or for that matter, ever since he started over. Now he was a man who’s actions spoke for itself.

“They’re hiding something all right.” Lieutenant Corgan nodded to Commander Richter of the Border Patrol.

“Not bad James, but there’s more.” Richter’s uncanny ability to see into the hearts of people with any Betazoid mind tricks was amazing, “I can tell you it’s big. They wouldn’t be this nervous if they were smuggling regular goods and avoiding the tariffs. And from the smell of it… I’d say it’s narcotics.”

“And the warrant is ready, sir?”

“I have it in my vest pocket. Everything’s good, Lieutenant.” Captain Richter turned his head towards the Orion Captain, who was approaching the two officers, “I’ll let you handle this one. See how well your people skills have grown.”

“Aye, Captain. I’ll take care of him.” Corgan cracked a grin.

Richter was the brother of another Captain Richter he knew on the Thunderchild. Unlike the last Richter James served with, his younger brother was a pleasant and presentable man. He also liked screwing around with smuggler’s minds, and he made it a contest between him and Corgan as to who made the most memorable arrest. He made searching ships and giving sh*t to captains fun! But it was still a competition. Screw with the smugglers, and win. James was not about to lose yet.

The Orion Captain approached Captain Richter, responding, “Excuse me, but I happen to have a very important shipment to make. If I do not deliver the cattle I have below decks, somebody in Minnesota’s going to feed me to those insane monsters!”

Captain Richter stood as steady as a rock, eerily silent.

“Excuse me!” The Orion snarled, “I told you I have to get going. What the blazing nova storms do you want?”

Captain Richter kept his stony face, hiding the mild amusement he felt.

“EXCUSE ME….”

“Excuse yourself, Captain Jotara.” Corgan cut in, “But you should be speaking to me. This is Captain Jerome Richter of the Federation Border Cutter Medina. He only runs the damn ship. I’m Lieutenant Corgan, his FLeet Liason Officer. Technically, I outrank him in certain situations. This is one of them. So if you want to leave, talk to me.”

The astonished Orion looked back at Lieutenant Corgan. From behind the smuggler’s back, Richter smiled underneath his moustache. Corgan continued, “So… you’re smuggling cows, huh?” He paced around the Orion captain, “How’s business? Busy? Hope we’re not making it too hard for you.”

“You are making it very difficult, Lieutenant Corgan. This is the fifth time I’ve been stopped by border patrol, and not once was I accused of smuggling illegal contraband. I have the permits here!” He pulled out a beat up old PADD. The PADD flickered on an animal transport license, “These are the transportation permits. I have authorization to send these cattle to Minnesota on Earth. What more do you want.”

“Oh… let me think for a second…” Corgan’s fingers stroked his smooth chin, “About those ships that intercepted you before, they’ve been getting some strange sensor readings on your ship. Elevated spikes in energy and increased biomatter on board the ship. Now, unless you’re running holodecks and growing tulips in them, there’s something strange about that. Right?”

The Orion Captain stuttered, the sweat on his brow beading like gentle rain, “Ummmm… could happen to anyone. Those cows grow like crazy you know… and we’ve been having problems with our EPS relays. Eat’s up power like a son of a b*tch, you know. Heh heh…”

Corgan glanced at Richter. The Captain’s eyes tilted downwards at a pile of crates. Knowing the signal, James walked over to the plastic crate pile and gave each one a stiff tap. They sounded as if something was packed inside, but that was not what James was looking for. The Orions nearly jumped out of their boots in fright every time James hand inspected a crate, afraid that he was going to find something inside he wasn’t supposed to see.

“EPS relays? That’s a shame. Want us to help you with that? We could send some engineers over and fix the problem for you.” James probed.

The Orions waved his hand, “No… no…nononono… no need. We can handle it ourselves.”

“Are you sure? Our engineers can turn rocks into replicators…”’

“No! We’re fine… really!”

There was another dead giveaway. Captain Jotara wanted the Border Patrol off their ship right away. This meant something was coming up, implying a deadline with some serious people. Perhaps it was the Orion Syndicate who would be angry if the shipment were seized? Whatever it was, Jotara wanted to leave fast.

“Alright then, Captain. You don’t mind if we ask a few questions?” James asked politely.

”Ummm… sure…” The Orion stammered, “Why not?”

