USS
Galaxy:The Next Generation Sim Log Stardate: 50209.17 - 50209.24 |
The air in the room was somewhat stale, the product of several hours of evironmental systems fluctuations due to the power shut off. And for all the good it had done, they might as well have taken a pick-ax to the computer. Seated around the conference table was a motely crew of engineers who had all the signs of exhaustion. Most of them hadn't had showers either, and a generous radius of about 6 feet seperated the odor-enhanced crewmen. At the head of the table.
Curtis surveyed the gathering of engineers before him: These were his guys, his team, part of a greater body of small heros who kept the ship together....and good Lord did they smell bad.
But displeasing smells aside, he would have to endure it, for he had called a meeting of the utmost importance.
"Alright guys, this is the deal." Curtis address the engineers. "You all know that the computer re-boot was pretty much a failure. Rather than erase the Quick-Bug, it simply spread it out to random systems on board."
Random grunts of acknowledgement came from the sleep-deprived discussion group.
"Yes, I know you're tired, we all are, but we have a minor problem that could turn into a huge emergency." Curtis continued.
"I've been analyzing this bug, and although I have yet to find a solution, I have come upon an interesting property that could lead to a major problem. The way this bug is behaving, we don't want it in the warp core." Curtis concluded.
The collective looks on the faces of the engineers suddenly went from a calm catatonic stupor to an intense mild awareness.
"Sir?" asked Ensign Prescott. "What exactly could the bug DO to the core?"
"Well, that's the problem, it may do something, but then again, it may not. There's no way to know for sure." said Curtis.
"So, assuming a worst case senario, what could happen Chief?" Lt. Matthews asked.
"Worst case?" Curtis began, "Complete core shut down, possible breach, Brhode ridding our butts, Marines dislocating our vital organs, and a partridge in a pear tree. But on the other hand, the bug could just pop in, say hi, and head off to some other system.
That being the case, we need to find a way to ensure that the bug cannot get into the core. Start brainstorming, I'll be in a meeting with the Chief about the problem. Hopefully, one of you will have a solution by the time I get back."
A collective groan passed through the room and several heads hit the table, causing a thundering *thud* to ressonate throughout the area like, I don't know, thunder or something.
"Come on guys, we need to get this done. I'll be back as soon as I can. The last thing we want is a visit from the Captain and his Marine Death Squad should this problem manifest itself. Meeting dismissed, get to work people." said Curtis, who promptly turned and exited the room to try and find the Chief.
”And how did this made you feel?”
Edith Monaghan hated that question, especially to ask it to others.
But the crewman seemed ready to talk, finally! She tucked a stray golden hair from her eyes and looked at the man with a kind expression. She could do kind. Kind was never a problem.
The young man frowned slightly and shrugged, something he too often did. “Helpless”
She nodded and sat back. “Because you couldn’t save him?”
“Because I wasn’t killed! he died and I lived!” the crewman shouted, tears springing to his eyes. “He died…he and the others but *I* lived! Why? Why!?”
She sat there as if she was frozen, just looked at him. “And why not?” she finally said, letting it hang in the air. “Why shouldn’t you have survived?”
He bit his lower lip and lowered his gaze. She stood up and walked to him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she felt his body trembling.
Her heart reached out for him as she witnessed him break down, reduced to a sobbing mess of flesh. She hated doing this to people…to be the one to break them down only to heal them.
“Its okay, Michael…just breathe…” she said and knelt down beside the chair, touching his hair. “It wasn’t your fault that you survived. It was just how it went. Leave the guilt behind and move on, before this claims another victim.”
He looked at her and his big blue eyes seemed to cry out to her. She touched his chin and he nodded slowly. “I…I can try…I…but…he loved him”
So it was there it was, after all this time it had been there unvoiced. The guilt of a lover’s death, the sorrow and pent-up anger.
And she pulled him towards her and allowed him to cry on her shoulder. “He’s still with you, in your heart, Michael. Don’t mourn him, celebrate him. And don’t punish yourself…”
Maybe it had helped and maybe not, but Edith watched him leave her office half an hour later. She sighed as she watched him go before turning and going into her office. She stared into the air for a while and then reached for her padd. She wrote a short message.
‘Hugo. I’m making dinner today.’
"Sir! those sensor flickers?" an ensign called out to Bhrode from the Sciences station.
"What damned sensor readings?" Bhrode barked "uhhmm.. we didn't say anything.. because.. umm.. we thought they might be artifacts...?" the Ensign offered.
Bhrode rolled his eyes. "What is it about this ship, that NO ONE reports things on the sensors? You'd think I were some unreasoning bastard of a prick, ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. WELL? SAY SOMETHING!" He asked a room that couldn't answer him.
"Umm...theyarebackand..." the nervous young human barely began when... "Klingon Vor'Cha class Battlecruiser de-cloaking off the Port bow!" sang out Tim O'Connell from Tactical.
Electra Reece beat him to sounding the Red Alert at Bhrode's order.
"Helm! Back us up at full Reverse Impulse." Bhrode snapped at Jeremy Savoie.
"Receiving. Hail." Electra Reece ground out between her teeth. The slim and tall young woman seemed to be swaying at her station, clenching the console with a hand that was white knuckled.
The face of a bejewelled and arrogant Klingon Warrior filled the screen. "I am yo''ajHod Kalinor of the Imperial Deep Space Fleet. You may address me as Thought Admiral." the Klingon bellowed.
"Captain! More Klingons ships decloaking! Collision Courses!" Reported O'Connell.
"Evasive Action!" Barked Bhrode, glaring at the back of Savoie's head as the Helmsman scrambeled to find a Reverse Course that would permit the ship to escape damage.
++PROXIMITY ALERT! COLLISION IMMINENT! ALL HANDS BRACE FOR IMPACT IN FIVE... FOUR... THREE... ++ the computer began to warn, as warning Klaxxons screamed.
The Klingon Admiral grinned. "Is this a bad time?" he asked in a mocking and insincere tone.
Only by Jeremy Savoie's deft handling of the Reaction Control System did the Galaxy avoid the two K'Tinga class cruisers that brushed shields with her.
Energy eddies swirled and sparked, as the Klingon ships blew past the Galaxy with mere meters to spare, and a groan was heard from the screen as the Klingon Admiral was appraised of the fact by his own crew. One junior officer was backhanded, trying to claim a bet from another.
Bhrode tugged his tunic lower and leaned nonchalantly back in his chair. "No, yo''aj, this is a super time for my crew to practice avoiding your fools' clumsy shiphandling. I am Fleet Captain John Q Bhrode of USS Galaxy. Did you want something or are you all lost?"
Bhrode replied.
The Klingon snarled.
"We are to transport the Living Sword of Kahless to her Father. You will transfer the Princess and her retinue to us." he demanded. Bhrode eyed the Klingon a moment. Then he sighed.
Thumbing the Ship's intercomm, he snapped out "Legate Curran! Your presence is requested on the Bridge. Now!"
The Klingon's sneer deepened. "I have heard they have put 'Protocol Officers' aboard your ships. Shame...that some honourless p'taq of a clanless coward should sit in judgement of true warriors."
Bhrode's glare got darker.
"Suppose The Imperial Princess does not wish to go with you?" he asked the Klingon Admiral.
"Bah. Tell me, do ALL humans spend your time fretting over hypothetical worries, like toothless women huddled in a corner?" the Klingon waved a hand in dismissal.
"Be back in a moment, hold that thought." Bhrode said, cutting the line.
"More like hold your ass and kiss it bye-bye...Someone go get Dr. Quick.
QUUUUUUUUIIIIIIIICK! (Ooc: think of Kirk yelling 'Khaaaaaaaannnn!' in ST:II) Mister O'Connell, start the warm-up procedure for the PPC Cannon and target that battlecruiser. I have an urge to see it in action and I have this feeling the Princess may not like this change in her travel itenerary."
tbc...
The tour with the Princess and her entourage was a near disaster.
Thankfully, and against all principles of diplomacy, the tender hours spent on fire-control were saved in the end by 'Commander Corgan and his security staff.
Kylar did not enjoy losing that sense of control over a moment, even one that spiralled out of his authoritative jurisdiction. He did not enjoy tasting defeat, and it left a rather rotten sensation on his palate.
He sat alone in his quarters, lights darkened. The veloured seat he used for his work was warm and well-used. His fists clenched so hard the well-manicured nails bit into his flesh drawing fine rivulets of blood. He wasn't used to the emotions his human body evoked from him. Anger and hate surged throughout him as he vainly tried to balance his thoughts.
His heart pounded, and his pores seeped sweat. His skin was coated with a fine glistening layer of perspiration as he fought to keep his emotions under tightly-reined discipline. He was his own master! He.. will... not... give... in...!
His eyes forced themselves closed, clenching so hard his eyes ached.
Knuckles went white as he forced down the bile rising in his throat. He slammed down on his oak table with both fists concurrently, shaking the terminal and spilling finely stacked padds to the floor as they bounced away in the aftershock.
His eyes flew open and spewed hatefulness and ire, then settled into the usual analytical gaze that came with his attitude. His heart fluttered down to a normal pulse-rate. His pores slowed down the hasty retreat of his fluids, and closed as he blinked away the aftereffects of the frailties of the human nature that forever haunted him.
