Captain Strauss and the USS Blanchard: “Blast from the Past”
(Author's Note: For a change of pace, this 3 chapter short-story is written in first-person, from the perspective of Captain Inga Strauss.)
Stardate 65671.5 (2 September 2388)
USS Franklin Blanchard NCC-90764
Captain's Log, Supplemental:
Tribunals are about as much fun as hugging a Capellan power cat while standing in a bucket of salt water. In forty two years of life, I've had the pleasure of sitting through three of them. You walk out feeling like you've been dissected with a blunt knife. If I never face another, it will be too soon.
The good news . . . no general court martial, no suspension, not even an official reprimand . . . Phil Montaigne was right across the board. I guess his back-channel communications with Admiral Nate Porter were helpful. Maybe my string of bad luck going back a decade is coming to an end.
But, (and there's always a “but” when sitting before a board of inquiry) there is a bit of bad news. No, it wasn't getting read the “riot act” about playing fast and loose with the Prime Directive. That was expected and probably deserved. Maybe. The J'Ril race will go on, bruised, battered, and bewildered, perhaps, but they have a future and can determine their own destiny. A far better outcome than extinction, in my opionion. But it still rankles me that Captain Syvick took the blame and brunt of the tribunal's ire. Now, a veteran starship commander is sidelined to fulfill the brass' perverse sense of justice. If they needed a scapegoat, they should have picked me. But Syvick was the senior Captain on scene, so . . .
The somewhat bad news for me (and, by extension, my crew) is receiving new orders directing the Blanchard to patrol the Outland Expanse. Aside from the Caitian homeworld and a few small settlements, there are no Federation aligned worlds in the sector. To add to the fun, the Tzenkethi Autarchy are in the neighborhood, along with their saber-tooth cousins, the Kzinti pirates. We'll relieve USS Oslo (wonder what their C.O. did to tick off the brass?) and begin our sentence . . . our assignment, rather, keeping the peace in the frontier of the Alpha Quadrant.
Computer, end and save.
* * *
Three weeks later . . .
“Come on, Senior . . . show me what you've got.”
I threw down the gauntlet to Senior Chief Petty Officer Angela Lemas as we sparred on the holodeck. To be honest, it was a half-hearted challenge. I was doing pretty well just breathing and not passing out. For her part, Senior Chief Lemas looked like she could go all day. I'm pretty sure she was taking it easy on me.
We both wore ghi's and protective padding on head, fists, and feet. The idea was to avoid broken bones and concussions. However, I think I was setting a record for most bruises accumulated in one workout.
On paper, Senior Chief Lemas and I were fairly evenly matched . . . roughly the same size, although she had a couple of inches and maybe ten pounds on me, and about the same age . . . her 45 to my 42. But SCPO Angela Lemas was all corded muscle and fast reflexes. Lean, mean, and quick . . . much quicker than me, I admit.
And I think she enjoyed getting to kick her C.O.'s ass once a week.
Not that I'm in bad shape. I work out six days a week – racquetball, running, swimming, and getting beaten up, are my main routines. There's comfort in knowing if Lemas really wanted to hurt me, I could probably out-run her.
We circled around each other on the mat . . . she, like a panther, me, like a wounded . . . I don't know . . . pick your own metaphorical prey.
I feinted with a right, then came at her with a sweeping leg strike. She saw it coming a mile away and elbowed me in the thigh to signal her annoyance in such a predictable move.
Nothing like a knotted up thigh muscle to loosen up the curses. I knew how to curse in 27 languages . . . something I picked up from our Tellarite engineer on my days as X.O. of the Border Service Cutter, USS Bluefin.
“Those are some new ones, Captain, what lang . . .”
My acting will never earn me a role on Broadway, but I managed to distract Lemas enough to launch a leg sweep that took her to the map. Then, I finished with a hard heel strike to her abdomen, hearing the satisfying whoomp as her breath (and, hopefully, her evil soul) left her body..
It was over-kill, but I pounced (more acurately, fell) on her and added a head-butt just for good measure. Not a terribly smart move, as I damn near knocked myself out.
“Nice . . . takedown . . .” gasped the SCPO. I was impressed she could speak, much less remain conscious.
A voice from my past spoke in my head. Never miss a chance to fight dirty . . . Rules are for losers . . . Fight like you will die every time you get into an unarmed situation . . . Bite, kick, do whatever it takes . . . If you quit, you're dead.
Senior Chief Solly Brin. Probably the scariest person I ever met.
I reached down to help up Lemas, but stopped just in time.
“Slap the mat, Senior.”
She grinned. Blood flowed from her nostrils and she'd have two good shiners without a few minutes in sickbay. Gamely, she slapped the mat, indicating her “surrender” and the cessation of hostilities. More than once, I had forgotten that detail and been tossed across the mat for my lack of attention.
This time, we grasped wrists and I pulled her up. She bounced up easily, seeming none the worse for wear apart from a possibly broken nose.
“That was . . . a good move, Captain. Unorthodox . . . and fierce . . . I like it!”
I smiled. “Something I learned in the Border Service.”
She nodded appreciatively. “You're a pretty good fighter . . . when you're focused, ma'am. But I recommend you add more . . . weights to your workouts. You've got great endurance . . . but your upper body strength could improve.” Her wind was coming back, but her voice was still thick.
I was impressed with how quickly she was recovering. “Noted, Senior Chief. Same time next week?”