“Because we have reason to believe there may be something on this ship?”

”Now why would I want to do that?”

“Because if illegal contraband is found, you may end up in a Federation Prison?”

“Oh…” The Orion felt his momentum deflate, “Ask away.”

James smiled pleasantly to ease the Orion’s stress, though the Orion Captain felt like James Corgan was a grinning cat with a green canary trapped in a corner. The Lieutenant started his first round of questions, “Ok, do you have any narcotics?”

“No.” Captain Jotara answered.

“Phasers, Disrupters and or Phased Polaron rifles and pistols?”

“Ummmm… no?”

“Ok, do you have any fireworks, biogenic weapons, illegal flora and or fauna?”

“No… no… and no… why are you asking this?”

“Do you have any untaxed goods, dead bodies and or rabid targs in your cargo hold?”

”Huh?” The Captain was on the verge of wetting his pants, “No…..”

James heard a snicker escape from the mouth of one of the security officers. He was about to chastise the security guard for talking out of turn when he found Captain Richter containing his laughter as well. He decided to hold off. It looked like he would win the most memorable seizure of all.

The only people not laughing were the Orions. They were all ready to panic on a moment’s notice.

“What? You don’t find my jokes funny?” Lieutenant Corgan asked, acting like he was genuinely hurt.

The Captain of the blockade runner sharply nudged his first officer in the ribs. Then, the first officer continued a chain reaction of nudges, followed by forced and desperate laughter. Underneath the guffaws, the Orions were afraid, to the point of relieving themselves of all their fluids. But the laughter was fake, forced on in a hope of getting their asses saved. There was no doubt in any of the Federation officer’s minds. They were dealing with smugglers. First timers judging by how they were acting.

“Ok, fun time’s over. We have a warrant to search your vessel. Please comply… or else.”

The Orions stopped laughing, feeling the full effect of their sh*t hitting the proverbial environmental control fan. Corgan asked, “Captain Jotara… open up one of those crates.”

Jotara uneasily went towards a stack of crates, then James ordered, “Not that pile. This one.” He pointed at the pile he already tested. The Orion tiptoed to the pile James pointed to, and then he pulled out the top crate. “Not that one either. The one in the middle.” Jotara disassembled the pile one crate at a time, and when he grabbed the crate James wanted open, “Not that one! The one below it!”

Truthfully, he pointed to the right one in the first place. He was gaining Richter’s habit of screwing with people, and it was fun! But the fun part was just beginning. The Orion hesitated to open the crate. His hands pressed over the locking mechanisms, but they seemed to freeze in place. Then, Jotara’s fingers shook like a highly localized earthquake. He sobbed and cried, but still didn’t open the package.

“Want me to open it for you?” Lieutenant Corgan offered.

The Orion nodded, visibly scared, “MMmmmmm hhhhmmmmmm….”

James dragged the crate from the hands of the Orion. Putting a thumb on each locking mechanism, he released the dual locks with a resounding click. Then, he slowly opened the lid.

Inside was a sight to behold. Bundles of tightly wrapped plants were inside. Originally green and red in color, the dried out plants took on a rusted like hue. There were three square like bundles in plastic, held together by bonding tapes. “Antarean Puffweed…” Corgan clicked his tongue, shook his head, and whistled in contempt, “It is very illegal to have this stuff in Federation Space. Did you know that?” Digging deeper, Corgan found more than packages of Antarean Puffweed. There were also three Judari ion rifles stuffed in the bottom of the crate. The damning evidence was piling high on the already nervous Orions, “Judari ion rifles too. Smuggling type three energy weapons is strictly prohibited in Federation Space. Did you know that as well, or did you conveniently forget?”

No answer from the Orions. They knew they had their asses pinned to the wall. The evidence was enough to convict them for years, and they weren’t going to a cushy prison like New Zealand. None spoke, very few tried to move under the watchful gaze of the security guards.

Captain Richter stepped in to complete the arrest, “By the authorization given to me by the Federation Border Patrol, I hereby place you and your crew under arrest.” As the guards surrounded the crew and put on the restraints, Richter read them their rights, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“You can’t do this! I have a mother who needs surgery!” Captain Jotara struggled with his restraints, yelling as a guard led him to the center of the room.

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot find an attorney, the Federation Courts will supply you with legal representation.”

