Author’s Note: For in-depth background for this story, I would refer you to Tales of the USS Bluefin: “Crossroads” and Tales of the Border Service: “Trash Day”
Tales of the Border Service: “Birth and Rebirth”
Stardate 54631.42 (19 August 2377)
USS Pamlico
Sector 0431
Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren, C.O. of the Buoy Tender Pamlico, sat in the crew’s mess across from CPO Peter McManus. Both of them were staring intently at PADDs, their mugs of tea ignored and growing cold.
“What about Lt. Kamakawa?”
McManus shook his head. “He’s put in his walking papers. I hear he’s going back to Okinawa to raise orchids.”
“Lt. Vrelshan?”
“Just got promoted to Lt. Commander. She’s being transferred to Star Station Able as Deputy Station Manager.”
“Lt. Ch’Raalin Th’Vor?”
McManus cocked his head at Nor Huren. “Lass, did ye not hear? He’s headed back to Andoria. Th’Vor got appointed to their Planetary Council.”
Nor Huren tossed her PADD on the table. “Well good for him,” she said, sarcastically. She dropped her face into her hands and sighed – her frustration all too apparent.
“Pete, how hard can it be to find a replacement XO?”
A look of sympathy spread across the Scotsman’s broad face. “Dinna give up, lass. There’s one out there . . . it just may take a wee bit ‘o time to find him.”
“It’s been eight months, Pete. I’d say it’s taking more than a ‘wee bit’ of time.”
Eight months prior, their former Executive Officer, Lt. Kep Tien, had suffered an emotional breakdown and threatened the bridge crew with a phaser. Commander Nor Huren had knocked Tien out with a well-thrown data PADD, saving the object of Tien’s ire, Ensign “Pudge” Patterson from being reduced to sub-atomic particles.
Now Tien was back on Earth in a psychiatric facility and the Pamlico was still without an XO. The reduction in overall fleet strength, accompanied by the attrition of qualified officers was making the search that much tougher. Add in the fact that a billet on a buoy tender was pretty much at the bottom of any officer’s list of preferred assignments, and the task became nigh impossible.
Chief McManus continued scrolling down his PADD until he came to a name he had previously highlighted. He knit his brow as he considered mentioning the candidate again. (Nor Huren had rejected the suggestion outright the first three times McManus had brought it up.)
He cleared his throat. “Skipper . . .”
Nor Huren kept her head down on the table. “I know what you’re going to say, Pete. The answer is still no.”
“He’s the most qualified candidate of the lot.”
“Over-qualified, I’d say. He’s a full commander.”
“Not anymore. He’s been busted back to Lieutenant.”
“Well that’s reassuring. You’re not scoring points for him, Pete.”
“His C.O. on the Illustrious gave him high marks when he served as tactical officer.”
“We don’t need a tactical officer, Pete. We don’t have any weapons. Besides, I’m more concerned about his service on the Horace Greely.”
“He saved the lives of two Border Service officers.”
“While trying to save his own. Pete – he’s in prison, for the All’s sake!”
“And I was in the station brig when you brought me on.”
Kelendi looked up at that remark. Pete sat with his arms crossed, a sad expression on his face.
“That was different,” she said, but her retort sounded weak to her own ears.
“How so?”
She straightened. “Rehm’yat!” she exclaimed, using a mild Rigellian oath. “You weren’t involved with the Orion Syndicate. You weren’t part of a rogue Starfleet crew that was actively smuggling drugs and weapons. And you aren’t addicted to Corillan Acid!”
“I’m an alcoholic, lass,” he said, gently. “Not so different.”
“You’ve been sober for almost two years – you don’t even touch Synthehol !”
“That doesna change the fact that I’m an alcoholic, Skipper. Recovering, yes, but I was still a mess when you pulled me out of the brig and onto Pamlico.”
“That was different.” She lowered her eyes and folded her arms, stubbornly.
McManus chuckled. “Not very. Just ‘cause I saved your arse a half-dozen times when you were but a snot-nosed Ensign.”
“More like ten times,” she said, softly.
They sat quietly for a few moments, each alone in their thoughts.
“Well, at least he’s never shot up a bridge with a phaser,” she admitted.