“Yes ma'am. And don't . . . think that leg sweep will work a second time.”
I shook my head. “I won't press my luck. Head to sickbay and get that nose looked at. You're bleeding all over my ship.”
“Aye, aye,” she replied and trotted toward the exit.
“Computer, save and end program.” The sparring arena disappeared, replaced by the black walls and yellow grid lines of the holodeck.
As I made to exit the holodeck, the charlie horse in my leg took that moment to announce itself.Somehow, I managed to hobble down the corridor without crying or cursing. Must set a good example for the crew, after all.
I considered making my way to Sickbay, but decided against it, seeing as Senior Chief Lemas was there, and I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had doled out some serious hurt on her part.
Instead, I headed to Counselor Montaigne's office. He had an M.D., so he must be of some use.
* * *
“Ow, dammit Phil!”
Montaigne gave me a look completely lacking in sympathy. So much for bedside manner.
“Are you going to sit still so I can examine your leg, or do I need to sedate you?”
“Are you sure you're actually a Medical Doctor?” I countered. I was beginning to think that Sickbay was looking like a better option.
He looked over at his English Bulldog, Jake. “She interrupts my morning nap, and this is the thanks I get.”
Jake whined. I wasn't sure if he felt sorry for me or if he was waiting for one of the treats Phil kept in a jar on his desk.
With the pants leg of the Ghi rolled as high as it could go, Phil frowned and poked the injured spot one last time, eliciting a hiss from me. Thoughts of murder entered my mind.
He rummaged in a drawer and removed a small med-kit, producing a Feinberger scanner that looked to have been state-of-the-art when James T. Kirk was an ensign. He shook it a couple of times, and it finally warbled to life.
“You could get some modern equipment, you know,” I pointed out.
“You could go to Sickbay, where they keep the modern stuff. Now, shut up and be still.”
I complied, the best I could. He waved the small device over my leg, glanced at it, frowned, and rummaged through his kit again. This time, he came out with a hypo-spray that appeared marginally newer than the scanner.
He paused, as if in thought, and turned a dial on the device. “How much do you weigh?” he asked.
“Like hell!” I replied.
“Sickbay, then. Two decks up, half way around the corridor, You can't miss it.”
I muttered my weight.
“What's that?” he cupped his ear. “A little louder, please.”
“Don't. Push. It. Old. Man.”
He smiled. “Just kidding.” Then, without warning, he pressed the hypo-spray against the knot in my leg.
“Mange-covered, syphilitic, hell-spawned, demi-whores,” I hissed. But as the last curse flowed from my lips, the pain began to fade.
I blinked and, gingerly, moved my leg a bit. The swelling was already going down.
“You were saying?” he asked, replacing the hypo-spray and scanner in the little kit before tossing the lot carelessly on the desk.
“Um, thanks, I guess,” I was still a little miffed at him.
“Good thing you saw about that leg. You had a nasty blood clot forming. It's gone now, and the anti-inflammatory meds should take care of the rest. It will remain sore, because a little suffering builds character and your language indicates a deficiency in that regard.”
“Screw you, Phil,” but I was smiling now. I rolled the pants leg down and stood, gingerly. Yes, there was still some soreness, but it felt a hundred times better.
He handed me a mug of Raktajino. It was my one vice (well, one of several), and Phil Montaigne was a maestro when it came to brewing the Klingon version of a spicy quadruple espresso.
“In lieu of payment,” he began, “you can tell me a bit about the Outland Expanse.”
I considered a snarky remark about how profiting off of medical services was both illegal and unethical in the Federation, but he asked a fair question.
I shared the basics about the Caitians being the lone Federation-aligned major planet, the Tzenkethi, the Kzinti, and the sparse population.There was some lovely places, but a whole lot more ugly. The best I could describe it was as a sad and hopeless corner of the universe.
“It's truly the frontier as far as Federation territory goes. Unfortunately, it's probably the least civilized with the most crime and mayhem.” I cocked my head and gave him a look. “Surely, you've been there at some point.”
He shook his head while reaching down to scratch behind Jake's ears. The Bulldog's tongue lolled happily.
“You might think so, but no. The ships on which I served were flitting about, seeking new worlds. I spent more time in the Beta Quadrant, believe it or not. Never made it to this side of the Alpha Quadrant.”
“You haven't missed much,” I replied. Glancing up at an antique clock over his desk, I winced. “And I'm going to miss our staff meeting if I don't get moving.”
Standing, I was relieved that my leg supported me without protest. Montaigne also stood.
“Let me know if that leg gives you any more problems.”
“I will, and thanks, Phil. I mean it.” I replied. “See you in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
From long practice, I was able to grab a quick sonic shower, put on a fresh uniform, run a brush over my teeth and through my hair (different brushes), apply lip gloss, and make it to the conference room with five minutes to spare.
The leg, by the way, felt just fine.
Commander Raymond Graycloud, my First Officer, and Science Officer Lieutenant V'Xon were already in place. Ray grinned at me.
“I heard you put a hurtin' on Senior Chief Lemas.”
“She gave as good as she got, Ray. I got in a lucky kick.”
"Uh-huh.”
I had the feeling someone had won a bet.
The rest of the senior staff filed in. Phil Montaigne strode in last, wearing his signature cardigan sweater that was at least a size too large. He took his usual seat by our CMO, Dr. Yue. Lt. Vashtee, my old Bluefin shipmate and curnt Ops Manager for Blanchard, sat on his opposite side.