"I accept my hatred, and make it a part of me. I absorb it, recycle it, and return it to the body for more productive uses of its energy. I will not become a victim to the failings that brought about the first defeat of Kelva. I will not suffer the humiliation of Rojan. I will not be broken by the inanity of the human species."
He focussed on a point 6 feet straight ahead, at a seam where the new wallpanels met. A shroud of cohesion settled over him, restoring equilibrium. The red haze left, to be replaced by the fine greys of the sparse room around him.
The terminal beeped. He turned his gaze to it, hardly moving his head. An incoming transmission from Earth. A symbol of the Liaision Office appeared on the screen and awaited his response. He reached a blood-tipped finger over to accept the signal.
Ambassador-General Natasha Mol's porcelain features appeared on the screen, her blond locks hanging loose behind her oval features. He glanced at the chronometer at the lower half of the terminal screen. It was morning on Earth. She had just arrived at her office, and he must have been the first item on her agenda. He could see the flush in her cheeks, and the redness of her lips. Winter had settled into San Francisco.
"Yes, Ambassador? I take it you are looking into my progress with the Klingon Princess?" He avoided the morning pleasantries. They were a waste of time.
"You look like hell, Kylar." He knew his beard had grown out somewhat.
What humans called a five o'clock shadow. He probably had rings under his eyes, what with the lack of sleep in the activity the Galaxy had seen over the last 3 days.
"Thank you for the observation, Ambassador-General. Not that I noticed."
She felt rather than saw the irritability in his tone, and dropped the subject. She knew better than to debate trivialties with a Kelvan. If she wanted his respect, she would need to get to the point.
"How has the attending of Kahless daughter been, Legate?" If he were a true human, he'd find the Ambassador-General to be truly beautiful, and being Kelvan didn't make a difference to notice that. The exception being that if he were human, he'd be intimidated by it. Being Kelvan, he doesn't get intimidated by the lower levels of the evolutionary process. Yet, she had that movie-star look this morning.... he shook it off.
"Difficult, but manageable. There was an incident with a power-down of the computer core that happened to coincide with Security's failing in preventing the Klingons from getting out of hand in Ten-Forward."
'What happened?" Her baby-blue eyes widened slightly in fear of a fallout with Kahless and the Klingon Empire.
"Somebody failed to prevent the Klingons from becoming inebriated on fermented Chile Sauce." She barely suppressed a smile, but her eyes betrayed the laughter within. She quickly bounced back though, even if her dimples didn't. They shone out of her flushed cheeks.
"I've just returned from a tour of the vessel with the Princess and 'Commander Corgan, the ships Security Chief." He ground out Corgan's name with resentment.
"How did that go, Kylar? Was she impressed?" He was about to respond when the lights dropped to the familiar shade of Red, and the klaxons went off.
Natasha's terrified look beyond him was cut off as the security protocols kicked in during a Red Alert and severed all transmissions.
He spun around in his seat to the scene of a Klingon K'Tinga class vessel swooping in towards him. The Galaxy's gravity and motion-control systems fell behind a notch as he felt the great vessel swoop in evasive maneuver.
The huge vessel's port nacelle just grazed the shields that fizzled just meters from him. The shield reaction systems had compressed the shield density to protect the vessel at its closest proximity. The ship still shook with the close impact, and the Kelvan had to grasp the edge of his desk for support.
When his eyes had finally turned back to the viewport, there appeared, floating in space about the ship a triad of Klingon Heavy Cruisers.
[Legate Curran! Your presence is requested on the Bridge. Now!]
He jumped from his chair, stepped on the Padd's on the floor, crunching them under his leather boots as he exited the VIP quarters and ran all the way to the Bridge. He had to know what the hell just happened! What kind of mess did Brhode get them into now?
The triad of Klingons just hung outside the ship, prowling like hungry cats after cornering the mouse.
***
He flew out of the Bridge doors to find the appearance of the heavily jewelled Klingon gazing out, mouthing something as Brhode strutted about the Bridge feeding orders to the crew. The Klingon did not appear to know what was happening, as he was barking orders at his own crew behind him in silence and glancing back to the coomscreen on his own vessel as if expecting something from it. He suspected Brhode had severed the transmission from the Galaxy's side.
He marched down the walkway and down to the Command pit amidst the casual glances from various other members of the crew working under pressure from Captain Brhode. Something serious had just happened.
"Captain Brhode! I demand an explanation! What has happened? Why are the Klingons taking up offensive posture against the Galaxy?"
*****
This was the day that James L. Corgan, son of a Starfleet couple, descended from generations of musicians, entertainers, rogues and vagabonds, dreaded.
Sure, he was a musician, meaning he could keep people entertained, a trait needed in his latest assignment. He was an entertainer... enough said. And as a rogue and vagabond, he was also crafty enough to slip out of trouble whenever it started.
But so far, his luck has soured. He was far from entertaining nowadays, and for some reason he was getting caught with all sorts of infractions, whether it was his fault or not. To say that he was ill prepared for an assignment was misleading. One could easily prepare with papers, training, talking to a mirror... all those he had done ahead of time. But his magical touch, born from years of making people happy, was just about gone.
And without his ability to charm and put people at ease, what was he going to do with the Klingons?
Across the room, the Legate pondered his earlier delivery of the thirteen blatant disregards for the policies set out by the Princess' father - the Emperor Kahless - and his own superior - Ambassador-General Natasha Mol - and how it had been an experience in itself. Nobody had ever been present during a morning hangover born of a concoction of fermented Chili sauce and Bloodwine, and Kylar could understand why. He barely made it out alive.
Upon informing Princess De'VoraH of the considerable penalties if things had gotten out of hand, she had succinctly and matter-of-factly sent her new Klingon sofa crashing into the wall behind him. When she resorted to a series of low growls and serrated grunting, the Kelvan knew his time was being wasted. He laid the padd down on the vanity nearest him and backed out the door slowly, to avoid being attacked by the Princess, as her fangs and upraised talons had suggested. Shrieks and a snap of what could only be the padd could be heard as the door swished shut in front of him.
"Keep your phasers on stun, but do NOT use them unless provoked, and only in self-defense," he'd whispered once outside, the leader of the Starfleet guard detail who still protected the Princess until her sentries returned nodding in acknowledgement.
The Kelvan had arrived at the Meeting room shortly before the Klingons.
Commander Corgan was gazing aft out the viewport watching the stars streak past. A nebula, orange in primary colours, swathed with a broad spectrum on the outset, hung to the starboard of the Galaxy. He could feel the steady thrum of the engines toiling far below through his heightened senses.
Corgan tore his eyes away from the nebula. Being a spacer, he appreciated the sight of spacial phenomena decorating an otherwise bleak and plain expanse. "Shall we?" he invited.
While being ringed by a detail of Starfleet security officers, the Klingon bodyguards and diplomats entered the large meeting room. The Klingons were sourly complaining about indigestion and hangovers. Some clutched their small flasks of bloodwine as if they were elixirs of healing, sipping generously to stave off their piercing head pains. The bodyguards, as professional as ever, braved the hangovers stoically where their diplomatic cousins did not. Their ragged hair was the only indication of a wild night out.
Kylar was somewhat satisfied to see the Princess had survived her hangover undamaged. If not by her own hand, than by the hands of the security officers who were defending their own positions outside her personal quarters.
The princess and her head bodyguard, a general that Corgan had yet to be introduced to, were the only ones whom didn't look like they were in a drunken stupor. The General was white haired and grizzled with hundreds of small and large battle scars. His armor was worn and nicked, yet well polished and decorated with many badges of honor. The way the General surveyed his staff and the Starfleet officers was like any General surveying a battlefield. Methodical, swift, and thorough, assessing his battle group and their own. Dangerous man, but an ally nonetheless. James felt strangely at ease already.
But that feeling flew faster than a runabout at warp 7. Princess DeV'oraH was at the General's flank. She was strangely beautiful for a Klingon, with perfectly tanned cinnamon legs, a head full of long, curly hair, form fitting Klingon dress armor, bountiful cleavage showing in the 'traditional' fashion, and a face, sharp and intelligent, hiding below a craggy forehead plate. She was a beautiful woman, and James found beautiful women intimidating (especially when they sported some very unattractive, snaggly teeth), but the worse was not in her looks, but her... look. Like she was staring at something she wanted, and she was staring at him.
It sent a shudder up and down James' spine, and out of his throat, low enough to be avoided by the most sensitive ears.
Curran noticed the less than vicious gaze of the Princess at the Chief, and was puzzled. What possible interest could a warrior such as herself have in a puny human, let alone a human with the mentality and reliability of a Reman? He even lacked the saving graces of the superior strength and endurance of the Romulan miners. He knew that look in the Klingon face.
Desire and predicatibility were not their saving graces.
"Shall we start the tour?" Corgan politely bowed, keeping a sharp and detestful eye on the Legate, in case the seasoned diplomat spotted any invisible mistake that could lead to intergalactic war. (Hey, it has been known to happen.)
