Writing Challenge- The winning entries.

My Winning entry for the Autumn Challenge - "Desperation"

It focuses on the outbreak of the Four Years War between the Federation and the Klingon Empire in the 2240s.

* * * * *​

U.S.S. Ares NCC-524

Klaxons shattered the dark stillness.

In a heartbeat, Jaffari Xa-Haghaarn was on his feet and heading for the door, grabbing his communicator just before he stepped into the corridor. Picking up the pace to a steady sprint, he flipped open the device. “Bridge, report.”

“Sensors have just picked up a number of ships incoming, sir. Their course tracks back to the Klingon Empire,” reported the officer-of-the-watch.

“I will be there momentarily. I want number and type of ships; also establish a comlink to the station.”

“Aye sir.”

“Gha’vrak!” he cursed under his breath. There had been some chatter about rumblings from the Klingons, but nothing had been substantiated; so aside from being told to stay alert, the ships patrolling the border had been given no more warnings or instructions.

Bare-chested and footed, Xa-Haghaarn stepped into a waiting turbolift carriage and ordered it to the bridge. The Ares was on a twenty-four hour layover at Deep Space Station I-7, taking on supplies and allowing the crew some much needed R&R, so all of the crew had let their defences down for a moment—he himself had been enjoying some long-overdue meditation—but their lapse in vigilance would now be punished. But they hadn’t just left themselves in the lurch, but the four hundred people on I-7 and thirty thousand on the planet they orbited. With no other combat-capable ships in the system, the lone destroyer was the only line of defence.

The doors parted and he stepped onto the command deck, where the lighting had dimmed and the alert panels flashed red. The beta shift staff were all at their posts, except Lieutenant Cedrac, who was bent over the science console next to Ensign Farog. He approached the watch officer, his tread silent on the cool metal deck.

“Lieutenant?”

She glanced back at him. “Sir,” she replied, her French accent making the simple word sound like a purr, before looking at one of the large monitors above Farog’s console, which showed a sensor sweep of the system, “we have three D-4 battlecruisers and twelve B-6 birds-of-prey on course. ETA is in eighteen-point-nine minutes. The station reports that they have detected the ships and implemented alert status.”

He took the information in with a nod. “Are our people back on board?”

She shook her head. “The station has paged them, but it’ll take time for them to get to the transporter rooms.”

“Reinforcements?”

Cedrac cast a worried glance at the junior comm officer then back at him. “The Defiant and Alexander both report facing Klingon battle groups in the Akerin and Tregoss systems. The Ptolemy is the only Starfleet ship close to our position that isn’t engaged in fighting. It looks like this is an all out invasion.”

“No Lieutenant,” he said, keeping his voice low. “This is war.”

The turbolift opened again, he looked over his shoulder to see Lieutenant Rol and Chief Reese enter, both hastily dressed, before they both too their customary places at communications and helm/navigation respectively. He felt a little easier having more experienced staff replacing the two younger crewmembers who usually worked the shift—they, like himself, had opted to remain onboard, rather than partake in the recreational facilities on the station.

They didn’t have time to wait for the seventy-three members of the crew on I-7, if the station and colony were going to have any chance to evacuate, the Ares needed to intercept the Klingons ASAP.

“Chief, break docking orbit, set an intercept course with the Klingons, maximum impulse. Rol, sound battlestations and patch the station administrator to this monitor. Then contact the Ptolemy, tell them we will need their assistance.”

“Aye sir,” both men answered and set to task.

As he looked at the monitor he’d asked for the comlink, Cedrac moved from the science console and addressed Lieutenant JG Enax, ordering the Edosian to divert all power to deflector screens, load photon torpedoes and charge all phaser banks.

He nodded appreciatively as the monitor came to life and depicted the lined face of Administrator Frampton, who was obviously worried. Focusing on the civilian, he held the older man’s eyes. “Administrator, we are moving to intercept the Klingons. We will try to buy you as much time as we can, you have to evacuate.”

“You can’t take on fifteen ships on your own!” he exclaimed.

“Let us worry about that, Administrator. You have to get the civilian population out of the system,” Xa-Haghaarn stated, his tone hard.

“Already underway, Commander. Governor sh’Rohva has implemented the colony evac programme, but there are only five freighters—it’s not enough to take every man, woman and child.”

“Fill those ships, have them stand and exhale if you have too. My crew onboard will help anyway they can.”

“Good luck, Commander.”

“And to you, Administrator. Ares out.” Once the channel closed he moved over to his chair and perched on the edge, listening to all the officers and non-coms on the bridge as they readied themselves for battle. Cedrac was moving from station to station, assessing the situation and offering support where it was needed.

She would’ve had a promising career ahead of her, he mused solemnly then shook his head. We’re not dead yet.

“Sir, incoming signal from Lieutenant Commander th’Shada.”

“Put him through, Lieutenant.” He waited a moment for the channel to open, then tapped the panel on his armrest. “Go ahead, Keeva.”

“Commander, looks like you left me behind,” the Andorian XO and security chief quipped, though sounded far from jovial.

“Sorry about that. No time to waste unfortunately. How’re things looking there?” he asked, keeping his voice low, not wanting to distract those around him.

“Tense. Word has already gotten out, people are afraid and starting to panic. I’ve only been able to pin down a few of the crew and ordered them to the transporter rooms, hangar decks and lifeboats, we’ll keep things orderly as best we can. How is it looking out there?”

“We’ve got three cruisers and twelve escorts heading this way. The Defiant and Alexander are engaged elsewhere along the border, it looks like the cold war with the Klingons has finally heated up. We may not be able to take them all on, but we can at least stall them, buy the station and colony some time.”

There was a beat of silence. Xa-Haghaarn and th’Shada had served together for six years and knew each other well, having been through some harrowing missions and difficult times, but they both knew that given the odds, there was no chance that they would meet in this lifetime. Even if the Ares did buy the station some time, the Andorian would never take the place of a civilian during the evacuation, whilst I-7 had only minimal shielding—the Klingons would tear through it in a matter of minutes—so it was unlikely that the base would survive the assault.

“Good luck, Jaffari.”

“And to you, Keeva. Ares out.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, just as Cedrac stepped down from her checks on the upper level and stopped next to his chair, her hands clasped behind her back. He looked down at the young woman, her long, shimmering blonde hair tied back in a simple ponytail. A new addition to the crew, she had come highly recommended from the Constitution—the fact that she gave up a billet on one of the newest ships built for a post on a destroyer spoke volumes, if they were going to go down fighting, she was someone he wanted by his side.

“All sections report ready, sir,” she stated simply.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“The Ptolemy will get here seven minutes after we engage the Klingons. It looks like we’ll be going it alone.” She paused a moment, glanced at the deck before looking at him. He could see the uncertainty on her face, the questions she wanted to ask, the knowledge that their chances of survival were slim to nil (and even that was being generous). Her youthful visage wrestled with them all, as well as her sense of duty—now wasn’t the time to give voice to fear and impending doom, not in front of the crew.

Flexing her shoulders then straightening her tunic, she asked calmly, “Orders Commander?”

“As humans say, we’re going to play cat and mouse. Our objective is to stall that fleet for as long as we can, we must buy the civilians as much time as possible to evac.”

* * * * *​

U.S.S. Ptolemy NCC-3801

Commander Naya had just been about to achieve the seventh sensation with Lieutenant Eilo, her Chief Engineer, when red alert sounded. Uncoupling, the two Deltans had quickly dressed and ran to their stations. She had stepped onto the compact bridge of the tug to find M’Tahvo and Valderama already at their posts at the flight control console.

“What’s the situation?” she asked her K’Normian XO.

“Multiple messages from ships along the border, the Klingons have launched a full-scale attack on Federation space,” the navigator replied in her customary monotone. “The Ares has asked for our assistance. They are at I-7 and the Klingons are on approach. All other ships are engaged in fighting and they need assistance.”

“They can’t be serious,” Valderama exclaimed. “We’re no match for a bird-of-prey, let alone anything bigger.”

“There are over thirty thousand civilians in that system, Ensign. Any support we can offer will be better than none,” she said, her eyes locked on the starscape. She looked at M’Tahvo. “ETA?”

“At our best speed, thirteen minutes.”

“Do it.”

“Shouldn’t we jettison the container?” M’Tahvo enquired. The Ptolemy was relatively lightly loaded, hauling only a single module, though it was filled with a dense form of deuterium—they had been en route to Starbase 10 to restock their starship refuelling depot.

Naya shook her head. “Not just yet.”

“Aye sir,” she replied and set to task.

As she turned back to her chair, the turbolift doors opened. Master Chief Bahjorr and Chief Kane entered the bridge, but whilst the human quickly headed to her place at communications, the Tellarite stood on the upper tier, hands planted firmly on his hips.

“What in the name of the Goddesses third nipple is going on now!” the Cargo Chief demanded.

“It’s the Klingons,” she said simply, but before he could ask anything more, she quickly followed it up. “Master Chief, how long would it take to get several containers of antimatter into the pod?”

“What? By Gohrav’s rotting testicle, why would you ever want to do that?”

She gave him a slight smile. “Master Chief, I need half a dozen containers in the pod before we reach the Ares in less than thirteen minutes. Less questions, more action.”

With a derisive snort, he turned on his heel and left. Naya slowly settled into her chair, her stomach tying itself in knots at the thoughts of going into battle. During her tenure commanding the Ptolemy, they had faced off against a few raiders and opportunistic pirates, never any ships with significant firepower. They would now be going up against a battle-ready fleet of Klingon warships.

* * * * *​

U.S.S. Ares NCC-524

“Weapons range in ninety seconds,” Farog stated, his voice shaking.

“Chief, punch us straight through their ranks, then swing us around. Enax, full barrage as we go through, then focus on taking out the cruisers’ engines—cripple them before they can get close to the station.”

“Aye sir,” they both replied.

“Commander,” Cedrac spoke up from the engineering console, “we’ve managed to boost deflector screen strength up to one hundred twenty-five percent.”

“Hold fast everyone,” Xa-Haghaarn ordered, finally sitting back in his seat and gripping the armrests, readying himself for the thrashing they were about to take.

The Ares was as ready as she could ever be, given the circumstances. He would’ve preferred to have had his senior staff around him, but he knew his crew were well trained—even a rookie like Farog. As they’d barrelled towards the fleet, Rol had been monitoring the evacuations; they were not going well. Despite having procedures in place and run readiness drills, the realities of the situation were too much for the civilians who were panicking and slowing the process down.

“Entering weapons range in five,” Enax stated, each of her three hands poised over a separate control; left on screens, middle on torpedoes, right on phasers.

Xa-Haghaarn counted down silently. As soon as he hit zero, the task force unleashed everything they had. Even before the first strike hit, he felt every muscle in his body coil. “Fire!”

The Saladin-Class destroyer took the full onslaught of disruptors and torpedoes, the sturdy ship knocked and buffeted about, warnings sounded, taxed systems groaning under the additional stress. But Chief Reese kept them on course and Enax struck back with all the Ares had. Cobalt phaser beams and crimson torpedoes scorched and smashed into the shields of the cruisers and their escorts, though the deck and bulkheads were shaking so much he could barely make out their shapes on the viewscreen.

The impacts only intensified as the ship drew nearer, the Klingons slowing and focusing on the starship, her narrow profile being put to good use evading as much as they could. The din on the bridge made it difficult to hear anything, though he picked out key bits of information—most importantly their shield integrity, which was dropping fast.

They were almost through when sparks burst from one of the port side consoles and the lights flickered. Petty Officer sh’Vhern shielded her face, but remained unscathed. A new klaxon screamed from both tactical and engineering, never a good combination. Moments later, they were through and the pitching of the deck subsided to a shudder—Klingons always met their opponents face on, as such their aft armament was minimal, compared to what they had facing forward.

“Damage report!”

“Port shields down to thirty percent, minor hull damage and power surges throughout the dorsal saucer,” stated Cedrac. “Remaining shields at sixty-seven percent and holding.”

“Eighteen casualties reported,” added Rol.

“Status of the Klingons?”

“Three birds-of-prey have taken moderate damage. Minor damage to one battlecruiser,” Ensign Farog announced, looking into his hooded viewer. “Six escorts are veering off from the fleet and heading our way.”

“Reese, bring us about, put us on course with the nearest cruiser. Enax, lock torpedoes onto their nacelles. Cedrac, see what you can do to patch that gap in our deflectors.”

“Aye sir,” the three of them replied.

Xa-Haghaarn watched the viewscreen as the stars spun by them and the hostile fleet came back into sight. They were is better shape than he’d expected, but it was far from over.

* * * * *​

U.S.S. Ptolemy NCC-3801

“Time?”

“Forty seconds.”

Naya clasped her hands so tightly on her lap her knuckles were going white and her fingers bright red. Her plan was based on a report that was over fifteen years old; of another tug hauling deuterium that had been reduced to little more than dust following a surprise attack from Kzinti. The antimatter packets in the pod essentially turned it into a giant photon torpedo, the only one the Ptolemy had.

“Visual range, Commander,” stated Kane.

“On screen,” she instructed her comm chief.

The forward monitor switched from streaking stars to a field of energy beams and explosions. A couple of younger members of the bridge crew gasped at what they saw followed by anxious and terrified looks shared between them. Naya knew how they felt, partly because their strong emotions were difficult to block but also partly because she felt the same way. Her career had seen her serving on six ships before the Ptolemy, during which she had faced tough situations and terrible conflicts. This was different; she was now the one leading them into battle, she was the one who would have to keep them going.

“I’ve got the Ares,” M’Tahvo announced. “Her shields are severely weakened and I’m showing signs of structural damage. She looks to be targeting the battlecruisers engines.”

“Chief, open a secure channel to the Ares.”

“Open.”

“Ares, this is Commander Naya of the Ptolemy. We will be on scene in twenty seconds.”

“This is Xa-Haghaarn of the Ares, thank you for the assistance. We’re trying to stop the battlecruisers from getting any closer, but we’re not making much of a dent.”

“We’re hauling a big surprise for the Klingons, once we jettison our pod you’ll want to clear the immediate area as quickly as possible.”

“Understood, we’ll be ready. Good luck. Ares out.”

Naya untwisted her fingers and held onto the armrests. She glanced at Bahjorr who sat at cargo ops. “Master Chief, stand ready.”

He looked back at her and gave a stoic nod. As argumentative and pig-headed as the thirty-year vet was, he knew when to shut up and follow orders—even the crazy ones. She was keeping them at warp until the last moment, as soon as they dropped out, it was his responsibility to blow the docking latches and launch their makeshift torpedo, so the Klingons had little time to react.

“Twelve seconds,” M’Tahvo continued to count down.

She tapped the intercom. “All hands, prepare for emergency deceleration.”

The chronometer ticked down the seconds. Tension mounted in the bridge until the atmosphere was like a charged plasma coil. At two seconds, Naya inhaled deeply and held it.

When the count reached zero, the entire crew lurched forward as the tug’s warp field collapsed instantly, throwing the ship to sublight. The lurch was followed by a shudder as their screens took a glancing blow. There was an audible metallic thunk, as the emergency release system blew out the docking clamps, and the pod shot out from under the Ptolemy’s saucer. As the pod sped towards the cluster of Klingon ships, still on course for the station and colony it orbited, the ship pulled up the Z-axis as it tried to clear the blast radius.

Just as she slowly exhaled, the tug was punched hard from above. The deck bucked, lights flickered and alarms rang.

“Report!”

“Direct hit to our impulse drive! Sublight engines are offline,” cried Valderama.

“Thrusters?” she asked, knowing that the manoeuvring jets wouldn’t be of any use.

“They won’t get us far enough away, sir.”

“Pod detonation in ten seconds,” growled Bahjorr.

“Incoming hail from the Ares.”

“Ignore it,” she called over her shoulder and tapped the companel on her armrest. “Eilo, throw everything you can into the shields.” She switched to shipwide address. “Brace for impact!”

She had just enough time to push herself as far back into her chair as she could and hold fast before their makeshift super-torpedo ploughed into the Klingon fleet and detonate.

* * * * *​

U.S.S. Ares NCC-524

Xa-Haghaarn watched as the pod exploded, similar to that of a photon torpedo though on a much larger scale. He had to shield his weak eyes from the brilliant flash, but as he dropped his arm he could still see it, the bright plume of destruction etched onto his optic nerve. Another distruptor impact shook him from his daze but he had to fight his first impulse of looking to a fallen comrade.

“Status of the Klingons?”