“Please… my children are starving! My pet targ needs to get neutered! …. Ummmm… I’m donating to the poor! Think of the poor children who will starve!”

“God dammit. I hate it when people interrupt me….” Captain Richter tapped his comm.-badge, “Transporter room. Twelve to beam up.”

James thought it was the best arrest they had in days.

************

On Board the Border Cutter.

The Starfleet officer and the Border Patrol Captain walked out of the Transporter Room with smiles on their faces. Captain Richter slapped Lieutenant Corgan on the back, cheerfully singing the Starfleet Liason officer’s praises, “Lieutenant, in all my years on the border patrol, not once have I tried to make them laugh. That’s a good trick. Catches them off guard.”

“Thanks sir. I didn’t know if it would work or not…” He confessed, his lack of confidence in his skills getting the better of him.

“Nonsense! It’s basic psychology!” Richter bellowed, “Criminals slip up and get nervous. They act strange, and you found a way to confirm it. Good work!”

“Ummm… thanks. It was nothing.” Corgan humbly took the praise.

“You know… it’ll be a shame to lose you. Most people don’t like Liason officers telling them what to do, but you helped out unlike the other morons they sent us. But from what I heard, it would have been inevitable anyways.”

Piqued in curiosity, James asked, “What do you mean, inevitable? Sir, you know my practicum will be over by the end of this shift. But if I stayed, I would have to move anyways? Why is that?”

Richter replied, “Oh… nothing, Lieutenant. Just some scuttlebutt I heard on the grapevine. Something big is going down thanks to some higher ups. We don’t know what yet. All they told us is that we will know when it happens. If you ask me, the air’s thin in those tall buildings the brass has to work in, and they don’t think straight too often. They’re going to shake things up. I know it.”

James didn’t need to know who was up to something to know that it was dead serious. The last couple of years saw changes in the Admiralty that caused all sorts of beurocratic messes. The power struggles between the ‘hawk’ Admirals, headed by Admiral Hoth, and the ‘doves’, lead by the likes of Picard and Price, were famous on Starfleet’s newswire. They could never seem to agree on anything. Build defences or explore. Everything had to be a struggle, and it was making a mess out of Starfleet.

It also didn’t help that he knew a couple of friends who were chesspieces in Starfleet’s game, but that was a long time ago. He hadn’t seen them since the Galaxy crew split up, nor did he care to see them in the future.

Crewman Hawker’s booming voice cut through Corgan’s clouds of thought. “MAIL CALL!” He yelled out. The Border Cutter was far from top of the line. It didn’t have some luxuries, such as personal sonic showers and personal LCARS consoles for messages. They still did the messages the old fashioned way. They delivered PADDS to every crewmen at the end of each week. It boosted morale and made for great dinner conversation, and it left something for the crew to look forward to each week. Something like this was needed on other ships. Any excuse to make the crew happy.

Crewman Hawker called, “Crewman Stiles.” He handed a message PADD to a young crewman working on a plasma conduit, “Crewman T’ol.” He tossed a PADD to a younger Vulcan female. She caught it with expert ease, as only the hand eye co-ordination of a Vulcan could do, “Captain Richter.” The crewman handed another PADD to the captain. There was one last PADD in his hands, and James could guess whom it was for. He hoped it was Lexa again, calling to say hello.

“Lieutenant Corgan.” Hawker called the last name.

James took his PADD from the delivery person, “Thank you.”

Feeling elated, James activated the PADD. He was excited to hear from Lexa, and since he was away from her for so long, any message from her or her family was welcome news. Not only that, it was rare to hear from her, making the message even more of a special treat. But that wasn’t to be the case. The message didn’t come from Starfleet Medical, or her private apartment. On the contrary, it didn’t come from her at all. It was BUPERS… again.

To: Lieutenant James Lionel Corgan, Federation Liason Officer, SS Edmund Teach
From: Starfleet Command, Bureau of Personnel
Date: 50307.04
Re: Transfer orders.

You are hereby ordered, by Starfleet Command, to report to StarDock Two at Planetia Utopia Shipyards for assignment to the following ship, prior to her launch. You are authorized to use any available transit and/or shipping to report as soon as possible. USS GALAXY NCC-70637/A

In our hand, this stardate:
Fleet Admiral Nakamura, Commander in Chief, UFP-StarFleet
Commodore George Irwin, Commander, BUPERS

“Son of a b*tch….” He groaned, “I really wanted to hear from Lexa.”

