Geometries of Chance - ST: Gibraltar

[Gibraltar]

Book 2 of the Gibraltar series.

Dispatched to investigate the disappearance of a Starfleet vessel, the crew of Gibraltar find themselves embroiled in a mystery whose significance catches the attention the upper echelons of Federation leadership. As forces beyond their comprehension converge on the enigmatic Pierosh star system, Captain Sandhurst and his crew must seek to unravel a tangled web of lies, plots, and divided loyalties that could ultimately spell doom for the entire quadrant.

*Note: This story takes place approximately six weeks after the events of Embers of the Fire. That story can be found here: http://www.trekbbs.com/showthread.php?t=112811

**Special thanks to unusualsuspex for the fantastic book cover!

 

[Gibraltar]

Geometries of Chance - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Captain’s Log, Stardate 53290.4

We’ve just begun our escort duty to Phersivon VI, one of three starships safeguarding a convoy carrying humanitarian relief for the survivors of the Cardassian settlement on that beleaguered world.

It has been a month and a half since Gibraltar departed dry dock, and our participation in the ensuing disasters at Lakesh. The crew seem to be recovering from those events apace, and have begun to mesh into what I can only hope will be a cohesive unit. I anticipate that they will enjoy some much needed R&R upon the completion of our current assignment and our arrival at Deep Space Nine.

*****

USS Gibraltar, corridor intersection 7-D

The attack had seemingly come from nowhere. The transition from normal shipboard operations to a life-or-death struggle for control of the vessel had been brutally abrupt.

Blistering volleys of phaser and disruptor fire illuminated the dimly lit corridor intersection with brilliant, strobe-like flashes. Terse shouts could barely be heard among the whine of weapons fire and the jolting claps of their impact against Gibraltar’s tritanium bulkhead plating. Master Chief Tark, a stout Tellarite security NCO hefted his ungainly Type-III phaser rifle and drove the stock into his shoulder as he inched out around the corner he’d been hugging for cover. “Two of them just headed portside!” he roared to his security team. “They’re trying to flank us. Weatherly and Stins, move to junction 7-E double time!” With that, Tark triggered a three pulse burst of phaser energy towards the shadowy figures lurking ten meters away in the next intersection.

As he darted back behind cover, Tark queried loudly to the woman crouched next to him, “Dunleavy, where’s my damn forcefield?” The petty officer was up to her elbows in an open power relay access hatch.

Dunleavy flinched as an eruption of sparks rained down on her from a disruptor strike overhead. She groused, “This would be delicate work under the best of circumstances, Master Chief.” Then, more quietly, “Piss off.”

Tark spared Dunleavy an admiring smirk and urged, “Hurry it up or we’re going to get overrun.” The Tellarite sent another burst of phaser energy screaming down the corridor.

Dunleavy’s fingers felt leaden and clumsy as she rushed to swap isolinear chips in the relay control node. The enemy had somehow been able to generate a power surge though the ship’s internal defensive systems only moments after inexplicably beaming through Gibraltar’s raised shields. Now, the young woman struggled to bypass the primary and secondary power relays while squarely in the middle of a ferocious firefight.

From somewhere to port came the roar of an explosion. Seconds later a wave of hot air laden with debris poured down the corridor and buffeted Dunleavy as she strained to maintain her concentration. One slip and she’d have to restart the bypass cycle from the beginning. Frantic cries for a medic competed with the near-hysterical screaming of multiple wounded, but Dunleavy forced herself to ignore both.

Dunleavy slotted the last of the re-synched chips and initiated the EPS bypass. She breathed a sigh of relief when the small screen flashed a friendly green. She bellowed, “It’s up!”

With a growl of approval, Tark lobbed a photon grenade down the corridor. “Raise it!”

Dunleavy activated the field, which snapped into place with a brief flash of ionization. The presence of the forcefield funneled the full brunt of the grenade’s explosion down the corridor towards the enemy. Two of the furtive humanoids appeared to catch fire as a third was thrown bodily into a wall and collapsed.

Tark laughed appreciatively as he moved from his position and turned to the assembled security team. “Alright, fan out, teams of four in covering pairs. Advance by bounds and secure your six by erecting shield barriers behind you.” The porcine-faced master chief glanced at Dunleavy. “Saihra, you’re on bypass detail.”

Dunleavy rolled her eyes as she shouldered her rifle, “Grand.” She turned, preparing to follow Ensign Qawasimi’s team and came face to face with one of their attackers as the figure appeared to step cleanly through the bulkhead. She tried to yell out a warning, but her breath caught in her throat as the mysterious assailant, clad in black form fitting body armor and helmet, drove its rifle-fixed bayonet into her chest just below her sternum.

Her weapon clattered to the floor as her hands clawed reflexively but ineffectually at her foe’s rifle. It didn’t hurt as much as she would have thought, and she idly noted the sounds of hand-to-hand struggle around her as the enemy closed ranks with her crewmates. A voice in her head that sounded very much like Tark shouted at her to remember her training and do something.

Instinctively, her right hand moved to where her phaser pistol sidearm was holstered. Just as she grasped the phaser’s handle her opponent twisted the bayonet savagely which caused her knees to buckle and sent her sinking to the floor. Her killer eased her to the deck with surprising gentleness, and as Saihra Dunleavy lost consciousness, she could hear the distant sounds of disruptor fire as the enemy soldiers attempted to break Tark’s death grip on their comrade’s neck.

“Computer, pause program.” The words were spoken with a dissatisfied snarl. As their attackers had done so moments before, Lieutenant Pava Lar’ragos emerged from within the seemingly solid wall of the corridor. “Awful. Truly appalling. Everyone on your feet!”

Her simulated wounds now in abeyance, Dunleavy scrambled to her feet among a flurry of activity that brought the security team into formation.

Lar’ragos was not a large man, nor was he especially muscular. He was, however, whipcord taut, lightening fast and surprisingly strong. His jet black hair was tightly curled and cropped short, giving him the look that was so in vogue with the members of the security division right now.

As he looked down his nose at Tark, Lar’ragos’ tone dripped with derision. “Situation not as 'under control’ as you’d thought, Master Chief?”

The Tellarite bristled as he reigned in his irritation with great effort. He managed somehow to keep his tone civil as he replied, “The enemy has demonstrated some unexpected abilities, sir.”

“Really? You don’t say? After crippling our ship with their opening volley and beaming through our shields, they took you and your teams completely by surprise by doing something unexpected?” The El Aurian lieutenant’s eyes narrowed and his upper lip twitched with the beginnings of a sneer. “I’m shocked. This is my shocked face.”

Tark took a deep, steadying breath and offered, “I think the team’s hit the wall for the day, sir. Perhaps a chance to re-group and come at this again tomorrow?”

Lar’ragos chewed the inside of his lip as he considered that. “Why not? You’re all dead, anyway.” He deigned to look upon his remaining subordinates. “Go home.”

The group shuffled out sullenly, exhausted but clearly displeased with being dismissed so heatedly. The doors to the holosuite parted, and the team left, muttering angrily amongst themselves as the doors closed behind them.

When they were finally alone, Tark grumbled, “You’ve never refused me the latitude to speak my mind, so I’m going to exploit that tradition.” He set the butt of the rifle on the floor and rested the weapon against the wall of the holographic corridor. “You’re pushing too hard.”

Lar’ragos gave him a sharp look, but held his tongue.

Tark folded his thick forearms across his chest. “I’d understand if we were training for a specific mission, but you’ve been running the security department through these battle drills for weeks with no letup in sight.”

Lar'ragos glanced around at the war torn section of corridor and took note of the scorch marks and blast patterns that had marred the super strong alloys. They seemed a fitting symbol of his present state of mind. “The end of the war was in name only, Master Chief. The Federation has never been so vulnerable; our enemies are everywhere.”

The Tellarite cocked his head slightly as he scrutinized his superior. “I would agree that we’re living a dark chapter of the Federation’s history, but I don’t subscribe to the notion that we’re surrounded by foes.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t, Chief.”

The stocky noncom glowered at the lieutenant. “Meaning?”

“Bury your head in the sand if you like. You were born on a peace-loving Federation planet, and given the end of active hostilities it’s only natural that you’d revert to your innate tendencies.”

Tark blinked, astounded. “Peace-loving? Have you ever been to Tellar?”