“Two cruisers and five birds-of-prey destroyed,” Farog reported, hopefully excited. “The third battlecruiser has taken heavy damage—weapons offline and multiple large breaches. Three escorts have also been crippled.”

Added to the two other birds-of-prey they had taken out before the tugs arrival, left them with just two of the escort ships left to deal with. He too started to feel a moment of hope, they may very well survive the incursion. The feeling was short lived as his thoughts switched to that of the Ptolemy and just what her fate was. Before he could ask, Enax craned her neck around towards him.

“Sir, the remaining birds are heading for the Ptolemy.”

“Chief, intercept course!”

“Already on our way.”

“Lieutenant, lock torpedoes.”

“We only have four left, Commander.”

“Make them count!” He glanced over at Cedrac, hoping that she was already assessing just how badly the tug was damaged. She must’ve felt him looking as she glanced back at him, a mournful look on her delicate features. They needed to defend the fallen ship, only then could he afford to worry about just how bad it was.

The destroyer pounced, closing the distance in a matter of moments. The two smaller ships were more manoeuvrable and made full use of their advantage, duck, diving and weaving, missing every phaser beam and the single torpedo Enax unleashed. The Edosian cursed under her breathe as the projectile collided with a free-floating section of the Ptolemy’s starboard nacelle. It was then the two ships flipped around and barrelled towards the Ares, firing as they drew in closer.

Enax launched a second torpedo. It missed the lead ship but hit the second, exploding across the hull and shearing off several panels. She quickly followed it up with multiple phaser blasts; hitting both though the point ship came out better. The second ship took the worst of it, the beams piercing their shields and into the hull, causing explosions to burst out into the vacuum. The second escort visibly slowed and lighting throughout dimming, its movements became sluggish and every disruptor beam it fired was weaker than the last. One more hit from the Ares’s phasers took the ship out in a plume of fire that was quickly extinguished.

The lead ship broke off and began evasive tactics, taking pot shots whenever they could. Reese kept the destroyer on their tail and Enax fired continuously. Xa-Haghaarn kept on top of their damage, issued a few instructions but for the most part he watched with pride as his crew worked harmoniously—despite having rarely worked together during battle conditions. The third torpedo smacked into their shields.

“Their aft shields have collapsed,” stated Farog.

“Target their warp core. Fire!”

The Ares’s last photon shot forth from the ventral side of the saucer, it shone against the blackness of space before crashing into the swampy-green hull of the Klingon ship. The explosion was instant, throwing debris and shrapnel out in every direction. Even Chief Reese wasn’t fast enough to evade a section of a wing from smacking into the ship, the jolt was harder than the impact from a weapons blast and caused the lights to dip slightly.

“Status?” he asked once the deck had settled.

“Bird-of-Prey has been destroyed, sir, no evidence of survivors,” Farog said, the relief clear in his voice.

“The hull impact has caused damage to several systems,” added Rol, “I’m getting a full assessment in from engineering.”

“Chief, head back to the Ptolemy,” he said, his voice heavy. As the non-com gave a solemn nod, Xa-Haghaarn slowly stood and turned to Cedrac. “Lieutenant, how bad have they been hit?”

“I’m showing heavy damage across the ship, their starboard nacelle and pod pylon have been sheared off, main and secondary power both out, emergency power failing, there are five large breaches across the ventral hull and forcefields are nearing collapse. Radiation levels are prohibiting more details scans of the interior, but I am picking up only around seventy life-signs.” Once she finished, her voice seemed to echo around the silent bridge. The tug was in bad shape; with almost have her crew unaccounted for, all because they had responded to the Ares’s call for help.

“Mister Rol, can you raise them?”

“Sorry sir,” the Catullan replied, his voice catching. “I’ve been trying, but they aren’t giving out any kind of signal.”

Xa-Haghaarn tapped the intercom on his armrest. “Bridge to sickbay.”

“Sickbay, Farnsworth here.”

“Doctor, prep for incoming casualties and have medics ready to beam out for rescue and recovery operations.”

“Teams are ready, Commander.”

“Thank you, Doc.” He closed the channel and looked back at Cedrac. “Lieutenant, ready at least six teams and get over there.”

The watch officer quickly stood up and gave a nod. “Aye sir.”

She had only taken three steps towards the turbolift alcove when an alert sounded from the opposite side of the bridge. Everyone turned to look at Ensign Farog, who was quickly examining his readouts. His porcine face visibly paled as he looked up.

“Th...the third cruiser is heading for the colony!”

“What?”

“The battlecruiser that was damaged, she is on course for the planet. Her core is destabilising,” the young Tellarite spluttered. “Their weapons were out, I didn’t think they were a threat—I never thought to monitor them!”

“Pursuit course, ready weapons!”

“Weapons are offline, sir,” replied Enax.

“What?”

Rol looked back at him. “The weapons array was one of the systems that were taken out by the hull impact. Engineering says they’d need six hours to repair the damage.”

There was a moment of stillness. They had an enemy ship heading for an undefended colony, ready to blow themselves up either in orbit or as they hit the ground—either way would lead to heavy losses and massive casualties, as well as rendering the planet uninhabitable due to antimatter radiation—whilst the Ares had no weapons or reinforcements. Xa-Haghaarn had the lives of thousands in his hands and only seconds to make a decision to save them.

“Mister Rol, address intercraft.” He waited for the boatswains whistle to sound. “All hands to the lifeboats. Abandon ship. I repeat, all hands abandon ship.” The channel closed and he stepped towards the forward console. “Chief, lay in a collision course then get to your designated evac point. That goes for the rest of you, secure your stations and get going. Cedrac, Rol, hold back a moment.”

There was a beat of uncertainty as the bridge crew remained frozen in place. “Move people!”

That set the fire under them, immediately they locked out the controls and headed for the turbolift. The junior officers and non-coms were the first to depart, leaving only Cedrac, Rol, Enax and Reese at their posts. Only then did he approach the communications station and signalled for Cedrac to join them.

“Computer, arm self-destruct system.”

“Self-destruct system armed. Enter authorisation sequence.”

“Recognise: Xa-Haghaarn, Jaffari. Commander. Authorisation alpha-one-alpha.”

“Code accepted. Additional authorisation required.”

“Recognise: Cedrac, Sabine. Lieutenant. Authorisation delta-four-delta.”

“Code accepted. Additional authorisation required.”

“Recognise: Rol, Cillan. Lieutenant. Authorisation foxtrot-six-foxtrot.”

“Code accepted. Enter time parameter and final command code.”

“Set at five minutes. Command code: Xa-Haghaarn-alpha-one-one-zero-destruct.”

“Self-destruct system activated. Five minutes to self-destruct. Mark.”

All the monitors switched to a screen with a red ticking clock displayed. He looked at the rest of them. “Get going, all of you. I’ll be right behind you.”

Three of them stepped into the turbolift carriage without hesitation. Cedrac paused in the doorway and looked back at him. “Commander, I’m in the same lifeboat as you. We will not leave until you are onboard.”

A slight smile tugged at his lips. She was going to make a damn fine Captain someday soon. “Understood Lieutenant, I just want to make sure that everything goes without a hitch. I’ll be there in a moment.”

She gave him a stern tilt of her head then stepped into the lift. He watched the doors close before stepping down to the helm/navigation console and looked over the readings. The Ares was on course for the battlecrusier, her speed set so that they would hit just moments before the self-destruct would activate, taking out both ships before the Klingons could get close enough to the colony to cause any damage. Unfortunately, they were cutting it close for the lifeboats; there was a chance not all of them would get to a safe distance before the collision, explosion and resulting shockwave. Some would’ve already run the figures and knew the odds but they, and everyone else onboard, knew that to serve Starfleet could mean giving their lives for the greater good.

An indicator flashed on the board, showing that the first lifeboat was away. Just another thirty-nine to launch and that would be the destroyer devoid of life. Satisfied that things were progressing smoothly, he headed for the lift. Pausing to take one last look of his first command, he stepped inside and descended.

* * * * *​

Deep Space Station I-7

The crowd was panicked but orderly, jostling and talking loudly amongst themselves, rumours abound as to what was happening—each more outlandish and terrifying as the last, though all nothing more than over-active imaginings of civilians who had never faced a battle or war. Lieutenant Commander Keevathoranth th’Shada (Keeva to all that knew him) was working hard to keep the throng of people moving towards either the docking bays or transporter rooms, wherever he could get them to in order to see them off the station and then on towards safety.

“Commander Keeva to the Station Control Centre,” the page was emotionless as it repeated itself.

Keeva looked over to Ensign T’Vell and signalled her to take over, before heading against the flow of traffic, which slowed him down. As he headed in from the docking area the crowds thinned and he made better time, then by the time he hit the central core it was all but deserted. The turbolift up to the top of the station was faster than those of most ships. He emerged to find the control centre sparsely populated, only around a third of the usual number of operators.

Administrator Frampton was a bundle of anxious energy, though nowhere near as worked up as he’d been earlier. He strolled towards him, his gait long and purposeful, his posture stiff and formal—which looked a little out of place in the bright purple and green, sleeveless jumpsuit he wore.

“Administrator,” he called to get his attention. The whippet-thin human looked up and scurried towards him.

“Commander th’Shada, there is something you need to see.” With that, the civilian trotted over to the communications station and Keeva followed, both curious and annoyed.

The Administrator tapped the operator on the shoulder and a monitor came to life. It displayed a visual sensor scan, more specifically of a badly damaged D-4-Class battlecruiser getting closer to the station and the colony it orbited. The Ares came into view, closing fast, though she wasn’t firing, which surprised him. Seconds later, the destroyer collided with the cruiser followed by the blinding flash of the ships self-destruct system, then the warp core breach of the battlecrusier, at which point the display cut to static.

Keeva felt the blood drain from his face, his chest constrict making it harder to breath, and his stomach tie itself so tightly that he could taste bile. Something must’ve been catastrophically wrong with the ships’ weapons before the Commander would’ve order a collision course.

“D...did they manage to evacuate?” he ask, his voice softer than usual.

Frampton looked a little perplexed at the question, as though he’d never thought to check. “I don’t know.”

“Did they manage to evacuate?” he roared through clenched teeth, silencing all the activity in the control centre.

A moment later, a young redheaded human looked up from her console. “Sensor records show that thirty-eight escape pods were launched before the Ares rammed the battlecruiser.”

He focused on the younger human. “Get me all the logs of the battle up until right now.”

“Following the collision the radiation levels have interfered with our scans, but I can get you everything up to that point.”

“Administrator, I’m going to need three shuttles and I’ll also have to pull a few of my people off the evac to start SAR-Ops.”

“But the Klingons have been stopped, surely we can stop the evacuations.”

He scowled at the Administrator, his antennae curling in tightly to his skull. “This isn’t over, Administrator. That was just the first wave; they’ll be back in greater numbers, wanting revenge for their defeat here today. But right now, there are two crews out there that need help and I am not about to abandon them to the elements.”

As he headed for the turbolift, he looked back at the redhead. “Transfer those records to the shuttles,” he ordered, pulling the communicator off his belt and flipping it open. “Keeva to Tholox and Van den Berg, meet me in the hangar. ASAP.”

Stepping into the lift, he ordered it down to the bottom of the central core, where the hangar was located. Lifeboats were designed to survive a lot, including radiation fields, but even their reinforced hulls wouldn’t hold out for that long—given the multiple warp cores and antimatter pods that had exploded within a small area in a short space of time. There were over two hundred lives adrift out there that were in need of saving, and it fell to him to do so. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.

* * * * *​

END

 

October 2017 - Second Chances

Stepping out of the admiral’s office, she passed through the anteroom and into the corridor in a near daze; she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. She activated the PADD and looked at the contents, which was just what the admiral had told her, as she slowly navigated the hallways of Starfleet Headquarters. The first screen was the confirmation of her promotion, she was once again being elevated to Captain—a rank she had once held for a matter of days, before the power play at work had been exposed and she’d been demoted two grades, though there were those who said she’d gotten off lightly. She had thought that her career would never go any further but, after two years as the Sector Logistics Manager on Epsilon Station, following crew losses in the Dominion War she’d been promoted to First Officer onboard the U.S.S. Zephyr, a forty year old Miranda-Class ship, where she’d remained for almost five years until she’d been recalled to Earth for the meeting she had just left.

She was a Captain once more. But that wasn’t the only surprise of the meeting. She wasn’t being relegated to a desk job at HQ or an administrative post at some Starfleet field office; she was being given command of a starship! However, it wasn’t just any ship but rather one that had become somewhat legendary, the only vessel to traverse the Delta Quadrant: the U.S.S. Voyager.

The Vice Admiral had taken great pleasure in telling her that she would be filling her former chair. Her expression must’ve been a picture, if the grin on Kathryn Janeway’s face was any indication. She’d been so stunned, first at the news of her promotion then at her new command that she’d blurted out why her?

Janeway had sat back and bore into her with her cool blue eyes. She suspected what Janeway had said next would resonate inside her mind for the rest of her days: Given all she’s gone through over the last seven years, the trials and challenges she’s faced, the fact that a third of her crew were once branded terrorists, Voyager is a ship of redemption and I think it’s about time you were given a proper second chance.

Hearing those words, that faith that Janeway had in her, she was almost at the point of tears—she had never thought that she’d be offered such an opportunity ever again.

Her head reeling from her conversation with Janeway, her legs somehow moved her forward whilst muscle memory brought her back to the small temporary office she’d been allocated the use of during her time, however short, whilst on Earth. She flopped down into the visitors seat, in a quite un-captain-like manner, whilst the chair behind her desk remained empty. The sensors of the HQ building registered her entry and the terminal that faced away from her chirped.

She spun it around, shaking her head to try and help her focus once more. Activating the desktop computer it showed her that a number of files had been made available to her, including the complete mission logs of Voyager’s epic journey home, the ship’s current technical specifications (having undergone a full refurbishment and refit, not to mention the removal of some of her more advanced additions), and the senior staff that had been assigned.

There was also a message from Starfleet Command, alerting her to a mission briefing—which had been something Janeway had purposefully not mentioned. With a couple of hours before she needed to make that meeting, she decided to start brushing up on the men and women who would be serving under her.

Once she opened the personnel files she noted that most of the crew had served onboard Voyager for the last seven years. One of the names of the former crew jumped out at her, but as the former security chief Commander Tuvok was well known thanks to the Federation News Service coverage. He had spent most of his time back in the Alpha Quadrant on medical leave on Vulcan, but had returned to active duty a couple months earlier and requested the transfer back to Voyager. With a long list of accomplishments and specialist skills he was one of the most highly trained officers she’d ever seen, a definite asset to have as her new Executive Officer. The second officer was also her new counsellor and diplomatic specialist which, for one so young, was quite an accomplishment, but given that the Trill had eight lifetimes of experience to draw upon it wasn’t surprising. She had met the last Dax host once before, albeit very briefly, but didn’t know Ezri—though her glowing record onboard DS9 over the last four years proved that she’d earned her new promotion to lieutenant commander.

Her bridge crew included two former Maquis in prominent positions, flight control officer Lieutenant Zavier Ayala and Ensign Gerron Enek. Ayala had had a promising career in Starfleet before going AWOL to fight for his homeworld in what had once been the DMZ, but once onboard Voyager he’d proven to be one of the ship’s best officers—regardless of his past. Gerron on the other hand was from a Bajoran refugee camp, with no formal training or qualifications, but had the uncanny ability to pick up skills incredibly quickly. He’d had a troubled beginning, but had come on in leaps and bounds, becoming a dependable and adaptable crewman—who’d been awarded a commission after the ship had returned home and would be her new operations manager.

Lieutenants Liya Golwat and Vorik had been promoted up to security chief and chief engineer, respectively. Both had graduated highly from their classes at the Academy and throughout the ship’s return home had proven to be exceptional, both highly recommended by their predecessors to be more than capable to take on the added responsibilities. Golwat was known for her strategic thinking and skills in tactical combat, skills that Tuvok rated exceptionally highly. Vorik, after a short reconnection with his family, had returned promptly to take a leading role in the ships programme of works whilst in dry-dock, using his impressive knowledge of the ship to the advantage of the refurbishment crew.

Her new science and medical officers were a married couple, who’d been separated by seventy thousand light-years but had still resulted in the first baby born onboard. Lieutenant Samantha Wildman specialised in life sciences but had managed to continue her professional development whilst also raising her half-Ktarian daughter, which was challenging for any human even had she not been on the opposite side of the galaxy, due to the rapid development and growth of Ktarians. Doctor Greskrendtregk had served with Counsellor Dax on DS9 as a physician, as such he had been at the forefront of most of the Dominion War, which he’d had to face without knowing the fate of his wife or the existence of his daughter, though had been very active in uniting the family members of the Voyager crew and establishing a support network for them.