“Aye. There’s that in his favor.”
She eyed the gray-haired NCO. “Pete . . . is this your idea of somehow atoning for your own past? Because, if it is . . .”
He shook his head. “No, lass. But I do know what it’s like to get a second chance. I’m grateful for the opportunity you gave me every day.” He held up the PADD for emphasis.
“I’ve read enough about this lad’s situation to think that, maybe, he deserves another chance too.”
* * *
Stardate 54632.69 (20 August 2377)
New Zealand Penal Colony
Auckland, New Zealand, Earth
“Prisoner Bane, approach the door to your cell,” announced the guard.
Ian “Jack” Bane rolled from his bunk, wincing at the ever-present pain in his side, and stepped forward toward the glowing portal.
The guard, a Starfleet security NCO, carried a stun batton at the ready as he stared impassively at Bane. The non-com tapped his combadge.
“Lower force field on Beta 21.”
“Acknowledged.”
The blue glow surrounding the entrance to his cell faded, as did the background hum that sometimes seemed to lodge in his brain.
“Prisoner Bane, step forward, then right face.”
Bane complied. He always complied. It was his life now, and had been for over six months. In prison, he was no longer Commander Bane, not even Lt. Bane. Such titles were not allowed for inmates. He was not even given the courtesy of “Mister.” It was always “Prisoner Bane” or just “Bane.” At least it was slightly better than being called by a number.
“Move forward,” ordered the guard.
“Where are we going?” asked Bane. Sometimes the guards would answer. Usually they would remain silent. Once, a guard having a bad day had prodded Bane in the kidney with his stun batton. He had awoken in sickbay a few hours later, the pain in his side still searing despite the heavy pain medication. He could thank his former C.O., Captain Elena de Souza for that. The phaser they had wrestled over had been set to kill but not disrupt. Nevertheless, he had caught part of the beam along his side, resulting in a two-month hospital stay.
The guard who had prodded him with the baton had been relieved and reassigned, or so he had heard through the prison grapevine. As to Captain de Souza, he did not know where she had ended up. Most likely, she was in a maximum security prison - Sundancer, perhaps. But he did not care.
“You have visitors,” replied the guard.
This surprised Bane. When he had first arrived at New Zealand Penal Colony, his mother had visited him twice a week. After all, Australia was practically next door from a planetary scale. But Bane’s morose attitude became more than his mother could take. Finally, his younger brother, Nick (Nigel’s twin) had come alone one Sunday and told him that he was putting a stop to their mother’s visits.
“It’s eating Mum alive to see you like this, Jack. She still hasn’t gotten over Dad’s passing and now you’ve pissed away your career and probably your life. When you decide you want to do more than just stare out the window, let me know. Otherwise, you can just sod off.”
That had been three months ago. He had made no attempt to contact home, though his mother continued to send messages. He neither read nor replied to them.
“Stop here,” ordered the guard. Bane complied as a scanner checked him for contraband.
Who would want to smuggle something out of prison? he wondered, idly. Bane steeled himself for the doors to the visiting area to slide open. He did not relish an encounter with his family.
But it was not Nick Bane nor his mother who awaited him. Three people were standing in the commons area – the rest of the space was unoccupied. Two he recognized – Dr. Trinidad, the prison CMO and the JAG officer who had represented him, Lt. Voorties. The third was a Border Service captain – a human male with brown skin and a shaved head. Bane noted the expression on the Captain’s face was one of pure contempt.
Bane had grown accustomed to that look.
Lt. Voorties, a stocky woman from Capetown offered a professional smile and gestured for Bane to sit.
“Jack, this is Captain Meyer of the Border Service. He, um, has new orders for you.”
Bane glanced from Meyer back to Voorties. “Orders? What are you talking about? I have nearly five years left on my sentence.”
“Just shut up and listen, Lt. Bane,” growled Meyer. It was apparent he neither cared for Bane nor the orders he was about to convey.
“In case you hadn’t heard, prisoners are not entitled to be addressed by rank . . . sir.”
Voorties was clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. “Why don’t we . . .”
