USS Reykjavík, Stardate 3066.9 (November 6th, 2321) Captain’s Ready Room The 3-D chessboard had been forgotten after the second round of Aldebaran whiskey had settled in. Moments like these were rare for a starship captain. Nandi Trujillo was grateful to have Lt. Commander Glal as her executive officer, a man whose life was the personification of dedicated Starfleet service. He was a former enlisted rating who had risen to commissioned officer and climbed the ranks based on his intelligence, perseverance and raw stubborn pride. The seasoned Tellarite was renown throughout the service as being one of the best XO’s in the fleet, one who’d eschewed any further promotion and planned to retire from his present post. He was one of those rarest of types, a first officer who could be counted on in every situation, but also one who could on occasion help share the captain’s burdens. With Glal at her side, Trujillo was a little less isolated and the loneliness of her command was just a bit easier to bear. It had been a good talk between command officers, to be sure, but also one between friends. They discussed their senior staff, ship’s operations, current events, and the ramifications some of those developments might have on their assigned duties. “We’re slated to conduct a sensor sweep of the Tzenkethi border next week,” Trujillo revealed, sharing a sardonic grin with Glal as she sipped at her whiskey. “If nothing else, Garrett is making good use of that new science lab we installed for her.” “Lab?” Glal scoffed. “It’s a damned science wing! Planetary sciences and astrometrics with a full stellar cartography suite. You’ve spoiled the woman, sir.” “We both know we needed her,” Trujillo countered. “By incorporating those changes, we’ve vastly increased our utility to Command. In the past three months we’ve done more survey work than standard security patrols. Times they are a-changing, my friend.” Glal grumbled into his now empty glass. “Bah, I miss gunboat work.” “There will always be opportunities in that regard, they’ll just be increasingly rare. This latest wave of Federation exploration and colonial settlement is bound to spark some skirmishes. Look what we just went through with the Cardassians. Five years ago we’d never even heard of them, and now they’re the leading topic in this year’s Tactical Threat Assessment symposium.” The Tellarite offered his species’ version of a shrug. “You’re just trying to cheer me up. Too much scut-work always makes me cranky,” he groused. She spread her hands in a gesture of candor. “This is the new Starfleet. They’re big on diplomacy now, slow to anger, slower still to react to obvious threats. We either adapt to the new paradigm or Reykjavík gets mothballed and we get put out to pasture.” “Something will come up soon,” Glal insisted. “It always does.” “Bridge to Captain Trujillo,” came across the intraship. She tapped her combadge reflexively. “Go ahead.” The voice of the bridge duty officer, Lieutenant Jarrod continued, “Priority orders from Command, Captain. Starbase 234 picked up a garbled distress call from the starship Zelenskyy in the Trelaka system. Zelenskyy reported they’d engaged unidentified raiders attacking a Boslic colony in that system but had suffered damage and gone on the defensive. Zelenskyy is now failing to respond to hails. We’ve been ordered to proceed to Trelaka at maximum warp, render assistance to our ship and take whatever actions you deem prudent.” Glal smirked at her through his scraggly beard, his tusks quivering with amusement. “How do you do that?” she whispered sotto voce to her XO, before replying to the bridge, “Understood. ETA to that location?” “At maximum warp, ETA is eighteen hours, twenty-seven minutes, Captain.” “Have helm set course and engage at emergency speed, Lieutenant. Stand to yellow alert and initiate Level 2 diagnostics of all combat-related systems.” “Aye, sir. Bridge, out.” Trujillo finished her drink in a single swallow, setting the glass down as she eyed Glal with mock intensity. “You’re some kind of sorcerer, aren’t you?” “On my world they’re called Soul Speakers, sir. As to whether I am one or not, I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.” She shook her head with amusement. “Go see to arrangements, Commander. I’ll want Alpha watch at their stations when we arrive on scene. Got to have