Her senior staff were a solid assembly of officers, all of whom had gone through a lot with most being very knowledgeable about the ship and her past. No doubt once her appointment as their new CO was announced they would become very familiar with her record and the shadow that hung over it, just as everyone else she’d served with had been. Some had asked her why she had essentially betrayed the uniform, to which her stock answer had been that she was following orders—though that never pleased anyone who heard, especially herself.

In truth, she’d been swept away by the ideals of a charismatic and highly-regarded man, someone whom she had looked up to and respected, who had given her chances that no one else had, who had groomed her for command and the responsibilities of leadership. There was no way she could’ve resisted his influence or said no to him, until he’d gone too far. For all his charm and all her idolisation, he couldn’t make her kill for him.

She shook her head to clear away the dark memory, focusing on the rest of the crew roster. There were another 132 names on the list and she wanted to get through as many of them as she could before the meeting with Command.

* * * * *

The gentle hum of the impulse engines, the soft hiss of an environmental processor in need of a scrub, and the faint chirps and beeps of the controls from the cockpit filled the small shuttlecraft. She’d faced two days of meetings, conferences and communiqués at Headquarters before finally being able to head to her new ship.

Voyager was docked at Utopia Planitia undergoing the last of her extensive repair, refit and refurbishment work—long overdue given all she’d been through. A shuttle from the ship, piloted by Lieutenant Ayala, had been sent to Earth to ferry her to Mars. The former Maquis had proven himself to be the ‘strong, silent type’, keeping chatter to a minimum though she wasn’t sure if that was just who he was or if it was because of who she was. She’d decided not to let it bother her and instead focus on the stack of PADDs she’d brought with her.

She’d managed to familiarise herself with the crew files and system status reports from the ship, but her main focus was on the mission. Voyager was going to be part of a four ship task force being sent into the Gamma Quadrant, the first extensive mission of exploration since the end of the Dominion War—something that had taken almost a year of negotiations to work out. Led by the Nebula-Class U.S.S. Titan, commanded by Captain William Riker, they would be joining the starships Olympia and Pathfinder on the other side of the galaxy, a mission the ship and many of the crew had already proven themselves more than capable of handling. This time however it was a scheduled and supported mission, the object of which wasn’t to return home but to become the first wave of a new expedition to a region that Starfleet still knew so little about. She had to admit that she was excited about such an opportunity being presented to them, and once against had to wonder what role Janeway had played in that.

The mission would launch once Captain Riker reported aboard the Titan following his wedding, so she would have a couple of weeks to familiarise herself first hand with the ship and its crew before they departed. That would also give her time to get some impressions from the other ships in the task force; the last thing she wanted was to cause any problems for Voyager because of her past mistakes. After the specifics of their mission was made public there would also be a lot of media attention and reaction that they would all face, Voyager more than any other ship given its high profile. Part of her did wonder if her promotion and assignment was a mistake, if she was being set up to take the fall for anything that went wrong—but that had lingered in the back of her mind ever since her demotion.

“Captain,” Ayala spoke up, shattering the quiet din of the shuttle, “we’re on our approach.”

“Understood, Lieutenant,” she replied, leaning forward to peer out the forward viewport and take her first look at her new ship.

Visually, the ship looked no different than she would’ve when launched eight years ago but she knew that inside things had changed significantly. Every major system had either been overhauled or replaced entirely (such as her computer cores though that was to allow Starfleet Science, the Federation Science Directorate, and the Daystrom Institute full access to analyse all the data she’d brought back). Her defences and tactical systems were all upgrades, including quantum torpedoes, her sensors now incorporated several experimental arrays, her highly efficient warp drive had been tinkered with to improve fuel efficiency by a further twenty-one percent. Even all those of her original crew would be surprised at just what she’d be able to do now.

Ayala took them in a wide arch, around the saucer and towards the shuttlebay at the rear. A light tap on the controls and the type-eight shuttle spun effortlessly to aim at the opening doors, affording her a first glimpse inside, where almost thirty of the crew stood at attention for her arrival.

She swallowed heavily, feeling the icy fingers of anxiety grip her stomach. She rotated her shoulders then tugged down on her uniform jacket, ensuring that it was immaculate, checked her combadge was on straight and quickly patted her hair—which was pulled back into such a tight knotted braid it hurt. She didn’t want anything to make it look as though she wasn’t presentable to her new crew. As she straightened her collar and made sure it was zipped up as high as it could go, her fingers brushed against the four rank pips displayed for all to see.

All her career she had aimed for captaincy and had been elated the first time she’d been bestowed the honour. Having that taken from her had been a bitter pill to swallow, one that, even now with the rank restored, she still hadn’t gotten over.

The shuttle passed through the atmospheric forcefield, pivoted and slowly set down on the deck with the lightest of thumps. It took Ayala a moment or two to secure the controls and power down the engines, giving her the chance to ensure she had the right PADD in hand and take a couple of deep breaths. When he stepped into the aft section she stood and he gave her a soft grin.

“Welcome aboard, Captain.”

“Thank you.”

He moved ahead of her, tapped the panel to lower the aft ramp and once it opened he stepped out and stood at attention. In a strong, steady voice that almost boomed in the large hangar, he announced, “Commanding officer Voyager arriving.”

Without a moment’s hesitation she stepped onto the ramp as the boatswain’s whistle sounded and marched to the lectern that awaited her. She set down the tablet and took a few seconds to look at the faces, all of which she remembered from the crew files though none of whom she actually knew. Taking a steadying breath she activated the PADD and glanced at the passage she had memorised days earlier.

“To Captain Erika J. Benteen, stardate 56790.1. You are hereby requested and required to take command of the U.S.S. Voyager as of this date. Signed Vice Admiral Kathryn Janeway, Starfleet Command.”

* * * * *

END

 

December 2018 / January 2019 Challenge Winning Entry:

The Lost People
By Brydon J. Sinclair

The best days of Space Port Theta were behind it. Once a Starfleet starbase used as a launching platform into the unknown, as the decades passed it was downgraded, before being sold to the Federation Merchant Navy, which used it as a waystation and refuelling port for freighters and transports. The years showed, from the design to the patchwork of repairs and upgrades the base had undergone. Once home to around six hundred, with thousands passing through each year, there were barely two hundred permanent residents.

Marcus had wanted to get as far from Earth as he could, finding himself on Space Port Theta when he’d run out of funds. He had taken on a number of small jobs; from waiting tables at one of the few cafes open in the commerce section to offloading cargo, and anything else he could find. He couldn’t help but snort scathingly at his reflection in the viewport, wondering just what his family would think if they saw him—he really was a failure. The muscles in his jaw tensed as he balled his fists, his chest swelling with a potent mix of anger, sadness and disappointment. He blinked back tears as he ground his teeth together.

“Are you alright?” a soft voice asked from behind him.

He started and spun around, fists still clenched. He stopped when he saw who had asked the question. She looked human (not that that was a certainty), with mousy hair that was cut at the same length of her soft jawline. Her blue-grey eyes were kind whilst she watched him like a hawk. Despite his worked up state and aggressive body language, she stood there with her hands clasped loosely in front of her, in no way threatened or intimidated by his manner.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, trying to ease his posture. “Thanks.”

He turned back towards the viewport, wanting to be left alone. After a moment he realised he didn’t hear the woman leave, the bare grating made a noise no matter how quiet someone tried to be. Looking at the surface of the transparent aluminium, he saw that she stood in the same spot, hands clasped, eyes watching him.

“What?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” she enquired, her tone polite and gentle.

“I just said I was.”

She tilted her head to the side and a smile curled her lips. “Even you don’t believe that.”

Frowning he turned back to her. “Aren’t there rules about reading peoples’ minds without consent?”

“I’m sure some species have such rules.”

“Not yours?”

“I’m human.”

“A telepathic human.”

“No. I’m just perceptive.”

He scoffed. “Well go perceive somewhere else.”

With that he turned back to the viewport, still not looking out into the void that stretched out before him. He wasn’t even looking at his reflection. He was focused inward, replaying all the mistakes he’d made in his short life and feeling each one hurt like an open wound. All of it brought tears to his eyes again as he focused on his failures.

“What’s wrong?” the woman, now standing beside him, whispered in his ear.

Marcus, unable to hide his tears turned his head towards her. “What do you want from me?” he uttered.

“You look like you’re having a rough time; I just thought you might like someone to talk to.”

“And you thought I’d spill my guts to some stranger in some grungy corridor on this god forsaken outpost on the edge of nowhere?”

“If not me, then who?”

He opened his mouth and stopped. Since arriving on Theta he hadn’t gone out of his way to make friends, sticking to his quarters when not working, what colleagues he spent any time with were just that, people he saw but barely interacted with. He’d left home, ashamed, gone as far as he could to get away from everything and be alone, and now found that he was just that; alone. All he did was brood over what had happened, what had led him to that moment and where he was, overanalysing it and torturing himself with everything he’d gotten wrong.

“Who are you?” he asked, wiping the wetness from his cheeks.

“Camille Grey. You?”

“Marcus.”

“Marcus what?”

“Just Marcus is fine.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, before softening once more. “So what brings you out here Just Marcus?”

“I wanted to see the galaxy.”

“So you came to Space Port Theta?”

“Why are you here?”

“Just a stop off before heading out.”

“Where you heading?”

“Out,” she smirked.

“You on one of the ships in dock?”

“You’ve been ignoring her all this time,” she quipped, nodding out the viewport.

He finally looked out and saw, nestled safely in a docking berth, a Corellia-Class freighter. Though hardly an unfamiliar sight, given that the class had been commissioned at the same time Theta had been brought online, what was surprising was seeing one of the Denobulan medium endurance freighters in such good condition. Her hull was almost gleaming white, with dark lavender accents on her fuselage, from the cockpit at the front, down the narrow spine of the ship, across the wider midsection (which housed crew facilities above the cargo holds) and ending at the trio of engines. The ship looked as though she was fresh off the assembly line though none had been built for over twenty years.

“Lucky for some.”

“Thank you, I’ve taken great pains to get her just right.”

Marcus looked back at Grey. “She’s your ship?”

“The Twilight.”

“You must be doing something right, she looks immaculate.”

“I have a good crew who love her almost as much as I do.”

He let out a single humourless laugh. “You hiring.”

“Looking for a job?”

He shot her a look, not sure if she was toying with him or not. “You wouldn’t want me,” he muttered, looking back out at the ship.

“Why not?”

“You wouldn’t.”

She turned to face him, her eyes burrowing into him as she folded her arms across her chest. “Try me.”

Marcus let out a heavy breath and rested his forehead on the cool viewport. “I’m a screw up. I flunked the Academy entrance exam and ran away from home, rather than face the disappointment from my family.”

“Starfleet’s standards are high.”

“The fleet has taken heavy losses thanks to the Dominion, they’re desperate for bodies, and yet I failed at the first hurdle.”

“Lots of people don’t make it into the Academy; surely your family wouldn’t hold that against you.”

He looked at her, holding her intense stare. “Most families aren’t like mine.”

“What’s so special about yours?”

“They’re Starfleet ‘royalty’.”

“Smith is a very common name, you can’t all be related.”

He scowled as he studied her. On the station, and the transport he’d used to get to Theta, he’d called himself ‘Marcus Smith’, wanting to leave his family name behind. His deception wouldn’t have held up to any intense scrutiny, but he’d been taken at face value and slipped under the radar. Somehow, a woman he’d never knew existed had found him out. He took a step away from her.

“Who are you?”

“I told you, Camille Grey. The more pressing question is who are you?”

“Do you know me?”

She gave him the soft, friendly smile again. “Like I said, I’m perceptive; I notice things—especially when they’re out of place. You most certainly are. I’ve noticed you around since we docked a fortnight ago, working right across the station but always alone and lost inside yourself. I asked a few of your employers and got your name, from there it wasn’t hard to find out who you were.”

“Why?”

“To see if I could help.”

“Help? How?”

“Well, this is your job interview.”

“What?!”

“I’m very selective in who I have onboard my ship. I have a habit of picking up lost people.”

“‘Lost people’? What’s that mean?”

“Those who have been hard done by, who have had a difficult start to life, gone through some life altering event or another and left them without direction or purpose. I’ve been there myself, so I want to try and help out others if I can.”

“So I’m one of your ‘lost people’?”

“From what you’ve said, I’d say you were, wouldn’t you? All your life you were set on one path, right into Starfleet. Now that you’ve turned your back on that you’re directionless—what other nineteen year old would be work odd jobs this far from the core of the Federation?

“I’d like to help, if you’re interested,” she told him.

“You’re nuts!”

She chuckled. “I’ve been called worse. Think it over; I’m in dock for another week. You know where I am, Mr April.”

With that, she gave him one last small smile before heading down the corridor towards her ship. Alone once more, he was left with more questions than ever before. Hearing his real name again struck a chord inside him though. All the weight that came with the lineage, all the expectations and demands that had been put upon him, all the times he’d failed to measure up to his older brothers and seeing the disappointment in the faces of father, aunts, uncles and grandparents, knowing that he would never be like any of them. He was the black sheep of his family.

So what would it hurt if he tried to find a new one where they were all outcasts like him? If nothing else, he could at least get away from such a backwater port and out into space.

Before he even realised what he was doing, Marcus April hurried down the corridor in the direction Grey had gone. He turned down a junction and stopped. Standing there, hands clasped loosely, blue-grey eyes fixed on him, smiling expectantly, was Camille Grey.

“I guess I’m a little nuts too,” he told her.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

* * * * *

END

 

FEB/MAR CHALLENGE WINNER:

Things Earth People Do

"Things Earth People Do"
by Admiral2
2037 words


Kira Nerys stepped gingerly up to the edge of the cliff, being careful not to let her feet slip once she reached the tiny downgrade before the end. She stopped a few inches from the drop-off, planted her feet, and bent slightly to look down.


What she saw made her decide that her friend was certifiable, and she determined to have Captain Sisko make her report for psychiatric evaluation later. For now she just turned around and headed in the opposite direction of the cliff. As she passed Jadzia Dax, she shot the Trill a raised-eyebrow look and said with as much conviction as she could project:


“I don’t think so!”


Jadzia stepped in her path before she could get too far. “You promised you’d do this with me!”


Kira pointed back to the cliff. “That’s gotta be a thousand meter drop!”


Jadzia shrugged. “Well, actually it’s a thousand and twenty-six point three meters. I based it on a bluff near my home so…”


Kira raised a hand to stop her. “I don’t care if it’s a sacred shrine to the Trill people! You are not getting me to jump off of it a thousand meters up in nothing but that!” She shot a finger toward the pile of durasteel rods, cords and fabric laying nearby.


“I already explained,” Jadzia said, “the higher we start the farther we’ll go, and we’re taking all the necessary precautions!”


“Give me a runabout! Give me a raider!” She shrugged. “Give me a work bee! Anything’s better than trying to fly strapped to a glorified kite!”


“We have all the safety equipment we need,” Jadzia countered, “and if the unthinkable happens the mortality failsafes are set to full!”


Kira was incredulous. “You trust the failsafes in one of Quark’s holosuites?? How do you know someone hasn’t paid him to kill us?”


“Well...I don’t, but there are easier ways to assisinate us than letting us plan our own fatal accident. Too many variables.”


Kira shook her head in exasperation. “Right. Computer…!


“Waitwaitwait! Look, Nerys, it’s going to be great! Besides...it can’t be that dangerous! People on Earth do it all the time.”


“People on Earth?” Kira said with a chuckle. “So...Earth people jump off of cliffs in kites all the time?”


Jadzia shrugged again. “Well, sometimes they use parachutes…”


Kira grinned at Jadzia. “Right. Of course. Earth people jump off of cliffs all the time. Just one question: You’re not from Earth, are you?”


Jadzia rolled her eyes and huffed, “Of course I’m not from Earth.”


“There! You see? I knew that about you! I also know that I’m not from Earth! I also know that there’s a whole bunch of people on this station who are from Earth-” Her grin faded “-and none of them are on this cliff with us!”


Jadzia sighed. “Well, Benjamin has that diplomatic conference on Bajor, and Julian is doing his ‘frontier medicine’ thing on Maldor Three...and Chief O’Brien doesn’t want to use up his ‘suite credit…”


“Uh-huh,” Kira said. “Computer, Identify Exit!"


“Computer, Conceal Exit!” Jadzia shot back. The holosuite doors appeared and disappeared in a split second.