Victor took another headcount, and satisfied himself that the extra three security personnel Commander Corgan had detailed to accompany the tour were all present and in position. ~ Got to remember to watch Hanley if something starts - that arm was in an osteoregenerator for an hour last night when he finally got to Sickbay, and he doesn't need to overstress it until everything settles. ~ He went over the itinerary again in his head, trying to make certain that all the trouble spots were already noted. ~ I think we got everything. As long as the Klingons aren't carrying a grudge from last night - especially that woman who knows I was the one that took out her companions - then we ought to make out okay. If they want to be difficult about it, or if she's made a stink about my starting things... well, it'll be a damn short trip. ~ He checked again, looking at faces this time. ~She's not here, good. Maybe I'll catch a break... Damn. ~
As he watched, the inner door to the diplomatic suite slid open and the woman from the night before walked in. In better light, she was taller than he'd thought, easily several inches taller than he was, and had a lean, powerful physique that was still unmistakably feminine under her armor. She moved into the room, head turning and exposing the bruise on the left side of her jaw as she noted each of the Starfleet personnel present, then moved on - until she reached Victor and stopped.
~ Crap. Here it comes ~ Victor braced himself for the inevitable.
The woman's face darkened, her features twisting into something half sneer and half snarl as she started to move towards Victor. She stopped, spat once, looking directly at him, and then turned away when one of the other members of the entourage addressed her in low, warning tones. Whatever was whispered to her, the Klingon woman didn't appear to like it, but stayed where she was, contenting herself with casting venomous looks in Victor's direction.
Perplexed, Victor studied the woman for a moment before he returned to watching the group as a whole. ~ Hunh. She doesn't like not being able to do what she wanted to there. Maybe the Princess passed down orders to behave themselves after that mess last night." He glanced towards the Princess. ~
Hard to tell - I can't read Klingons well... but I guess the way she's watching the Commander doesn't need much translation. Maybe she thinks she'll have less trouble getting what she wants from him if her people stop giving him trouble? ~
Inwardly, Kylar chuckled at the security officer from the night before getting his rewards for a job well-done. Outwardly, he couldn't show his satisfaction, but had his own ideas on how to make the dominoes tumble. "May I suggest we start at the Bridge first? I believe Captain Brhode is about to begin his shift. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to entertain the Living Sword of Kahless." He crossed his arms, the creaseless sleeves of his black uniform stretching against his lithe frame. He rather enjoyed the banter and tense moments being on display in the small room.
~ Oh God. ~ Victor restrained himself, but two of the additional officers paled, and Ensign Hanley crossed himself when he thought no one was looking.
~ I can't believe this guy wants to get into a pissing contest with the Captain that badly - is he stupid, or psychotic? ~
"I do not suggest that we take our tour to the Bridge first, Legate Curran." Corgan cut in warningly, "Captain Brhode is a very busy man, and from what I've heard, we are going to be close to the badlands today, which means he won't appreciate any distractions. Not to mention that his mood is usually sour..."
"We will go to the Bridge." Princess DeV'oraH announced stubbornly.
Corgan snapped around, "Beg your pardon?"
General Kragg stepped in, his voice as gravelly as a Tholian's gizzard sack, "I would like to assess the Bridge crew's capabilities. I too wish to see the bridge first."
"And I would like to confront Captain Brhode about the ship's conditions. Computer errors and frequent blackouts are of great concern, which must be addressed to the Captain immediately." Princess DeV'oraH snarled indignantly. "As well, we must settle why I was locked in my quarters like a child last night. An Imperial Princess does not hide from battle, or anything else!"
James sighed dispairingly. Wasn't the battle with her last night enough? "Yup... sounds like loads of fun, ma'am." He stated, "But you are our guests, and it's our duty to protect you. Therefore, we had to keep you in quarters. But don't worry... if there was a battle, they would most likely beam over to your quarters for a fight."
~"Don't get her started, Corgan."~ His conscience cut in.
The Princess made a low growl, "Fighting in a cage like a beast... not worthy of the Living Sword of Kahless."
"Well, if you're still peckish for a little ass kicking, may I suggest the holodeck?" James rattled off like a travel brochure, "We have an excellent Jem'Hadar fighting program."
Sourly, the royal princess replied, "It will have to do..." Her general nodded. Some of the younger Klingons, familiar with the reputation of Federation holotechnology, grunted excitedly. Surprisingly, the princess brought up, "But I want to see you in combat with the Jem'Hadar. You will join us, Commander Corgan, after the tour."
"Excuse me?" He peeped, aware of the dangers involved. But before Corgan could raise up a rebuttal, they were swept along as the meeting continued.
~ I should have gone on and taken something for a headache before this shift even started. I knew I should have. ~ Victor eyed the mood among the Klingon party. ~ There's no way they won't all be in the holodeck fighting Jem'Hadar by lunch - at least it'll be quieter for the rest of the ship that way. ~ He cut his eyes towards Commander Corgan. ~ Not quieter for the Commander though - poor guy. ~
To one side, the Klingon woman, who had not stopped glaring at Victor, leaned over and whispered something to the person next to her, prompting some grunts of laughter and more glances in Victor's direction.
~ Oh this duty is going to be a load of fun. ~ Victor tried to ignore the looks and whispers, even though that only appeared to egg the woman and those around her on. ~ I wonder if this qualifies for 'hazardous duty?' ~
James whispered to Victor's ear, "My Klingon is rusty, but I think she was commenting about your ass."
Victor nodded without looking away from the diplomatic party. "More likely she was calling me one, sir." He glanced at the Princess. "I think you need to get this started before the Princess loses her temper again, sir. We don't need that after last night."
"Well then..." Corgan impatiently clapped his hands together, "I believe the Legate has your itinerary set. Legate Curran..." The Chief of Security winked, "It's the Bridge first, correct? After you - you are, after all, the ranking official here."
With a haughty glare and a single curt nod, the Legate turned and started for the door, the General behind him. Victor shifted position to cover the rear of the party, motioning Hanley and So'ka to cover the other side of the delegation. James moved up to supervise the transition to the corridor and the turbolifts, one eye on the Princess and both of hers on him.
There was a certain amount of jockeying for position within the delegation as the party started to form up around the Princess, with her bodyguards moving up to the front and various diplomatic personnel and attendants moving back to be nearer to her. Position in the entourage reflected - and granted - status, so mixed in with the movements were not a few momentary status struggles that were settled with a look, a sneer, or a single shove as the Klingons settled into their marching order.
Victor watched the shifting with a certain amount of amusement for a second, before he turned his attention towards the doors and the corridor beyond. ~
Out the door, turn left, and back the way we came last night. Once we get to the turbolifts... ~ "Unh." He stifled the curse that followed his grunt as something slammed into his ribs with the force of a hammer, snapping him back to the real world. Turning, he started to bring a hand up - and froze, his eyes locked with the dark brown, almost black, ones of the Klingon woman from the night before, the reinforced elbow of her sleeve still digging into his side. ~ Crap. ~
The woman hissed at Victor, her face still twisted angrily, and drew back her arm, only to drive it into him again in the same spot, making no attempt to disguise the gesture as accidental. "Coward," she growled in a low, husky voice that he remembered from the corridor. "Worthless coward."
She drew her arm back again, and Victor braced himself for the blow, seeing in her eyes that it would be harder than the first two. ~ I'll be damned if I let you goad me into swinging on you. ~ He met her eyes coldly, refusing to flinch.
The elbow started forward - and stopped instantly as the Princess snapped, "K'vala!"
The woman turned, her arm dropping to her side. "Yes, my Princess?"
"What," the Princess growled, looming suddenly beside Victor and the other Klingon - or as much as she could considering that both Victor and K'vala were taller than she was, "did I tell you - tell all of you - about goading the guards? Are you deliberately disobeying me? You wouldn't do that, would you? In front of all these people, make me a liar after I gave the Commander my word there would be no more incidents?"
~ Dammit I do not believe this. ~ Victor eyed the Princess, then the other Klingon. ~ She did it, and she's going to tell the Princess why, I can see it in her eyes. If she does, then everything from last night is getting dragged out in the open again... ~ "It was my fault, ma'am," he said, hatingthe words as they came out of his mouth. ~ I'm lying to cover up for another lie. ~
"What?" the Princess turned, frowning. Beside her, K'vala's frown deepened and she glared at Victor even harder.
"It was my fault, ma'am," Victor repeated. "I was the one that bumped into her first - she just reacted like a warrior and returned the blow out of reflex. There's no harm done." ~ Beside the cracked rib she gave me, anyway.~
The Princess looked penetratingly at Victor for a moment, then K'vala, then back to Victor, and finally cut her eyes towards Corgan. "Very well then Lieutenant, you have no reason to lie - I must have been mistaken." She nodded at the taller woman. "I cannot fault your training, K'vala, but try to restrain yourself in the future until you know your target. Now come, attend me while the Commander shows us the Bridge of this great ship - and we are told why she has so many problems."
K'vala favored Victor with another harsh glare; anger filling her eyes, then followed the Princess back into the entourage.
Victor watched them leave, refusing to wince as he breathed evenly. ~ Great, just great. That's twice now I've had a run in with what's her name - K'vala. Judging from the look in her eyes she'll kill me if there's a third time, and we aren't even halfway to where they are going. ~ He nodded to Hanley and started forward as the pack moved out of the room. ~ Look at the bright side - at least she's taking it out on you instead of the kids over there. It could be a lot worse. ~
******
Victor waited for the turbolift to arrive, thinking about what he'd realized a week before when the meeting with Commander Corgan had been put off so they could concentrate on the Klingon security detail. ~ I don't want to leave the Galaxy. I'm tired of leaving. Even if they all hate me here - and they don't, or at least a few of them don't - I'd rather stay in one place and make a difference rather than keep bouncing around the fleet like an unwanted stepchild. I don't want to move any more, I want... I want a home. ~
"Hey! Wait up!" yelled a voice from behind him, interrupting his thoughts. Lieutenant Commander Corgan tried his best to flag down the older Lieutenant and fellow bodyguard. He was fresh off his shift when all the sudden he remembered to finish one task: to talk to the promising veteran. Corgan had time to look over the man's file, and seeing that a few documented incidents were a little bit questionable, he had a few questions to clear up these minor infractions.