Richter laughed at his note, “Hah! Get this… my son’s going into Starfleet! He passed the exam! My boy’s going to be a ship captain like his old man!”

Corgan was oblivious to Richter’s cheerful chatter. He read the message urther, and it darkened his mood like a cloud at dusk. Reading further, he found even more reason to be worried than before.

Richter wasn’t completely blind to the drop in room temperature. He asked, “Lieutenant, what’s eating you?”

“Still haven’t heard from her…” He lamented, “Haven’t heard from her in two months. God, I miss her…”

“Relax, Lieutenant. It gets this way at the Border Patrol. People sometimes forget you, or some people forget that we need to hear from them. Besides, you’re done after today. You’ll be going home to see her, right?”

“Maybe… but that all depends.” Corgan replied, revealing the true nature of the message, “There’s something else too. I’m being assigned again. They’re telling me to go to the shipyards on Mars. Better yet, they’re taking me to the Galaxy, my old ship. Something tells me I may be able to see Lexa after all …”

TBC…

"Preface: Deliberations"
By
Fleet Captain John Q. Bhrode, CO USS Galaxy
Commander Rebecca Von Ernst (NPC), XO USS Prospero

* * * * *

The slim, elfin redhead marched through the halls of Stardock Two as she had the halls of the Prospero for the last year. Completely stonyfaced and carriage held ram rod straight, apparently oblivious to the stares and whispers around her. Passing crew did double takes at first, mistaking her for a child or someone else.

She didn't care.

Her eyes, cold and hard little brown balls of ice didn't flicker to either side as anyone elses' would have done. Not one passing being received an acknowledgement of their existance. That didn't mean she didn't hear every word uttered all though her march. No doubt, her busy little photographic mind was filing each and every overheard comment away.

". . . .VonErnst. . . .killer. . . Nar Halas! Damn near got her on the Court Martial, a pity they didn't. . . "

". . .three thousand killed. . .ty four Borg Cubes on the simulator. . .no one . . .that many!"

". . .Princess Phaserbanks. . .put my old roomate on report! And all she was doing was talking to her. . . "

". . . freak! I hear she can do Second Level Hexi-decimal Conversions in her. . ."

". . .ing bitch. . . deserves Bhrode, if you ask me!"

". . . try that shit with me? I'd knock her skinny ass back to. . ."

". . . .damn killer! And I could care less if she did hear me! All those damn killers should be. . ."

". . .ld you trust her? If I were assigned to the Prospero now, I'd stick my head into a warp. . . "

She stopped outside a door in the Transient Shipping area. All the cabins nearby bore the label 'USS-Galaxy NCC-70637-A.' This particular one was labeled 'Temporary Ready Room.'

Around the small woman, the crowd parted. It was like no one wanted to come near her.

She didn't care.

Rebecca Von Enrst juggled the stack of Datachips and PADDs in her arms and finally succeeded in pressing the 'notification' chime. This entire section of Deck 404 had been set aside for ships crews to quarter and get out of the way of he Dock Crews, but still go about their business. Until StarDock released the Galaxy-II, this was Bhrode's Lair.

"Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Are Summoned Here" it should have read, in blood, over the portal.

The smiling young Betazoid Yeoman in the outer office recognized Rebecca instantly.

"Commander Von Enrst! Congratulations! The Captain was just talking to the Vice Admiral! It must be so exciting for you, so young and a Captain already! Tell me, will you be getting your. . .?" The normally cheery young woman's banter died under the impassionate and cold stare that Rebecca turned on her.

"Inform the Fleet Captain I am here. Commander Von Ernst, reporting for duty" Rebecca's voice grated out, as flat and empty as a Breen Tundra.

Moments later, Bhrode eyed the slim form bearing her load in front of his desk.

"Well. Should I be calling you 'Captain' yet? You'll get Prospero, you know. What brings you to the bowels of this dump? It sink in yet?" Bhrode remarked, clearly wondering what Rebecca was doing here.

"No Sir. I did the Math. The Command of USS Prospero is going to go to Captain James Spaderworth. His physicians should sign off on his 'readiness' within the hour. I co