Jadzia took a calming breath, then said, “Look, how careless do you think I am? Of course it’s a risk, but it’s a calculated one. Literally! I replicated the parts for this device to such precise specifications that it will withstand micrometeorite impacts when we assemble it. I have precisely mapped out the route we’re going to take and exactly how far we’ll have descended at each turn. I know the exact density of the air at each altitude, the tensile strength of the fabric and what our velocity will be when we come in for a landing. I have taken every possible variable into account, and even if by some miracle I missed something and we go belly up, all we have to do is say ‘Computer, End Program.”


A second later, everything in the surrounding area disappeared, leaving Kira, Jadzia and the parts sitting in an inactive holosuite grid.


Kira supressed a chuckle. Jadzia face-palmed and said, “Computer, Resume Program.”


The cliff and surroundings returned a second later. Kira looked around for a second then turned back to Jadzia. “So...that simple, huh?”


“That simple, and in the meantime it will be so much fun! Come on, I haven’t done this in a couple of lifetimes and I want to share it with someone! You promised!”


Kira thought about it for a moment, then she held up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Let’s do it!”


Jadzia’s spirits lifted immediately. “Great! You won’t regret it!”


“But…!” Kira said with an upraised finger. “If you kill the both of us with this stunt I swear I’ll come back and haunt your next host!”


Jadzia giggled. “Consider me warned. Let’s get started.”


It took the women about a half-hour to assemble and inspect the tandem hang-glider they’d be using. After that they put on flight coveralls over the athletic gear they were wearing, along with safety equipment like knee and elbow pads, goggles, helmets with built-in radios so they could talk to each other normally, and small emergency parachutes. Thus equipped, they strapped themselves to the glider, with Jadzia front and center at the control bar and Kira behind and to the left of her.


“Ready?” Jadzia said.


“Nope! Not in the slightest!” Kira said.


“I’ll take that as ‘yes.’”


“Is your universal translator not working?”


Jadzia pretended not to hear. “We’ll push off on three. One, Two, Three!”


The two women broke into a run toward the edge of the cliff. Both were screaming, Jadzia with excitement, Kira in terror. The glider easily caught the wind, so their feet left the ground before they reached the cliff. The craft dipped a little as they got their legs into the harnesses, but Jadzia was firmly in control and had it leveled out in an instant.


“Well,” Jadzia asked, “what do you think?”


“About what?” Kira said.


“About the view!” Jadzia said.


“Oh, yeah, it’s...wonderful…”


Jadzia huffed. “Your eyes are closed, aren’t they?”


“Well…”


“Nerys!”


“Okay, okay!” Kira opened her eyes about halfway. Then she blinked and opened them wide.


Spread out below the glider was a broad, verdant plain. It was lush and green and dotted with trees and hedges all over. Off in the distance were the buildings of a small settlement and the canopy of a thick forest, while the horizon marked the shore of a deep blue lake. The glider flew slowly and Jadzia kept it flying straight so Kira could get a good long view.


“Oh…” was all she could say.


Jadzia heard the surprise in Kira’s voice and grinned. “That town off to the left,” she said, indicating the settlement, “is where I grew up. It’s one of the smaller towns on the planet so the neighborhoods are very tight-knit. I knew most of the kids who lived there when I was young and I was fortunate to have the ‘popular’ parents in the ward. My father would take me and my closest friends on field trips all the time. It was good that Riata Lake and the Drogue Forest were short hopper rides away. We went camping and fishing constantly, along with nature hikes, rowing, all sorts of outdoor activities.”


“Really?” Kira said, wondering what it would be like to live off the land and sleep outside for fun instead of for bare survival.


“I always wondered what it would be like to look down on the area from the cliff we were on,” Jadzia said. “I finally hiked up there once in my teens and took in the view. They were all my favorite places and I could see them all at once. It was breathtaking.” She began a slow turn to the right, and continued. “I made it a point soon after I was joined to go back to the cliff so I could let Dax see for himself what he’d find in my memories.”


“And his first thought was for you to fly over it without a ship?” Kira said.


“That was actually Marchan,” Jadzia said. “She was one of the first Trill to visit Earth when we joined the Federation, and she was what Humans might call an ‘extreme athlete.’ She was the one who discovered hang gliding.”


“Did she survive the experience?”


“She died of old age, smart alec.” She heard Kira chuckle and continued. “Ever since I’ve had access to her memories I’ve always wanted to try it, but I’ve only been able to do it in simulations like this. I haven’t had the chance to try it for real.”


“Does it matter if the program’s good enough? And are we getting lower?”


“We’ve been getting lower since we left the cliff, and no program will be good enough to compensate for the feeling of real wind hitting you in the face as you sail through the sky without being surrounded by alloys...at least according to Marchan.”


As they talked Jadzia had been heading the glider closer to the forest. Kira definitely noticed this, but this time didn’t say anything. She simply watched and cringed as Jadzia angled the glider toward the forest canopy, gently increasing their rate of descent. It was hard for Kira to keep her mouth shut as the treetops kept getting closer...and closer...and just as her field of vision was filled with a sea of green leaves, Kira decided to break her silence.


Jadzia beat her to it. “Hang on, and get ready for this!”


“Get ready for what?” Kira asked.


“I want to see how good the program is!” Jadzia leveled the glider when there were a few meters of clearance over the treetops and began a gentle left turn, banking the glider slowly until the left wingtip grazed the canopy.


Kira yelped as dozens of birds erupted from the canopy all around them. They shot into the air cawing in alarm and flapping their wings hard to get airborne and as far away from the intruder as possible.


“What was that?” Kira said when the birds were gone.


Jadzia leveled the glider again as she answered. “Those were Cartesian Patrol Birds.”


“Of course they were,” Kira said, “how silly of me.”


“They’re native to my world,” Jadzia said. “Drogue Forest is one of their habitats. They make their nests high in the tops of those trees.”


“And you felt the need to scare them away?”


“To show you how they deal with threats. Patrol Birds are very social animals and members of a flock will cooperate when there’s danger around. We call them ‘Patrol Birds’ because they deal with flying threats the way sentients use patrol craft. Look past the wingtips.”


Kira looked left, then right. About a foot beyond each wing a blue bird with a long twin tail and a sharp crest was flying alongside the glider. Every few seconds the birds would angle their heads slightly toward the device.


“It’s like they’re escorting us out of the area,” Kira said.


“Exactly like. They keep an eye on the threat and try to get it to go away while the rest of the flock evacuates and seeks refuge elsewhere. These two will stay with us until we’re flying too low to threaten the flock’s nests...which won’t be long now.”


Jadzia kept flying straight and level, letting momentum bleed off and watching the corresponding drop in altitude. Finally the Patrol Birds broke off and headed back to the forest. With them gone, Jadzia executed one final turn left and angled the glider toward the grassy field she’d chosen for a landing spot.


“We’ll be landing in a minute or two…” Jadzia said.


“Thank the Prophets!” Kira said, relief plain in her voice.


“Come on! You didn’t enjoy yourself just a little?”


“Well...okay, yes it was interesting to fly around like that…”


“Interesting enough to do this again next week?”


Kira thought about it. “One condition.”


“Name it.”


“Next time you get one of those Earth people in here and I get to watch you fly them around until the Patrol Birds attack.”


Jadzia laughed until the glider touched down.

 

APR/MAY CHALLENGE WINNER:

The Valiant Crew

The Valiant Crew
by Tim Thomason

The sirens blare. The air hisses. Captain Tarasco can barely see through a head wound from the first barrage.

"Missiles!" he yells to his tac officer. But Womack lies slumped in her seat, either unconscious or dead. Tarasco has no time to check, and pushes the heavyset woman aside, as he takes up her station and boots up the tactical nukes. The cats attempting to dock with his ship will never see another sunrise.

Three years earlier, Carlos Tarasco had been in Chicago, working with the New United Nations to re-establish contact with the various shantytowns that made up most of the Western hemisphere in the wake of nuclear armageddon and the subsequent economic collapse to end all economic collapses, when he first heard about aliens making contact.

The stories were incredible. Some said they were robots, some said they were hobgoblins, but Tarasco was on the first convoy to Montana, representing the so-called "world government" to meet these creatures. Instead, he spent most of the summit meeting with the sad drunk that created the machine that drew these "Vulcans" to Earth in the first place: Zefram Cochrane.

Cochrane was a tall man, towering over the Tarasco's short stature. And he seemed older, but was much younger than he appeared when Tarasco learned his age. He was a genius, an eccentric one, who could tinker with a tin can and make it into a 3D printer over the course of an afternoon.

While the Secretary-General and US President spent their time talking with Solkar of Vulcan in his alien ship, Tarasco was in the Bozeman shanty going over details from Cochrane. He was not an engineer, just a junior diplomat and former Army Captain who tried to escape the horrors of the World War and subsequent Civil War that broke out just ten years earlier. With Cochrane's ship, and the Vulcan assistance, Tarasco thought that the Earth would never see such adversity again.

How naive he had been, he thinks, as the weapons station before him shorts out. Humanity had barely escaped the Oort Cloud when these pirates, representing "the Patriarchy", began attacking their ships. Converted DY's mostly, and the pride of Cochrane's fleet: the Bonaventure, had all been destroyed, cannibalized, or outright lost due to the actions of one or two enemy ships. Worse yet, they weren't the only thing cannibalized, Tarasco ponders as he recalls reports of vicious slaughterings by seven-foot tall tiger-like aliens, tearing people apart limb-by-limb.

Tarasco was on his feet now, abandoning the command center and heading to the docking bay. He had brought a plasma rifle, said to burn these creatures from the inside out. He grimly remembers what plasma can do in the wrong hands, but he has no other choice.

The first ships didn't have weapons. They were the first to go. The Vulcans had insisted that humanity was safe, but they were wrong. The trip to Alpha Centauri had brought unwanted attention, and attempts to contact the Vulcan homeworld, and scouts sent to 40 Eridani, had not been returned. Subspace radio was a theoretical idea that humanity could not yet reproduce.

Tarasco's mind clears as he spots his first cat. It snarls before doubling over in pain, green smoke rising from its back. "Carlos," says Security Chief Dan Pelletier. "Duck!" Tarasco drops down as Pelletier sends more green plasma into the unlucky feline that had almost skewered him from behind. Somewhere along the way, he seems to bump his head, and is out cold.

"Ain't she a beaut'?" said Cochrane reaching down and slapping Tarasco on the back. "She looks like a boxcar," Tarasco replied with a frown. "In fact, I think she was a boxcar," Cochrane gave a hearty chuckle at his own comment.

"My Bonnie will transport the colonists, and you're Valiant will guard us from the bad guys. You know, robots and the like." Tarasco rolled his eyes as Cochrane went into his drunken story about evil cyborgs once more. But Solkar had insisted that a thriving Alpha Centauri Colony would be the first step in entering the intergalactic community.

A large African-American man approached in the hilly sunshine of the Riverside Fleetyard, bristling with activity. "Dan!", Tarasco shouted in surprise. "What the hell are you doing here?"

They shook hands. Pelletier had been a Sergeant in Tarasco's company and they both fought in the Battle of New York before losing contact eight years prior. "I heard you were in town, so I hitchhiked a few thousand miles to see what's up," he joked.

"You and everyone else, it seems," stated Cochrane, jovially putting himself into the conversation. Pelletier and Cochrane got along famously, and Tarasco was glad for the old company. Pelletier found work on Cochrane's security detail, but as the months went on, Tarasco was unsure of having such a big reminder of such a dark part of his life here. He couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

But now, all these years later, he can't shake the feeling of a pulsing migraine. Pelletier is shouting, in his thick Louisiana accent. "What?" Tarasco says, hearing only ocean water. "I said we have to move!"

Tarasco stumbles to his feet as three more cats appear by the docking bay. "One of them shot you!" says Pelletier, to Tarasco's surprise. They are running at full pace while he looks for any new wounds. "Must've been some sort of stun weapon." Pelletier doesn't miss a beat, "Well this will stun them. Permanently." Tarasco winces as his friend places an EM grenade on the bulkhead. They run around the bend and look on as the cats approach. Tarasco closes his eyes as Pelletier hits the switch.

"Let's just stay here forever," Chantal Coquillette smiled widely, her arms wrapped around Tarasco's shirtless frame. She was young, French, and had seen little of the wars that ravaged Tarasco's memory. She had travelled, somehow, across continents to be with the "aliens," but now was counselling to remain on Earth. Here, in a reconstructed hotel overlooking San Francisco Bay.

Tarasco knew that wouldn't fly. He had seen the reports. Humanity's second contact with an alien race was horrifying, and the Valiant would be the only hope to save the few slow-moving reconverted sleeper ships in harm's way. At near-Warp 2 speed, it could overshoot the defenceless crews and defeat the pirates. Or die trying. Humanity was bringing war to the stars. 'Better there than here,' Tarasco thought, grimly, before kicking himself for such idlings.

He turned and looked at Chantal's full form on the bed and knew that he couldn't leave her behind.

'This was a mistake,' Tarasco thinks as he and Pelletier make their way to the warp chamber. Their plasma low, they duck down to remain from being spotted by the cats. A large brute passes by the medical bay, carrying a comically large bag of supplies. A smaller runt, but still over six feet tall, guards the looter.

Their pink uniforms easily stick out in the gray smoke. Tarasco and Pelletier sneak up on the smaller of the two creatures and 'disarm' him or her with a sickening snap. A stun from the cat's once-holstered weapon takes out his large friend. "There's more than one way to skin a cat," says Pelletier in a groan-inducing moment.

The pink uniforms, tight space suits really, aren't an easy fit for either of them, but they provide protection from the elements. Traces of warp plasma had mixed in the air at some point and is subtly burning their exposed skin. Who knows the effect on the lungs.

The uniforms provide the even more vital protection of camouflage, as three more stunned cats soon learn. The warp chamber is eerily abandoned. As is the medical bay, and the corridors encircling the command center. The reason is soon made apparent.

A lone cat, this one shaggier than the rest, is spotted by Pelletier as they creep back to the docking bay. In his arms is Tarasco's unconscious paramour, Chantal. "Maybe we can ambush him before he reaches the dock and-" Pelletier is interrupted by several loud stun blasts as Tarasco rushes the creature.

The stun isn't enough, as Tarasco unclips one of the serrated blades these cats carry and aims to drive it into this monster's heart. His arm is stopped by Pelletier, who gives him a silent 'No.' With his friend's aid, they check on Chantal, er, rather, Junior Medic Coquillette.

She is breathing, and Tarasco wants to remove his suit and embrace her. But he can't. Not yet. He and Pelletier look to the docking bay, and know what they must do.

Three months later, the Valiant will return to Earth. They will bring with them six Kzinti prisoners who will be used to negotiate a settlement for what will be known as the First Kzinti War. The Valiant will have suffered no loss of life, and will soon find itself sent out as mankind's first exploratory starship.

 

JUNE/JULY CHALLENGE WINNER:

A Fine Klingon Morning by Gibraltar

June/July Challenge Entry: A Fine Klingon Morning

Metralus II – New Iskander Colony, December 2372

The Federation had been at war with the Klingon Empire for a total of thirty-seven hours by the time the Centaur-class starship Mendelssohn responded to the desperate cries for help from New Iskander Colony in the Metralus system. Caught behind the lines by the Klingon’s staggeringly swift attack on Federation colonies and installations, Mendelssohn had been separated from Task Force Bulwark and forced to try and sneak back to Federation lines alone.

It had been one-hundred and sixteen years since the Empire and the Federation had last engaged in a protracted military conflict, and even with tensions high due to the Klingon’s invasion of Cardassian territory, Starfleet had been woefully unprepared for open warfare when the Empire invaded the Archanis Sector.

As their ship practically shook itself apart to reach the colony, Mendelssohn’s chief security/tactical officer reflected grimly that the peace-loving Federation was forced to re-learn the same lessons every generation. Armed conflict in the galaxy was a certainty, regardless of alliances made or general goodwill towards others. Despite months of lead time and repeated diplomatic failures, hope had trumped pragmatism and Starfleet had twiddled its collective thumbs rather than prepare for the war that was clearly coming.

Captain Joshua Van Cleve’s voice retained its usual authoritative timbre, despite the stress of the situation and the significant vibration rattling the starship’s spaceframe. “ETA to the colony?”

“Ten minutes, seventeen seconds,” Heruk, the Denobulan at the Helm console answered, his control board flashing with a troubling number of red tell-tails as Mendelssohn’s engines were pressed far past their design tolerances.

“Tactical, what are you seeing in orbit?”