Lar’ragos continued his tirade, “The scavengers are approaching. They smell our wounds and they’ll be drawn to see just how much of the Federation’s carcass they can take for themselves.” Lar’ragos shook his head as his expression shifted to one of contempt. “The Talarians, Tholians, Breen, Gorn, Tzenkethi… you name them. Soon they’ll begin encroaching on our borders, testing our defenses, salivating at the chance to add to their little empires by tearing bits and pieces from our great civilization.”

Struck momentarily speechless by this uncomfortable insight into his superior’s psyche, Tark finally conjured up a response. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

Tark shrugged and turned for the exit. “That’s very sad, sir.”

“We’re not done here, Chief.” That stopped Tark in his tracks.

His frame rigid with barely contained rage, the Tellarite pivoted back towards Lar’ragos slowly. “Sir?”

“The security teams, their performance in this round of scenarios was unacceptable.”

Tark snorted derisively, “This isn’t the Enterprise, Lieutenant.” It was widely known among the crew that Lar’ragos had passed up an opportunity to serve aboard the Enterprise-E under Captain Picard in order to take his current post aboard Gibraltar.

Lar’ragos stepped forward, bridling at the implication. “Beg pardon?”

The Tellarite snuffled humorlessly. “Forget I mentioned it.” He abruptly turned and stormed out.

Lar’ragos directed a surly, “Dismissed,” at the master chief’s retreating back.

*****

USS Brahmaputra
Patrol grid Alpha-Epsilon 3
Federation/Cardassian Border

The cockpit of the Danube-class runabout Brahmaputra was the last place Lieutenant(j.g.) Olivia Juneau had expected to find herself. Strangely, however, the decidedly claustrophobic confines of the small ship were proving a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil that had thus far marked her lackluster Starfleet career. She didn’t believe she was a bad officer, not really. The grueling workload and rigorous testing of Starfleet Academy were usually sufficient to weed out those persons that would otherwise prove incapable of the day-to-day tasks required of a Starfleet officer. Granted, she had graduated at the bottom third of her class, but she had graduated.

Juneau busied herself with routine administrative tasks while Petty Officer Duane Shaver piloted the craft. She was settling into her first genuine command, getting a taste of what some more ambitious officers strove their entire careers for. At the encouragement of Lt. Commander Ramirez, the executive officer aboard Juneau’s current posting, she had accepted a temporary detached assignment to the sector’s Reconnaissance and Patrol section. It was, as Ramirez had put it, an opportunity to explore her command potential that might not otherwise be available to her for years. Or decades, Juneau thought soberly.

Juneau wouldn’t go as far as to say she and the others aboard had melded into a seamless whole. However, two weeks into an assignment whose most defining feature was the nearly absolute lack of personal space and privacy, and they had yet to get on one another’s nerves. It was a good start.

Her first commission consisted of herself and a crew of three, tasked with routine patrol and light escort duties along the Federation/Cardassian border. At times Brahmaputra pulled convoy escort duty with other Starfleet vessels, and alternately engaged in solitary patrols. The Fleet’s runabout assets also served as mobile sensor platforms, giving Command more reliable real-time data about the region than could be gleaned from long-range sensor platforms or fixed satellites.

The hum of the replicator station behind her announced the arrival of Ensign Kuenre Shanthi, the ship’s young science officer. Barely four months out of Starfleet Academy, Shanthi had forgone a berth aboard a Galaxy-class explorer as a third string science technician in order to double as both science and communications officer aboard a patrol ship. It was an incongruous posting for the youngest son of revered Starfleet Fleet Admiral Thuosana Shanthi. Nevertheless, he eschewed any connection to his mother’s lofty station, and claimed that he sought only to make a career and name for himself.

Juneau felt a swell of envy towards the man. Shanthi was here because he had chosen to be. She was here because her superiors felt she needed remedial instruction in leadership. Nevertheless, she bent over backwards to be civil to the man, if for no other reason than his political connections within the Fleet.

“Good morning, Kuenre.” She glanced over her shoulder from the co-pilot’s seat, favoring him with a smile.

Shanthi’s first reply was a barely audible grunt of acknowledgement. Following an experimental sip at his steaming mug of what Olivia presumed to be coffee, he muttered something unintelligible that ended in ‘sir.’

Juneau laughed softly. “Sorry, I didn’t copy that. Your universal translator must be inoperative.”

Shaver looked up from punching navigational waypoints into the helm console long enough to give Shanthi a conspiratorial smirk. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

His mug still tilted to his lips, Shanthi took a draught of the steaming liquid. He held Shaver's gaze a second longer before he remarked dryly, “I thought the field bunks we had at academy away mission training were uncomfortable. They were nothing compared to the coffins onboard this tub.”

Olivia shrugged lightly. “Well, if you weren’t so tall…”

“I’m Zulu, Lieutenant. We’re built tall, can’t be helped.”

Shaver tossed him a data padd, which Shanthi fumbled while trying heroically not to spill his coffee. “I thought you’d find this interesting. We picked these up on the overnight long rang sensor telemetry.”

Shanthi squinted at the padd and looked befuddled. “Weird. This looks like some kind of energy spike.”

“Aye, that’s what the computer thought,” Juneau replied. “Only there’s nothing in the Pierosh system that should be producing anything like that.”

Shanthi slid into one of the unmanned auxiliary stations and activated the console. “Does the Federation have any assets in that system? I’m not familiar with it.”

Juneau shook her head. “Only one. An old meteorological survey station on the second planet that was abandoned three months before the war started.”

“Is Pierosh II Class-M?” Shanthi queried.

“Barely. More like a Class-K on a really good day.”

Shanthi set to work. He accessed the sensor logs and compiled an initial science report based on the gathered data. “Give me a few minutes to crunch the numbers, sir. I’ll have something for you before too long.”

“Take your time, Ensign,” Juneau coached. “I’d rather have complete facts as opposed to conjecture.” She glanced at the pilot and said, “Mister Shaver, come to course 284-mark-19. I’m putting us on an oblique trajectory across the stellar plane of the Pierosh system.”

Shaver raised a curious eyebrow while he input the new coordinates. “Not waiting for new orders, sir?”

Rather than chafing at the petty officer’s implicit questioning of her command as she might have done two weeks earlier, Juneau patiently tolerated the inquiry by her subordinate. “We haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary out here in the past week. Command will take one look at the ensign’s report and send us for a look-see. This way, when the order arrives, we’ll already be halfway there.”

Shaver nodded but still looked unconvinced. “If you say so, sir.”

Juneau tried to look authoritative and couldn’t quite pull it off. “I do.”

*****

Pierosh II

The scientist intoned a calming mantra over and over, forcing himself to relax. The realization of his life’s work was only minutes away, and he fought to maintain his composure at this most critical of junctures. Be still. Become the stillness. Emotion is entropy; anticipation courts disharmony. Revelation comes only unto still waters. Be still…

The pieces were all in place. Equipment was functioning at capacity and repeated computer modeling indicated that their probability of success was high. He looked around the room and saw the others just as excited and anxious.

These men and women, all undeniably brilliant in their own right, had foregone notoriety within the scientific community in order to toil here in obscurity with him. It was both measure of their individual dedication to the project, as well as the importance of their work.

Once the initial breakthrough had occurred, then and only then would the skeptics and charlatans seated on the Science Council admit the brilliance and necessity of what they had accomplished. Time and again his requests for approval and resources had been denied. Too dangerous, they’d said, too many unknown variables. They had raised the specters of the Genesis experiments and the tragedy of the Omega molecule. Finally, in despair and anger, he’d cut his ties with the apostates of the Federation’s science community and struck out on his own.

Fortunately, he had found a benefactor, an individual who seemed to grasp how utterly essential his research was to pulling back the curtain on the multiverse. The necessary deceptions and guile that had followed troubled him greatly, but they had proved instrumental in safeguarding the existence of the project.

It was now out of his hands. Either their calculations were correct, or they weren’t. One of his assistants handed him a padd containing updated information on the countdown sequence. “Seventeen minutes, Doctor,” the young man noted eagerly.

*****

 

[unusualsuspex]

About time this appeared here!

Loving the holodeck simulation that this story begins with. Its always (without fail for me) a bit of a shock when it becomes apparent that its not real.

Lar’ragos is wound up tighter than a man in his position has a right to be. The concern is where its all going to unwind, and how.