Chief Engineer, Lt. Commander Bradley Fuller and First Officer, Commander Raymond Graycloud sat on opposite sides of me. Lt. V'Xon sat in typically still and serene fashion next to Graycloud.
The gang's all here, I thought, though we were still without a Chief Security Officer. That was on the agenda for another day.
“Welcome to the Outland Expanse,” I began, without preamble. “We crossed into the sector at 0617, ship's time. On our current course and speed, we should arrive at Desola Station in roughly six hours. Absent a starbase in the sector, it will serve as a base of sorts for R&R and occasional repairs.”
Dr. Yue raised a hand. “What about Starbase 500? Isn't the Sector Commander, Admiral Ch'Shev, based there?”
I nodded, having anticipated the question. “Yes, he is. But Starbase 500 is not actually in the Outland Expanse, but in sector 4773. Admiral Ch'Shev actually oversees three different sectors.”
“There used to be a Border Service Star Station in the Outland Expanse,” added Commander Graycloud. “Until it was destroyed ten years ago.”
“Destroyed?” asked Dr. Yue, with obvious surprise in her voice. I would need to remind her to read the mission briefs before our senior staff meetings.
“Yep. Plenty of theories about who, how, and why, but no straight answers to date.”
I sighed. “To get us back on track, let me summarize. There was an explosion that destroyed Star Station Bravo, killing many fine Border Dogs and civilians, in all, nearly three hundred beings perished that day . . . Human, Caitian, Vulcan, Andorian, Tellarite . . . even a few Klingons and Ferengi. Theories ranged from an attack by the Tzenkethi, perhaps using their Kzinti minions to plant explosives. Other theories get more bizarre . . . a false-flag operation by the Caitians to force Starfleet into pouring more assets into the sector, and a theory that the bombing was a plot by Section 31 to start another war between the Federation and the Tzenkethi.”
Ray snorted at the last one, which I knew he would. He thought Section 31 was “a bogey-man used by Academy upper-classmen to scare plebes.”
I knew better, but didn't argue the point. Honestly, it didn't matter. What mattered was the souls lost and no one seemed to care anymore.
“Anyway,” I continued. “The Border Service deactivated the Second Squadron, not that much was left of it aside from the Dragonfire and a couple of obsolete Aerie-class boats. Starfleet took over patrol duties, with at least one capital ship assigned, rotating every six months. That's where we come in.”
“What became of the Dragonfire?” asked Lt. Vashtee. Another question I anticipated. Maya and I knew some of the officers from that cutter.
“Reassigned to the Third Squadron, last I heard. Artie Slayd is still C.O. as far as I know.”
Maya nodded, but I could tell she was troubled. She felt the sting of losing a Star Station and fellow Border Dogs same as me, even with the passing of a decade. Some things ought to hurt.
“Now, on to directives regarding Desola Station,” I continued. “Remember, this is not a Federation Starbase, and the rules are different.”
“Starting with, there really aren't any rules,” interjected the Chief Engineer.
“Accurate, as far as it goes,” I replied casting a warning glance at Fuller. The man was brilliant and a top-flight engineer, but he had a bad habit of engaging his mouth before his brain had a chance to catch up.
“First and foremost,” I continued, “All Blanchard personnel will go on the station in pairs at minimum. Absolutely no-one, the officers in this room included, are to go on Desola alone. Am I clear?”
I glared around the room, daring anyone to crack a joke. Wisely, all remained silent. Even Brad Fuller nodded in agreement.
“Second, personnel going on the station will carry sidearms. Type I 'cricket' phasers are acceptable, but better to have one person in the party carrying a Type II that will be visible.” I looked around. Most nodded, although Dr. Yue was frowning. I knew this would be difficult for her as she was an avowed pacifist. “Phasers should be set and locked on heavy stun.”
“Heavy stun?” asked Dr. Yue, “Isn't light stun sufficient?”
“Not against a Nausicaan,” replied Graycloud. “Hell, some Human big boy with a few too many won't go down on light stun.”
“Ray is correct,” I said. “That's a non-negotiable, Doctor.”
Yue leaned back and crossed her arms, obviously displeased, but she held her peace.
“Third,” I pressed on, “Any items purchased on the station are subject to passing through our transporter filters and remaining quarantined until full scans are completed.”
“Fourth,” If you decide to eat food on the station, I recommend you carry a tri-corder. Most vendors are fine, but there's little in the way of health inspections out here. Let the buyer beware. We don't need a case of K'Tinga's revenge breaking out on the ship.”
There were a few chuckles at that. Good.
“Fifth, do not start any fights. Avoid confrontation if at all possible. If you're challenged, walk away. If insulted, ignore it. But if cornered and you consider yourself in danger, defend yourself.”
Phil raised his hand.
“Yes, Counselor?”
“Any recommendations for allowing the crew to blow off some steam on that bucket? We've been on this ship for three solid months. I think the guidelines are necessary and appropriate, but let's be honest . . . some of our people will want to get rowdy when they go ashore, so to speak.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Always the realist, Phil.”
He shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
“Beyond the parameters I just laid down, and within the code of uniform military justice, I really don't care what the crew does, as long as it doesn't affect the rest of the crew, endangers our ship, or creates an interstellar incident.”
There were chuckles this time. “Look,” I continued, “This isn't the first liberty call for the crew. We've been to Rigel IV, which can get a bit wild.”
“A bit,” nodded Graycloud, nodding.