the first team in their seats if we’re looking at potential combat.” Glal rose slowly out of his chair, his knees crackling and eliciting a soft moan from the older officer. “Aye, sir.” “And for heaven’s sake will you go have Dr. Bennett check out those ancient knees of yours? I swear you sound like a mortally wounded Targ every time you get up.” “Flattery will get you nowhere, sir,” Glal snuffled with good humor as he exited onto the bridge. * * * The senior officers stood in unison as Trujillo stepped through the parting doors into the windowless briefing room just aft of the bridge. “At ease.” She slipped into the chair at the head of the table, prompting the others to resume theirs. “This meeting is now in session.” Trujillo nodded towards Lieutenant Arwen DeSilva, Operations officer. “What do we know about Zelenskyy?” DeSilva toggled the tabletop LCARS interface in front of her, prompting a rotating hologram of a Miranda-class starship to appear above the center of the table. “Type nine variant of her class, launched thirteen years ago. Standard Class-IV armaments package. She’s primarily employed conducting light escort, perimeter patrol, and courier work. Crew compliment of two-hundred seventy.” “Her captain?” “Lt. Commander Eldred Withropp commanding. Academy class of ’05. Zelenskyy is his first commission as a CO.” “The colony?” Trujillo prompted. The bronze-hued Lieutenant Gael Jarrod from Security fielded that answer. In his slightly nasal, Oxonian-English accent he recited, “Boslic colony of Kiruta, established on Trelaka VII forty-eight years ago, Captain. Population at the time of the last Starfleet visit was a little over eight-hundred thousand, scattered across about a dozen settlements on a single continent.” “Known enemies?” “The Boslic are non-aligned,” the Science officer, Ensign Rachel Garrett replied. “They trade openly with just about everyone. The Boslic home system has had run-ins over the past few centuries with the Nausicaans, the Orions, and the pre-Federation Andorians, but no notable conflicts within the past four decades, sir.” “Piracy activity in local sectors?” Trujillo asked, clearly in brusque efficiency mode today. “Typically low-level and infrequent,” Jarrod answered. “A few known pirate groups, raiding small outlying colonies for supplies and fuel. Most pirate bands would avoid a colony the size of Kiruta, especially since the Boslic aren’t known to be pushovers. That colony has fully functioning orbital defense grid and a sizeable self-defense contingent.” Trujillo nodded soberly, mulling over all she’d heard. “Very well. We’ll be in-system in a little over two hours. Dr. Bennett, I want you to continue familiarizing your staff with Boslic physiology, as we may be stumbling into a mass-casualty situation. Use whatever resources you need, to include converting cargo space and spare cabins into medical wards.” She turned to address the Chief Engineer, the Zaranite Lt. Commander Kura-Ka. “Commander, please ready your staff for assignment to emergency repair teams. From what little we gathered from Command, it appears Zelenskyy’s taken quite a beating. If she’s still intact by the time we reach the system, we’ll doubtless need to effect some significant repairs.” “Aye, sir,” Kura-Ka replied through his face-concealing breathing apparatus. Trujillo then polled the senior staff, confirming the readiness of their individual departments. “Anything else before we arrive in-system?” she asked. There was nothing, so Trujillo stood. “Very well, this meeting is adjourned. Resume your posts, maintain yellow alert and set defense condition two.” The others followed the captain to their feet and moved to depart, gathering up cups and data-slates they’d brought with them. Rachel Garrett nudged her fellow ensign, Flight Control officer Farouk Naifeh, as the more senior officers exited the compartment. “How often does this happen? Running to the defense of missing or jeopardized ships, I mean?” He grinned in response. “Why do you ask?” “This is the third time since I’ve come aboard that we’ve been tasked with this sort of mission. The first time, when we found the Esau…” she blanched, traumatic memories bubbling up. Naifeh reached out to grasp her shoulder, sensing her sudden unease. “Yes, we do get sent to the rescue quite often. We’re fast and we have teeth, or so