This mysterious experiment is doubly worrying. Who is it funded by, and why would the Federation view it in the same class as Genesis?

Great start to the next Gibraltar classic and I'm hooked in already!

 

[Count Zero]

How convenient you're posting this here.
A very intriguing start. I was fooled by the tense combat scenes at the start. Thankfully, it was just a simulation, I was starting to like Dunleavy.

 

[CeJay]

Another classic Gibraltar tale. I'm undecided if this one was as excellent as the first or better. Maybe another read will help me make up my mind. I do recall this one to be crueler.

In any case. A lot of fun.

 

[Gibraltar]

Geometries of Chance - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Lt. Commander Liana Ramirez liked it quiet. The normal, subdued atmosphere of daily bridge operations was much preferable, in her opinion, to the din of alarms and flashing alert lights. That being said, five weeks straight of convoy duty had Ramirez yearning for something to break the tedium. She sat in the captain's chair, idly inspecting a padd containing a multitude of fuel consumption logs, division status reports, personnel fitness reports, and anything else anyone aboard had thought necessary to forward to the command division.

Gibraltar was part of a three ship contingent assigned to escort the gargantuan Continent-class supply ships to and from occupied Cardassian space. The ungainly behemoths had been utilized during the Dominion War to transport ground troops into battle, and to ferry civilian refugees away from planets in the path of the Dominion's advance. Now laden with medical supplies, foodstuffs, and industrial replicators, these vessels spearheaded Starfleet's growing humanitarian relief effort for the Cardassian people.

Though undeniably boring, the relative peace of their ongoing escort duties had given Ramirez the opportunity to reflect on the recent loss of her first command, the ill-fated starship Phoenix. She had been assigned by Captain Sandhurst as the vessel's acting commanding officer after Phoenix's captain and two-thirds of his crew had been struck down by a neuropathogen visited upon them by Cardassian insurgents. Ramirez's command had been short lived. Two days after assuming the post, the starship had been destroyed in combat with insurgent vessels. Her escape from the collapsing bridge in an escape pod had been a very near thing.

Six weeks later, Ramirez was still experiencing sleepless nights, and a gnawing, nameless anxiety. On those occasions when she was fortunate or exhausted enough to succumb to sleep, her dreams were haunted by the dead.

On any other assignment, these obstacles would be difficult enough to overcome. Here, onboard a ship she didn't feel she belonged on, Ramirez felt as though she had nowhere to turn. She had been strong-armed into the executive officer's post aboard Gibraltar, victim to the machinations of Captain Sandhurst and his old friend, Admiral Monica Covey. At first it was only to be a single mission; then Covey had dangled the carrot of her own command in front of her to compel Liana to agree to a year's tour aboard the old Constitution-class.

What's next? she fumed internally. If Covey doesn't keep her word, do I end up spending the rest of my days here, momentum stalled, watching my career slip through my fingers like so much sand?

"Incoming message from Trafalgar, Commander," announced Ensign Browder from the Operations station, interrupting Ramirez's morose reverie. "It's Captain Littlefoot."

Ramirez smiled at the mention of the gregarious captain's name. "Put him onscreen, Ensign." She stood in deference to her superior and raised her diminutive frame from the command chair. Despite being small in stature, she had a reputation for being both tough and decisive, and woe be unto anyone who dared underestimate her abilities.

The image of heavily laden supply ships in tight formation was replaced on the main viewer by the impressive form of Captain Marcus Littlefoot, CO of the Akira-class starship Trafalgar. The giant, barrel-chested Native American looked uncharacteristically somber. "I'm afraid I've got a new mission for you, Commander. Is Captain Sandhurst about?"

Ramirez unconsciously brought herself to her full height in the presence of the prominent officer. "He's otherwise occupied, sir. May I be of assistance?"

Littlefoot bobbed his head once in assent. "I'm tasking Gibraltar to investigate the possible disappearance of a Starfleet runabout. One of our sector patrol ships, the Brahmaputra, reported detecting some anomalous energy signatures emanating from the Pierosh system. They were dispatched to reconnoiter the situation, and haven't been heard from since. As of now, they're a little over five hours late for their scheduled check-in."

Damn, Ramirez thought darkly. That's Olivia's runabout. I recommended her for that command… Outwardly she replied, "Understood, sir. I take it we're the closest ships in the area?" Ramirez was uncomfortable with the idea of abandoning the convoy. Three starships as escort was already an insufficient number to protect as inviting a target as twenty-one of the mammoth supply ships. For all they knew, the mysterious energy signature and the disappearance of the runabout were insurgent tactics designed to pry one of the escorts away from the convoy.

"Unfortunately, yes. With the recent insurgent attacks on Epsilon station and Starbase 375, we're stretched even more thinly than usual out here."

To his credit, Littlefoot didn't voice the obvious conclusion. Of the three starships escorting the convoy, the ninety-year old Gibraltar was the least well armed, and thus the most logical to be spared for the new mission. "I'm sending over all the data we have on this so far. Hell, I wish we were going. It's got to be more interesting than slogging along the trade routes at warp five."

Ramirez nodded curtly. "We'll get the job done, Captain." As an afterthought she added, "Nia'ish," in Littlefoot's native Cheyenne.

The large man cracked a smile and allowed himself a moment's amusement. "I'd forgotten you were a linguist, Ramirez. You're welcome." And with that, the transmission ended.

She settled back into the command chair as ominous scenarios spun in her mind as to what could have happened to Juneau and her tiny crew. If she got in over her head and made the wrong decision, I'm ultimately responsible. Not just for her, but for all of them.

She turned to Ensign Lightner at Helm and ordered, "New course…"

*****

Captain Donald Sandhurst was in agony. The lungs within his heaving chest burned without respite and he had lost nearly all sensation in his legs. Sweat coated his body and his parched throat begged for reprieve. Despite the worst his enemy could throw at him, Sandhurst refused to surrender. He would not and could not back down. He was a starship commander, a man responsible for the lives of one-hundred seventeen people, and he would be damned if he allowed his present circumstances to best him.

With a torturous slowness, the counter on the treadmill ticked away the meters towards his goal of five kilometers. Cursed by an aging body of average height, Sandhurst yearned for the days when he could eat and drink with impunity, confident in his body's metabolic prowess. Those days were long over. He was carrying at least twenty-five unnecessary pounds, weight that Gibraltar's chief medical officer had told him needed to come off. And so, with the towering Bolian engineer Lieutenant Ashok as his personal trainer, Sandhurst had embarked on a fitness regimen designed to reduce his waistline and improve his health.

"Can I…" he huffed, "…stop now?" Four-point-six kilometers was sufficient, wasn't it? He felt his resolve begin to waver.

From an old-fashioned free weight bench nearby, the booming voice of Ashok replied in absolute deadpan, "Pain is weakness leaving the body, sir."

Sandhurst gasped noisily in response as he soldiered on and only just bit back a reply that involved a fervent wish that Bolarus IX had been a priority target for the Dominion.

"Bridge to Captain Sandhurst." He had rarely been as happy to hear his exec's voice.

Sandhurst planted his feet on either side of the still moving treadmill and tapped the compin affixed to his workout shirt. He tried not to sound out of breath and failed miserably. "Go… ahead."

"We've new orders from Captain Littlefoot, sir. I've adjusted our heading and increased speed to Warp 7. Our destination is the Pierosh system."

"Acknowledged. On my way." Sandhurst stepped gratefully off the sadistic device and grabbed his towel. He wiped down his head and neck as he made a beeline for the exit. "Apologies, Lieutenant. We'll have to pick this up later."

As he stepped out into the narrow corridor, Sandhurst nearly stumbled into Lar'ragos. It appeared the lieutenant was in the middle of dressing down one of the junior-most security officers aboard, Specialist Sharpe. "The next time you sweep the back of another team member's head with your rifle's emitter during a tactical exercise, I'm going to have you pulling armory detail for a month!"

The younger man stood ramrod straight, eyes locked ahead of him. "Yes, sir!"

"Each member of this team has to depend on one another. They have to trust one another. Part of that trust is the absolute knowledge that the person behind you in a tactical formation isn't going to blow the back of your head off." Lar'ragos glanced over his shoulder at the captain, and waved the specialist away. "Go and sin no more," he growled. Sharpe moved off down the curving corridor at a brisk pace.