“Two Vor’cha-class heavy cruisers and four K’Vort-class light cruisers—”

“That’s not too bad,” Van Cleve uttered with a dash of his customary bravado.

The Tactical officer continued, “…as well as twelve K't'inga-class destroyers and an indeterminate number of Birds-of-Prey, Captain.”

Van Cleve had no response to that revelation. “Ops, status of the colony?” he inquired.

“I’m reading heavy damage to all colony settlements, sir, the result of an orbital bombardment,” Ensign Ahuja replied. “All defense satellites have been neutralized and surface life signs are indeterminate from this range.” He glanced back with a dour expression, “Given the catastrophic nature of the damage, I’d imagine civilian casualties are significant.”

“Can we beam survivors aboard?” Van Cleve pressed the chief engineer.

The female Vulcan lieutenant, Taulass, replied from a control station that mirrored the helm’s cascade of crimson warnings. “Sir, the engine damage we’ve sustained maintaining this speed for so long will affect all major systems, to include weapons, defenses, and the transporters.”

“Not to mention that we’d have to lower shields with half the Klingon Defense Force holding station in orbit, sir,” Lieutenant Lar’ragos noted laconically from Tactical.

Lt. Commander Bendis, the ship’s newly appointed executive officer gave the smaller man at the Tactical station a glowering rebuke from his seat to the captain’s immediate right.

The science officer offered, “Respectfully, Captain, our emergency evacuation capacity is six hundred. This colony supported a population of over eight-hundred thousand. Our efforts to that effect would be negligible.”

“So, the Klingons strike from orbit and are what, just sitting there?”

“No, sir,” Lar’ragos replied patiently. “The Klingons will have beamed troops to the surface to subjugate the colony. They will enslave those who surrender and kill any who resist.”

Van Cleve had come up through the ranks in the Science division, and despite his admirable disposition and sense of fairness, had never been particularly tactically savvy. He turned to direct a skeptical look at the El Aurian lieutenant. “How can you be so sure what they’ll do?”

“Well, general history, sir. This isn’t the first time we and the Klingons have danced to this tune. Additionally, I lived in the Empire for a time prior to gaining Federation citizenship.”

Bendis shot an alarmed expression towards the captain as he exclaimed, “That’s not in your service jacket, Lieutenant.”

“To be fair, sir, there’s a lot that isn’t in my service records.”

Van Cleve waved away the side-tracked conversation. “In that case, what are our odds here?”

“Slim to none,” Lar’ragos allowed. “We’re outnumbered and outgunned. A direct confrontation with the Klingons will result in our destruction within minutes of our arrival.”

Van Cleve stood, bracing himself with a hand on the back of the command chair in deference to the rattling deck plates. He surveyed the bridge crew. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Taulass was the first to respond. “Asymmetrical warfare would appear to be our only viable option, sir. I would recommend a hit-and-run style campaign, to use the human vernacular.”

Lar’ragos smiled at his friend’s forthright suggestion; she was never one to mince words. “I’d concur, sir,” he added.

From the Helm, Heruk joined in, “Our maneuverability is our only real advantage, sir. Lt. Taulass’ recommendation would capitalize on that.”

The captain looked to his XO. Bendis shrugged reluctantly. “I’d favor a stand-up fight, sir, but I’d agree that isn’t in the cards.”

“Okay then,” Van Cleve announced. “We’re raiders then.” He resumed his seat and analyzed the tactical plot map on the main viewer. “Drop us out of warp at these coordinates, and be ready to open fire with torpedoes from just over the orbital horizon. Hopefully, that’ll blind their sensors long enough for us to make a run for the planet’s polar magnetic field.”

“Aye, sir,” came the chorus of replies.

* * *

Three and a half hours later…

The fight had not gone well.

Mendelssohn’s nuisance attacks on the Klingon squadron had proved a distraction, but little more. They had destroyed a Bird-of-Prey while damaging another scout and a destroyer, but had themselves suffered significant damage in the exchange. Now, a pack of Birds-of-Prey had hounded the starship back into the relative safety of the polar magnetic field.

The atmospheric filters struggled to cycle the contaminants out the bridge’s smoke-laden air as the assembled officers tried to divine something from the pea-soup on their sensor returns. The excited magnetic fields surrounding the ship were as much a hindrance as a help in their present situation.

“Still nothing,” Ops muttered sourly.

“They’re out there,” Van Cleve murmured softly, his agitation beginning to show. “But… where?”

“Another distress call from the colony capital, sir,” Science officer Terrence noted. “It’s garbled, but I can make out something about Klingon troops overrunning the Starfleet Marine garrison. They’re rounding up prisoners and…” she blanched, touching a hand to the receiver in her ear, “…carrying out executions.”

Bendis slid out from under the Helm console where he and Heruk had been making field repairs to overloaded multitronics. The XO stood, brushing the bandage on his forehead absently. “Captain, with respect, our strategy doesn’t seem to be making as much of a difference as we’d hoped.”

Van Cleve nodded slowly, tearing his attention away from the damage reports scrolling across the display adjacent to the command chair. “I’d be forced to agree with your assessment, Commander. Did you have something in mind?”

The younger man tried to formulate his words carefully. “The colonists… our people, they’re down there being slaughtered. There were over five-thousand Marines in that garrison, and I can guarantee you they all went down fighting. We have to do something, anything to try and help. This, this just isn’t it.”

Van Cleve fixed his gaze on his first officer. “Again, Mister Bendis, you’re stating the obvious. What can we do about it?” He turned to gesture to the surrounding bridge. “We tried our best, and got our noses bloodied for the effort.”

“I— I’m not sure, Captain,” Bendis stammered.

“We are, to use another human aphorism, ‘playing it safe,’” Taulass remarked from behind them, having just stepped out of the turbolift. Her uniform was smudged and torn, giving bleak testament to the conditions in Main Engineering. “We are attempting to do what little we can while keeping the ship and crew intact. Making a real difference here will necessitate sacrifice.”

The captain turned to look at the Vulcan. “What kind of sacrifice, Lieutenant?”

“The one we all swore to make when we donned the uniform, sir. The ultimate one.” She arched an eyebrow that Lar’ragos had learned firsthand was her expression of critical disappointment. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

Silence reigned on the bridge as they all absorbed that.

“How?” Van Cleve finally asked, his voice heavy.

“Though damaged, the warp drive is still capable of short FTL jumps. Mendelssohn’s mass, accelerated to warp velocities, should prove more than sufficient to annihilate the Klingon flagship leading the assault here.”

The color drained from Van Cleve’s face. “I… see.” To his credit, the captain set his shoulders and sat a little taller in his chair. “Commander Bendis, ready the crew. Prior to our ramming their flagship, I want all crew members beamed the surface, equipped for ground combat. There’s no sense in all of us dying up here, when we should by rights be down there protecting the civilians.”

Bendis accepted the order with a firm nod. “Aye, sir.” He moved to an auxiliary console and began making preparations.

Lar’ragos cleared his throat softly, garnering the captain’s attention. “Sir, I’d be the better choice to remain aboard and execute our attack on their ship.”

Van Cleve managed a wan smile. “We haven’t served together for very long, Mister Lar’ragos, but after witnessing how you pulled my bacon out of the fire back on Gelur Secundus, I’ve a sneaking suspicion that you’d do far more damage down on the surface than I could ever hope to.”

Lar’ragos cocked his head, conceding the point without protest. “Yes, sir.” He entered a series of commands into his console. “I’m inputting an automated routine that will route everything to our shields with the exception of enough power to execute the final warp jump. That should keep the Birds-of-Prey off you until you’ve got clear line-of-site on their flagship.”

Van Cleve stood and walked around to where the Tactical console was situated. He extended a hand. “Thank you, Pava. It’s been a privilege and an honor to serve with you.”

“With you as well, sir,” Lar’ragos replied, shaking his hand firmly.

“Captain,” Bendis called from his station, “Replicators are furnishing everyone with phaser rifles, sidearms, armor, and first-aid kits. We should be ready in twenty minutes. Utilizing our cargo transporters along with our personnel units, we should be able to beam everyone down in roughly fifteen seconds.”

“Good work, Exec,” Van Cleve praised. “I’ll endeavor to keep the Klingons out of weapons range long enough to lower shields and get you all safely planet-side.”

He stepped back to the command chair and toggled the ship’s public address. “All hands, this is the captain. Today is a difficult day, and not one that I’d anticipated. Federation citizens on the planet below are fighting for their lives against overwhelming odds, and despite our best efforts, we’ve been unable to affect the outcome of the battle in orbit or on the surface. That is about to change. You will all be beaming down to do what you can to stem the tide, while I neutralize their task force’s flagship. I understand that this is almost certainly a suicide mission for all of us, but I would remind you that this is ultimately what each of us signed on for. The people down there have every right to expect us to intervene and lay down our lives to safeguard theirs. Please report to your assigned transport stations to receive equipment and further orders. It’s been an honor to lead this fine crew, and you have my gratitude.”

Van Cleve looked to his bridge crew. “Let’s get this done.”

* * *

The stuttering transporter beam struggled to penetrate the periphery of the Klingon transport inhibitor fields erected throughout the capitol city. However, with a final burst of energy, the officers and crew of the starship Mendelssohn materialized in an uninhabited industrial park on the outskirts of the city.

The roughly three-hundred crew fanned out, following Bendis’ instructions to locate and attack Klingon forces in the vicinity.

Lar’ragos held his phaser-rifle in one hand and reached out with his other, taking Taulass by the arm. “Come with me,” he urged.

She frowned, appearing perplexed. “Commander Bendis’ orders were clear. There is a Klingon contingent less than five kilometers from us. We are to prepare an ambush of that patrol element.”

“That’s ridiculous. They’ll spot us from orbit before we’ve made it a klick and vaporize us.”

Taulass gestured to the life-sign scrambler armbands they both wore. “These should suffice to mask our bio-signatures.”

He sighed. “It won’t be enough, Taulass. Trust me. I know these people, how they think and how they fight.”

Up went the judgmental eyebrow. “I cannot willfully disobey direct orders.”

“What’s the hold up here?” Bendis snapped as he jogged over to them, cradling his rifle.

“I’m trying to convince the good lieutenant here that she’ll live longer if she comes with me,” Lar’ragos summarized for his benefit.

“You’re well aware of my orders, Mister Lar’ragos,” Bendis said pointedly. “We’re going to track and ambush that patrol we detected.”

“We should be splitting up to move into the city and get as many civilians as we can to emergency shelters,” Lar’ragos countered. “Trying to pretend we’re Starfleet Marines is just going to get a lot of people killed unnecessarily.”

“Those weren’t my orders,” Bendis reiterated. "You and I already hashed this out topside. I listened to your recommendation, but I've decided this is the best course of action."

“Yes, sir. I understand. I also don’t care,” Lar’ragos replied.

Bendis goggled. “What did you say?”

“I said I’m not following your orders, Commander.”

“That’s mutiny,” Bendis snarled.

“In point of fact,” Taulass offered, “it is not. He is not attempting to seize your authority for himself or to remove you from your post by force. He is merely refusing to follow a direct order. That is a separate charge entirely under the Uniform Code of Starfleet Justice.”

“She’s right,” Lar’ragos said supportively.

Bendis sighed with exasperation. “I don’t have time for this. I’d have rather had your help as our most experienced solider, Lar’ragos, but if you’re determined to break ranks there’s not a lot I can do about it at the moment.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Lar’ragos said dryly. He looked to Taulass. “You’re sure you won’t come with me?”

“I cannot,” she maintained.

“I feared as much,” Lar’ragos acknowledged. He raised a hand with his index and middle fingers extended towards Taulass. She replied in kind, touching her fingers to his in a surprisingly intimate Vulcan gesture that caught Bendis off guard.

“Live long and prosper, Taulass,” Lar’ragos said.

“I shall do neither,” she answered, her eyes communicating a deeper level of meaning. “However, the sentiment is appreciated.”

“For what it’s worth, good luck, Lar’ragos,” Bendis offered. “Oh, and consider yourself on report,” he added with a wry grin.

“I’ll do that—”

Their conversation was cut short by a brilliant flash overhead, a radiant blossom of energy that shone more brightly than the Metralus star for a brief moment.

“Well, what do you know,” Lar’ragos marveled, dropping his rifle to shield his eyes with his other hand, “the old man pulled it off!”

Taulass held Lar’ragos’ gaze for a moment longer. “Parting, yet never parted,” she said in a soft voice. Then she withdrew her hand, cradled her rifle, and followed Bendis back towards the others.

Lar’ragos watched them go for a brief time before remarking sadly, “Time to go to work.”

* * *

Author's note: This concludes the June/July Challenge Entry portion of the story. However, those wanting to know how this tale ends can read the rest, titled Klingon Afternoon, here:

https://www.trekbbs.com/threads/klingon-afternoon-redux.125342/#post-4248230

 

Honestly, there are times when I feel moderators in this forum aren't "intrusive" enough. The writing contest might not have been forced into hiatus for a year if a mod had provided a definitive answer to a contest runner's question, a simple yes or no. Demurring may not have been the exact cause of the hiatus, but it did nothing to prevent it.

 

August/September 2019: Taking One for the Team

The New York Giants won the World Series in 1951 and 1954, but during 1953, the team suffered a fifth-place funk. The ’51 rookie of the year Willie Mays was in the army, while ace pitcher Sal Maglie was waylaid by back injury.

On the other hand, Willie Hawkins was having a pretty good season, and he wanted Cassie, the waitress at the neighborhood bakery and café, to know it.

“Three for five with a double and 2 RBI!”, Hawkins said, describing his performance in the Giants’ last game.

“Not today, Willie, *please*”, she said.

The mood at the diner was somber. Cassie’s boyfriend, the science fiction writer Benny Russell, was in the hospital after a couple of prejudiced cops beat him severely (they had harassed Benny earlier, on the night he hatched his first story about a futuristic space station called Deep Space Nine).

Cassie could often feel tears rising, while the customers who cared for her and Benny were sad and discouraged.

Hawkins laid a generous tip beside his coffee cup. “I’m off to the park”, he said. Cassie didn’t turn her head as she nodded goodbye.

In the home team’s clubhouse, Hawkins introduced a plan to his best friends on the team. “Come on, guys, let’s play this one for Benny.”

A teammate concurred. “Benny loves this team, let’s love him back.” There followed some unenthusiastic agreement from those who expected closed-minded opposition.

Hawkins stood to address the clubhouse. “Fellows”, he said. “I got a friend, man named Benny. Benny had an accident last night…” Hawkins’ friends could see him search for a euphemism for “white cops beat him while he was down”.

“He’s hurt real bad, and in the hospital. I want to give today’s game ball to Benny. He’s a big fan, you know.”

Some Giants tried to appear to be considering the notion, though inside they panicked. No matter what they thought of Hawkins’ suggestion personally, the bigots on the team could use this as an excuse to start shit. Sure enough, the bigots looked at each other for shit-starting encouragement.

A leader on the field and in the clubhouse spoke on Hawkins’ behalf. “I’m doing this for Benny. He’s a good guy, and I keep telling you mugs that he’s a great writer. “ He looked around; few were visibly moved.

“Look, you assholes. If you won’t do this good thing for a friend of the team, then tell yourselves you’re doing it for Willie Mays. All of y’all’s loves *Mays*, I know.” He glanced pointedly at the white Giants who couldn’t yet speak civilly with a black teammate, even a star like Mays.

The majority agreed to share the game ball with Benny, especially those who saw Benny as a friend, or a friend of a teammate. Some were even enthusiastic, to whom the team leader said: “I do believe there’s hope for you yet.”

The Giants, in 5th place and sore with the unfamiliarity of it, trailed 2-1 with two out in the bottom of the 9th inning. There was a runner on third, and Willie Hawkins coming to the plate.

Seating was segregated at the Polo Grounds, but the buzz in the crowd was almost uniform. Giants fans cheered, urging #15 to drive in the tying run, or even win the game with a home run.

Hawkins kicked at the dirt in the batters’ box, and settled in. Fans all over the ballpark sat up with anticipation. Baseball was often like that: Eight dull innings leading to one great moment.

The visiting pitcher began his motion.

The runner at third base broke for the plate.

Thousands were shocked at this audacious, poorly-thought attempt to steal home for the tying run.

The catcher was ready with the tag, and made the final out. The crowd groaned, and some screamed about the manager’s ridiculous decision to signal for a steal of home, with the talented slugger Hawkins at the plate. Others suspected it wasn’t the manager’s decision at all.