Commander Glal is always saying.” She gave a curt nod of understanding, words failing her. “I don’t know what we’ll find when we get there, but I can almost guarantee that it won’t be as bad as what you found aboard Esau.” She held his gaze. “I hope you’re right, for all our sakes.” * * * Dropping out of warp within a star system was a risky proposition, as the overlapping gravity wells of the system’s planets and star could play havoc with a starship’s warp field. This could result in anything from exploding nacelles to a warp-core breach to destabilizing the integrity of the local star itself. Reykjavík did it anyway. “Warp deceleration complete. We are at one-third impulse speed, approximately one au from the colony planet. All engine systems read nominal,” announced Naifeh from the helm. “Weaps,” Trujillo called, using her established shorthand for the Tactical station. “Give me eyes.” In accordance with her wishes, Jarrod displayed a three-dimensional tactical overlay of the star system on the viewer. DeSilva at Ops reported, “Three vessels detected in orbit of Trelaka VII, four more are holding at various positions in close orbit of the system’s seventeenth planet, a gas giant.” Icons representing each of the ships came to life as ship’s sensors painted them. "No sign of Zelenskyy in system, Captain." Trujillo was on the cusp of asking who their new friends were when Garrett spoke up from the Science station. “Three of the ships register as Nausicaan Fang-class corsairs, sir. Two are Xepolite Rantha-class destroyers, and the last two are Alshain Talon-class combat skiffs.” “An eclectic mix,” Glal grunted from his post at the aft of the bridge. “Just so,” Trujillo muttered in reply. Then, more forcefully, “Helm, engage course for that gas giant, full impulse. That’s where we’ll find our missing ship.” DeSilva risked a glance back at the captain from her post. “And the colony, Captain?” “The colony can wait, Lieutenant. We don’t know what we’ve warped into. If Zelenskyy’s intact, they may be able to provide the necessary context to this situation. We need answers before we start kicking peoples’ teeth in.” From behind her, Glal gave Trujillo an assaying look. The captain was notoriously impatient when her orders were questioned, most especially when the possibility of combat was present. Perhaps she’s starting to mellow with age, he wondered. Then an unsettling thought struck him, twisting his innards. By the Great Hoof, maybe she’s… evolving! As Reykjavík raced towards the gas giant and it’s accompanying nine moons, Garrett set to work scanning the apparent threat vessels, running a series of comparative analyses on their power and weapons systems to assist Tactical should it come to a fight. “Ops, open a channel in the clear.” Trujillo said. “Aye, sir. Channel open.” “Unidentified vessels, this is the Federation warship Reykjavík. We are answering a distress call from another Starfleet vessel that originated from this system. Identify yourselves and your reason for being here, or you may be presumed hostile.” A full minute ticked past and the enemy’s silence was deafening. “Picking up signs of debris in high orbit of the gas giant, sir,” DeSilva noted, breaking the lull. “Confirmed,” Garrett added too quickly. “Duranium and tritanium composites in sufficient quantities to suggest they came from a Starfleet hull.” She looked to the captain, her expression somber. "Not enough mass to constitute an entire starship, sir." DeSilva sent a smirk over her shoulder in Garrett’s direction that went undetected due to the younger woman’s intent focus on numerous displays. The ensign had just stepped on DeSilva’s incomplete report, but the lieutenant empathized with Garrett’s raw intensity and her overwhelming desire to contribute. They’d all been eager young ensigns once. Trujillo nodded wordlessly, already having deduced that the gas giant was where Zelenskyy had gone to ground. “We are being scanned, sir,” Jarrod alerted from Tactical. “The ships are ascending out of the gas giant’s atmosphere and appear to be bunching up, a diamond tactical formation. Their shields are raised, and their weapons systems are armed.” “Acknowledged,” Trujillo answered. “Who’s manning these ships?” she asked as she pulled her swing-arm command display up and over her lap. DeSilva caught Garrett’s eye and pointed to