“Any further questions?” The senior officers glanced around, but no questions were raised.
“Okay,” I continued, relaxing a bit, “Now on to department reports . . .”
* * *
“Now entering system boundary,” announced the helm officer, Lt. (j.g.) Juan Garcia. I liked the young officer; he was an excellent helmsman, if on the quiet side.
“Drop us out of warp, Mr. Garcia. Ahead one-half impulse.”
“Tactical, raise shields. Lt. Vashtee, active sensor sweep, system wide.”
I saw a few heads turn slightly. Lt. V'Xon, lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Commander Graycloud, standing nearby, rose on the balls of his feet slightly, then relaxed, but made no comment.
We cruised at sublight for nearly an hour. The bridge was quiet, save for the soft, echoing beep of the sensor returns and the hushed flow from the air-handlers. I almost wished for the background noise on the Bluefin. The old cutter seemed more alive, less sterile, with its numerous beeps, whirs, and rattles. It even had a friendlier smell – warm transtators and old leather, mixed with cold coffee.
Blanchard was a modern ship and still relatively new, of course. Her personality would develop with time and star-hours.
Maybe I should spill a cup of coffee . . . I thought, idly.
“Captain,” the edge in Vashtee's voice brought me to full alert. “The station has painted us with targeting scanners.”
I smiled tightly. About time, I thought.
“Return the favor. Tactical, energize all phaser arrays. Load and arm forward tubes with quantum yields and target that station.” I paused. “Maya, open a channel to the station, audio only.”
Vashtee complied. “Channel Open.”
I straightened a bit in the chair. It was a bit awkward, since my feet barely reached the deck.
“Desola Station, this is Captain Inga Strauss of the Federation Starship USS Franklin Blanchard. You will deactivate all targeting systems aimed at my ship or we will respond. Be advised that we are a long way from the Federation core worlds and our rules of engagement are more flexible in the frontier. You have thirty seconds to comply.”
I made a slashing motion across my throat, and Vashtee closed the channel. She turned in her chair and looked at me, expectantly.
Graycloud, true to his Cheyenne heritage, has the ability to move without sound. I was startled when he whispered in my ear, “Inga, what the hell are you doing?”
“Just following time-honored custom in this sector,” I replied, quietly. “Just wait.”
To his credit, he nodded and resumed his position about a meter away. His face was impassive. He might have been chiseled from stone.
Less than ten seconds later, Lt. Vashtee announced, “Incoming priority message from the station manager of Desola Station.”
“On screen, Lieutenant,” I replied, suppressing a smile. Sometimes, being a starship commander can be fun.
A rather large Human male with mocha-colored skin and a dazzling smile appeared on the viewscreen. I say, 'dazzling,' quite literally, because his teeth were encased in latinum. I almost expected the viewscreen to dim due to the brilliance of his smile.
He spread his hands in a supplicatory manner. “Captain Strauss, welcome to the Outland Expanse and Desola Station. My name is Laska Pumjir, Manager of this humble station. I apologize for the less than hospitable greeting, but our defensive measures activate automatically when they detect a war ship and yours is most formidable. Rest assured, we have deactivated our weapons.”
I was less than thrilled to have Blanchard characterized as a “war ship” but I let the remark slide. A glance at Vashtee and her thumb's up confirmed Pumjir's claim. I relaxed a bit.
“Thank you, Mr. Pumjir, likewise, we will deactivate our weapons as well. We request a docking berth for the next five days; do you have anything available?”
I could see Pumjir doing mental calculations as to the docking fees that would accrue. No doubt, double the normal rate. Not that I really cared, Starfleet gave me carte blanche for the duration of our mission.
“But of course, Captain Strauss. I will have our dockmaster transmit instructions and we will provide one of our largest berths. We can also provide shore power, Deuterium fuel, catering . . .”
“Thank you, but the berth will be sufficient, Mr. Pumjir.”
“As you wish. And please, call me Lazka.” His grin grew even broader. I fought the urge to squint.
“Thank you . . . Lazka. Now if you will . . .”
“Allow me the honor of hosting you and your senior officers for a dinner in your honor. We seldom receive such honored guests at Desola.”
“That is most generous of you, Mr. Pumjir . . .”
“Lazka,” he corrected with a waggle of a pudgy, ring encrusted finger.
“Lazka,” Sometimes you just have to go with the flow. At least, I didn't roll my eyes. “That is a most generous officer, but we have duties to perform at present. Perhaps we could take you up on your kind offer at another time?”
A shadow crossed the big man's face, but it passed quickly. “I understand, Captain. Duty must come first. If you change your mind, please contact my aide, K'jik Griv, at the comm-code I will transmit to you.”
* * *
We made it to the station and docked at an adequate berth with no further drama. It was a rather tight fit, despite the Station Manager's assurances to the contrary, but Lt. (j.g.) Garcia and was more than up for the task.
Besides, with our ablative armor, we could probably have cruised right through the station without scratching the hull. But that would be impolite and require days of writing reports. And probably another tribunal.
“Mr. Graycloud, please set up and announce a crew rotation for shore leave.”
“Shall I include senior officers, ma'am?” he asked.
“Of course,” I replied with a puzzled look. Where was he going with this?
“All, senior officers?”
“Ray,” I said, tiring of the game. “I promise to take some time off and go ashore.”
He grinned in a manner I didn't like.
“Great.” He showed me a PADD, “Cause' you're on the first rotation.”
To Be Continued.