Sandhurst raised an eyebrow that prompted Lar'ragos to set his jaw tightly. "What?" The El Aurian's tone was very similar to the one he'd used with Sharpe.

"I wasn't aware I'd said anything," Sandhurst said with a frown.

"Didn't have to." Lar'ragos gestured to his ears. "Remember?"

As he draped his towel over his shoulder, Sandhurst made a point of scrutinizing his old friend. "Have we been infiltrated by doppelgangers again?" The captain leaned in and appeared to study the smaller man's facial features. "Really magnificent work, though. If it weren't for all the yelling and frothing at the mouth, I'd really have believed it was my security chief."

Lar'ragos rolled his eyes and muttered, "Please desist, sir, lest you wound me further with your rapier wit."

"Seriously, Pava, what's going on? I've been hearing mutterings that your department is about ready to stage a revolt. Mind you, most of those complaints get filtered out at Ramirez's level, so that fact that I'm hearing anything about this means it must be bad."

Lar'ragos cocked his head to one side and frowned. "We're not dealing with the cream of the Fleet here, sir. Some of those in my department seem to be under the impression that a posting to Gibraltar was going to be a pleasure cruise. Now that I'm working them hard, they're whining to whoever will listen."

Sandhurst nodded. "I give my senior officers wide latitude in how they run their departments, Pava; you know that. I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. However, I seem to recall that many of these people that you're accusing of being dead weight were also the ones that rescued the away team from Lakesh and carried out a successful assault on an insurgent firebase."

"I'm not concerned with what they did last month, Captain," Lar'ragos answered as he stood his ground. "I'm worried about tomorrow."

Sandhurst shook his head in resignation. "Suit yourself. Just be careful you don't alienate your whole department while you're whipping them into shape."

Lar'ragos offered him a little salute. "Aye, aye, my captain. Will that be all, sir?"

A mischievous smile formed on Sandhurst's lips. "As a matter of fact, no. Lieutenant Taiee sent me a memo this morning saying that you still haven't reported for your initial medical screening."

"I've been busy." It sounded petulant, even to Lar'ragos.

"How nice for you. Make yourself un-busy and report to Sickbay immediately."

Lar'ragos crossed his arms. "And that would be…"

"Yes, Pava. That would be an order." Sandhurst came about and started off down the corridor the other direction. He slowed his pace and called back to his friend, "And I want you to calculate the odds that I'm going to follow up on this to see that you got there."

With a weak smile, Lar'ragos murmured, "Naturally."

*****

One quick shower and clean uniform later, Sandhurst strode onto the bridge. Ramirez moved to rise from the command chair but the captain waved her off. "I'm just here for an update, Commander."

"Yes, sir." She resumed her seat and handed him a padd. "This is the mission order brief from Trafalgar."

As he scanned the contents, Sandhurst's brow furrowed. "Brahmaputra, isn't that—"

"Juneau's ship," she finished for him. "Aye." She pointed to the padd. "And it gets better. Check the names on the crew manifest."

Sandhurst scrolled down. "Shaver, Osterlund, Shan—oh, frinx!"

Now it was Ramirez's turn to be impressed at another's linguistic proclivity. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she smirked. "Sir, the Bajoran Prophets would be appalled."

His eyes still fixed on the padd, Sandhurst nodded glumly. "So would my ex." He sighed deeply, handing the padd back. "This complicates things."

"Just slightly."

Sandhurst stepped back and leaned against a support for the bridge well's safety railing. "ETA?"

"Thirteen hours, twenty-six minutes at present speed."

He pondered that for a moment. "Step it up to Warp 8.2 for as long as the engines can handle it. I know it'll only buy us a few hours grace, but if this proves to be something other than a comms failure…"

Ramirez inclined her head. "Understood."

He moved to the upper deck and spared a glance at the ship's chronometer as he headed towards the lift. "Have the senior staff assemble for a briefing at oh-five-hundred, and keep me apprised of any significant updates." With that, Sandhurst stepped into the turbolift as he wondered if he would be the one to have to tell the Fleet Admiral that her son had died in the line of duty.

That's right, Donald, he berated himself, make it all about you.

*****

Lar'ragos entered Sickbay with deliberate reluctance. Like most others, he considered the obligatory start-of-tour checkup to be a burdensome necessity, one best avoided for as long as possible. However, in his case it went deeper than that. His medical exams invariably sparked questions from his doctors that were, in his opinion, better left unasked..

Chief Medical Officer Lieutenant(j.g.) Taiee looked up from where she was calibrating a diagnostic sensor wand from a medical tricorder. Usually, that type of busy work was the province of junior nurses or medical technicians, but Lar'ragos had noticed that Taiee seemed willing to share in the tedious grunt work needed to keep the medical department running smoothly. She was a compact woman who, with her utilitarian bobbed haircut and matter-of-fact style, somehow generated nearly limitless quantities of cheer. For a ship with no official counselor or morale officer, Taiee served as both with equal aptitude.

A forced smile plastered to his face, Lar'ragos said, "Good morning, Doc." The title served as both a running joke with the senior staff, as well as a statement of their confidence in her abilities. Taiee was a nurse practitioner by trade rather than a full-fledged physician. Regardless, the crew was more than satisfied with her formidable talents as a healer.

Issara Taiee answered his insincere smile with a more genuine one of her own as she set down the scanner and moved to the exam bed. She patted the surface of the table. "Well, you've finally reported as ordered." Taiee shook her head, her amusement evident. "And it only took a month and a half."

"I was unavoidably detained?" he offered lamely as he scooted up and onto the biobed.

"Sure, sure." Taiee gently moved him to lay down with mild pressure applied to his chest. "C'mon now, Pava. A big bad security officer like yourself acting as though a routine exam is worse than being sentenced to Rura Penthe."

Lar'ragos grumbled good-naturedly as Taiee initiated a scan via the overhead sensor node recessed into the ceiling. She moved to the large wall mounted viewscreen and activated a display of the El Aurian's physiology. Taiee sifted through multiple layers, skin, musculature, skeletal, internal organs and circulatory system, making the occasional notation on an oversized medical padd with a stylus.

Though giving no outward sign, she was startled by the massive amounts of scar tissue and internal damage the scans registered. Much of it had been cleaned up, fairly recently and by Federation medical science, or so she guessed. But the sheer volume of evidence indicated that Lar'ragos had been the victim of multiple internal injuries, dozens of broken bones in varying degrees of severity, as well as wounds from an assortment of weapons both primitive and modern. Who did this to him? she pondered darkly.

Taiee took into account Lar'ragos' extended longevity; his service record listed him as being four-hundred and twenty seven years old. Still, even compensating for age, most humans never accumulated even a fraction of this kind of trauma and lived to speak of it.

Taiee returned to the biobed and found Lar'ragos looking uncommonly self-conscious. He glanced over at her. "So… we done here?"

She smiled patiently. "Scans can only tell me so much, Pava. We've got a treadmill stress test and some other hoops for you to jump through before I can let you go."

He nodded hesitantly. "Sure."

Taiee placed a friendly hand on his upper arm. "Seriously, this won't be so bad. A few more things and I'll have you out of here and back to duty."

True to her word, Taiee released him after a brief, monitored run on the treadmill. After he toweled off, Lar'ragos pulled his mustard hued uniform shirt on over his tank-top undershirt. Taiee was making a final series of notations on her padd, and glanced up as the lieutenant slipped into his jacket.

"Anything you'd care to discuss, Pava?"

He suddenly appeared to be focusing an inordinate amount of concentration on zipping up his jacket. Lar'ragos feigned ignorance. "Such as?"

"Well, offhand I'd say the results of your physical show someone who's in overall good health. However, you're also demonstrating some conditions which are symptomatic of prolonged stress and fatigue." She crossed her arms and tapped the padd idly against her side. "In the short term this won't affect your health to any great extent, but if the root causes of these symptoms aren't addressed, your health will be impacted."

Again, Lar'ragos donned a saccharine smile and shrugged indifferently. "Things are tense right now, Doc. Being stuck on convoy duty doesn't help." He tugged at his uniform jacket, straightening it. "Why, you trying out for counselor now, too?" It was a cheap shot, and he knew it.

Taiee met him head-on. "I don't have to be El Aurian to know bullshit when I hear it, Lieutenant. If you need to talk, I'm here for you. If you don't, and you want to let whatever's eating at you affect your job performance, that's on you." She turned her back on him as she pretended to fiddle with a medical display module. "We're done here."