In the clubhouse, a teammate restrained Hawkins from assaulting the baserunner. “Willie, he’ll face consequences, but you ain’t gonna dish ‘em out. You *can’t*.”

The next morning, Hawkins was back in the diner, uncharacteristically subdued. “Hey, Cassie. How’s Benny doing?”

“Critical. You?”

“Lost.”

 

Oct/Nov 2019 entry-The Revenant



The two doctors stood outside of the room, peering through the observation window.

"You say he acts rational?" the first one asked.

"Oh, very rational. He's in there reading Poe right now. We've discussed it. He has some very thoughtful insights."

"Then maybe I'm missing something. Why is he here?"

"The police brought him in," the doctor said, "He was raving, spouting off all kinds of nonsense. Among other things, he claims to be from the 23rd century. Says he once switched bodies with a woman. Says he has died at least twice. Says he died and lived again. Clawed his way out of the soil he was buried in.”

“How does he explain being here?”

“He says he’s gone through a number of “time travel” experiences-claims they are ‘temporal anomalies’- and that this is just one more. I dunno, sometimes I find myself caught in his fantasy-he makes it seem so real. It’s a place I’d surely like to visit.”

Doctor number two lit a cigarette. “You have to keep your distance. Patients like this, they’ll trap you in their delusions.”

“When they brought him to me it took three orderlies to hold him so I could sedate him. He used some strange combat techniques, kind of like martial arts but nothing I'm familiar with. Nearly broke free twice before the drugs kicked.”

The second doctor frowned in thought. "But now he's rational and reading Poe. Why haven't you released him?" He puffed a smoke ring that headed for the ceiling.

"Well," replied the first doctor, "We can't identify him. He calls himself 'Jim' but won't give us a last name. And he insists that he's dead."

The second doctor looked at the first with a startled expression on his face.
"Dead?"

"Yes. The worst part is...he may be right." The look on his face was grim. The two doctors took another look through the window. The subject of their study was relaxing in an easy chair, a book in hand. He was in late middle age, yet his hair remained virtually free of gray. He looked like a man who had remained fit his whole life. He didn't look dead.

The second man turned towards the first. "How can you say he might be dead? I mean, what the heck is that? If you called me down here, Mills, as a joke..." The doctor looked fairly annoyed.

Dr. Mills never lost his grim expression. "Dr. Kim, I assure you, this is no joke. Watch him. Sometimes, especially when he is engrossed in something, he forgets to respirate. I'm not kidding." Kim looked back through the window. "If you look close, you'll see that his chest doesn't rise and fall like it would if he was breathing." Kim watched for several moments and then turned back to Mills.

"That's not necessarily proof that he's dead. He could just be breathing shallow."

Mills shook his head. "I was going to try shock treatment. We hooked him up to the monitor. He had no brainwave pattern. And, yes, the equipment was working perfectly at the time. I tested it on myself."

"Did you ask him what was going on?" Kim asked.

"I did. You have to understand, there's more to it than that. The man claims to be from the future, on top of everything else. He says he is, and I quote, 'The piece of me that was left behind.' end quote. When I asked him about this he only smiled and said I wouldn't understand. He claims a number of outrageous things. The stories only have one thing going for them. They have a consistency that most delusional patients can't produce.

Kim thought for a moment. "So we have a man who thinks he's dead. He claims to be from the future and his stories are consistent within themselves. He doesn't register on a brainwave monitor. Have you had a doctor examine him?"

"We have all of our new patients examined by a physician. I thought we'd have to admit Dr. Burroughs here at Birchwood afterwards. The man has no pulse, no detectable heartbeat. When Dr. Burroughs tried to draw blood nothing came out. Jim just shrugged at him after the fifth attempt and said, 'Sorry. He took all of the active stuff. I'm just the part left behind.' "

Dr. Kim started to say, "Indian fakirs can..." but Dr. Mills cut him off.

"I don't know what's going on but by every test we can perform this man is not alive. And he agrees. He claims he's dead. That's why I called you. I think the answers are in his head but I'm just not asking the right questions. I need your help, sir." Dr. Mills was practically pleading.

"I can talk to him," Dr. Kim said, "I don't know what you think I'll learn but I'll talk to him."

Dr. Mills looked relieved. "That's why I asked you here. Maybe you can find answers I couldn't."

Dr. Kim nodded and opened the door.

Jim looked up as Kim came in. “I suppose you’re here to ask me questions. Are you a medical doctor or a psychiatrist, a psychologist or a medium? I’ve talked to them all, y’know.”

“I am a psychologist and I am here to ask you some questions, nothing more.” Kim watched him closely. He was breathing now, Kim could see the inhalations.

With a sigh, the patient named Jim set down his book. “Okay, shoot. What do you want to know?”

Dr. Kim walked to a chair opposite Jim. “Dr. Mills tells me you have some strange stories to tell. He says you’re also giving his M.D. fits.”

There was a faint grin on Jim’s face, almost boyish in appearance. “I bet I am. Being dead and holding conversations tends to throw most people off.” He looked like a less-than-recaltrant schoolboy.

“Yeeeees, well, Dr. Mills says you claim to be from outer space. Why would you do that?”

Jim smirked and looked off for a moment. “I told a young lady this once, long ago, about thirty years from now, when she asked a similar question. I only work in outer space. I’m actually from Iowa.” He seemed quite amused with himself.

Kim made a few notes on his pad. “And you are dead? That’s what they’ve told me you’re alleging, anyway.”

“Death is highly overrated. I am what I am.” He fingered the book on the table next to him.

“Do you find Poe interesting because you think you’re dead? Is that why you read him?” Dr. Kim waited, pen poised over paper.

“You’d like me to give you a nice, neat, wrapped-up answer to that, wouldn’t you?” Jim’s expression was mildly amused, verging on boredom. “Death is…a place you don’t want to go. Not if you’re me. Others? They die. C’est la vie. C’est la guerre.” He shrugged.

“The doctor couldn’t draw your blood. Why do you think that is?” Kim held his breath, waiting to see what the patient’s response would be. They were treading on delicate territory now.

Jim laughed. “He took all of the vital parts when he left. Then he got himself killed. There wasn’t any blood to take.”

“What do you mean, when he left?”

“The Nexus, of course. He took all of the vital parts with him, I did, when we went to save the poor folk at Viridian Three.”

Kim shook his head. “The Nexus? Viridian Three? I don’t understand.”

Jim looked exasperated. “Of course you don’t. It’s two hundred plus years in the future.” He shook his head, as though looking at a slightly slow child who had just disappointed him. “I was in the Nexus. When it threatened an inhabited planet I left it. I helped save the world and died doing it. That’s really where this story starts.” He stopped, waiting for Dr. Kim’s reaction.

Kim stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why don’t you tell me the story. I get the feeling you want to tell someone.”

Jim gave him a wide smile. “You won’t believe it. Dr. Mills didn’t. That’s why I’m still here.”

“I’m willing to keep an open mind,” Kim said.

Jim cleared his throat. “It started, for me, a few moments after Picard finished burying me.”

“Picard?”

“Another starship captain. Are you going to keep interrupting me or can I just tell this thing?” Jim seemed annoyed.

“I won’t ask anymore questions until you’re done. I promise.” Mollified, Jim continued.

“When you enter the Nexus your every desire awaits you. When you leave you never completely get away. A piece of who you are stays behind. In my case, the Nexus was very close to where I died. The piece of me that remained behind was drawn to my body, forced out of the Nexus. I found myself six feet under, wondering what the hell had happened. I eventually clawed my way out. For the next six weeks I lived on water that collected in hollow spots in the rocks and whatever lizard-things I could catch and kill. Picard was a noble type, though, and he eventually sent a team in a shuttle to retrieve my body. I gather that he wanted to give me a burial on Earth with full honors.

At first, the crew of the shuttle were glad to see me. They thought Picard’s report of my demise had been inaccurate. After checking me over, they got some of the results your local witch doctor got and they became uneasy. It more or less came to a head that evening when I brought them dinner. They over-reacted when I prepared it. I’m not sure what their problem was.”

“I’m sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t do this but I have to ask. What exactly did they over-react to?”

“I think it bothered them when I brained the lizard I’d caught. I had to hit it against a rock to kill it,” Jim admitted.

“How many times did you hit against the rock?” Kim inquired.

“About ten or twelve times.”

“Really,” Kim exclaimed, “That must have been one tough lizard!”

“Not really,” Jim said matter-of-factly, “It died after the third hit. It just felt good to keep pounding it on the rock. I guess I had a little pent-up frustration going on there.”

Kim made some more notes on his pad. “Go on,” he said.

“Anyway, they started acting a little weird towards me. Things might have gotten awkward between us but I guess I’ll never know. They were all killed in their sleep by a freak rock fall. Having no other choice, I took their shuttle and went looking for a ship to take me home.”

“They were all killed in a rock slide. And you just left them there?” Kim waited, pencil in hand.

Jim gave him a cagey look. “I wasn’t going to try and unbury them! There must have been a ton of rubble covering them.”

“So you left on the shuttle…” prompted Dr. Kim.

“I made my way to the closest commercial shipping lanes since that was about all I could hope to reach in that little ship. After a couple of days a tramp freighter responded to my hail and took me aboard.” He picked up the book from the table beside him and began to riffle through the pages. “The crew of that ship was the most pathetic group of beings I’d ever seen in space. Not one of them could have made it in St…the organization I had belonged to. They were uneducated, unsanitary, and uncouth. They began to get on my nerves. When they refused to take me to Earth, claiming it was too far from their own destination, I took matters into my own hands. Lucky for me, a friend had taught me a bit about engines. I was able to make some improvements and nearly double the freighter’s cruising speed. I had by this time changed my plans, though. I realized Earth held nothing for me. I didn’t really feel alive, I guess because I wasn’t. I wanted to, though, and I remembered the one time I felt the most vibrant, the most alive.”

“And when was that?” Dr. Kim asked.

“There was a woman some years ago. A very special lady who taught me a few things about living. Her name was Edith. I thought that if I could get to her she could make me feel that way again. After stopping briefly to dump the bodies of the crew I headed for the one place in the universe that would let me find her again.”

Looking slightly startled, Dr. Kim asked, “The bodies of the crew? What happened?”

Jim gave him a smug look. “They didn’t want to take me where I wanted to go. There was an altercation. I won,” he said flatly, “They didn’t.”

“Do you always get what you want?” Kim asked.

“I don’t believe in the no-win scenario, if that’s what you mean. Anyway, I made my way to an obscure planet. On it is a device, an ancient artifact that allows you to view the passage of history. The woman I was seeking lived in the past. I intended to find her. Unfortunately, I didn’t have Spock with me this time.” He set the book down again, giving Kim a somewhat bleak look.

“I’m sorry, who’s Spock?”

“He’s an old friend. Let’s just say that precision is more his forte. I tend to be more of a man of action. So I stepped into the device when I thought the time was right. Turns out, I missed by about twenty years. I ended up in her future, but she has none, you see. I didn’t save her then and I can’t save her now. Maybe I’ll get a chance in the future, who knows? When I appeared here I had the worse luck to step in front of an automobile before I could get my bearings. It struck me and I must have hit my head. I don’t recall much right after that, but I gather I talked about things I shouldn’t have and ‘Presto!’ here I am.” He smiled again, as if his current circumstances didn’t bother him much.

Kim looked again at this man, as if seeing him for the first time. He had a gentle, almost innocent look to him. He exuded charm and had a warm smile but if his story was to be believed he had killed a number of people just because they had gotten in his way. Kim could feel the hairs on his neck standing up. “An interesting story, Jim. Those people you killed. How do you feel about that?”

Jim shrugged. “Like I said, I’m just a piece of the man I was, the part left behind. I don’t feel much of anything, honestly. I had a goal and I did what I had to in order to reach it.”
The way he said this made Dr. Kim very uncomfortable. Jim acted like he was talking about the weather. “You have to understand, Doctor, I’ve had my mind messed with more times than I can count. I’ve had my personality literally split into two. I’ve been tortured, beaten, and, as I mentioned earlier, killed. All of that, especially death, tends to alter your perspective.” He shrugged again. “What do you want me to say?”

“You could say you felt some remorse,” Kim answered.

Jim looked at him and Kim saw no passion in his eyes. They were flat, placid pools of nothing. “If I did, I’d be lying. I have a goal. I’ll do whatever it takes to achieve that goal. Nobody’s going to get in my way. If an obstacle comes along, I’ll remove it. I told you, I don’t believe in the no-win scenario. All of this,” he waved his hand to take in the room, “Is only a minor set-back. I’m an anomaly; I don’t belong in this era. Someone from my time will eventually notice. When they do, they’ll come for me.” He gave Kim another smile but this time Kim felt no warmth from it.

“Jim, what makes you think they will find you?”

“Oh, I’ll do what I have to do to make my mark. They’ll notice and when they do they’ll come get me.”

“I see. Well, I think that’s enough for one day. Perhaps we could talk again tomorrow.” Kim rose to leave.

“Sure, Doc. Anytime.” Jim waved to him as he left and then picked up his book again. Kim made sure the door was firmly locked behind him.


Outside of the room, a nervous Dr. Mills stood waiting for him. “So, Dr. Kim, what do you make of him?”

Kim lit another cigarette. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke meander into the hall. Then he answered, “You did good to call me. The man seems sociopathic. He acts as though he has no feelings for his fellow man. As for his story, I found it entertaining but nothing more than a delusion. He’s probably been building it up for a long time. Its going to take many sessions to dig down to the root of his problems. I suspect it could take years. I’ll come back tomorrow to talk to him. Right now, I need to write up my notes while they are still fresh.”

“Of course, Dr. Kim. Thank you for your help. If you’d like, Charles, here, can show you the way out.” Dr. Mills gestured to a nearby orderly. The two men shook hands and Dr. Kim headed for the exit.

The next morning, on his way to the hospital, Dr. Kim stopped as usual for his coffee and morning paper. Glancing at the headlines, he stopped in shock.

“MENTAL PATIENT GOES ON RAMPAGE, HOLDS OFF POLICE!”

Beneath the headline was a picture of the man named Jim. Kim jumped in his car and raced off to Birchwood.

The hospital was surrounded by police cars, each with officers crouched behind their doors, weapons drawn. A large crowd was being held back by other officers at the end of the street. Kim parked and showed his hospital ID, which got him through the police line. He spotted Dr. Mills talking to a captain and made his way over.

“My God, Mills, what happened?” he asked. Mills looked to be in shock.

“It was horrible, Dr. Kim! When I got here about two hours ago I went up to “C” wing.” His voice broke for a moment. “There was blood everywhere. He killed everybody on the floor! He grabbed Nurse Reilly, took her hostage. He’s been holed up in there ever since. Says he’ll kill her if the police come in. I thought he was going to kill me but he told me to leave instead.”

Kim thought for a moment. “Did he say anything else?”

Dr. Mills nodded. “He said he was letting me go because he wanted to make sure the papers correctly identified him!” Kim thought some more.

“If we looked in places like the Library of Congress we could find two hundred year old newspapers, couldn’t we?”

Dr. Mills gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Nevermind. Officer, that man is my patient. I’d like to go in and talk to him. I may be able to get him to release his hostage.” The police captain protested at first but Kim was very persuasive. Eventually, the authorities allowed him to enter the building. Making his way nervously past the armed officers, he pushed the door open and went to the elevator. Stepping inside, he pressed the button for ‘C’ wing and waited.

The doors opened onto a bloodbath. Two patients lay just outside of the elevator, their throats cut. Jim’s voice carried through the body-strewn hall. “If you’re a police officer I will kill the nurse. Be warned, I’m armed!” Kim could see a dead security guard farther down the hall with an empty holster.

“Jim, its Dr. Kim. From yesterday. I just want to talk!” Kim wiped his hands nervously on his pants, trying to dry the perspiration that had formed.

“Oh, sure, Doc. C’mon in. I’m in the common room.” Jim’s voice sounded casual, like he was just passing the time of day with a friend. Kim walked down the hall, trying not to step in the drying pools of blood. Passing several patients’ rooms, he noticed more bodies within. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and swallowed hard, then stepped into the common room.

“Hi, Doc,” Jim said, waving to him with the gun in his hand. In the corner of the room Kim could see a young nurse, bound and gagged but still alive. “Sorry about the mess out there but, like I said, I did what I had to do to make my mark. I assume it made all of the papers?” Kim nodded in reply. “Well, I guess it won’t be long then. Someone should be coming for me soon.”

“You really believe that, Jim? All of these deaths…” Kim swallowed again, choking down bile.