With a sinking feeling, Victor turned. ~ He couldn't even wait for the meeting - he's going to do it right here in the corridor.... ~ "Yes, sir?" he responded, determined to be civil to the end.
"Lieutenant, may I walk with you for a minute?" James asked politely. Despite his higher rank, he still had respect for Lieutenant Krieghoff.
"Of course, sir. I was just headed down to Security Main for our meeting - we can go together." Victor cocked his head to the side and smiled. "Can't very well start without you, now can I?" ~ That's right, I'm going to be pleasant. You're going to have to work for it, sir - I'm not going to make it easy for you to kick me off the ship. ~
"Lieutenant," James cut to the point, "I was impressed with your performance with the Klingons. It takes a man with brass balls to take on drunken Klingons in the dark. You handled the situation well, and you showed leadership potential out there. I'd hate to have that ignored."
~ I screwed things up from start to finish. I was the reason that whole mess started, and now you're complimenting me on it? Why...? Is this the 'promote you and send you away' thing again? ~ "Thank you, sir - but I wasn't there by myself. Ensigns Hanley and So'ka had a lot to do with things working out as well as they did."
The Commander nodded. "I've already noted that in their files - but your mentioning that is exactly the sort of thing I meant about potential. However... would you explain a few incidents to me?" James drew out a PADD, activated the electronic device, and scanned the materials therein, "I noticed a pattern in your career. The best I can explain it is a series of mishaps... not too fatal, none were enough for a court martial, but enough to set your career back at least a few years and resulting in a lot of transfers. Care to explain a few?"
~ I knew it was coming. I knew it. It always does. ~ Victor sighed and tried to will the turbolift to respond faster, as if that would get things over with sooner. "If you've read my file, sir, you've got the data there. I'd be glad to go over it with you, though. Is there one in particular you wanted to ask about?" ~ The Com Officer on the Leonidas, or the Orion smugglers, it'll be one of those. Everyone wants to know about them. ~
James tore his eyes away from Victor's report. My god, where there a lot of infractions. A misinterpreted order here, lone ranger justice being sought out elsewhere. There wasn't a year in his record where he wasn't in trouble for something or the other.
The Chief of Security didn't want to know the messy details of all the incidents. What he saw was a strange, yet predictable, pattern. "Lieutenant Krieghoff... why?"
"Excuse me, sir?" Victor looked at him with a hint of confusion. ~What is he talking about? Why 'what?' ~
"Perhaps I should make it clearer." James cleared his throat, "From what I gather, you have disobeyed orders, and then half of the time you're booted off the ship with a commendation and a warning label attached to you. How in the fraggin' hell does someone manage to both piss off and satisfy their commanding officers at the same time?"
"Ah." Victor thought about the request for a moment. ~Hell, tell him the truth. He's going to transfer you anyway. ~ "Two reasons, sir. First, because while I got the results they wanted, they didn't like the way I got them. It wasn't always the same reason every time - though most of the time it was - but that's what it boiled down to. Or," he continued, spreading his hands, "that's what it looked like from my perspective anyway." ~ Am I really having this conversation? It's all in the files there, he has to know what I did. ~ "Second... I don't know if you've noticed, sir, but I'm not the most popular man on the ship. I'm not even the most popular man in the department. I... people are uncomfortable around me, very uncomfortable. I frighten them just by walking in the room. It makes it hard for most people to consider giving me any slack when in comes to situations where I do things they don't like." ~ Hell, maybe he *hasn't* noticed. It doesn't seem to happen to him, so maybe he hasn't noticed it with others. ~
"Relax..." James chuckled, "I was an outcast myself. They used to call me 'Crazy Corgan'. I was stone cold back in the day. Used to kill in the trenches without so much as a blink... or sometimes I would fly off the handle and hurt someone badly. Used to be a marksman as well." He traced the scar tissue over his eye, "Until the Hirogen took out my good eye. People made fun of me because I was quiet or strange, but they feared me as well because... I was dangerous and creepy. I know how you feel. But don't worry about it. You're new on this ship. You'll gain the crew's respect soon."
Victor blinked once. ~ I don't think you really understand, sir. This doesn't 'wear off' after I'm no longer the new guy, this is my life. ~ The turbolift doors slid open, giving Victor a moment to consider his response as they stepped in and the Commander announced their destination. "I hope it works out like that, sir." ~ It won't though. It never does, that's just the way things are. ~
"Lieutenant," The chief of security asked to change the subject, "I was wondering... have you heard of Vietnam?"
"Vietnam?" Victor frowned. "One of the communist-containment wars that America fought in the mid-Twentieth Century, correct, sir?" ~ What does that have to do with what we've been talking about? ~
"Ahhh... you know about it! I mentioned it because it reminded me of my history report during my time at the Advanced Tactical and Security Training Program. Vietnam was a precursor to the Eugenics Wars, and some of it's tactics were carried over to World War Three, which was why we had to study it. But what I found interesting was the relationship between the enlisted and the commissioned officers."
"Their... relationship, sir?" ~ Okay, I am totally lost now. ~ Victor shook his head as the turbolift hummed down the shaft. "I'm afraid I don't see where you're going, sir." ~ Is this some weird way of leading up to a transfer? ~
"Well, you see, during those days, commissioned officers were not experienced in the arts of war. Any kid with a college education could become a Lieutenant or a Captain. When the Vietnam War started, these young, inexperienced leaders were sent out with enlisted men to fight, but what they found was that the commissioned officers were lacking in leadership skills. Enlisted men would, later experienced due to fights with the Vietnamese, hated being led by a newly minted Lieutenant who didn't know how to fight. Resentment bred in some units, and there were even reports of some Officers being 'fragged'... killed in layman's terms, while out in the front lines due to bad orders, bad attitude, all that stuff..."
James paused momentarily, "My point is that I'm in the position of the Lieutenant. Though I have fought on the front lines, I am rather new at being a leader. Quite frankly, I'm far from impressing anyone with my dazzling skills." He remarked sarcastically, then continued, "Therefore, I need to learn from others that are more experienced. You're one of these people. You have more experience than me and you have confidence in your abilities as a leader. If I'm going to become a better Department Chief, I need to learn from by best men, and from what I saw, you're one of them. So... I'm going to bump you up as a squad leader. Just a step below assistant chief. You'll lead a group of six others and will lead them in patrols and operations."
Victor's world stopped. Even though the turbolift kept moving, that single moment of time was frozen within the car as everything he'd expected, everything he'd braced himself for was suddenly knocked aside as the world shifted out from under him, swung him around, and deposited him back where he'd been, leaving him without any clue as to what he should do. "A... squad leader, sir?" ~ He's not... he's not transferring me? I'm not leaving? I don't have to... I'm not leaving? ~
James laughed. He knew he caught the lower officer off guard. "Yeah. A squad leader. Is there an echo?"
Victor blinked, unable to reply for a moment. ~ Say something, you idiot! Anything! ~ "No, sir, no echo."
"You know, I could gladly change it... put you on waste reclaimator detail if you want..."
~ Waste reclaim.... ~ "Ah, no, sir. I don't think that will be necessary." ~ He's making me a squad leader? I'm not... I'm not leaving! ~ The weight Victor had been carrying for a week lifted away, and he felt like the turbolift had just gone into freefall. ~ I don't have to leave! ~
"Well, you'll have to wait awhile. Technically, I'm relieved of my duties as chief of security. However, I should be back in my position soon, and then I will bump up your status. Or at the least, I can send a recommendation to whatever Marine lackey they posted in my spot." James paused, then added, "Don't ask why... I don't know either."
Again the turbolift doors saved Victor from having to make an immediate response. Even so, by the time the two men were out in the corridor and moving towards security Main, all he'd come up with was, "That's all right, sir. Even if it doesn't happen at all, I appreciate the confidence."
James heard the commotions of his fellow crewmate coming from the brig area. When James and Victor approached the brig, they saw a massed bunch of officers. Starfleet marines, silent as statues and standing stoically with their compression phaser rifles, guarded the milling security and medical officers.
"Jesus Christ, what the fragging hell is going on here?" James barked at the nearest security officer. The commotion had him worried, but it wasn't until he saw Lieutenant O'Rourke set up the crime scene containment fields that he knew how severe the situation had become.
~ Marines... forensics techs - someone's dead. ~ Victor watched the movements of the Security personnel as they approached, noting the stiff jerky movements and angry, shocked looks. ~ It's one of ours - I know it. They're too upset for it not to be. ~ Something inside him started to do a slow burn, and he crushed it ruthlessly. ~ Whoever it is, they're already dead - getting mad just helps the killer - and from the way these people are acting, they don't have him. Study what's happened, look for the pattern - it doesn't matter if I'm assigned to this or not now. They killed one of us, and I can't let that stand. ~
"Lieutenant O'Rourke, what happened?" Corgan urgently requested a teary eyed Shelly O'Rourke. Her eyes were red where tears threatened to flood outwards. She was barely containing the sadness in her soul, as she latched the containment fields firmly into place.