Shamed, Lar'ragos wanted to do something to repair the breach his thoughtless comment had made, but he didn't know what else to say. He strode mutely out of Sickbay, now hating the routine exam process all the more.

*****

 

[Gibraltar]

About time this appeared here!

Loving the holodeck simulation that this story begins with. Its always (without fail for me) a bit of a shock when it becomes apparent that its not real.

Lar’ragos is wound up tighter than a man in his position has a right to be. The concern is where its all going to unwind, and how.

This mysterious experiment is doubly worrying. Who is it funded by, and why would the Federation view it in the same class as Genesis?

Great start to the next Gibraltar classic and I'm hooked in already!

Much obliged! Yeah, Pava's wound tight, and that's a bad thing for everyone. Thanks for reading.

 

[Gibraltar]

How convenient you're posting this here.
A very intriguing start. I was fooled by the tense combat scenes at the start. Thankfully, it was just a simulation, I was starting to like Dunleavy.

Fortunately for her, that was merely a learning experience. Next time, she may not be so lucky. Thanks for your feedback!

 

[unusualsuspex]

And so it begins, a simple investigation of an overdue shuttle...

Ramirez is certainly worthy of a command of her own, though it appears to me (even if she can't see it!) that her place as XO to Sandhurst is more important at the moment.

Again, the day to day life aboard the Gibralter is seen which I really like. Nobody likes the medicals, but nobody escapes!

However, Lar'ragos's reticence to accede is obvious. Nice to see another strong willed 'Yea, whatever' doctor. Let's hope its Taiee that will be putting Lar'ragos back together if (when?) he unwinds.

again mate!

 

[Gibraltar]

Geometries of Chance - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

USS Brahmaputra
Pierosh System

The survival mask helped to filter out most but not all of the acrid smoke that choked the shattered cockpit of Brahmaputra. Olivia Juneau seethed with impotent frustration and beat her fists against the darkened console interface at the pilot’s station. She had tried every technique she knew to restore primary, auxiliary, or even partial battery power to the panel. It was all in vain. The runabout was dead in space, and unless rescue appeared quickly, she and her crew were sure to follow.

Behind her on the floor were her two surviving comrades, Chief Petty Officer Osterlund and Ensign Shanthi. Both men were encased in the runabout’s only two undamaged EVA suits. They were injured, and though Juneau had treated them to the best of her abilities using the ship’s emergency medical kit, she feared they would succumb to the runabout’s life support failure long before expiring from their injuries.

The shockwave that overwhelmed them had seemingly come from nowhere. It had been a paltry seven seconds between when they had first detected the oncoming wall of chronometric energy and when it crashed through their pathetically insufficient shielding. Now, drifting without power at the far edge of the Pierosh system, Juneau wracked her brain trying to come up with some kind of solution to their predicament.

What would Ramirez do in my place? Her mind straddled the razor’s edge between palpable fear and outright panic. I can’t lose it. If I come unglued we’re all done for. I’m the only thing separating us from certain death right now. Juneau looked down at her shaking hands and wondered idly if terror or oxygen deprivation was to blame. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, and felt the clutching hand of dread tightening around her heart. I don’t have any options. I’m going to die… here… now.

And just like that, the fear was gone. It was as if someone had thrown a switch inside Olivia’s head. The Juneau who had been about to let herself be overcome by indecision and panic was banished to a small, dark corner of her mind. In her place was someone not entirely different, but who answered to a higher calling and held very definite priorities, survival being foremost among them.

Her hands now steady, she crept gingerly through the smoke shrouded cockpit and into the compartment beyond where she located an engineering systems control hatch. She removed the hatch cover and set to work on repairing or diverting damaged systems that by all rights she should have had no knowledge of. Her fingers moved with the practiced delicacy of an experienced engineer, and within minutes she had managed to restore sufficient power to get minimal life support back online. She then shunted just enough energy to arm and launch the runabout’s emergency distress beacon.

As the atmospheric pumps labored to clear the smoke from the air, Juneau replaced the hatch cover and returned to the cockpit. She checked to make sure the beacon was safely away and broadcasting, then took her place on the floor alongside Shanthi and Osterlund. When the Starfleet rescue response arrived, they would find her barely conscious, with no memory of what had happened here. Hell of a way to live, she mused. She allowed herself one final thought before releasing control of her mind to its rightful owner. Whatever this was, and whoever is responsible, this should prove of interest to us.

*****

Sol System, Sector 001
Luna, Mare Moscoviense
Temporal Investigations Agency HQ
Sub-Level 9 – ‘The Vault’

The history of this subsurface facility was relatively recent, though as any of the agents, technicians, and scientists in the employ of the Federation’s enigmatic Temporal Investigations Agency could tell you with no small amount of irony… time was relative. Founded nearly a century earlier by the Federation Council following a series of near disastrous time-travel experiments conducted by a naively reckless Starfleet Command, the TIA had begun as no more than a communal think tank staffed by some of the Federation’s more eccentric intellects of the period.

Rumors had abounded since the dawn of the Federation of a ‘temporal cold war’ that supposedly raged across entire eons, but whose combatants were shrouded in mystery. However, such repositories of knowledge as the Daystrom Institute and the Vulcan Science Academy still argued that time travel was at best impractical and at worst impossible. That argument had held fast right up until Starfleet had gone and done it.

The men and women of the nascent TIA had plotted and planned, studied the philosophy and ethics of time travel, and had written paper after paper on the dangers and benefits of purposefully violating the integrity of the known time/space continuum. The ultimate result of their work had been the Temporal Prime Directive, the corollary to Starfleet’s Directive Number One. It forbade any Federation official, researcher, or Starfleet member from intentionally tampering with the existing timeline in any way, and included strict provisos against time travel.

Over the past century, TIA researchers and investigators had scrutinized hundreds of purported cross-temporal incidents. Everything from oddities at the sub-atomic level to events that spanned multiple sectors of Federation space were explored. Various curiosities had been collected, documented, studied and eventually warehoused at the TIA’s headquarters on Earth’s moon. But by and large, the TIA existed simply to investigate and report, advising the Federation Science Council on such things as fell within their purview.

The second Borg assault on Sector 001 in 2373 had changed all that. Employing temporal technology in an attempt to undermine the Federation’s very founding, this effort had come far too close to success. Such intentionally destructive temporal incursions had been theorized by TIA’s personnel for decades, but Federation leaders were unwilling to take costly and largely theoretical preventative measures in the face of an indefinite threat.

No longer. Fearing that the growing Dominion threat might attempt to utilize similar tactics, the Federation Council had granted the TIA the equivalent of temporal wartime powers. The agency’s resources, influence and authority had thus grown exponentially in the past three years. Agents whose inquiries once had been a minor inconvenience to Starfleet officers were now feared. A negative review of an officer’s participation in a cross-temporal event, however unintentional, could now result in the ending of a career, if not outright incarceration.

The physical embodiment of the agency’s new proactive stance was the Temporal Inversion Stasis Complex, known simply as the Vault. Equipped with largely experimental chronometric shielding, it had been designed as a self-sufficient bunker against any detrimental changes in the existing timeline. Theoretically, even if the Federation itself ceased to exist, the personnel within the Vault would remain immune to those changes. For that reason, in addition to the technicians, researchers, and regular agents assigned to three-month rotations, the Vault also contained specially trained response teams of scientists and Special Forces operators whose unenviable task it would be to restore any alterations in the timeline that threatened the Federation.

***

Aquinas Devonshire looked up from his dog-eared hardbound copy of Past Prologue, the definitive work of the historic author Jacob Sisko. The young man stared incredulously at the beeping console in front of him, momentarily at a loss for what to do despite the months of exhaustive training required for a three month tour in the Vault.

“You have something, Devonshire?” queried G’rukian, the Betelgeusian watch officer.

Aquinas shook off his fleeting paralysis and went to work, gleaning critical information from a river of scrolling data. “Yes, sir. It’s reading as… well, either a temporal or spatial incursion of some kind.”

“Which is it?” G’rukian replied brusquely.

“I… uh, it appears to be both, sir.”

Aquinas’ supervisor moved quickly to his side; his colorfully billowing Eknoa vestments swished softly with the effort. G’rukian inclined his head, which Aquinas imagined couldn’t be an easy gesture as the being wore a large and ornate headdress. “Location fix?”