Jim shrugged. “It was the most logical course of action since I was locked up in here.” He gestured at the room and the hospital beyond. “I told you I have a goal. This was the most efficient way to achieve it.” The expression on his face was bland. Kim felt a chill on his spine. He opened his mouth but Jim spoke first.

“Good old Spock.” Something was happening to Jim. His body seemed to be glowing slightly. The glow increased and a humming filled the air. His eyes bored into Kim’s.
“I told you, I will find her. Nothing can stop me.” The light and noise reached a crescendo and then it was gone. Jim was gone as well. Kim felt his knees waver and he stumbled into a chair.

“A dead man,” he thought, “A dead man wandering through time, looking for his lost love like some kind of revenant. Determined, merciless and without feeling. I wonder how many more will die?” He looked down and realized his hands were shaking.

Chapter End Notes: Sometimes I have dark days. This came from one of them.

...sf fandom is only a personality disorder if you do it right.-Klaus
http://www.adastrafanfic.com - archive stories!

 

"Maybe, Again"

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

Part I

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

Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, high geosynchronous orbit, Earth

Late 2293

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

The turbolift door opened slowly, revealing an attractive though somewhat mousey humanoid female, her maroon uniform so crisp the creases could cut solid neutronium. An ensign’s chevron graced the white bar at her right shoulder.

“Excuse, excuse me, Captain,” she said timidly. Sam snorted as he walked past her.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else, Ensign. And I am very late for a meeting with Admiral Sterling.” Before the ensign could say anything else, Commander Sam Saberhagen disappeared into the admiral’s office.

“Damn.”

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

“You’re late,” barked Admiral Jackson Sterling. Sam shrugged.

“Sorry about that, sir. There was a delay at the transporter station, some sort of bug in the pattern buffer.”

“Sit, Commander.”

Sam did as instructed. He noticed the admiral’s uniform was nearly as crisp as the ensign’s who’d just accosted him, while his own was rumpled and very obviously – and recently, and frequently – slept in. Great, he thought sourly. Just great.

Adm. Sterling consulted a nearby notepad. “So, Commander Sa…”

“I go by Sam, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Adm. Sterling glowered at Sam. “I go by admiral, Commander, and I prefer not to be interrupted, if you don’t mind.” Adm. Sterling hefted a timeworn manila envelope stuffed with paper, let it thump forcefully on the desk. “Do you know what’s in this?”

Sam sighed. “I’m painfully aware of what’s in my service jacket, Admiral.” Sam recalled that Adm. Sterling liked using actual paper when he could, especially to make dramatic points when grilling subordinates.

The admiral growled. “Graduated Starfleet Academy 2260, steady rise through the ranks, a little faster than your contemporaries but not meteoric. Above average ratings in all assignments. After promotion to commander, served with distinction as first officer on USS Citadel, USS Roosevelt, USS T’Challa. 2267, in line for promotion to captain and starship command.” He fixed a burning stare at Sam. “Instead, you’ve been commanding various desks at remote, dead-end Starfleet facilities for the last 26 years. Why is that?”

“The Otorem Incident.” The stare intensified. “I know what torpedoed my career, sir. All due respect, is there a point?”

Adm. Sterling’s voice grew void-cold. “Oh, there’s a point, Commander. Three, actually.” He picked up some paper from the corner of the desk. “This point,” he said, “was your promotion to captain.” An evil smile curled the corner of his lips as he ripped a sheet of paper cleanly in half, top to bottom, and tossed the pieces aside. “And this point was a starship command.” Rip, toss.

“This last point,” and the evil smile grew to show teeth, “is your discharge from Starfleet. Other Than Honorable discharge, in case you were wondering. Why you weren’t cashiered out after the Otorem Incident, I have no idea, but by God it’s a mistake I’m thoroughly pleased to be able to correct.” Adm. Sterling shoved the paper at Sam. “You are a civilian, effective immediately. With an OTH discharge in your pocket, you’ll need divine intervention to get any job other than slinging burgers at McDonald’s.

“This could have gone differently, Mr. Saberhagen, if you’d been less lippy.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding to share how differently, then choosing not to. “I’m glad I’ll never see you again, and believe me when I wish sincerely that you rot in Hell.

“Get out.”

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

Part XIII

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

Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, high geosynchronous orbit, Earth

Late 2293

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

The turbolift door opened slowly, revealing an attractive though somewhat mousey humanoid female, her maroon uniform so crisp the creases could cut solid neutronium. An ensign’s chevron graced the white at her right shoulder.

“Excuse, excuse me, Captain,” she said timidly. Sam snorted as he walked past her.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else, Ensign. And I am very late for a meeting with Admiral Sterling.” As Commander Sam Saberhagen disappeared into the admiral’s office, she called after him.

“He’s in a bad, mood, and…

“Damn, not again.”

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

“You’re late,” barked Admiral Jackson Sterling. Sam shrugged.

“Sorry about that, sir. There was a delay at the transporter station, some sort of bug in the phase transition coils.”

“Sit, Commander.”

Sam did as instructed. He noticed the admiral’s uniform was nearly as crisp as the ensign’s who’d just accosted him, while his own was rumpled and very obviously – and recently, and frequently – slept in. Great, he thought sourly. Just great.

Adm. Sterling consulted a nearby notepad. “So, Commander Sa…”

“I go by Sam, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Adm. Sterling glowered at Sam. “I go by admiral, Commander, and I prefer not to be interrupted, if you don’t mind.” Adm. Sterling hefted a timeworn manila envelope stuffed with paper, let it thump forcefully on the desk. “Do you know what’s in this?”

Sam sighed. “I’m acutely aware of what’s in my service jacket, Admiral.” Sam recalled that Adm. Sterling liked using actual paper when he could, especially to make dramatic points when grilling subordinates.

The admiral growled. “Graduated Starfleet Academy 2260, steady rise through the ranks, a little faster than your contemporaries but not meteoric. Above average ratings in all assignments. After promotion to commander, served with distinction as first officer on USS Citadel, USS Roosevelt, USS T’Challa. 2267, in line for promotion to captain and starship command.” He fixed a burning stare at Sam. “Instead, you’ve been commanding various desks at remote, dead-end Starfleet facilities for the last 26 years. Why is that?”

“The Otorem Incident.” The stare intensified. “I know what torpedoed my career, sir. All due respect, is there a point?”

Adm. Sterling’s voice grew void-cold. “Oh, there’s a point, Commander. Three, actually.” He picked up some paper from the corner of the desk. “This point,” he said, “was your promotion to captain.” An evil smile curled the corner of his lips as he ripped a sheet of paper cleanly in half, top to bottom, and tossed the pieces aside. “And this point was a starship command.” Rip, toss.

“This last point,” and the evil smile grew to show teeth, “is your discharge from Starfleet. Other Than Honorable discharge, in case you were wondering. Why you weren’t cashiered out after the Otorem Incident, I have no idea, but by God it’s a mistake I’m thoroughly pleased to be able to correct.” Adm. Sterling shoved the paper at Sam. “You are a civilian, effective immediately. With an OTH discharge in your pocket, you’ll need divine intervention to get any job other than running a copy machine at Kinko’s.

“This could have gone differently, Mr. Saberhagen, if you’d been less lippy.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding to share how differently, then choosing not to. “I’m glad I’ll never see you again, and believe me when I wish sincerely that you rot in Hell.

“Get out.”

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

Part XXI

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

Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, high geosynchronous orbit, Earth

Late 2293

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

The turbolift door opened slowly, revealing an attractive though somewhat mousey humanoid female, her maroon uniform so crisp the creases could cut solid neutronium. An ensign’s chevron graced the white bar at her right shoulder.

“Excuse, excuse me, Captain,” she said timidly. Sam snorted as he walked past her.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else, Ensign. And I am very late for a meeting with Admiral Sterling.” As Commander Sam Saberhagen disappeared into the admiral’s office, she called after him.

“Sir, you really need, need to listen… Sir. Sir!

“Damn, not again.”

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

“You’re late,” barked Admiral Jackson Sterling. Sam shrugged.

“Sorry about that, sir. There was a delay at the transporter station, some sort of bug in the biofilter.”

“Sit, Commander.”

Sam did as instructed. He noticed the admiral’s uniform was nearly as crisp as the ensign’s who’d just accosted him, while his own was rumpled and very obviously – and recently, and frequently – slept in. Great, he thought sourly. Just great.

Adm. Sterling consulted a nearby notepad. “So, Commander Sa…”

“I go by Sam, sir, if you don’t mind.”

Adm. Sterling glowered at Sam. “I go by admiral, Commander, and I prefer not to be interrupted, if you don’t mind.” Adm. Sterling hefted a timeworn manila envelope stuffed with paper, let it thump forcefully on the desk. “Do you know what’s in this?”

Sam sighed. “I’m keenly aware of what’s in my service jacket, admiral.” Sam recalled that Adm. Sterling liked using actual paper when he could, especially to make dramatic points when grilling subordinates.

The admiral growled. “Graduated Starfleet Academy 2260, steady rise through the ranks, a little faster than your contemporaries but not meteoric. Above average ratings in all assignments. After promotion to commander, served with distinction as first officer on USS Citadel, USS Roosevelt, USS T’Challa. 2267, in line for promotion to captain and starship command.” He fixed a burning stare at Sam. “Instead, you’ve been commanding various desks at remote, dead-end Starfleet facilities for the last 26 years. Why is that?”

“The Otorem Incident.” The stare intensified. “I know what torpedoed my career, sir. All due respect, is there a point?”

Adm. Sterling’s voice grew void-cold. “Oh, there’s a point, Commander. Three, actually.” He picked up some paper from the corner of the desk. “This point,” he said, “was your promotion to captain.” An evil smile curled the corner of his lips as he ripped a sheet of paper cleanly in half, top to bottom, and tossed the pieces aside. “And this point was a starship command.” Rip, toss.

“This last point,” and the evil smile grew to show teeth, “is your discharge from Starfleet. Other Than Honorable discharge, in case you were wondering. Why you weren’t cashiered out after the Otorem Incident, I have no idea, but by God it’s a mistake I’m thoroughly pleased to be able to correct.” Adm. Sterling shoved the paper at Sam. “You are a civilian, effective immediately. With an OTH discharge in your pocket, you’ll need divine intervention to get any job other than delivering to the Klingons for Kerblam.

“This could have gone differently, Mr. Saberhagen, if you’d been less lippy.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding to share how differently, then choosing not to. “I’m glad I’ll never see you again, and believe me when I wish sincerely that you rot in Hell.

“Get out.”

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

 

Part XLII

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

Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, high geosynchronous orbit, Earth

Late 2293

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

The turbolift door opened slowly, revealing an attractive though somewhat mousey humanoid female, her maroon uniform so crisp the creases could cut solid neutronium. An ensign’s chevron graced the white bar at her right shoulder.

“Excuse, excuse me, Captain,” she said timidly. Sam snorted as he walked past her.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else, Ensign. And I am very late for a meeting with Admiral Sterling.” Sam moved towards the admiral’s office, but the ensign got in his way, a frustrated look on her face.

“The admiral is in a very bad mood, and will have no, no tolerance for your current attitude,” she said. Sam was surprised by the forcefulness of her voice. “You need to, need to shut up and listen to him. Act like the future depends, depends on it.” Her voice grew soft, pleading. “Please.”

Something in her face gave Commander Sam Saberhagen pause. “I’ll try,” he said.

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

“You’re late,” barked Admiral Jackson Sterling. Sam snapped to attention.

“I’m very sorry, sir. There was a delay at the transporter station, some sort of bug in the molecular imaging scanner.”

“Sit, Commander.”

“Aye, sir.” Sam did as instructed. He noticed the admiral’s uniform was nearly as crisp as the ensign’s who’d just accosted him, while his own was rumpled and very obviously – and recently, and frequently – slept in. Great, he thought sourly. Just great.

Adm. Sterling consulted a nearby notepad. “So, Commander Sa…” The admiral paused, chuckled a bit cruelly. “That’s your given name? No wonder you go by Sam.”

Sam blushed slightly. “There are family stories as to why that name, sir. Personally, I’m convinced alcohol was involved. Lots of alcohol."

Adm. Sterling chuckled again. “No doubt, Commander.” He hefted a timeworn manila envelope stuffed with paper, let it thump forcefully on the desk. “Do you know what’s in this?”

Sam started to sigh, but recalled the ensign’s warning. “Yes sir. I’m very aware of what’s in my service jacket, Admiral.” Sam recalled that Adm. Sterling liked using actual paper when he could, especially to make dramatic points when grilling subordinates.

The admiral coughed. “Graduated Starfleet Academy 2260, steady rise through the ranks, a little faster than your contemporaries but not meteoric. Above average ratings in all assignments. After promotion to commander, served with distinction as first officer on USS Citadel, USS Roosevelt, USS T’Challa. 2267, in line for promotion to captain and starship command.” He fixed a tired stare at Sam. “Instead, you’ve been commanding various desks at remote, dead-end Starfleet facilities for the last 26 years. Why is that?”

“The Otorem Incident.” The stare went from tired to intense. “It killed my career faster than a Tamaranian cheetah.”

“Indeed,” said Admiral Sterling. “And why you weren’t cashiered out of Starfleet after that, I have no idea.” He coughed again. “If we didn’t have the need, by God, it’s a mistake I’d be thoroughly pleased to correct, and this meeting would see you Other Than Honorably discharged.” His eyes lost focus for a moment, apparently considering his options. “It might be a better choice, Commander.”

“Need, Admiral?”

Adm. Sterling’s voice was quiet, as if the words were distasteful. “For a starship captain.” For a moment, Sam thought the admiral might actually spit in an effort to clear his mouth. Instead, he continued.

“We lost the USS Resolute two weeks ago in the Palatine Sound. She’s the fifth ship lost in as many months.”

"Palatine Sound, sir?” Sam asked, incredulously. “The concentration of spatial and supposedly temporal anomalies in that chunk of space is unmatched anywhere else. Begging your pardon, sir, but why are we sending ships in there?”

Adm. Sterling sighed. “Forgive the cliché, commander, but what I’m about to tell you is highly classified. We’re well aware of the various anomalies, but there’s a source of dikronium in there, the purest we’ve ever come across. We have a small mining operation, and the ships were sent to guard it. But for some reason, they keep disappearing. Although, two of the ships, USS Lightning and USS Caladan, reappeared last month, ten sectors away with all hands.. well, let’s say dead and leave it at that.” Sam swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. “If the dikronium wasn’t so valuable we’d scuttle the mine and salt the earth so no one else could excavate there.

“We need a ship to guard that mining operation, Commander. The only reason you’re here is, quite frankly, no one else will take the assignment. Not to mention, the only ship we have available is a Block II Constitution uprated build, USS Bunker Hill, NCC-1775. She’s not a refit, but she is one of the older Connie builds, and well, she’s seen better days. They’re working on her now, but we have to get a ship to the Palatine Sound a week ago, so she won’t get the attention she needs.

“And yes, I know you’re not completely stupid – at least I hope you’re not – but to answer the question you likely have as to why we don’t send a task force in there, well, can you imagine the attention it would attract? So we send one ship, ostensibly to support the quote-unquote research facility and escort the quote-unquote supply ships that arrive periodically.

“If you take the assignment, your only objective is to protect that mine, and that at all costs. You are not to investigate the anomalies. You are not to try to find out why the other five ships disappeared. Make no mistake, Commander, that mine and its output are obscenely more valuable than you, the ship, and her crew. If you don’t, I punch your ticket now, and with an OTH discharge in your pocket, you’ll need divine intervention to get any job other than scrubbing sand out of ornithopter engines on Arrakis.”

A decidedly malicious grin crossed Adm. Sterling’s face. “By the by, Commander, if you do take the promotion and the command, you will be reporting directly to me, and if I think there’s a shadow of a shadow of a chance that you’ve screwed up, not only will I punch your ticket out of Starfleet, I’ll clean your chronometer while I’m at it.

“Those are your choices, Commander.”

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

Sam Saberhagen walked out of Admiral Sterling’s office with a grimace on his lips and the beginnings of a jolly shiner over his left eye. He ignored the look of surprise on the face of the ensign who’d accosted him on his way in. Sam muttered to himself as the turbolift doors opened, and hawked blood on to the floor as they closed.

“Self-righteous son of a bitch…”

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

“I thought this time, this time we had him,” she said as she tossed her uniform jacket onto a nearby chair. “I understand why, why they called these ‘monster maroons’,” she commented. “The uniforms, uniforms of this era look quite, quite impressive, but after five minutes they get heavy. I don’t know how, know how they remained in use for so long.”