“As you were, Lieutenant Voorties,” interrupted Meyer brusquely, his eyes boring into Bane’s. “Like I was saying, Lieutenant Bane, I need you to refrain from the urge to open your mouth while I’m speaking. I’m well aware of the rules here, mister. Against my better judgment, your sentence has been commuted to time served and your commission has been reactivated.” He held up a PADD and began to read.
“You are directed and required to report to Star Station Echo no later than Stardate 54640. There, you will be attached to the Seventh Border Service Squadron and assigned as Executive Officer of USS Pamlico, under the command of Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren. Your commission of Lieutenant is effective as of this Stardate. Failure to report will result in immediate incarceration and revocation of your commuted status.”
He looked up and a small smile crept across his lips. It was not a pleasant expression.
“In other words, you frak this up, Bane, and you’ll be put away so far and so deep that time itself will lose all meaning. You got that, Lieutenant?”
Bane was genuinely puzzled. “But I don’t understand . . . why me? Hell, I’m not fit for service.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that we agree on,” said Meyer. “To answer your question, I’ve pulled some strings on behalf of an old friend who serves on that ship. For some ungodly reason, Chief McManus thinks you may be worth salvaging. I’ve always trusted his judgment in the past but hell, the old dog might be getting senile. I sure don’t see anything here that gives me much hope for you.”
Dr. Trinidad stepped forward, obviously displeased by Meyer’s gruff demeanor. “I think you’ve made your point, Captain, and now your duty is done. As CMO here, I need to discuss some matters with Lt. Bane . . . privately.”
The disdain in Meyer’s eyes did not diminish. “Sure, Doctor. I’ve had my say, so I’ll get out of your hair. Lt. Voorties? It’s your job to make sure Mr. Bane is on a ship outbound to Star Station Echo. It will take at least a week, so I suggest you get this officer cleaned up and on his way pronto.”
“Aye, sir. We’ll get things moving right away.”
The Captain nodded. “See that you do. One last thing, Mr. Bane. If you have any notions of going AWOL and reuniting with your Syndicate buddies, just know that there are plenty of Border Dogs in the Borderland that would love nothing better than to put a torpedo up your exhaust vent.” He offered a curt nod to the JAG officer and the doctor before turning and stalking away.
* * *
Tales of the Border Service: “Birth and Rebirth”
Stardate 54631.42 (19 August 2377)
USS Pamlico
Sector 0431
Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren, C.O. of the Buoy Tender Pamlico, sat in the crew’s mess across from CPO Peter McManus. Both of them were staring intently at PADDs, their mugs of tea ignored and growing cold.
“What about Lt. Kamakawa?”
McManus shook his head. “He’s put in his walking papers. I hear he’s going back to Okinawa to raise orchids.”
“Lt. Vrelshan?”
“Just got promoted to Lt. Commander. She’s being transferred to Star Station Able as Deputy Station Manager.”
“Lt. Ch’Raalin Th’Vor?”
McManus cocked his head at Nor Huren. “Lass, did ye not hear? He’s headed back to Andoria. Th’Vor got appointed to their Planetary Council.”
Nor Huren tossed her PADD on the table. “Well good for him,” she said, sarcastically. She dropped her face into her hands and sighed – her frustration all too apparent.
“Pete, how hard can it be to find a replacement XO?”
A look of sympathy spread across the Scotsman’s broad face. “Dinna give up, lass. There’s one out there . . . it just may take a wee bit ‘o time to find him.”
“It’s been eight months, Pete. I’d say it’s taking more than a ‘wee bit’ of time.”
Eight months prior, their former Executive Officer, Lt. Kep Tien, had suffered an emotional breakdown and threatened the bridge crew with a phaser. Commander Nor Huren had knocked Tien out with a well-thrown data PADD, saving the object of Tien’s ire, Ensign “Pudge” Patterson from being reduced to sub-atomic particles.
Now Tien was back on Earth in a psychiatric facility and the Pamlico was still without an XO. The reduction in overall fleet strength, accompanied by the attrition of qualified officers was making the search that much tougher. Add in the fact that a billet on a buoy tender was pretty much at the bottom of any officer’s list of preferred assignments, and the task became nigh impossible.
Chief McManus continued scrolling down his PADD until he came to a name he had previously highlighted. He knit his brow as he considered mentioning the candidate again. (Nor Huren had rejected the suggestion outright the first three times McManus had brought it up.)