She looked eye to eye at her superior officer. Wracked with muffled despair, she answered sorrowfully, "Sir... the murderer killed Copperpot and Brenton."
"What?" James' heart plummeted to his bowels, "For real?"
"Yes sir. They killed Chuck and Jody." She sobbed, "Dammit, sir... Jody was my friend. He was the nicest guy in our staff. Who would want to kill him?"
James couldn't answer his sub-ordinate, or say anything for that matter. In the mood that was creeping slowly into his system, he couldn't give a straight answer without flying into a fit of rage. First it was Copperpot. He was the quietest member of the security department. Always in the brig. Always reading a book to pass the time. He was a fixture, an institution on the ship, something that was meant to stay there forever.
Then there was Jody Brenton. James specifically picked the gentle-hearted Midwesterner for his diplomatic skills and kind nature. He was a model officer, always following order, always trying to calm situations before they got worse. But the mother of all ironies was that Jody was disgraced, because his patience broke due to a marine's chiding, and Bhrode's draconian punishment sent him off. James believed in his heart that O'Rourke was right. Jody was a good kid. He didn't deserve to end like this. Neither did Copperpot.
Somebody was going to receive the mother of all punishments. A nice, bold thought, but useless for a caged animal.
Victor stood by silently and watched his commander talk, following along as he paced down the hall to the brig cells. ~ They killed Brenton while he was in the brig? If he was the target, then Copperpot was killed to let them gain access to Brenton. If it was Copperpot they were after... ~ Victor stopped as Corgan reached the cell, shifting to the side so he could see into it.
James stepped into the crime scene, observing every gory detail he could find. Copperpot was dead on the floor, his throat cleanly cut from jugular to jugular. His blood created a dark, crimson pool spreading and soaking into the surrounding carpet. In his hand was paperback novel, his bloody fingerprints pressed on the pages. In the brig, Ensign Jody Brenton was stabbed and slashed wildly, like a mad animal attack. His eyes were fiery and defiant, his muscles taunt as if he was in his last struggle. His cowboy hat, a light gray Stetson, was covered in one of Jody's huge red handprint and crumpled up.
"Oh my god..." Corgan recoiled in horror and hatred for the murderer, "Copperpot was taken by surprise. Somebody slashed him up. One clean slash... and it was done. But Jody... my god... he was trapped in there. He couldn't have escaped to get help if he tried."
Victor frowned, trying to concentrate with the distractions all around him. ~ No, it wasn't Copperpot - he was killed cleanly. It was Brenton they wanted, they took their time with him. ~ Victor studied the security fields and the settings on the monitor by the wall where one of the forensics techs had called them up. ~ The fields haven't been dropped all day. That means the killer either got past them in some way - maybe a field diverter of some kind - or they altered the readings to make it look like they didn't drop the field. ~ He looked at the scene again. ~ What is that... a handprint? I need to see what the forensics guys get on that, make sure it's Jody's and not a plant to throw us off. ~
James shook his head in despair, "That f**king bastard... f**king butcher..."
~"OH YEAH?!?! WHAT CAN YOU DO ABOUT IT?!?!"~
The voice in his head was correct. He was trapped. No longer the master of his department, he was assigned to Klingon duty while the marines took over security, including the murder investigation, which was headed by Leo Streely. As much as he didn't like it, James was stuck. He had nowhere to go.
"I can't do a thing about it..." James looked up to the ceiling covered sky for the answers he couldn't' find. "Truth is, Victor, Bhrode threw me into Klingon duty as a punishment. If I could, I would spearhead this investigation. But now my men are dead and I can't do a thing about it! F**k!"
"Why not, sir?" Victor surprised himself with the quiet words. "It's obvious that the people in charge of this don't know what they're doing. The Marines aren't trained for it - but we are."
"Sorry, Lieutenant..." He hung his head down in shame, looking down at the body of Lieutenant Copperpot, "I pissed off Bhrode one too many times, therefore he took me off security. That's why I'm guarding the Klingons and not investigating. He turned over all security matters to the Marines, and the investigation over to Inspector Leo Streely. Dammit... if I go vigilante on this investigation, Bhrode will have my balls for supper."
~ This is going to be a lot easier if the Commander signs on.... ~ Victor shook his head and pulled his superior to the side. "That depends, sir. What's more important to you: making sure that the Captain doesn't have your ass, or making sure that the bastard doing this gets stopped hard? Sometimes you don't get to follow the rules, because doing that means the bad guys win." He paused, then added, "You don't have to help, Commander, I understand. But whether you're along for the ride or not, I'm making sure that this bastard doesn't see the finish line... sir."
Corgan looked down again at Copperpot's lifeless, crimson soaked body. Something had to be done, but what? He was tied. Didn't Victor understand what was going on? Corgan was more than in trouble with the Command Staff. Bhrode sniffed him out as a weak link in his command chain. It was obvious to James that he wasn't cut out for the job handed to him. No amount of security and tactical training could save him from his one weakness; leadership. Bhrode knew this, and pulled the Chief of Security off this murder investigation not as a punishment, but as a precaution to save lives. James caused enough trouble, and was sent away on a cake assignment to prevent any mishaps.
But looking at Brenton's horrific corpse jarred his senses back to life, and Victor's impassioned statement flooded more common sense into him than a thousand Bhrode rants. Who the hell was he, John Q. Bhrode, to tell James to stay out of security. This was his yard, his domain, and a crime was committed on his watch! Orders or not, James wasn't planning on being more negligent while a killer was on the loose.
There was just the matter of getting past his restriction to quarters during his off duty hours, but before he could finish the though that addressed this worry, he already had a plan. Or more exactly, a plan already fell into his lap.
"Computer... who am I?" He asked.
=/\="You are Dr. Jebediah Quick."=/\= The computer answered.
"Hear that Victor." Corgan let off a sly grin, "I'm Dr. Quick. Computer! Is Dr. Quick currently in the crew quarters of the Chief of Security?"
=/\=Searching...=/\= Mere moments later, the computer replied, =/\="Affirmative.=/\=
"What do you know... apparently I'm in my quarters." Corgan hummed. ~"My god... I was free all along, and Bhrode wouldn't have even known until the sensors were repaired! HAH! IN YOUR FACE OLD MAN!"~
<RE: How is there a lifesign in his quarters?>
"Well... you see..." James came up with the answer, "Apparently, Dr. Quick is every living, breathing being on this ship. And that... includes all the animals on the pet registry..."
****
Curled up in a secluded corner of James Corgan's quarters, a small puff of fur curled itself for another lonely night's dinner. She munched on her quadrotriticale grains, trilling softly in hopes of somebody coming by to keep her company. Such was the lonely life of Mudball the tribble, James Corgan's only pet. She didn't know about her human companion's busy schedule, nor did she know that she was Dr. Quick. All she knew was that she was alone, purring out her calls for attention.
****
"...Thank god..." James whistled, "As long as Mudball stays in my quarters, I can move around wherever I please. So..." He turned away from the dead bodies, "Shall we start investigating?"
~ I'll be damned, he's in. ~ Victor smiled, a grim, predator's smile. ~ It's hunting time. ~ "Yes, sir. The first thing we need to do is have you...."
"Don't worry about me." James replied, a fox like grin appearing on his face, "We'll clear out of here. Let forensics collect their information. Later on, we can ask for information on their deaths. Lieutenant, Leo Streely and I are on unhappy terms, and if he catches me out of confinement... the investigation ends. You try to gather any security information on the investigation. I'll talk to medical and retrieve any information on the autopsies. Then, we'll get back together after our shift with the Klingons to compare. Oh... and if anyone asks," he stated carefully, "we have reason to believe that the murderer is a threat to the Klingon delegation - but I assume you treat the situation as such anyways."
"Aye-aye, sir," Victor nodded. "I do - and I will." As the men turned to leave, he eyed the forensics techs going about their tasks. ~ Probably ought to try talking to O'Rourke later. She doesn't like me, but as upset as she is, she may want to get the one that did this more than she dislikes me.... ~
****
I wonder why I actually do this. It's not like I'm a Kirk or Picard, some iconic figure whose personal logs will be studied for centuries to gain insights into my thoughts. I'm just me, and 'iconic' is a word that no one has ever used to describe me.
They've used a lot of other ones, some to my face and others not, but I think I'd remember 'iconic' if it'd shown up. I know I would, now that I think of it. I remember all the other ones.
So why *do* I do this? Why am I bothering to sit here and talk to a soulless machine that can't do more than parrot pre-programmed words and phrases back at me? Hell, it isn't even a smart system like the ones they've programmed into the EMH's and other holographic assistants; it's just a glorified recorder. If it were like one of the holographic assistants, it'd almost be like talking to a real person, like a friend, or something....
I guess I do this because... because I don't have anyone else to talk to.
Now *there's* a sad commentary for you.
Whatever the reasons, sad or not, this log is it. If I made a call, I'm sure there's some nice person over in Counseling that would be perfectly happy to talk to me about my troubles and how to integrate into the ship's 'society' better. Right up to the point they were alone in a room with me, anyway. Then they'd understand why I don't bother to try any more - it just isn't worth the trouble I'll cause trying to get people that want to run away from me as fast as they can to stick around and be my friend.