“Better these than those footie pajamas from a few years ago,” replied a male voice. “You’ll have to try again,” he said, in a soft-spoken tone that nevertheless carried a considerable weight of command.

She sighed. “Why can’t, why can’t you do it? And why can’t we just, just tell him?”

“You know I can’t be seen in this era,” he said with a smile in his voice, “not again. And especially not by Adm. Sterling.

“And you know the choice has to be his. Sam has to decide to take the command.”

She laughed tiredly. “I sincerely hope he decides soon. I want, want to go home.”

“I know. I do too.”

“We almost had him this time…”

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

Part LVIII

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

Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, high geosynchronous orbit, Earth

Late 2293

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

The turbolift door opened slowly, revealing an attractive though somewhat mousey humanoid female, her maroon uniform so crisp the creases could cut solid neutronium. An ensign’s chevron graced the white bar at her right shoulder.

“Excuse, excuse me, Captain,” she said timidly. Sam snorted as he walked past her.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else, Ensign. And I am very late for a meeting with Admiral Sterling.” Sam moved towards the admiral’s office, but the ensign got in his way, a tired and very frustrated look on her face.

“The admiral is in a very bad mood, and will have no, no tolerance for your current attitude,” she said. Sam was surprised by the forcefulness of her voice. “You need to, need to shut up and listen to him this time. Act like the future depends, depends on it.” Her voice grew soft, pleading. “Please.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “This time?” The ensign ignored his comment but held her ground for just a moment longer before moving out of his way. Something in her face gave Commander Sam Saberhagen pause.

“I’ll try,” he said.

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

“You’re late,” barked Admiral Jackson Sterling. Sam snapped to attention.

“I’m very sorry, sir. There was a delay at the transporter station, some sort of bug in the pattern buffer.”

“Sit, Commander.”

“Aye, sir.” Sam did as instructed. He noticed the admiral’s uniform was nearly as crisp as the ensign’s who’d just accosted him, while his own was rumpled and very obviously – and recently, and frequently – slept in. Great, he thought sourly. Just great.

Adm. Sterling consulted a nearby notepad. “So, Commander Sa…” The admiral paused, chuckled a bit cruelly. “That’s your given name? No wonder you go by Sam.”

Sam blushed slightly. “There are family stories as to why that name, sir. Personally, I’m convinced alcohol was involved. Lots of alcohol."

Adm. Sterling chuckled again. “No doubt, Commander.” He hefted a timeworn manila envelope stuffed with paper, let it thump forcefully on the desk. “Do you know what’s in this?”

Sam started to sigh, but recalled the ensign’s warning. “Yes sir. I’m very aware of what’s in my service jacket, Admiral.” Sam recalled that Adm. Sterling liked using actual paper when he could, especially to make dramatic points when grilling subordinates.

The admiral coughed. “Graduated Starfleet Academy 2260, steady rise through the ranks, a little faster than your contemporaries but not meteoric. Above average ratings in all assignments. After promotion to commander, served with distinction as first officer on USS Citadel, USS Roosevelt, USS T’Challa. 2267, in line for promotion to captain and starship command.” He fixed a tired stare at Sam. “Instead, you’ve been commanding various desks at remote, dead-end Starfleet facilities for the last 26 years. Why is that?”

“The Otorem Incident.” The stare went from tired to intense. “It killed my career faster than a Tamaranian cheetah.”

“Indeed,” said Admiral Sterling. “And why you weren’t cashiered out of Starfleet after that, I have no idea.” He coughed again. “If we didn’t have the need, by God, it’s a mistake I’d be thoroughly pleased to correct, and this meeting would see you Other Than Honorably discharged.” His eyes lost focus for a moment, apparently considering his options. “It might be a better choice, Commander.”

“Need, Admiral?”

Adm. Sterling’s voice was quiet, as if the words were distasteful. “For a starship captain.” For a moment, Sam thought the admiral might actually spit in an effort to clear his mouth. Instead, he continued.

“We lost the USS Resolute two weeks ago in the Palatine Sound. She’s the fifth ship lost in as many months.”

“Palatine Sound, sir?” Sam asked, incredulously. “The concentration of spatial and supposedly temporal anomalies in that chunk of space is unmatched anywhere else. Begging your pardon, sir, but why are we sending ships in there?”

Adm. Sterling sighed. “Forgive the cliché, commander, but what I’m about to tell you is highly classified. We’re well aware of the various anomalies, but there’s a source of dikronium in there, the purest we’ve ever come across. We have a small mining operation, and the ships were sent to guard it. But for some reason, they keep disappearing. Although, two of the ships, USS Lightning and USS Caladan, reappeared last month, ten sectors away with all hands.. well, let’s say dead and leave it at that.” Sam swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. “If the dikronium wasn’t so valuable we’d scuttle the mine and salt the earth so no one else could excavate there.

“We need a ship to guard that mining operation, Commander. The only reason you’re here is, quite frankly, no one else will take the assignment. Not to mention, the only ship we have available is a Block II Constitution uprated build, USS Bunker Hill, NCC-1775. She’s not a refit, but she is one of the older Connie builds, and well, she’s seen better days. They’re working on her now, but we have to get a ship to the Palatine Sound a week ago, so she won’t get the attention she needs.

“And yes, I know you’re not completely stupid – at least I hope you’re not – but to answer the question you likely have as to why we don’t send a task force in there, well, can you imagine the attention it would attract? So we send one ship, ostensibly to support the quote-unquote research facility and escort the quote-unquote supply ships that arrive periodically.

“If you take the assignment, your only objective is to protect that mine, and that at all costs. You are not to investigate the anomalies. You are not to try to find out why the other five ships disappeared. Make no mistake, Commander, that mine and its output are obscenely more valuable than you, the ship, and her crew. If you don’t, I punch your ticket now, and with an OTH discharge in your pocket, you’ll need divine intervention to get any job other than restroom maintenance at Utopia Planitia.”

A decidedly malicious grin crossed Adm. Sterling’s face. “By the by, Commander, if you do take the promotion and the command, you will be reporting directly to me, and if I think there’s a shadow of a shadow of a chance that you’ve screwed up, not only will I punch your ticket out of Starfleet, I’ll clean your chronometer while I’m at it.

“Those are your choices, Commander.”

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

Sam Saberhagen walked out of Admiral Sterling’s office with a frown on his face, obviously lost in thought. He ignored the questioning look on the face of the ensign who’d accosted him on his way in. Sam muttered to himself as the turbolift doors opened, and was shaking his head slightly as they closed.

“Self-righteous son of a bitch…”

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

Westbridge (suburb of Boston), Massachusetts, Earth

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

Sam Saberhagen put down the razor and wiped his face with a nearby towel. He looked tiredly at himself in the mirror. Like just about everything else in his home, the historic Spellman House – it had been in his family for hundreds of years – it was an antique.

Like that ship they gave me, he thought with a wry smile. And like me. His face, once handsomely chiseled, had gone somewhat craggy over the years, and the hair that had been obsidian-black was now a granite grey.

“Lord help me, I’m too old for this,” he said to the empty bathroom. “Can’t believe I said yes…”

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

The Beginning...

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

 

March/April 2021 Challenge "Writ in the Ash of Long-Cold Stars" (challenge theme- "hope dies last")

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

THEY were coming.

THEY were the stuff of rumor, of myth, of legend. THEY were the fodder of stories whispered by grizzled Star-divers, deep in their cups; by those Star-divers who had dared to go Beyond and delved the Deep Black. THEIR ships are sleek, artistic, even beautiful, appearing to have been forged from silverquick and infused with pure Light. THEIR eyes twinkle, THEIR smiles are warm and inviting. But don’t be deceived, the stories tell. THEIR words are woven from spiderlight. If you listen to THEM, if you give THEM a chance to tell of their mission, then sooner or later, you will become THEM. It is inevitable.

THEY were coming.

Those were the stories, anyway. The details varied a bit over the deca-cycles, waxing and waning in popularity amongst the Star-divers, but always present in one form or another. There was always at least one who claimed to have seen THEM, or seen the aftermath of THEIR visit. Such an one was often mocked to one degree or another, but their tales usually found fertile ground in at least one or two minds. There was even the occasional daring (read: foolhardy) soul who would take their ship out into the Deep Black in an effort to find THEM. A scant few of these ever came back, and their compatriots – for a brief moment – mourned those lost to THEM, before carrying on with their own endeavors.

THEY were coming.

So the stories told. But THEY never appeared, and life went on, continuing each day-part as it had for much the same way over the past mega-cycles. Colonization of the star system proceeded slowly but steadily, and resources flowed back to the Homeworld. New ships were built, new gunstations placed at strategic locations (there were those in the galactic neighborhood that were jealous and greedy, after all), and a goldshine age beckoned to the Iaaro, a glorious future of peace and prosperity.

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

Vatha-505, freshly minted gunmaster, sat in the command cradle of Point Nine for the first time and entered her command glyphs. Her crests ruffled with barely-contained excitement, the metallic susurration carrying lightly through the small room. Point Nine was one of the gunstations in high orbit over the Homeworld, and to be posted here was a high honor for one as young as Vatha-505. Her performace in the training crèche had earned her the assignment, though a few words from her mentor Algethi-724-D had certainly helped. Vatha-505 vowed to the Va’rran that she would not let Algethi-724-D, or indeed her fellow Iarro, find her lacking.

In addition to being a vital cog in the Homeworld’s defences, Point Nine (and its sibling gunstations) served as a wayhelper for the cargo ships that carried Delvers to the outer worlds and returned with holds full of ores, groundrock, and other treasures to feed the fires of Industry on the Homeworld. Once her command glyphs had been accepted, Vatha-505 was inundated with datastreams concerning the flow of ship traffic in her assigned Segment. She quickly sorted the datastreams into her preferred configurations, and proceeded to ensure that all flowed as it should. It wasn’t long before Vatha-505 was rewarded with a chime that told her the ship flow efficiency in her Segment had improved by a factor of point six-three-three-eight. She allowed herself a slight ruffle of her crests in pride, then resumed her work.

Day-parts flowed into more day-parts, which became cycle-parts, which became cycles…

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

Seven cycles had passed since Vatha-505 had been installed in Point Nine. Since then, her configurations had been adopted throughout the Iaaro’s home system, and she was being considered for the position of Prime Mentor. Such an honor had never been bestowed on one so young, but Vatha-505 didn’t let the thought interfere with her work. At least, most of the time. On rare occasion, however, she allowed herself a microcycle of pride, and then continued with her work.

The day-part’s duties were nearly complete, and Vatha-505 reluctantly considered her options for her impending rejuvenation time. As she prepared to disengage from Point Nine’s control matrix, alarms started screaming and every screenview went black. Vatha-505 immediately attempted to engage diagnostic subroutines but was unsuccessful. The black screenviews briefly displayed an image she’d never seen before, something that looked like a star-point made from goldshine, backed by silverquick. The star-point image vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and then a communication channel opened. It was Vatha-505’s mentor, Algethi-724-D. The two had not communicated for three cycles.

“Remain in place, Vatha-505,” Algethi-724-D indicated. “A transmat beam will be engaged shortly.”

“What is transpiring?” Vatha-505 queried.

“THEY are coming.”

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

Vatha-505 found herself in a command cradle very similar to the one she’d just been removed from, but this one was somehow different. It held a distinct.. flavor, for lack of a better term; an undercurrent of potential and raw, unfocused power. Vatha-505 attempted to input her command glyphs but nothing happened.

“Patience, Vatha-505,” came the voice of Algethi-724-D. “We are implementing Phase One. If this is unsuccessful, and Phase Two becomes necessary, you will be notified. For the moment, please endeavor to relax.”

“As you ask, it will be.” Vatha shifted slightly in the command cradle, finding a more comfortable placement, and closed her optics but reached out with her other senses. The power was still there, and she could sense it slowly – oh, so slowly – taking shape. She could feel the flow of data to distant cogitators, and heard the barely-perceptible whine of psi-fusion reactors. Vatha-505 tilted her head to one side in an effort to focus. The reactors were larger than any she’d encountered, larger than what was theoretically possible. What need could there be for such?

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

A day-part passed, then another. Vatha-505, patient as she was, began to feel a sense of irritation at her isolation. She had nourishment and stimulation of both mental and physical natures available to her, but no information. For one such as Vatha-505, the lack of information was akin to the lack of breathing gases. But Algethi-724-D had asked her for patience, so for her mentor and her people, Vatha-505 would be patient.

The third day-part of her isolation was drawing to a close when the communication channel opened again.

“I regret that I was unable to communicate more promptly,” said Algethi-724-D. “Early indications were that Phase One would be successful, but such was not the case. We are therefore preparing to implement Phase Two. Certain protocols had to be enacted to allow for this, hence the delay. Prepare for a significant information downlink.”

The indicated information flowed into Vatha-505’s mind and micro-cogitators with significant force. Anyone of lesser experience would have been subsumed by the riptide of data. As it was, it took Vatha-505 several micro-cycles to process what had been downlinked.

What she saw and felt chilled her to her very bone-struts…

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

THEIR ship had somehow appeared deep in-system, bypassing the Iaaro’s outer defense perimeters. Vatha-505 had to admit that it was elegant and beautiful in ways she never thought a ship could be. How could something like that be dangerous? But then she realized that was part of THEIR threat. Aah, but THEY are clever…

Phase One was engaged. Vatha-505 saw the inner defense systems activate, saw the shoals of Iaaro ships speed to meet THEM. She felt the recoil as the guns spat death, as the ships executed flawless attack patterns, as THEIR ship appeared engulfed in plasma fire. But when the fire died, THEIR ship was still there, and it was utterly undamaged.

THEY have energy fields, the data indicated, much like those employed for containment in the psi-fusion reactors but much, much stronger. None of our weapons can penetrate THEIR defenses. The attacks continued, more ships came at THEM, but it was all for naught. Though it seemed the Iaaro attacks were weakening THEIR energy field defense, it was in miniscule amounts. There was not enough force available to the Iaaro to stop THEM.

THEY attempted repeated communications. Some in the Iaaro command suggested speaking to THEM, to at least buy time for another attack effort; those who did were quickly removed. ‘We must not become THEM’ was the battle cry. More attacks were launched, piecemeal efforts at delay and distraction. Finally, THEY responded with force, ruby lances of star-fire stabbing from THEIR ship; each Iaaro ship touched by that fire was immediately crippled. It was clear that Phase Two was an inevitability.

Vatha-505 had a bare micro-cycle to take a deep inhalation of breathing gases before she was shown what Phase Two really was.

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

“Is there no other option?” she queried.

Algethi-724-D replied with a somber tone. “None. This was decided many mega-cycles ago, if THEY ever came and we were unable to stop THEM. We must not become THEM, not under any circumstances. Therefore, we will cease to exist, and all trace of our civilization will be erased. There will be none that survive, none to remember us.

“Except you, Vatha-505.”

“Me?”

“You will be our hope, Vatha-505. Our last and only hope. Our hope for remembrance, our hope for justice… and our hope for vengeance.” Vengeance. This was a word that for cycles unnumbered held little to no meaning among the Iaaro. To hear it from her mentor…

Vatha-505’s crests settled sadly. “As you ask. But, how will it be?”

“You rest in the command cradle of the most powerful starship we have ever constructed. Over the mega-cycles, any information regarding THEM was fed into the cogitators you certainly felt. The data gathered during Phase One has been downlinked as well. Psi-fusion reactors of unprecedented power will feed fabrication systems of unparalleled complexity, that weapons of unimaginable force may be forged. You may already sense this ongoing.

“But it will take time, time that we cannot allow THEM to take. Phase Two will drive THEM from our worlds, so that all may proceed. While it does, Vatha-505, you will sleep. And when you awaken, how many cycles from now we know not, your skin will be impenetrable battlesteel. Your blood will be plasma fire, your legs mighty stardrives, your arms the bringers of death.

“You alone will remember us. Let that memory drive you in your quest, to find THEM and make THEM taste our wrath.” Algethi-724-D’s optics glittered sadly. “When you awaken, you will no longer be Vatha-505. You are allowed to choose the name you will take.”

“To choose?” Such a thing had never happened before. The gravity of her calling settled heavily on Vatha-505. She considered possibilities for a micro-cycle.

“I will be Sapphire Black,” Vatha-505 stated. “That place where the life-giving sky of our Homeworld meets the beginning of possibility that the dark of the void represents.”

“So it shall be,” nodded Algethi-724-D. Vatha-505 felt herself sliding into un-awareness. “Sleep now, and remember…”