herself while delivering an ‘it’s okay’ wink to the junior officer before answering. “Sensors reading a mix of Nausicaan, Chalnoth, Orion and Xepolite lifesigns aboard those craft, sir.” Trujillo grunted dourly. “The usual suspects, then.” She then toggled the comms open from her own interface. “Unidentified vessels, you have failed to respond to my challenge. Unless you do so in the next thirty seconds, you will be identified as hostile. You will lower your shields and disarm your weapons, or I will disable your ships. If you take aggressive action against us, I will destroy your ships. This is your final warning.” “Captain,” Garrett spoke up from Sciences, “the power readings on those ships are way off their baseline. I’m seeing significantly enhanced weapons capabilities and reinforced shields, and their power plants are generating upwards of thirty-percent higher output than would be expected.” “Auxiliary power to forward shields,” Trujillo commanded in response. “Weaps, target their weapons emitters and shield generators. Thirty percent yield on photorps to start, fifty percent phaser power.” “Aye, sir. We’ll be in weapons range in twenty-three seconds.” “Noted. They have fifteen seconds yet to reply.” A volley of missiles swarmed away from one of the Nausicaan ships, angling towards Reykjavík from different quarters. “Merculite missiles,” Jarrod noted laconically. Trujillo raised one finger, a signal to Jarrod to take countermeasures. “Engaging phaser point defenses, sir.” Their phasers lashed out in quick succession, annihilating the incoming ordinance thousands of kilometers from their hull. “Their time’s up, and I believe we have their answer,” Trujillo announced, cocking her head slightly. She reached to close the open front flap of her maroon tunic, fastening the shoulder clasp. It was a dead giveaway to the bridge crew, a silent tradition that spoke of impending combat. “Their funeral,” Trujillo mused. “Mister Jarrod, increase weapons yield to maximum and open fire.” * * *
Delighted to see another prominent tellarite character. They're quite entertaining in your stories. Looks like we're off to a rollicking start... Definitely looking forward to a few ruffians getting theirs, but there's always more to it than that. Interested in learning more about the boslic - a group we haven't heard much from. So only one gas giant in the system? Also interested in the description of warp drive limitations within a star system - something the franchise didn't develop very much. Thanks!! rbs
You don't tug on Superman's cape and you don't mess with Captain Trujillo. I'm quite fond of Picard-style diplomacy but every so often, I just want to see the good guys to kick-ass, take names, and ask questions later. If the catchy title of this latest Reykjavik take is any indication, this will most certainly scratch that itch. Super psyched for this one!
Trelaka System, Alpha Quadrant In orbit of Trelaka XVII Reykjavík dove towards the planet, using the gas giant’s gravity for added acceleration as the starship disgorged a dozen photon torpedoes from her three forward launch tubes. These raced away, three crimson anti-matter warheads arcing towards each of the ascending threat vessels. “Delta-Seven approach pattern complete,” Naifeh advised from the helm. “Hard starboard, then come back to 181-mark-350. One quarter roll to port, slow to one-sixth impulse as we pull behind the raider,” Trujillo instructed. “Weaps, transfer twenty-percent ventral shield power to dorsal grid as we show them our back.” Her orders were carried out and from Tactical Jarrod noted, “One target destroyed, one damaged. The other two managed to outmaneuver our ‘torps, sir.” “That was some inspired flying on their part, sir,” DeSilva observed with genuine admiration. Reykjavík’s phasers cycled again, intercepting another wave of enemy missiles and two inbound photon torpedoes. As the ship slid behind the wounded Alshain skiff, Trujillo commanded, “Weaps, cripple them. I want some prisoners to interrogate.” Pinpoint phaser strikes disabled the smaller craft’s warp and impulse engines, then tore into their weapons arrays, leaving the skiff tumbling end over end. “The last two are coming around for another run at us,” DeSilva advised. Trujillo spared a glance back at Glal. “They should be running. Pirates don’t stand their ground, and