* * *
(Author's Note: For a change of pace, this 3 chapter short-story is written in first-person, from the perspective of Captain Inga Strauss.)
Stardate 65671.5 (2 September 2388)
USS Franklin Blanchard NCC-90764
Captain's Log, Supplemental:
Tribunals are about as much fun as hugging a Capellan power cat while standing in a bucket of salt water. In forty two years of life, I've had the pleasure of sitting through three of them. You walk out feeling like you've been dissected with a blunt knife. If I never face another, it will be too soon.
The good news . . . no general court martial, no suspension, not even an official reprimand . . . Phil Montaigne was right across the board. I guess his back-channel communications with Admiral Nate Porter were helpful. Maybe my string of bad luck going back a decade is coming to an end.
But, (and there's always a “but” when sitting before a board of inquiry) there is a bit of bad news. No, it wasn't getting read the “riot act” about playing fast and loose with the Prime Directive. That was expected and probably deserved. Maybe. The J'Ril race will go on, bruised, battered, and bewildered, perhaps, but they have a future and can determine their own destiny. A far better outcome than extinction, in my opionion. But it still rankles me that Captain Syvick took the blame and brunt of the tribunal's ire. Now, a veteran starship commander is sidelined to fulfill the brass' perverse sense of justice. If they needed a scapegoat, they should have picked me. But Syvick was the senior Captain on scene, so . . .
The somewhat bad news for me (and, by extension, my crew) is receiving new orders directing the Blanchard to patrol the Outland Expanse. Aside from the Caitian homeworld and a few small settlements, there are no Federation aligned worlds in the sector. To add to the fun, the Tzenkethi Autarchy are in the neighborhood, along with their saber-tooth cousins, the Kzinti pirates. We'll relieve USS Oslo (wonder what their C.O. did to tick off the brass?) and begin our sentence . . . our assignment, rather, keeping the peace in the frontier of the Alpha Quadrant.
Computer, end and save.
* * *
Three weeks later . . .
“Come on, Senior . . . show me what you've got.”
I threw down the gauntlet to Senior Chief Petty Officer Angela Lemas as we sparred on the holodeck. To be honest, it was a half-hearted challenge. I was doing pretty well just breathing and not passing out. For her part, Senior Chief Lemas looked like she could go all day. I'm pretty sure she was taking it easy on me.
We both wore ghi's and protective padding on head, fists, and feet. The idea was to avoid broken bones and concussions. However, I think I was setting a record for most bruises accumulated in one workout.
On paper, Senior Chief Lemas and I were fairly evenly matched . . . roughly the same size, although she had a couple of inches and maybe ten pounds on me, and about the same age . . . her 45 to my 42. But SCPO Angela Lemas was all corded muscle and fast reflexes. Lean, mean, and quick . . . much quicker than me, I admit.
And I think she enjoyed getting to kick her C.O.'s ass once a week.
Not that I'm in bad shape. I work out six days a week – racquetball, running, swimming, and getting beaten up, are my main routines. There's comfort in knowing if Lemas really wanted to hurt me, I could probably out-run her.
We circled around each other on the mat . . . she, like a panther, me, like a wounded . . . I don't know . . . pick your own metaphorical prey.
I feinted with a right, then came at her with a sweeping leg strike. She saw it coming a mile away and elbowed me in the thigh to signal her annoyance in such a predictable move.
Nothing like a knotted up thigh muscle to loosen up the curses. I knew how to curse in 27 languages . . . something I picked up from our Tellarite engineer on my days as X.O. of the Border Service Cutter, USS Bluefin.
“Those are some new ones, Captain, what lang . . .”
My acting will never earn me a role on Broadway, but I managed to distract Lemas enough to launch a leg sweep that took her to the map. Then, I finished with a hard heel strike to her abdomen, hearing the satisfying whoomp as her breath (and, hopefully, her evil soul) left her body..
It was over-kill, but I pounced (more acurately, fell) on her and added a head-butt just for good measure. Not a terribly smart move, as I damn near knocked myself out.
“Nice . . . takedown . . .” gasped the SCPO. I was impressed she could speak, much less remain conscious.
A voice from my past spoke in my head. Never miss a chance to fight dirty . . . Rules are for losers . . . Fight like you will die every time you get into an unarmed situation . . . Bite, kick, do whatever it takes . . . If you quit, you're dead.
Senior Chief Solly Brin. Probably the scariest person I ever met.
I reached down to help up Lemas, but stopped just in time.
“Slap the mat, Senior.”
She grinned. Blood flowed from her nostrils and she'd have two good shiners without a few minutes in sickbay. Gamely, she slapped the mat, indicating her “surrender” and the cessation of hostilities. More than once, I had forgotten that detail and been tossed across the mat for my lack of attention.
This time, we grasped wrists and I pulled her up. She bounced up easily, seeming none the worse for wear apart from a possibly broken nose.
“That was . . . a good move, Captain. Unorthodox . . . and fierce . . . I like it!”
I smiled. “Something I learned in the Border Service.”
She nodded appreciatively. “You're a pretty good fighter . . . when you're focused, ma'am. But I recommend you add more . . . weights to your workouts. You've got great endurance . . . but your upper body strength could improve.” Her wind was coming back, but her voice was still thick.
I was impressed with how quickly she was recovering. “Noted, Senior Chief. Same time next week?”
“Yes ma'am. And don't . . . think that leg sweep will work a second time.”