A tiger is a tiger, and sheep are sheep. Whether they know what they are or not, I know what I am - and so do they, even if only instinctually - and no sheep ever wanted to be in the same room with a tiger, much less be friends with one. Or something more.
Well, this is turning maudlin faster than usual.
The point of all this, back before the self-pity session started was... Hell, I'm wallowing so much I don't even remember what the point was. Oh, yes I do, the damned meeting with Commander Corgan.
He left a message putting the meeting off for a few days, maybe as much as a week because of the tours and extra shifts we're both pulling with the Klingons here; it was waiting for me when I got back from the Armory with my rifle. I guess he figures to wait until things are closer to being finished with the Klingon delegation and then pin all the problems on me as a reason for transferring me out. Not a bad plan, really. Better than the ones most of my supervisors have used in the past, if I had to admit it.
That doesn't mean I have to like it though.
I don't want to go, dammit. He's going to transfer me, and I don't want to go. The Klingons aren't mad - except for that one girl, K'vala, that wants to kill me, and even she isn't saying why to the others - no one got seriously hurt. The worst thing that happened was the Princess getting a bad case of the hots for the Commander... Oh. Damn. It makes sense now. *That's* what the real problem is. The Princess.
He's blaming me for her wanting to drag him into the sack because she thinks he was the one that laid her out in the hallway. Dammit, of all the things to... I don't even know if I was the one that hit her! I'd have owned up to it if I had - there wasn't any reason not to. They would've killed Hanley or So'ka, maybe both of them, if I hadn't come in - what was I supposed to do, let them kill them?
So he's going to pin everything on me, then drop me off on some ship headed for... hell, I don't know, I've been to about all of the rotten spots they could send me. Maybe Gorn space. That'd be close enough to the Klingon Empire that the Princess could spend her time chasing *me* and not him.
That'd be different - someone chasing *me,* trying to get close to me deliberately. That's happened all of what, twice in my life? Risa and that Transporter Chief on the Delaware... Melinda Something. Travers, that was it, Melinda Travers. One of them wanted a relationship with me for the wrong reasons, and the other just wanted the adrenaline rush of sleeping with 'the bad man' to add spice to her love life. Hell of a track record there. Maybe it'd be different with the Princess. At least she'd be up front about what she wanted - that would be a change.
As if.
Okay, that was a stupid digression. It really isn't the about the Princess, and she's not going to start chasing me around the galaxy with one thing on her mind. I've heard her called a lot of things since this detail started, but mentally defective wasn't one of them. Maybe she really just wants to get next to the Commander because she's fascinated by the color of his eyes or something. I guess Klingons think about things like that too - everyone else seems to. Doesn't really matter, it's not like anyone normal would be interested in me anyway, so it has to be something else.
What then?
Maybe... maybe Corgan just wants to transfer me so there isn't any more trouble. He wouldn't be the first with that idea either - he might have seen whatever report Chief Davidson filed after that little scene in the Armory this morning, or maybe someone trapped in a turbolift with me filed a complaint that I was 'menacing' them. Wouldn't be the first time for that.
No... that doesn't feel right. Hell, he's the first superior officer that I've had since Captain Farragon back on the Hesperas that didn't seem to either be scared of me or want to slug it out right there on the spot. I don't think he's even aware that everyone else aboard the ship is.
God knows most of the other Security personnel aren't immune. Hanley and So'ka were going to try and transfer to another squad on the Klingon detail when they saw I was on it with them - I heard them talking about it before we got to Ten Forward the day of the blackout. At least they changed their minds after the fight in the corridor; they must have figured it was better to have me around than not if that sort of thing was going to happen again. It isn't friendship, but it's the best I ever see, so I might as well enjoy it while it lasts - doubt they'll be so glad to see me after this detail ends.
That's enough sidetracking for now, back to the point that started all of this - why Corgan is going to transfer me.
Maybe K'vala put the Princess up to making a complaint - she's been trying to provoke me about every other way she could without violating the order that the Princess laid down. Hell, that whole tour yesterday was just one excuse for her to get in cheap shots at me between the problems on the Bridge and everywhere else. I don't have to speak Klingon to know what she was saying to the others when they were looking at me and laughing, and the elbows she threw before we started were pretty clearly just a warm-up for what she wanted to do.
No... no, that isn't it, either. I saw what was in her eyes when she tried to provoke me there in the conference room - she wants to settle this herself. No help, no cheap-ass little power games, none of that. Her pride's hurt because a human took her down - and because she kissed me, thinking I was one of her buddies - and she wants to make me hurt worse for it. She has to be the one to do it, though, or it won't mean anything. That's why she tried to get me into that damn simulation - she could have taken all the shots she wanted then and no one would have said a word.
Hell, maybe it's something I haven't even thought of yet. Whatever it is, he's going to leave me hanging - no, he's leaving *it* hanging - hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles.
All right, I can deal with that. He can put the meeting off for a month if he needs to - the longer the better. As long as he's stalling, I'm still here... and that's what I want anyway.
Well... one of the things I want.
Time to quit, before this gets stupid again. Computer, end log.
As a general rule, the citizens of the 24th century are a pretty snooty lot.
This can be found in many aspects of the so-called ‘liberated ‘ society, but the keenest expression is revealed in the choice of recreational activities of the denizens of the Federation.
To wit: Opera, Art, and Earl Grey.
Gone are the days of Oz-Fest and Lilith-Fair. Gone are the days of Teen boy-bands, and pre-pubescent sex-divas gyrating in Leather Spandex. Gone are the heady days of Music Rockumentaries, and even (dare I say). . . .Farm Aid.
Yes it’s a sad but true fact that despite the best efforts of a select few (Jimmy Corgan and others), the musical tastes of the 24th century have gone almost insufferably high-brow. Even the Klingons, a race of beings that has raised Head-butting to an Art-Form, has been seduced by the dark side of music and produced its own brand of wailing Arias under the nomenclature of Klingon Opera.
In the second instance, a virtual renaissance of new art forms have exploded across the face of the Alpha Quadrant with everyone and their grandma considering themselves budding Piccaso’s or Lord Byrons. From the field of sculpture comes little Alexander Roshenko carving clay ash-trays for his father Worf. In the field of Poetry we find Androids composing odes to badly-named felines, and when crossing over to paint we find that very same android awaiting inspiration that will never come.
Of lesser known relevance, but perhaps of almost equal importance is the prevalence of ‘intellectual’ beverages in Federation society almost to the exclusion of all others. Everywhere one looks there are various exotic coffee’s and teas being served, to the exclusion of almost everything else.
I mean come on, cant a guy get a decent Diet Dr. Pepper anywhere?
Amidst this swirl of blue-blooded refreshments however there is one that rises head and shoulders above the rest. Nothing in the universe holds as much pervasive influence as the infamous cup of Earl Grey Tea.
Consider the innocent cup of Earl Grey, which in itself seems docile, but dig deeper and you will find a beverage that has intertwined itself into the very fabric of interstellar society itself!
Even the mighty Starfleet is not unaffected. Even whilst charged with defending the Federation against ‘all enemies, foreign and domestic’ the officers and crew of Ship’s-of-the-Line, find time to engage in general ho-hum sorts of recreation from underwater basket weaving, to almost nightly orchestral recitals.
TO be fair the crew of the USS Galaxy is a bit more diverse than the norm in that there seems to be an overwhelming number of collectors of exotic bladed weaponry, but rest assured. . . . If someone likes Opera. . .its going to be Klingon Opera. . If someone drinks tea. . . .Its gonna be Earl Grey Tea.
It is the official sponsor of Starfleet after all.
Of interest to us today however is the particular a particular class aboard the USS Galaxy entitled --Post Modern Painting and its relationships to Earl Grey Tea--which was being held in one of the starboard viewing lounges.
A diverse group of perhaps twenty students stood carefully before their assembled easels, each carefully applying gentle swathes of pigment and color to their pristine white canvas. Towards the center of the room sat the subject of their intense scrutiny: a nude model of Bolian origin.
The bald blue alien stood quite motionless, patiently allowing the assembled artists to explore the subtle shadings of azure involved with her dark skin tones. For many practitioners of the art, painting the nude is perhaps the ultimate challenge, but when that subject is of an alien race, it only increases the level of difficulty.
Near the back row, Dr. Jebediah Quick studied the Bolian lady’s smooth azure flesh, and carefully danced his brush over the canvas as if teasing or tickling the surface with droplets of liquid color.
However Quick was not one to be confined by the established rules of art, nor allow himself to be hemmed in by the expectations of society as a whole.
Much as the famed Piccasso of old went through his own ‘Blue Period’, the budding artist within Dr. Quick was undergoing his own epiphany of expression He was in many ways his very own Renaissance-Man exploring new and different means of seeing the world around him. In most cases this was aided by liberal use of hallucinogenic narcotics, but at times Jeb found it within himself to gain sudden insight into the true harmony of the universe without the nasty hang-overs.
For him the fact that there was a nude extraterrestrial model standing before him was not the limits of his expression, but was rather the beginnings of TRUE ART This painting was one of those revelations.
“Psssssst. . . . .Doctorrrrrrr Kwiiiik. . . . you don’t have anyyyy blue paint on yourrrrrrr brrrrrush!”