His confidence returned and Devonshire’s hands moved swiftly over his console as he narrowed sensor fields and tweaked output parameters. “It’s along the Cardassian border with the Federation, Sector 21509. Looks to be the Pierosh star system.” He had to recheck his figures before he announced, “And by the looks of these readings, it’s a level seven event, sir.” It wouldn’t sound so harrowing to an outsider unfamiliar with TIA’s rating system, Devonshire thought, until you informed them that a supernova only registered as a level eight.

If it were possible, G’rukian looked even more solemn than usual. “Do we have any agents in that region?”

Devonshire cross referenced TIA’s current deployment roster. “No, sir. The closest team in the field is Barnaby and ZinZil. They’re currently investigating a possible level two incident in the Rudyard Colonies. That’s twenty-three lightyears away from Pierosh.”

“Very well. Send this upstairs to Directorate-O with a recommendation to alert Starfleet, though I’d be surprised if they hadn’t detected this already. Also compile a brief for the quarantine response team.”

“Right away, sir.” As he began to carry out his assigned tasks, Devonshire became aware that G’rukian was still hovering over him. The Betelgeusian reached forward and ran a pale green finger along the spine of Aquinas’ book.

“Devonshire, where did you get this?”

The human winced, then turned his head hesitantly towards his superior. “I—uh, borrowed it from the research library, sir.”

G’rukian grumbled with distaste. “This book will not be written for another seventeen years, Mister Devonshire. It is a classified artifact, not a souvenir. I should not have to remind you that the Temporal Prime Directive applies doubly so to we here in this facility.”

Devonshire sighed. “Yes, sir.”

*****

<cont'd>

 

[Gibraltar]

Geometries of Chance - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 <cont'd>


USS Gibraltar
En-route to Pierosh star system, Warp 8

Ramirez arrived to the briefing room unusually early, breaking with her habit of sliding into their senior staff meetings with only seconds to spare. Sandhurst, who was invariably the first to arrive, was already seated, perusing the latest information gathered on the Pierosh system on a padd.

As she took her usual seat at the table, she fixed her gaze on him until he looked up and noticed the displeasure written on her face. “Problem, Exec?” He amended, “Other than having to drag yourself in here at oh-dark-hundred?”

She nodded and held up a padd of her own. Ramirez summed up the situation in a single word, “Lar’ragos.”

The captain’s expression soured, and a small sigh escaped his lips as he settled back in his chair. “What now?”

“More complaints from members of the security division. And this isn’t just petty grumbling about shift rotations or duty posts. There are some very damning accusations in here.” She activated the padd and read verbatim, “Lieutenant Lar’ragos has in past weeks become verbally abusive towards staff, repeatedly haranguing subordinates about even minor infractions of accepted security protocol. This behavior, coupled with an accelerated program of high-impact holographic scenarios during which the actions of security personnel are repeatedly disparaged has seriously undermined the morale and effectiveness of division personnel. This, in turn, threatens departmental cohesiveness and could translate into critical errors committed in life-or-death situations that would likely result in unnecessary casualties.”

Sandhurst winced. “Damn. Who’s that from?”

“Master Chief Tark, Captain.” She met his gaze. “Tark’s a service lifer, sir. He’s as crusty as they come, but he’s also loyal to a fault.” She tossed the padd onto the table top where it slid to a stop in front of Sandhurst. “If he’s actually lodging a formal protest against Lar’ragos, things down in the security division must have deteriorated badly.”

The captain shook his head unhappily but made no move to pick up the other padd. “I’d hoped he would get past whatever’s troubling him, but it doesn’t appear that’s happening.”

“I know he’s your friend, sir. Have you tried speaking with him about this?”

“Tried and failed.” Sandhurst leaned forward and pushed the padd back towards Ramirez. “Personnel issues are your territory, Commander. I’ll back whatever decision you make regarding this matter. Friend or no, I won’t have him endangering the lives of his people because he can’t hold his temper in check.”

The conversation ended with the arrival of the chief engineer, Lieutenant Ashok. The large Bolian entered and gave the captain and XO cursory nods before assuming his seat. The rest of the senior staff soon followed. Lt. Commander Elisto Plazzi, the aging science officer, Lieutenant(j.g.) Taiee from Medical, and Lieutenant Lar’ragos from Security/Tactical. Ensign Browder stood in for the absent Juneau at Ops, and flight control officer Ensign Lightner was also on hand.

Sandhurst looked to Plazzi, who was sipping from his ever present beverage mug. “What’s the probe’s ETA, Elisto?”

Plazzi referenced a running timer on his padd and replied tiredly, “Seven minutes, thirty-eight seconds, Captain.”

Sandhurst scanned the faces of his senior officers, many of whom were just coming off shift or who'd had precious little opportunity for sleep. “Thank you for being here so early. I know it’s inconvenient, but we’re only two hours out from Pierosh. We’ve launched a Warp 9 sensor probe ahead of us to reconnoiter the area.”

He then polled the officers, each of whom gave a brief recitation of their departments’ preparedness. Sandhurst turned back to Plazzi and prompted, “While we’re awaiting the probe’s telemetry, why don’t we get some background on the Pierosh system.”

Plazzi toggled the LCARS interface at his seat and activated the large viewscreen set into the inner bulkhead. The image of a medium orange star surrounded by the concentric circles of its five planets’ orbital paths sprang to life on the viewer. In his rich voice, Plazzi began narrating the diorama unfolding before them. “The system anchors on an unremarkable K-type star. Of five planets, only the second is marginally Class-M. The atmospheric oxygen content is primarily the result of geo-thermal venting, as the biosphere supports only a limited variety of Phylum Bryophyta; essentially complex mosses and lichens.”

The image centered on the second planet and closed in, revealing a dull grayish-white surface devoid of large bodies of water or apparent terrestrial vegetation. Plazzi continued, “What makes this planet of interest to Federation science is its unusual weather patterns. Due to a little understood confluence of the world’s magnetosphere, gravitational field, and orbital inclination, Pierosh II exhibits some of the most exotic and unusual weather patterns ever recorded on a habitable planet.” He paused to draw another wake-inducing sip from his mug. “A meteorological survey station was established sixteen years ago to study these phenomena. Data gathered from the subsequent observation has helped Earth and a number of other Federation worlds make significant upgrades to their planetary weather modification networks.”

Ramirez interjected, “What’s the status of the survey station?”

Lar’ragos fielded that question. “It was evacuated in the months leading up to the Dominion War, when it became apparent that Starfleet couldn’t safeguard smaller outposts and colonies along the DMZ.”

The exec focused on Plazzi. “Is there anything in that planet’s atmosphere which could have produced these energy signatures?”

“No, sir. No known meteorological phenomenon could produce power readings on that scale.”

Ensign Browder’s padd beeped insistently. He activated the device and scanned its contents. “Ops has patched in new information from Starfleet Command, Captain.”

“Let’s hear it, Ensign.”

“Yes, sir.” Ensign Browder replied crisply, displaying none of the self-conscious hesitation that was a hallmark of his predecessor, Juneau. “Whatever happened in that system created a Level 3 shockwave. Sensor records gathered from several civilian ships within scanning range indicate that the wave-front dissipated some point-zero-four lightyears out from its point of origin.” He frowned and looked to the captain. “If Brahmaputra was nearby when that event occurred, something of that magnitude could have easily destroyed a lightly shielded craft like a runabout.”

Sandhurst nodded soberly. “Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”

A flashing icon appeared in the corner of the viewer display. Plazzi announced, “Incoming data from our probe, sir.” He took the captain’s nod as permission to proceed and switched from the image of Pierosh II to active sensor telemetry from their probe.

A graphical representation of the Pierosh system took shape with a text overlay as various points of interest were identified and labeled. In an affront to their expectations, the system appeared conspicuously devoid of either widespread destruction or obvious anomalies.

Ramirez held her breath as she anticipated the discovery of a small debris field marking the final resting place of the Brahmaputra and her crew.

“Sensor contact, sir,” Plazzi noted. “Reading a subspace distress beacon, transmitting Brahmaputra’s registry.” He highlighted the region in the immediate vicinity of the beacon and enhanced the resolution. “We’ve got her, Captain. Danube-class runabout… I’m seeing diminished power signatures and serious structural damage.” He directed a relieved expression at Sandhurst. “But they appear to be largely intact. I’m detecting three life signs, weak but stable.”