I shook my head. “I won't press my luck. Head to sickbay and get that nose looked at. You're bleeding all over my ship.”
“Aye, aye,” she replied and trotted toward the exit.
“Computer, save and end program.” The sparring arena disappeared, replaced by the black walls and yellow grid lines of the holodeck.
As I made to exit the holodeck, the charlie horse in my leg took that moment to announce itself.Somehow, I managed to hobble down the corridor without crying or cursing. Must set a good example for the crew, after all.
I considered making my way to Sickbay, but decided against it, seeing as Senior Chief Lemas was there, and I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had doled out some serious hurt on her part.
Instead, I headed to Counselor Montaigne's office. He had an M.D., so he must be of some use.
* * *
“Ow, dammit Phil!”
Montaigne gave me a look completely lacking in sympathy. So much for bedside manner.
“Are you going to sit still so I can examine your leg, or do I need to sedate you?”
“Are you sure you're actually a Medical Doctor?” I countered. I was beginning to think that Sickbay was looking like a better option.
He looked over at his English Bulldog, Jake. “She interrupts my morning nap, and this is the thanks I get.”
Jake whined. I wasn't sure if he felt sorry for me or if he was waiting for one of the treats Phil kept in a jar on his desk.
With the pants leg of the Ghi rolled as high as it could go, Phil frowned and poked the injured spot one last time, eliciting a hiss from me. Thoughts of murder entered my mind.
He rummaged in a drawer and removed a small med-kit, producing a Feinberger scanner that looked to have been state-of-the-art when James T. Kirk was an ensign. He shook it a couple of times, and it finally warbled to life.
“You could get some modern equipment, you know,” I pointed out.
“You could go to Sickbay, where they keep the modern stuff. Now, shut up and be still.”
I complied, the best I could. He waved the small device over my leg, glanced at it, frowned, and rummaged through his kit again. This time, he came out with a hypo-spray that appeared marginally newer than the scanner.
He paused, as if in thought, and turned a dial on the device. “How much do you weigh?” he asked.
“Like hell!” I replied.
“Sickbay, then. Two decks up, half way around the corridor, You can't miss it.”
I muttered my weight.
“What's that?” he cupped his ear. “A little louder, please.”
“Don't. Push. It. Old. Man.”
He smiled. “Just kidding.” Then, without warning, he pressed the hypo-spray against the knot in my leg.
“Mange-covered, syphilitic, hell-spawned, demi-whores,” I hissed. But as the last curse flowed from my lips, the pain began to fade.
I blinked and, gingerly, moved my leg a bit. The swelling was already going down.
“You were saying?” he asked, replacing the hypo-spray and scanner in the little kit before tossing the lot carelessly on the desk.
“Um, thanks, I guess,” I was still a little miffed at him.
“Good thing you saw about that leg. You had a nasty blood clot forming. It's gone now, and the anti-inflammatory meds should take care of the rest. It will remain sore, because a little suffering builds character and your language indicates a deficiency in that regard.”
“Screw you, Phil,” but I was smiling now. I rolled the pants leg down and stood, gingerly. Yes, there was still some soreness, but it felt a hundred times better.
He handed me a mug of Raktajino. It was my one vice (well, one of several), and Phil Montaigne was a maestro when it came to brewing the Klingon version of a spicy quadruple espresso.
“In lieu of payment,” he began, “you can tell me a bit about the Outland Expanse.”
I considered a snarky remark about how profiting off of medical services was both illegal and unethical in the Federation, but he asked a fair question.
I shared the basics about the Caitians being the lone Federation-aligned major planet, the Tzenkethi, the Kzinti, and the sparse population.There was some lovely places, but a whole lot more ugly. The best I could describe it was as a sad and hopeless corner of the universe.
“It's truly the frontier as far as Federation territory goes. Unfortunately, it's probably the least civilized with the most crime and mayhem.” I cocked my head and gave him a look. “Surely, you've been there at some point.”
He shook his head while reaching down to scratch behind Jake's ears. The Bulldog's tongue lolled happily.
“You might think so, but no. The ships on which I served were flitting about, seeking new worlds. I spent more time in the Beta Quadrant, believe it or not. Never made it to this side of the Alpha Quadrant.”
“You haven't missed much,” I replied. Glancing up at an antique clock over his desk, I winced. “And I'm going to miss our staff meeting if I don't get moving.”
Standing, I was relieved that my leg supported me without protest. Montaigne also stood.
“Let me know if that leg gives you any more problems.”
“I will, and thanks, Phil. I mean it.” I replied. “See you in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
From long practice, I was able to grab a quick sonic shower, put on a fresh uniform, run a brush over my teeth and through my hair (different brushes), apply lip gloss, and make it to the conference room with five minutes to spare.
The leg, by the way, felt just fine.
Commander Raymond Graycloud, my First Officer, and Science Officer Lieutenant V'Xon were already in place. Ray grinned at me.
“I heard you put a hurtin' on Senior Chief Lemas.”
“She gave as good as she got, Ray. I got in a lucky kick.”
"Uh-huh.”
I had the feeling someone had won a bet.
The rest of the senior staff filed in. Phil Montaigne strode in last, wearing his signature cardigan sweater that was at least a size too large. He took his usual seat by our CMO, Dr. Yue. Lt. Vashtee, my old Bluefin shipmate and curnt Ops Manager for Blanchard, sat on his opposite side.