they sure as hell don’t chase down Federation starships.” Glal looked up from his sensor scope to meet her gaze. “And those evasive maneuvers, sir. Those were textbook Kor’s Hook and Needle.” “Shit,” Trujillo breathed just loud enough for Glal’s ears. The captain’s expression hardened and she called to the Science station. “Mister Garrett, give me another sweep of that damaged skiff. Are there survivors?” “Standby, sir… scanning.” The first volley of enemy fire to reach Reykjavík’s shields sent a shudder through the ship. Jarrod said, “Impacts, port and port-aft. Shields holding, no hull damage.” Garrett eyed her sensor return skeptically. “Captain? Now I’m reading… seven Klingon lifesigns.” She checked her results again. “Exclusively. No sign of the other species we detected earlier.” A low growl sounded from deep in Glal’s throat. “They spoofed us. Clever.” Trujillo issued a string of orders to the helm, bringing Reykjavík around to drive straight between the oncoming raiders. “Head on?” Glal asked quietly from behind her. “Time is an issue,” she replied in an equally conspiratorial tone. Then, louder, “Weaps, drop six of our stealth mines aft and target phasers on the enemies sensor nodes as we pass.” “Blind and Grind, aye,” Jarrod confirmed. Torpedo volleys slashed back and forth, followed by flurries of phaser and disruptor fire as the ships closed with each other. As Reykjavík flashed between her antagonists, collimated beams of energy lanced out towards the sensor nodes of both raiders, impacting their shields in a brief maelstrom of energies that left them momentarily sightless. Thrusters on Reykjavík’s gravitic mines kicked on, driving them into the path of the enemy craft where they detonated brightly, their destructive charges overwhelming the already taxed shields of both raiders. Consoles flickered on Reykjavík’s bridge along with the lighting, victims of the enemy’s closing barrage. Red tell-tails flashed across the Engineering board’s displays as power and data systems suffered overloads and automated cutovers sought to compensate. The ensign at the Engineering station held his tongue, knowing from experience that Trujillo would ask for ship’s status updates only after the enemy had been neutralized. “Both threat vessels destroyed, sir,” Jarrod exclaimed, a hint of pride bleeding through his reserved façade. “Kahless,” Trujillo muttered under her breath, “count your children now.” “I hope there are vacancies in Gre'thor!” Glal spat, pounding a fist on the bridge’s safety railing. “Damage report,” she ordered. “Moderate systems outages throughout the ship, Captain. Three of our shield generators have experienced non-catastrophic overloads and will have to be repaired.” “Acknowledged. Helm, come about and close on the wounded raider. Ops, inform the transporter room that I want the ship’s crew beamed straight to the brig, sans clothing. Make sure they locate and disable every weapon they can find in transit. Make it quick, I want to catch them before they have a chance to self-destruct.” A chorus of affirmatives followed, and Trujillo deactivated her chair’s restraint system and stood to approach the Science station. “Mister Garrett, status of the other three ships in orbit of the colony?” Garrett ran a concentrated sensor sweep of the seventh planet’s orbit, informing Trujillo of what was already apparent on the display. “They’re withdrawing, sir.” “Very well,” Trujillo assessed. “Track them. I want to know where they’re headed from here.” She approached Glal, concern registering on her features. “This changes things.” “Yes, sir,” he agreed. Trujillo favored him with a small smile. “I need you to talk to your friends in Intel, the ones whose opinions don’t necessarily make it into the sanitized fleet-wide updates.” He nodded fractionally. “What do you want me to ask?” “Klingon piracy is commonplace nowadays with the empire’s military cutbacks, but I’ve never seen Klingon pirates or even separatists disguise themselves or exclusively use someone else’s ships. Hell, they want people to know they’re facing Klingons, most times their victims surrender without a fight.” “They certainly don’t pick fights with a Shangri-La-class attack cruiser.” “No,” she confirmed emphatically. “They don’t. None of this adds up.” “Anything else, sir?” he asked. “I want to know if any Klingon