He cleared his throat. “Skipper . . .”
Nor Huren kept her head down on the table. “I know what you’re going to say, Pete. The answer is still no.”
“He’s the most qualified candidate of the lot.”
“Over-qualified, I’d say. He’s a full commander.”
“Not anymore. He’s been busted back to Lieutenant.”
“Well that’s reassuring. You’re not scoring points for him, Pete.”
“His C.O. on the Illustrious gave him high marks when he served as tactical officer.”
“We don’t need a tactical officer, Pete. We don’t have any weapons. Besides, I’m more concerned about his service on the Horace Greely.”
“He saved the lives of two Border Service officers.”
“While trying to save his own. Pete – he’s in prison, for the All’s sake!”
“And I was in the station brig when you brought me on.”
Kelendi looked up at that remark. Pete sat with his arms crossed, a sad expression on his face.
“That was different,” she said, but her retort sounded weak to her own ears.
“How so?”
She straightened. “Rehm’yat!” she exclaimed, using a mild Rigellian oath. “You weren’t involved with the Orion Syndicate. You weren’t part of a rogue Starfleet crew that was actively smuggling drugs and weapons. And you aren’t addicted to Corillan Acid!”
“I’m an alcoholic, lass,” he said, gently. “Not so different.”
“You’ve been sober for almost two years – you don’t even touch Synthehol !”
“That doesna change the fact that I’m an alcoholic, Skipper. Recovering, yes, but I was still a mess when you pulled me out of the brig and onto Pamlico.”
“That was different.” She lowered her eyes and folded her arms, stubbornly.
McManus chuckled. “Not very. Just ‘cause I saved your arse a half-dozen times when you were but a snot-nosed Ensign.”
“More like ten times,” she said, softly.
They sat quietly for a few moments, each alone in their thoughts.
“Well, at least he’s never shot up a bridge with a phaser,” she admitted.
“Aye. There’s that in his favor.”
She eyed the gray-haired NCO. “Pete . . . is this your idea of somehow atoning for your own past? Because, if it is . . .”
He shook his head. “No, lass. But I do know what it’s like to get a second chance. I’m grateful for the opportunity you gave me every day.” He held up the PADD for emphasis.
“I’ve read enough about this lad’s situation to think that, maybe, he deserves another chance too.”
* * *
Stardate 54632.69 (20 August 2377)
New Zealand Penal Colony
Auckland, New Zealand, Earth
“Prisoner Bane, approach the door to your cell,” announced the guard.
Ian “Jack” Bane rolled from his bunk, wincing at the ever-present pain in his side, and stepped forward toward the glowing portal.
The guard, a Starfleet security NCO, carried a stun batton at the ready as he stared impassively at Bane. The non-com tapped his combadge.
“Lower force field on Beta 21.”
“Acknowledged.”
The blue glow surrounding the entrance to his cell faded, as did the background hum that sometimes seemed to lodge in his brain.
“Prisoner Bane, step forward, then right face.”
Bane complied. He always complied. It was his life now, and had been for over six months. In prison, he was no longer Commander Bane, not even Lt. Bane. Such titles were not allowed for inmates. He was not even given the courtesy of “Mister.” It was always “Prisoner Bane” or just “Bane.” At least it was slightly better than being called by a number.
“Move forward,” ordered the guard.
“Where are we going?” asked Bane. Sometimes the guards would answer. Usually they would remain silent. Once, a guard having a bad day had prodded Bane in the kidney with his stun batton. He had awoken in sickbay a few hours later, the pain in his side still searing despite the heavy pain medication. He could thank his former C.O., Captain Elena de Souza for that. The phaser they had wrestled over had been set to kill but not disrupt. Nevertheless, he had caught part of the beam along his side, resulting in a two-month hospital stay.
The guard who had prodded him with the baton had been relieved and reassigned, or so he had heard through the prison grapevine. As to Captain de Souza, he did not know where she had ended up. Most likely, she was in a maximum security prison - Sundancer, perhaps. But he did not care.
“You have visitors,” replied the guard.