Chief Engineer, Lt. Commander Bradley Fuller and First Officer, Commander Raymond Graycloud sat on opposite sides of me. Lt. V'Xon sat in typically still and serene fashion next to Graycloud.
The gang's all here, I thought, though we were still without a Chief Security Officer. That was on the agenda for another day.
“Welcome to the Outland Expanse,” I began, without preamble. “We crossed into the sector at 0617, ship's time. On our current course and speed, we should arrive at Desola Station in roughly six hours. Absent a starbase in the sector, it will serve as a base of sorts for R&R and occasional repairs.”
Dr. Yue raised a hand. “What about Starbase 500? Isn't the Sector Commander, Admiral Ch'Shev, based there?”
I nodded, having anticipated the question. “Yes, he is. But Starbase 500 is not actually in the Outland Expanse, but in sector 4773. Admiral Ch'Shev actually oversees three different sectors.”
“There used to be a Border Service Star Station in the Outland Expanse,” added Commander Graycloud. “Until it was destroyed ten years ago.”
“Destroyed?” asked Dr. Yue, with obvious surprise in her voice. I would need to remind her to read the mission briefs before our senior staff meetings.
“Yep. Plenty of theories about who, how, and why, but no straight answers to date.”
I sighed. “To get us back on track, let me summarize. There was an explosion that destroyed Star Station Bravo, killing many fine Border Dogs and civilians, in all, nearly three hundred beings perished that day . . . Human, Caitian, Vulcan, Andorian, Tellarite . . . even a few Klingons and Ferengi. Theories ranged from an attack by the Tzenkethi, perhaps using their Kzinti minions to plant explosives. Other theories get more bizarre . . . a false-flag operation by the Caitians to force Starfleet into pouring more assets into the sector, and a theory that the bombing was a plot by Section 31 to start another war between the Federation and the Tzenkethi.”
Ray snorted at the last one, which I knew he would. He thought Section 31 was “a bogey-man used by Academy upper-classmen to scare plebes.”
I knew better, but didn't argue the point. Honestly, it didn't matter. What mattered was the souls lost and no one seemed to care anymore.
“Anyway,” I continued. “The Border Service deactivated the Second Squadron, not that much was left of it aside from the Dragonfire and a couple of obsolete Aerie-class boats. Starfleet took over patrol duties, with at least one capital ship assigned, rotating every six months. That's where we come in.”
“What became of the Dragonfire?” asked Lt. Vashtee. Another question I anticipated. Maya and I knew some of the officers from that cutter.
“Reassigned to the Third Squadron, last I heard. Artie Slayd is still C.O. as far as I know.”
Maya nodded, but I could tell she was troubled. She felt the sting of losing a Star Station and fellow Border Dogs same as me, even with the passing of a decade. Some things ought to hurt.
“Now, on to directives regarding Desola Station,” I continued. “Remember, this is not a Federation Starbase, and the rules are different.”
“Starting with, there really aren't any rules,” interjected the Chief Engineer.
“Accurate, as far as it goes,” I replied casting a warning glance at Fuller. The man was brilliant and a top-flight engineer, but he had a bad habit of engaging his mouth before his brain had a chance to catch up.
“First and foremost,” I continued, “All Blanchard personnel will go on the station in pairs at minimum. Absolutely no-one, the officers in this room included, are to go on Desola alone. Am I clear?”
I glared around the room, daring anyone to crack a joke. Wisely, all remained silent. Even Brad Fuller nodded in agreement.
“Second, personnel going on the station will carry sidearms. Type I 'cricket' phasers are acceptable, but better to have one person in the party carrying a Type II that will be visible.” I looked around. Most nodded, although Dr. Yue was frowning. I knew this would be difficult for her as she was an avowed pacifist. “Phasers should be set and locked on heavy stun.”
“Heavy stun?” asked Dr. Yue, “Isn't light stun sufficient?”
“Not against a Nausicaan,” replied Graycloud. “Hell, some Human big boy with a few too many won't go down on light stun.”
“Ray is correct,” I said. “That's a non-negotiable, Doctor.”
Yue leaned back and crossed her arms, obviously displeased, but she held her peace.
“Third,” I pressed on, “Any items purchased on the station are subject to passing through our transporter filters and remaining quarantined until full scans are completed.”
“Fourth,” If you decide to eat food on the station, I recommend you carry a tri-corder. Most vendors are fine, but there's little in the way of health inspections out here. Let the buyer beware. We don't need a case of K'Tinga's revenge breaking out on the ship.”
There were a few chuckles at that. Good.
“Fifth, do not start any fights. Avoid confrontation if at all possible. If you're challenged, walk away. If insulted, ignore it. But if cornered and you consider yourself in danger, defend yourself.”
Phil raised his hand.
“Yes, Counselor?”
“Any recommendations for allowing the crew to blow off some steam on that bucket? We've been on this ship for three solid months. I think the guidelines are necessary and appropriate, but let's be honest . . . some of our people will want to get rowdy when they go ashore, so to speak.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “Always the realist, Phil.”
He shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
“Beyond the parameters I just laid down, and within the code of uniform military justice, I really don't care what the crew does, as long as it doesn't affect the rest of the crew, endangers our ship, or creates an interstellar incident.”
There were chuckles this time. “Look,” I continued, “This isn't the first liberty call for the crew. We've been to Rigel IV, which can get a bit wild.”
“A bit,” nodded Graycloud, nodding.
“Any further questions?” The senior officers glanced around, but no questions were raised.