bands in this region are known to operate with these tactics. Interrogate our prisoners first and use anything you get to corroborate Intel’s analysis.” “Aye, sir,” Glal replied, spinning on his heel and heading for the turbolift. DeSilva turned in her seat to face Trujillo. “Sickbay reports six casualties, sir. Five minor injuries and one serious from a coolant line rupture in Engineering.” “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Trujillo said as she returned to her seat. Jarrod advised, “Transporter room confirms seven Klingon survivors have been materialized in the brig. My people are telling me two of them require medical attention, sir.” “Fine. Have Dr. Bennett and his team attend to the Klingons in the brig with security escort.” Trujillo brought her swing arm console up to open a comms channel on an encrypted Starfleet channel. “This is the starship Reykjavík hailing USS Zelenskyy. If you are hiding within Trelaka XVII’s atmosphere from the raiders, I am pleased to inform you that they have been neutralized. I am transmitting priority authentication codes now. We stand ready to render engineering and medical assistance.” As the message transmitted, Trujillo turned back to Jarrod. “Lieutenant, take a forensic analysis team aboard that raider and get me anything you can find on who these Klingons are, and where they came from.” Jarrod affirmed his orders and as he transferred Tactical control to his deputy at another console in preparation to depart, a scratchy comms signal was broadcast through the overheads. “This is Captain Withropp of Zelenskyy. Is it ever good to hear your voice, Reykjavík. Your assistance is gratefully accepted.” “Sensor contact, Captain,” DeSilva reported. “Miranda-class vessel rising out of the gas-giant’s upper stratosphere.” “On screen.” And there, battered, battle-scarred but intact, was the ship they’d come to rescue. This, Trujillo mused, despite the unwelcome discovery of the attackers’ true identities, had turned out to be a rather good day. * * *
There's klingons on the starboard bow... So these aren't your average pirate riff-raff. Good good guy gunning down the bad guy sequence - particularly the mines. Always satisfying to see a romp. And now there are two Star Fleet vessels in the system and the rest of the pirates were just leaving. Yeah - something's not right with this picture... Thanks!! rbs
Nothing beats an experienced commander and a well-trained crew in their element. A tightly crafted combat scene that firmly establishes our heroes' competency in the face of a hostile force. Now comes the tricky part: Making sense of this mess.
So happy to see new tales of the intrepid warship (like that designation) Reykjavik and her crew. Intriguing developments, indeed. Also love the nod to the current crisis in Ukraine. Looking forward to seeing where this little mystery leads.
DeSilva came to attention in front of Trujillo’s ready room desk. “At ease, Lieutenant. What do you have for me?” The senior Operations officer proffered a data-slate which Trujillo took from her. “Information from the Boslic colony, sir. They report minimal damage and it appears the Klingon raiders were probing the colony’s defenses, likely in preparation for a larger assault.” “How many ships in total?” Trujillo asked. “Nine, sir. Zelenskyy destroyed two before being forced to fall back to the gas giant. The three left in orbit of the colony when we arrived were getting pummeled by Boslic orbital defenses and had to pull back out of weapons range of the planet.” Trujillo nodded distractedly as she scanned the contents of the data-slate. “Good old Miranda’s. Enough firepower to get themselves into trouble, but rarely enough to get themselves out of it.” DeSilva feigned insult. “Begging the captain’s pardon, sir, but my first posting was to a Miranda-class. I may take umbrage.” Trujillo offered a grin in response. “Mine too, as it happens. The Akaar. My assessment stands, nonetheless,” she said, returning the tablet to DeSilva. “So noted, sir.” The door chime sounded and both women looked to the hatchway as Trujillo called, “Enter.” Glal stepped through, followed by a Human male of average height in his mid-to-late 30’s. He had wavy brown hair just beginning to grey at the temples, and a sharply defined face with an angular nose and well-defined chin. His left arm