The large fuzzy alien to Quick’s left was eyeing the rather disconcerting ensemble of pinks and yellows in the good Doctor’s creation, noting that in no form or fashion did it remotely resemble the Bolian Lady on the pedestle.
“ART my dear Bosco,” Quick cried aloud as he added a delicate swath of maroon. “Art is not the visualization of the world as it appears, but rather the expression of reality as it ought to be!”
The Caitian Tactical officer wrinkled his furry brow and considered Quick’s painting. “Rrrrrreeeallity issss a naked Captain Brrrrrrrhode?”
“Why not my tuna-loving brother?” Quick declared. “John Brode is the heart and soul of this vessel and the ultimate expression of everything on it. So when I look at the smooth azure curves of this lovely Bolian lady’s flesh, I see instead. . . . “
“Brrrrhode naked under a pink umbrrrrella?” Bosco supplied.
“Exactly!!” Jeb declared adding a dainty fleck of grey to the au’ natural Brhode’s temples. “The grey denotes wisdom, and the umbrella the false shelter provided by technology and society, while the nudity reveals the inner vulnerability we all share as children of the cosmos. Cant you see?”
Bosco rumbled a dissatisfied growl in this throat and went back to his own painting. “I just come herrrrrre forrrr the naked girrrrrrls Doctorrrrr. I leave the arrrrrt to you.”
“Suit yourself Senor Pussy-Cat” Quick cheerfully shrugged. Each had his own truth and reality to explore in the universe, and apparently for his new feline buddy that reality was located between the legs of his female compadre’s.
Aside from the rather unusual manner in which they met, Dr. quick and Lieutenant Bosco were getting along just swimmingly. At first sharing an impromtu game of Marco Polo during the recent blackout, and then forming up a lengthy ‘score-card’ for the various women aboard the Galaxy (About which the Caitian officer seemed to have a vast knowledge).
All of this was done in the darkness so as that neither was aware of the other’s true race. Needless to say when the lights went back on the conversation went something like this:::
BOSCO: So then I told the Comanderrrrrr that the stool was in my waaaaaay and that. . .
>>CLICK-LIGHTS ON<<
QUICK: Ahhhrrrrgh You’re a Cat!!!
BOSCO: Ahhhhrgh yourrrr a monkey. Why didn’t you telll meeeeee?
QUICK: My apologies, don’t hold it against me.
At any rate the pair had at length found themselves enrolled in the current art-class (at Bosco’s suggestion) and cemented well ever since.
Quick in fact was in the midst of expounding further to his new buddy when the overhead intercom cut through the otherwise silent room.
=/= Red Alert! Red Alert!! . . .Battlestations!! Dr. Quick to the bridge at once!!=/=
“Red alert?” The doctor leaned over to whisper to Bosco as the rest of the room exploded into action. “Which one is that one?”
“The bigggggg one Doctorrrrrr.” Bosco hissed glancing regretfully at the Bolian lady who was now horridly gathering her clothes.
“Ah, yes, and the bridge. . . . that would be. .?” Quick trailed off in askance.
Bosco pointed towards the ceiling as if to indicate where the room in question was located.
“Ah yes. . . .I remember now. Okay see you later Mister Puss-in-Boots,”
Quick gathered up his paints and still wet canvas. “This should be a god opportunity to see how the Captain likes his portrait.”
... =/\= Damn! Sickbay is not a morgue! Five corpses?! Autopsy on everyone in two hours?!. =/\= yelled Vladimir in his communicator. This can't be true...
=/\= Yes, doctor. Five corpses. All victims of murder. And I want results of autopsy on my computer in not TWO hours, but in One and a half. Bhrode out =/\=
No, this day was surely a mess... First, he was late on shift... Now, he has to do autopsies. And what is worse - nobody was here to help him, not even a single surgeon. Russian Doctor's groan filled his office "Captain is nuts! Now I can finally make this conclusion. I want to cut living beings, but CORPSES?! Doh! I guess that if I will be given one more order of this kind, somebody will do an autopsy on the M.D. victim of suicide." Sighes are trademark of Malgin, so this scene would be incomplete without at least one. Don't worry, it was filled by a lot...
=/\= Malgin to Sickbay. Prepare victims of murders for autopsy. All of them to be in surgical room. I will be there in a minute... Malgin out =/\=
... "Poor, poor guys... You could have been in a lounge with girls, beer and friends... However you are here - with me, my friendly hands and even drunk girl woudn't kiss ya now... And beer in your condition will surely take no effect... Well, dear corpses, there is at least one positive side of your... condition. At least you're away from that Big Guy with five pips himself... Better than my position, no?" mused Vladimir, washing his hands...
Sigh. Again. "Computer, begin recording." said doctor in annoyed tone and after 'beep' from machine took sheet from the first corpse. "Lieutenant Junior Grade Charles Copperpot of Security department. 28 years old. Male. Terran. Body's visually clean...."
Doctor let out a satisfied groan as he put his tired ass on his chair. "I did it..." he said to himself and shook PADD, which he holded in his hand.
"Captain will be satisfied... He'd better be satisfied, since I surely made a record in the speed of autopsies. This..." Not having found good words to describe his feelings he looked back at PADD and re-read his report, written in instandard style...
=====
To: Fleet Captain, John Q. Bhrode, CO
From: Lt. Vladimir Malgin, ACMO
Subject: Autopsy
Captain,
the conducted autopsies on following people:
Lt. J.G. Raoul Petersonn of Engineering 24 male Terran
Lt. J.g. Charles Copperpot of Security 28 male Terran
Lt JG Jody Benton of Security 22 Male Terran
Ms. Angelene Smith 21 Novo Romanian human
Mr. Jan Smith 61 Novo Romanian Human
showed the following results:
All victims have their throat cut. This sort of wounds is always terminal, so even if victims were found just after crime occured, they wouldn't be saved. All wounds are very deep, so they almost reach spinal column. on the other side. To make such a wound, the killer should obviuosly be exceptionally strong. However, there is a variant, in which I can conclude that wounds were made by laser slicing device since it doesn't require physical force. The premise for this conclusion is clearness of the wound.
Internal organs are without any abnormal parameters. No signs of resistance (bruises etc.)
=====
"Ah, excellent. Even 2-yeared child will understand this text. So Bhrode will too... Computer, send report to Fleet Captain Bhrode. High priority.
* * * * * * * * *
Wheeling from the Klingon Admiral on the screen Bhrode glared at Kyler Curran as the Liasion Officer strode onto the Bridge.
HIS Bridge.
Bhrode didn't like the idea of someone outside his Chain of Command even existing, let alone being on HIS Bridge.
"Nice way to report, did we wake you from a nappie?" Bhrode sneered at the usually impeccable Legate, noting his currently disheveled state.
"You have a triad of Heavy Cruisers in a tactically strategic position awaiting your reply and you waste it on discussion of my appearances? Now, answer my questions, Captain!"
"Ask some first, next time Kelvan." Bhrode retorted, taking in the cutting reply, with a dangerous glint to his eye. "The damned Klingons are playing jackasses, but aren't powered up for a fight. They thought that little hari-kari stunt would rattle us enough to make us trust them blindly. They thought wrong. Get me that Princess in my ready room, and whatever that d'ydraH (useless worm) Brigadeer General's name is. Kahbagge or something. I want to know why the Emperor thought it necessary to send a Thought Admiral way the hell out here to get her back quicker. Speaking of Quick,Tactical?" Bhrode turned to the Tactical Officer, effectively dismissing the Liasion Officer.
Kylar turned his back from the Captain, unsatisfied with the answers that evaded him, but events and a potential showdown forced him to adjust to the priorities of the moment.
Bhrode noticed the set of the Liasion Officer's back and shoulders and smirked. ~~Suck on that you, pipsqueak~~ he mused to himself.
Curran keyed in a signal from the sidebench near the Captain's chair.
"'Commander Corgan. Please bring the Princess and General Kragg to the Captain's Ready Room immediately. High priority." Curran ordered over the commlink.
Tim O'Connell turned from where he'd been muttering curses under his breath at the Tac Arch to answer Bhrode.
"We have the PPC controls on line... I think... and I guess this is the targeting system. It's painting a lit red dot right on the Vor'Cha's Flag Bridge where it should impact. But this warm up sequence? Damned if I can figure it out. There's no checklist even..."
"Dammit! I told Demarceau and those others we should have ran that thing through the range on some obsolete hulls first. Mister Legate... you seem puzzled?" Bhrode snapped.
"Are you trying to initiate an interstellar war? These are our allies! It makes no strategic sense whatsoever to . . . " Bhrode turned his back on the Kelvan in mid sentence, observers noticed he looked distinctly 'smirky' as he did so.
"Captain Brhode! If you do NOT stand down from this stance, you will be relieved of command pursuant to General Order Two, which you are in direct violation of! It is not so far a stretch as to then have you declared psychologically unfit when we are not in combat!" Brhode was completely ignoring him, but did not fire the Pulse Cannon as initially thought.
Bhrode rolled his eyes, his back still to the Liasion Officer. "Then go GET Commander Dallas to do that. But if you fail, I'm stuffing you out the nearest airlock with my bootprints all over your ass." Bhrode replied, still facing in the opposite direction, as he peered over O'Connell's shhoulder at the bizzare pre-firing sequence of Quicks' Plasma Phaser Cannon.