“Okay,” I continued, relaxing a bit, “Now on to department reports . . .”
* * *
“Now entering system boundary,” announced the helm officer, Lt. (j.g.) Juan Garcia. I liked the young officer; he was an excellent helmsman, if on the quiet side.
“Drop us out of warp, Mr. Garcia. Ahead one-half impulse.”
“Tactical, raise shields. Lt. Vashtee, active sensor sweep, system wide.”
I saw a few heads turn slightly. Lt. V'Xon, lifted an eyebrow but said nothing. Commander Graycloud, standing nearby, rose on the balls of his feet slightly, then relaxed, but made no comment.
We cruised at sublight for nearly an hour. The bridge was quiet, save for the soft, echoing beep of the sensor returns and the hushed flow from the air-handlers. I almost wished for the background noise on the Bluefin. The old cutter seemed more alive, less sterile, with its numerous beeps, whirs, and rattles. It even had a friendlier smell – warm transtators and old leather, mixed with cold coffee.
Blanchard was a modern ship and still relatively new, of course. Her personality would develop with time and star-hours.
Maybe I should spill a cup of coffee . . . I thought, idly.
“Captain,” the edge in Vashtee's voice brought me to full alert. “The station has painted us with targeting scanners.”
I smiled tightly. About time, I thought.
“Return the favor. Tactical, energize all phaser arrays. Load and arm forward tubes with quantum yields and target that station.” I paused. “Maya, open a channel to the station, audio only.”
Vashtee complied. “Channel Open.”
I straightened a bit in the chair. It was a bit awkward, since my feet barely reached the deck.
“Desola Station, this is Captain Inga Strauss of the Federation Starship USS Franklin Blanchard. You will deactivate all targeting systems aimed at my ship or we will respond. Be advised that we are a long way from the Federation core worlds and our rules of engagement are more flexible in the frontier. You have thirty seconds to comply.”
I made a slashing motion across my throat, and Vashtee closed the channel. She turned in her chair and looked at me, expectantly.
Graycloud, true to his Cheyenne heritage, has the ability to move without sound. I was startled when he whispered in my ear, “Inga, what the hell are you doing?”
“Just following time-honored custom in this sector,” I replied, quietly. “Just wait.”
To his credit, he nodded and resumed his position about a meter away. His face was impassive. He might have been chiseled from stone.
Less than ten seconds later, Lt. Vashtee announced, “Incoming priority message from the station manager of Desola Station.”
“On screen, Lieutenant,” I replied, suppressing a smile. Sometimes, being a starship commander can be fun.
A rather large Human male with mocha-colored skin and a dazzling smile appeared on the viewscreen. I say, 'dazzling,' quite literally, because his teeth were encased in latinum. I almost expected the viewscreen to dim due to the brilliance of his smile.
He spread his hands in a supplicatory manner. “Captain Strauss, welcome to the Outland Expanse and Desola Station. My name is Laska Pumjir, Manager of this humble station. I apologize for the less than hospitable greeting, but our defensive measures activate automatically when they detect a war ship and yours is most formidable. Rest assured, we have deactivated our weapons.”
I was less than thrilled to have Blanchard characterized as a “war ship” but I let the remark slide. A glance at Vashtee and her thumb's up confirmed Pumjir's claim. I relaxed a bit.
“Thank you, Mr. Pumjir, likewise, we will deactivate our weapons as well. We request a docking berth for the next five days; do you have anything available?”
I could see Pumjir doing mental calculations as to the docking fees that would accrue. No doubt, double the normal rate. Not that I really cared, Starfleet gave me carte blanche for the duration of our mission.
“But of course, Captain Strauss. I will have our dockmaster transmit instructions and we will provide one of our largest berths. We can also provide shore power, Deuterium fuel, catering . . .”
“Thank you, but the berth will be sufficient, Mr. Pumjir.”
“As you wish. And please, call me Lazka.” His grin grew even broader. I fought the urge to squint.
“Thank you . . . Lazka. Now if you will . . .”
“Allow me the honor of hosting you and your senior officers for a dinner in your honor. We seldom receive such honored guests at Desola.”
“That is most generous of you, Mr. Pumjir . . .”
“Lazka,” he corrected with a waggle of a pudgy, ring encrusted finger.
“Lazka,” Sometimes you just have to go with the flow. At least, I didn't roll my eyes. “That is a most generous officer, but we have duties to perform at present. Perhaps we could take you up on your kind offer at another time?”
A shadow crossed the big man's face, but it passed quickly. “I understand, Captain. Duty must come first. If you change your mind, please contact my aide, K'jik Griv, at the comm-code I will transmit to you.”
* * *
We made it to the station and docked at an adequate berth with no further drama. It was a rather tight fit, despite the Station Manager's assurances to the contrary, but Lt. (j.g.) Garcia and was more than up for the task.
Besides, with our ablative armor, we could probably have cruised right through the station without scratching the hull. But that would be impolite and require days of writing reports. And probably another tribunal.
“Mr. Graycloud, please set up and announce a crew rotation for shore leave.”
“Shall I include senior officers, ma'am?” he asked.
“Of course,” I replied with a puzzled look. Where was he going with this?
“All, senior officers?”
“Ray,” I said, tiring of the game. “I promise to take some time off and go ashore.”
He grinned in a manner I didn't like.
“Great.” He showed me a PADD, “Cause' you're on the first rotation.”
To Be Continued.
* * *
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