Sandhurst looked intensely at Ashok. “Lieutenant, I need Warp 8.4.”

The Bolian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He replied hesitantly in his deep, basso voice, “Captain, we’ve already had to throttle back from 8.2. We’ve been redlining the engines for the past six hours. I strongly recommend against—“

For that brief moment, it seemed to Sandhurst as if only the two of them existed in the room. He leaned forward in his chair and cut the engineer off in mid-sentence. “Lieutenant, I’d remind you that not only is our Lieutenant Juneau aboard that ship, but the Fleet Admiral’s son as well. Two hours may as well be an eternity if we arrive too late to save them.”

The towering Bolian stood, his frame taut with anger and embarrassment. “I’ll do what I can, sir, but I won’t promise what I can’t deliver.” With that he walked stiffly out of the room.

An awkward silence followed, which was broken with the captain’s query, “Any information on the source of the energy readings and shockwave, Elisto?”

Plazzi tapped at his interface and centered the viewer squarely on Pierosh II. “We’re seeing slightly elevated radiation signatures coming from the planet, Captain.” The older scientist squinted at the viewscreen, clearly perplexed, “And chronometric energy readings… along with Q-particle emissions.”

Taiee frowned. “Q-particles?”

Still engrossed by the onscreen images, Sandhurst replied without looking at the CMO. “Any energy particle that the computer can’t identify is designated a Q-particle, Doc.”

Plazzi looked at the captain, his expression one of grave concern. “Such unidentified particles are most often encountered in the vicinity of spatial rifts or extra-dimensional incursions.”

Sandhurst looked nonplussed. “Lovely.” Turning to look at the remaining senior staff members, he asked, “Anything else for the good of the order?”

No one replied in the affirmative, and the captain took the opportunity to bring the meeting to a close. “I want Medical prepped for those casualties from the runabout, and an away team on standby for a surface investigation. Lar’ragos, make sure we’ve got ample security escort, no telling what we’re going to find down there.” He turned to the ship’s young helmsman. “Mister Lightner, make sure you have multiple egress routes plotted. We may have to break orbit at a moment’s notice.” As the respective officers acknowledged his orders, he stood. “Let’s make it happen, people.”

The senior officers filed out, most scribbling notations onto their padds as they left. Sandhurst and Ramirez remained behind. Still seated, the exec studied the display on the viewer. “Little harsh with Ashok, weren’t you?”

Sandhurst gave her a sidelong glance. “No, actually. He needs to learn the difference between what the specs say is possible, and how a ship will actually deliver beyond those expectations.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Sandhurst stretched and looked perturbed. “Then I’ll go down there and squeeze 8.4 out of those engines myself.”

*****

 

[TheLoneRedshirt]

Loving me some classic Gibraltar! Damn, but this is so well-written. Even the second time through it is a pleasure to read. I'm glad for another opportunity to ride along with "the little ship that could" and her over-achiever crew.

 

[Gibraltar]

Another classic Gibraltar tale. I'm undecided if this one was as excellent as the first or better. Maybe another read will help me make up my mind. I do recall this one to be crueler.

In any case. A lot of fun.

Thanks, CeJay. I've polished this story quite a bit since I first posted it here 5 years ago, and it's among my favorites of those I've written.

And yes... crueler is an apt description.

 

[Gibraltar]

Loving me some classic Gibraltar! Damn, but this is so well-written. Even the second time through it is a pleasure to read. I'm glad for another opportunity to ride along with "the little ship that could" and her over-achiever crew.

I'm gratified you're onboard for the ride once again, TLR! And over-achiever... heh... that made me laugh.

 

[CeJay]

This is (still) a terrific build-up to what's going to be a complex and intriguing story. I'm reading this and wondering if Sandhurst and crew could have approached this situation any differently but so far I can't really see how.

Terrific stuff and it's going to get even better.

 

[unusualsuspex]

Chapter 3

It's odd, having just been writing about a temporal incursion in the 'Angel' story I now find that Gibraltar may be facing one as well. However, this is one that was planned making it much darker.

Lar'ragos is really walking the wrong side of a thin line here. His staff are losing faith in both him and themselves which is NOT good for any Starfleet officer let alone a security officer.

And what happened with Juneau there? Hmmm...

The mystery and its accompanying danger deepens.

 

[unusualsuspex]

Sorry, double post!

 

[Gibraltar]

Geometries of Chance - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Pierosh II

It boiled into space, seething like a living wave of purest rage. It was free, and yet it wasn’t. Its intellect was still fragmented; its sense of self and purpose remained jumbled and tenuous. It continued to feel the agonizing cage of its imprisonment, which should not have been possible if it were truly free. As for where it was, it could not fathom. Its awareness of its surroundings became clearer and it discovered something that might satiate its aching hunger. Still tethered as it was to its former/current prison, it would not be easy… but it was so very hungry.

*****

Orion Merchantman Sethret
En-route to Pierosh star system, Warp 9.8

Ahmet Kutav’s fortunes had just improved, and unexpectedly so. Long months of running cargo, both legitimate and illicit, from place to place in the former Demilitarized Zone had proved dangerous and decreasingly profitable. The Cardassians were desperate, and desperation bred betrayal. Even when making officially sanctioned cargo runs on behalf of Federation relief agencies, his ship had twice come under attack. The would-be thieves had discovered, to their short-lived regret, that Sethret was no mere cargo carrier. Her speed, weapons and shielding made her a formidable foe.

“Status of the distress beacon?” Kutav stared at Vanei as the bulky Orion squirmed in his acceleration couch. It usually amused the ahmet to watch his larger cousin flail in the decidedly too-small seat, but now was not the time for such distractions.

After he drew in a frustrated breath, Vanei replied, “The signal remains strong and consistent.”

“And the Federation starship?”

Vanei shifted to toggle the sensor interface, grumbling as he did so. “It is still on an intercept course with the scout vessel, holding at Warp 8.3. We will arrive at the scout’s coordinates a full thirty minutes before the starship.”

Kutav stroked his neatly trimmed beard thoughtfully. “Have they detected us yet?”

“No, Ahmet. Their sensors are in passive mode. They are relying on the long-range probe they sent ahead to be their eyes in the system.” He turned to study the engineering readouts. “Even with their sensors actively searching, our subspace field modulations would prevent them from seeing us until we were much closer.”

“Why would they do such a thing?” Kutav already knew the answer, of course, but Vanei was family, and destined to one day command his own corsair. It was Kutav’s responsibility to ensure that the younger man knew his opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. Piracy and predation were no trades for the foolish.

“Standard Starfleet intercept protocol, Ahmet. They too wish to approach as stealthily as possible.”

Kutav smiled. “Very good, Vanei. Maintain course and speed.” He brought his communicator to his lips and activated it. “Dobros, ready your boarding team. We’ll be in transport range in twenty-seven minutes.” A double-click from his subordinate’s comms device indicated Kutav’s message had been heard and understood.

The ahmet settled back into his chair, an anticipatory thrill beginning to build in his stomachs. The Cardassian insurgency would pay a hefty sum for captured Starfleet personnel. Even if the prisoners had little in the way of vital tactical knowledge, they could still be made to serve as game pieces in the insurgency’s campaign against the allied occupation of Cardassian territory. And to snatch such a prize right from under the noses of Starfleet would not only prove a welcoming diversion from the mundane cargo handling duties of late. It was an action worthy of a pirate, worthy of an Orion.

*****

Chained as it was to its prison, it was still able to reach far enough into space from the planet’s gravity well. It was upon them quickly, and they were completely unaware. No device they possessed was calibrated to detect its presence. Wherever it was, the corporeal beings inhabiting this place had no knowledge of it, or its abilities. In the past it had not been given to acts of subtlety, but it had learned much patience during its long confinement. It would test the limits of its control, a nudge here, an errant impression there, and it would observe how easily these creatures could be manipulated. It sensed the approach of yet another vessel, containing even greater numbers of potential quarry…

*****

Ahmet Kutav fidgeted uneasily in his seat, his earlier excitement having inexplicably evaporated. Now he felt angry. The Federation, he seethed silently. The sanctimonious, bloated superpower had spread across the quadrant like a plague, destroying commerce and free enterprise and leaving a supposed utopian economic vacuum in its wake. His people, renowned for countless generations as traders, raiders, thieves and slavers had been practically emasculated by the stultifying presence of the UFP and its laws.