This surprised Bane. When he had first arrived at New Zealand Penal Colony, his mother had visited him twice a week. After all, Australia was practically next door from a planetary scale. But Bane’s morose attitude became more than his mother could take. Finally, his younger brother, Nick (Nigel’s twin) had come alone one Sunday and told him that he was putting a stop to their mother’s visits.
“It’s eating Mum alive to see you like this, Jack. She still hasn’t gotten over Dad’s passing and now you’ve pissed away your career and probably your life. When you decide you want to do more than just stare out the window, let me know. Otherwise, you can just sod off.”
That had been three months ago. He had made no attempt to contact home, though his mother continued to send messages. He neither read nor replied to them.
“Stop here,” ordered the guard. Bane complied as a scanner checked him for contraband.
Who would want to smuggle something out of prison? he wondered, idly. Bane steeled himself for the doors to the visiting area to slide open. He did not relish an encounter with his family.
But it was not Nick Bane nor his mother who awaited him. Three people were standing in the commons area – the rest of the space was unoccupied. Two he recognized – Dr. Trinidad, the prison CMO and the JAG officer who had represented him, Lt. Voorties. The third was a Border Service captain – a human male with brown skin and a shaved head. Bane noted the expression on the Captain’s face was one of pure contempt.
Bane had grown accustomed to that look.
Lt. Voorties, a stocky woman from Capetown offered a professional smile and gestured for Bane to sit.
“Jack, this is Captain Meyer of the Border Service. He, um, has new orders for you.”
Bane glanced from Meyer back to Voorties. “Orders? What are you talking about? I have nearly five years left on my sentence.”
“Just shut up and listen, Lt. Bane,” growled Meyer. It was apparent he neither cared for Bane nor the orders he was about to convey.
“In case you hadn’t heard, prisoners are not entitled to be addressed by rank . . . sir.”
Voorties was clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. “Why don’t we . . .”
“As you were, Lieutenant Voorties,” interrupted Meyer brusquely, his eyes boring into Bane’s. “Like I was saying, Lieutenant Bane, I need you to refrain from the urge to open your mouth while I’m speaking. I’m well aware of the rules here, mister. Against my better judgment, your sentence has been commuted to time served and your commission has been reactivated.” He held up a PADD and began to read.
“You are directed and required to report to Star Station Echo no later than Stardate 54640. There, you will be attached to the Seventh Border Service Squadron and assigned as Executive Officer of USS Pamlico, under the command of Lt. Commander Kelendi Nor Huren. Your commission of Lieutenant is effective as of this Stardate. Failure to report will result in immediate incarceration and revocation of your commuted status.”
He looked up and a small smile crept across his lips. It was not a pleasant expression.
“In other words, you frak this up, Bane, and you’ll be put away so far and so deep that time itself will lose all meaning. You got that, Lieutenant?”
Bane was genuinely puzzled. “But I don’t understand . . . why me? Hell, I’m not fit for service.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that we agree on,” said Meyer. “To answer your question, I’ve pulled some strings on behalf of an old friend who serves on that ship. For some ungodly reason, Chief McManus thinks you may be worth salvaging. I’ve always trusted his judgment in the past but hell, the old dog might be getting senile. I sure don’t see anything here that gives me much hope for you.”
Dr. Trinidad stepped forward, obviously displeased by Meyer’s gruff demeanor. “I think you’ve made your point, Captain, and now your duty is done. As CMO here, I need to discuss some matters with Lt. Bane . . . privately.”
The disdain in Meyer’s eyes did not diminish. “Sure, Doctor. I’ve had my say, so I’ll get out of your hair. Lt. Voorties? It’s your job to make sure Mr. Bane is on a ship outbound to Star Station Echo. It will take at least a week, so I suggest you get this officer cleaned up and on his way pronto.”
“Aye, sir. We’ll get things moving right away.”
The Captain nodded. “See that you do. One last thing, Mr. Bane. If you have any notions of going AWOL and reuniting with your Syndicate buddies, just know that there are plenty of Border Dogs in the Borderland that would love nothing better than to put a torpedo up your exhaust vent.” He offered a curt nod to the JAG officer and the doctor before turning and stalking away.
* * *
The addition of Jack Bane to the crew is only part of this story. The next chapter should be up later today.