At the Legate's silence, Bhrode continued, in that damn calm and creepy monotone. "Mister Reece. Get Von Ernst and Hawksley in the Observation Lounge on the double. Add Black to the list, no reason Intell can't screw up as badly as everyone else. Oh, I'll want someone from Sciences, preferably some touchy-feely wonk to tell me all about the Outlands. And I want Commander Dallas, just because I miss her dulcet tones. Now! Have them assembled and ready once the Legate and I figure out what the hell we've stepped into here." he barked at the hapless OPS Chief.
Then he pointed a finger at his Ready Room.
"Oh Legate, a moment of your time?" Bhrode said, in that syrupy sweet voice most of the crew had noticed indicated maximum displeasure. Bhrode barking and snapping was either a Bhrode doing it for the sake of the show, or a mildly 'put out' Bhrode. When Bhrode was PISSED he was at his most formal.
All was dark. No sound, not even a whisper could be heard escaping the blackness that enveloped the pair.
A Mother, whose calm expression betrayed the chaos in her mind. Her child, unaware of the civil war in his mother's heart, looking to her, smiling brightly as she patted his hand. She made no sound, and instructed him with a gentle hand motion to do the same. The wind picked up, a mixture of melodies and rythm, swaying the trees every-which-way. Minutes passed and still they stood, and waited, but for what the child had no idea.
A voice, suddenly and softly, aproaching from the darkness. "Are you here?" it whisper, "Are you ready?"
The child moved to speak, recognition in his eyes, but was steadied by the mother, who answered back.
"Hurry, there isn't much time, they will find us."
To which the voice replied, "I know. But we are all here now, we can move on."
Appearing to the pair at last was the source of the voice. A tall, handsom man but with the woes of an entire world on his face. Next to him, another, slightly shorter, but no less attractive.
The taller man asked of the mother, "Is he ok?"
"Yes, he doesn't understand."
"It's better that way perhaps, he shouldn't have to live with this. Hurry, we must go."
A snap of a twig, echoing through the night. The tall man spun around with a look of horror. A shout from the distance.
"Here they are! Don't let them get away! They'll bring more back with them!"
The boy was curious, but scared, though he did not know why.
"Go!" came the shorter man. "Go now! I will hold them back!"
The mother picked up the child and began to run, with the taller man behind. A flash of light, the sound of thunder, a brilliant blaze of fire. Finally a groan from behind them. The child turned to see.
The shorter man, on his knees. A large figure, looming over him, his hand around the shorter man's neck. A pause, only a second or two, or perhaps hours. The hand closed in, the sound of snapping and a final, brief noise escaping the victim's throat.
And then, silence.
The child cried out, but continued to be dragged along with the mother. He looked to the father, small tears raining his face. "What.....what was the man....."
The father turns, still running, a single raindrop on his cheek, states simply, "Marine." Then, adding, "Never forget, my son, what has happened here."
Marine.....the word was new to the child, what was it?
And why did it have to kill?
"Curtis, come on, keep up." came the mother.
And the three disappeared into the blackness.
Having just exited the conference room, Curtis made his way across Engineering. He wasn't sure just what to tell the Chief about the possible new problem, but he'd figure it out on the way.
The engine room was in a panic. Crewmen were running every-which-way trying to get the ship under control. All of them worried about the ship possibly exploding for no good reason, or even WORSE, Brhode paying the department a visit. Curtis shook his head at the spectical before him, and paused to survey the hysteria.
In the frenzied mass of stressed-out Engineers, he spotted Ensign Grey, who looked like the personification of serenity and peace.
Which was why Curtis was surprised, a moment later, when she looked up with eyes that seemed to sparkle blue lightning at him. Obviously, Ella was as tired and irritated as the rest of them.
Ella saw Curtis, crooked a finger at him to come over before she realized that it might not be appropriate, and then shrugged to herself. One day she would have to ask what he thought about the teacher now becoming the subordinate...but that would have to wait until a day when the ship wasn't going to hell in a handbasket. Curtis made his way through the mass of engineers to Ella.
"What's up Ella?" he asked.
*I'M HAVING A PROBLEM WITH A POWER CONDUIT IN THE JEFFERIES TUBE. I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD HELP ME?*
"Sure, sure. What's the problem?" asked Curtis.
Ella threw him a semi-amused look, as if to say 'What ISN'T the problem, Professor?' and then gestured for him to follow her.
The two waded through all the engineers and finally made their way to the jefferies tube. Curtis opened the hatch for her.
"Ladies first" he grinned.
Ella rolled her eyes but gave him a good natured smile. She climbed in, checked her PADD to see where she was going, waited a second until Curtis was inside, and then began began crawling towards the power conduit. She had forgotton how much she hated crawling around in the tubes. She didn't really object to the close space; she wasn't claustrophobic so it didn't seem to her like the walls were closing in or anything, which was a common complaint among engineers. Nor did she mind being practically joined at the hip with Curtis since the space was so confined. Curtis was a nice guy, a sweet guy. Ella sighed to herself.
It was probably safe to say that she had always had a bit of a crush on him.
It was a shame that he was married, otherwise she might have acted on it.
Ella moved her knee forward and was surprised when it didn't make contact instantly with the ground. The dip in the floor threw her off and she nearly fell flat on her face. She did slam her knee hard.Ella pushed herself off the floor, let fly some nasty words with her hands, and then scanned ahead. Sure, enough there were several more dips in the floor. She wipped out the PADD, stabbed in the entry and then handed it to Curtis.
*WHAT ON EARTH COULD HAVE POSSESSED STARFLEET TO HIRE THAT MAN?!?*
Curtis shrugged, he wasn't sure of the answer either.
Examining the tube, Curtis could see distinctly painted red and green thick lines, side by side, running down the length of the tube. With small grooves set in each one. The sight looked familiar, and Curtis thought back to his childhood on Earth.
"My God, Ella. You see this? These grooves? They're children's toys! I used to build these things and race toy trucks down the path. What the Hell IS this ship? A playground?" Curtis asked.
Ella shook her head and contined carefully crawling. Just a couple more turns and then they would be there.
It was then that she became aware of the smell, an overpowering stench coming from ahead of them. It was an old smell, a sickening smell, a...dead smell. She turned to Curtis, a questioning look on her face. His face looked grim, as if he realised what it was. He gestured for them to move forward.
Towards it. Ella's stomach tightened but she continued to move. Around the corner.
They found the dead woman half blocking the power conduit. A dead engineer, Ella realized. The ensign lay on her back, her throat sliced open. Ella gasped, allowed Curtis to push past her, and sat back on her heels.
After the initial shock, she allowed herself to really examine the body. It was amateur, she thought with disgust, very amatuer. Oh, it was neatly done, the throat cut with a very sharp instrument so that there was little blood spray. But any idiot could slice someone's throat with say, a laser scapel, or kill them when they were all alone in the dark. This murderer had no style.
That's Daro talking, Ella thought to herself and shook her head.
"My God." Came Curtis' somewhat distant sounding voice. "Not another...and in this department too...." He hesitated. "Ella...this looks recent..." then, far in the distance, he heard a sound. His ears visibly perked up as they honed in on the location.
Ella gave him an inquisitive look.
"I hear something." Curtis whispered. "And its not the ship systems."
Ella looked around, trying to see or hear whatever it was. She shook her head and again looked at Curtis.
Curtis continued to listen. "It's about 200 meters that way." he pointed.
"Getting closer...."
Curtis suddenly developed a very serious facial expression. "We need to get out of here....now."
He didnt have to tell Ella twice. She quickly moved away from where he pointed, stopping only briefly to make sure that he followed. The dead engineer would have to wait.
But the emergency door suddenly closed before her, gliding shut with an evil hiss. Ella exhaled sharply, moved over to the door to try to manually override. It didnt respond. She looked back at Curtis, her eyes wide with alarm.
Curtis had to think fast. He could hear to noises getting closer. There was no time to mess with the door.
"Ella.." he said, pointing down the shaft a bit. "We have to close the other door. Jam it somehow, and keep whatever's making the noise out."
She moved to jam the door while he made his way down to the next door. The sounds were very close now, he could hear what he thought was breathing.
Reaching out for the panel, he tapped in a few commands. The door slammed shut, trapping the two engineers in the tube.
There was an eery silence as both of them watched the door. Curtis jerked when a loud banging began on the other side and Ella covered her mouth to stop herself from crying out. Then the banging subsided and there was silence once more.
Ella looked over to Curtis, wondered if they should make any attempt to move. Curtis shook his head. It would be better if they waited to make sure.
Ella nodded, sat back and rested her head against the wall.
Nothing to do now but wait.
tbc
"So let me see if I have this right, we have two large Klingon warships hanging off the bow, and Bhrodie hanging with a huge weapon?"
"That's about it."
"Ok WHo here besides me sees this ending badly?"
"You're too cynical Randall, I'm sure captain Bhrodie has a good idea what to do." Dante shrugged, he didn't believe it himself but he was the voice of logic in the group.
"What I see is Bhrodie saying something remarkably offensive, then the Klingons taking more offense then normal then we got a battle and it can only get worse."
"How?"
"He could reproduce..."
--------------------------------------------------------
K'Eytyanna jumped and swore as the red alert sirens activated.
So far, Engineering s