The Orions had even been pushed into the background of interstellar politics. Once an undeniable force to be reckoned with in the quadrant, they were now a second-tier power. As for the formerly legendary merchant princes of Rigel, they had become someone people turned to if the rapacious Ferengi were not interested in doing business. It was beyond humiliating, and Kutav had suffered enough.

“Alter course. Set intercept trajectory with the approaching starship. Activate defenses and arm weapons.”

Far from sounding alarmed by the order, Vanei and Gult both grinned maniacally as they acknowledged the ahmet’s command.

Vanei sounded a cautionary note, however. “Ahmet, despite its age and size, the starship still outguns us three-to-one.”

Kutav settled into his seat. His nerves tingled with the anticipation of a frontal assault. Never before in his life had he attempted something so bold. “Prepare the subspace charge.”

Purchased from the Son’a, Kutav’s nasty little surprise was an isolytic subspace weapon, a device used to tear a hole in the fabric of subspace. Never intended as an offensive weapon, Kutav had acquired the device as a last-ditch escape diversion. Now, however, he planned to use it to level the playing field. The charge was dangerously unpredictable, of course, so much so that its use had been outlawed by numerous treaties between the great powers. Too bad no one had thought to make the Syndicate a signatory, Kutav thought pitilessly.

“Beginning build-up to detonation. Warhead will be armed in six minutes. ETA to weapons range with Federation starship… six minutes, eight seconds.”

*****

Warp 8.3 was all Ashok had been able to coax from Gibraltar’s overtaxed engines. Sandhurst decided it would have to be enough. That last percentage of propulsive energy would have been purchased at the cost of his chief engineer’s reputation, and the captain was not yet prepared to upstage the lieutenant in front of his department.

Sandhurst’s last posting had been aboard the Galaxy-class starship Venture, first as chief engineer and finally as the ship’s executive officer. Were he now in command of such a vessel, he and his crew would have been in the Pierosh system hours ago, and in possession of sensors and defensive systems capable of identifying and coping with nearly any contingency.

He was not ashamed of Gibraltar; far from it. However, Sandhurst refused to delude himself about the ship’s capabilities. He and his crew would have to be smart, avoiding trouble where possible and thinking their way around situations that larger more durable vessels could fight their way out of.

After the third time Sandhurst had asked for an updated ETA, Ensign Lightner at Flight Control had quietly added a small chronometer window in the corner of the viewscreen. That had prompted a raised eyebrow from Ensign Browder seated next to him at Ops, and had made the captain smile despite the mounting tension on the bridge.

The assembled staff were unusually quiet as they approached the system ahead, muted voices making inquiries and giving status reports. When Plazzi addressed the captain, there was a tinge of concern in his voice. “Sensor contact, Captain, bearing 301-mark-228. Reads as a transient object moving at warp speed. Contact is sporadic.”

Sandhurst turned in his chair to face the Science station. “Projected course of the object?”

Plazzi’s fingers danced across the console as he made adjustments and attempted to compensate for the meager sensor return. He raised his head from his monitor and looked to Sandhurst. “Intercept course with us, sir. It’s moving at Warp 9.6 or better.”

Sandhurst fought the sudden urge to stand from the command chair and move about. He was gradually learning the importance of monitoring his own non-verbals in the presence of his crew. “Time until intercept?”

“Roughly two minutes, sir. Impossible to be more precise than that considering the sporadic sensor readings.”

As he glanced behind him at where Lar’ragos stood at the Tactical station, the captain inquired, “Status of shields, Lieutenant?”

“Shields on hot standby, sir.” Lar'ragos’ expression was unreadable, though his movement seemed unnaturally laconic. “If you want them raised, we’ll have to reduce speed.”

“Agreed, sir.” This from the chief petty officer manning the bridge’s Engineering station.

Sandhurst did not hesitate. “Red alert. Tactical, raise shields and arm defensive systems. Helm, reduce speed to maximum sustainable with shields at full. Science, sensors to active scanning.”

A chorus of confirmations echoed his orders. The captain watched Plazzi patiently as the older man illuminated the approaching object with Gibraltar’s full sensor suite.

*****

“Ahmet, they are scanning us.”

“Hold course and lock target.”

“Yes, Ahmet.” Vanei locked the targeting reticule onto the starship. A brief moment of hesitation took hold as some part of his mind screamed out that this course of action was madness, certain suicide.

Kutav felt it as well. The enemy target was seductive, but a growing sense of wrongness began to permeate his awareness. As his mind flirted with lucidity, he reached out to toggle the override control on his armrest. Something unseen seemed to grip him in an iron vise. His mouth opened, and he slurred the words, “Open fire,” even as he struggled mightily to trap them in his throat.

At the weapons board, a plaintive wail escaped Gult as his hands moved of their own accord and launched the isolytic charge.

*****

Seconds groaned past as the crew awaited Plazzi’s verdict. Sandhurst kept his gaze fixed on the viewer to avoid staring expectantly at the older man. Still absorbed in his sensor display, the science officer announced, “Orion corsair, Zumschao-class—“

“They’ve locked weapons on us,” Lar’ragos finished for him.

An electric charge seemed to race the length of Sandhurst’s spine at Pava’s proclamation. Still, he took an extra second to ensure that when he spoke his voice was calm and authoritative. “Helm, drop to impulse and take evasive action. Ops, hail them and identify ourselves. Tactical, launch countermeasures and prepare to return fire if fired upon.”

He spared a glance at Ramirez, who was monitoring sensor information at the exec’s seat in the lower well. Even from where he sat, he imagined that he could feel her bridled energy, her impatience. She was a person of action, and though having to sit idle as another gave commands in a dynamic situation pained her, she hid it well.

Lar’ragos launched two sensor drones from the aft torpedo bay, both set to mimic Gibraltar’s warp signature and energy emissions. They peeled away in opposite directions, one accelerating as the other slowed.

At Helm, Lightner thrilled to the words, ‘evasive action.’ To him, such a command was a blank canvas, begging to be filled by as wild and unpredictable maneuvers as he could muster.

Plazzi, forgoing all pretense of remaining calm, shouted, “They’re firing!”

Sandhurst snapped around in his chair more quickly than intended as the ship’s inertial dampeners struggled to keep pace with Lightner’s erratic course adjustments. He focused on Lar’ragos at the Tactical board. “Lieutenant, return the compliment.”

“Aye, sir. Four photon torpedoes away; they’re not yet in phaser range.”

At Ops, Ensign Browder announced, “Torpedo inbound… warhead yield indeterminate.” He squinted at the wavering image on his sensor readout. “It appears to be tracking the accelerating drone, sir.”

“Well, thank goodness for small fav—“

The thought went uncompleted as the image on the main viewer was washed away by a brilliant flash of light. Before their eyes the fabric of the universe was rent asunder, sending out a cataclysmic shockwave, the second the Pierosh system had suffered in as many days.

Sandhurst activated the command chair’s automated restraint harness as he shouted, “Emergency power to shields!” His hand moved for the public address toggle on his armrest.

Ramirez beat him to it. Her voice rang out throughout the ship, “All hands, brace for impact!”

*****

 

[TheLoneRedshirt]

Whenever you hear, "All hands brace for impact," you know you're having a bad day.

Lots of small things really add to this segment. I liked this:

"Sandhurst fought the sudden urge to stand from the command chair and move about. He was gradually learning the importance of monitoring his own non-verbals in the presence of his crew."

A small thing, perhaps, but such details really bring out the depth of your characters. Sandhurst is still facing a steep learning curve as C.O. He's learning, though, and unfortunately he has some very hard lessons ahead.

More, please!

 

[Gibraltar]

Chapter 3

It's odd, having just been writing about a temporal incursion in the 'Angel' story I now find that Gibraltar may be facing one as well. However, this is one that was planned making it much darker.

Lar'ragos is really walking the wrong side of a thin line here. His staff are losing faith in both him and themselves which is NOT good for any Starfleet officer let alone a security officer.

And what happened with Juneau there? Hmmm...

The mystery and its accompanying danger deepens.

There are a lot of unknowns in the situation Gibraltar is wandering into... and then there are the unknowns that exist a bit 'closer to home.'

Thanks again for commenting!