was supported in a sling and he had multiple bandages on his face and neck. His disheveled uniform tunic still bore numerous scorch marks and a dark patch of dried blood below his left shoulder. By way of introduction, Glal announced, “Captain Nandi Trujillo, this is Lieutenant Commander Eldred Withropp of the Zelenskyy.” Trujillo stood and shook hands with the younger man across the desktop while nodding to Glal and DeSilva. “Thank you. XO, Lieutenant, you’re dismissed.” As the two departed, Trujillo gestured for Withropp to sit. “Please, make yourself comfortable, Captain.” Withropp seated himself gingerly, wincing as his slung arm inadvertently bumped the corner of the desk. “Are you quite alright, Captain? I can summon a medic if you’re in need of further treatment.” Withropp raised his good hand in a gesture of abeyance. “No, thank you, sir. I’m patched up for the moment, but I’ll wait on further care until all of my people have been tended to.” Trujillo nodded at that, her measure of the man rising several notches. “A drink, perhaps?” “Now that I will accept, Captain. Thank you.” She moved to a concealed cabinet set into the bulkhead, the hatch sliding up to reveal a fully stocked bar. “Name your poison.” “Vodka, if you have it, please.” Trujillo riffled through her stash, bottles tinkling. “Stolichnaya or Kástra Elión?” “The Stoli, please. I’m a bit of a traditionalist.” She produced the bottle and two glasses, pouring measures for the both of them. “Russian vodka. That’s a bit ironic, given the name of your ship.” “A fact my crew delights in reminding me of constantly,” he said with a smirk as he accepted the drink. They clinked glasses in a toast, with Trujillo offering, “Salud.” Withropp replied with, “Qapla Batlh Je.” Trujillo sipped at her drink. “Speaking of Klingons, when did you become aware that’s who you were facing?” The younger officer downed half his vodka in a single swallow, closing his eyes for a moment. “I had my suspicions something strange was going on when they didn’t turn tail as soon as we arrived in orbit. Then we discovered they were packing more firepower than they had any right to.” Glass in hand, he gestured to his left shoulder. “My suspicions were confirmed when we lost shields just shy of the gas giant’s gravity well and they beamed a strike team aboard. I took one of their giant knives right here for my trouble.” “Your crew?” she asked, watching his reaction closely. Withropp’s eyes took on a distant cast, the proverbial thousand-meter stare. “They fought like… like heroes. The whole bridge was a giant brawl… knives, phasers, disruptors. My first officer incinerated three of them before being sliced practically in half with a… oh, hell—what do you call them?” “Bat'leth,” she provided. “Yeah, one of those.” He shook his head. “They’d sent another team to our Engineering deck. They got the jump on the security team I’d stationed there. By the time we’d dug them out, we’d…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “We lost a lot of good people.” “I’m sorry for your losses, Captain,” Trujillo offered. “Your people are receiving the best care we can give them.” He nodded fractionally, eyes still boring a hole in the bulkhead. “How long between that fight on your bridge and when you descended into the gas giant’s atmosphere?” Withropp blinked, seeming to force back the images he was replaying in his mind. “Perhaps ten minutes. Why?” “We stumbled blindly into the same situation you did. Fortunately for us, this ship was built specifically for combat. Were you aware of which Starfleet vessels were closest, which would be responding to your distress call first?” He shook his head fractionally. “No, Captain.” Trujillo took a sip of her drink, her eyes still carefully inspecting Withropp over the lip of her glass. “It would have been enormously helpful if you had dispatched message buoys alerting relief forces that the raiders were actually Klingons. Had the next ship on scene been a patrol vessel or a scout, more lives may have been lost.” Withropp blanched, his expression growing slack as the import of her words settled onto him. “I—I didn’t even think about it, Captain. I was so fixated on my ship and crew.” She nodded understandingly. “Of course. Would I be correct in surmising this was your fist taste of combat as a CO?” “Yes, it was.” Withropp’s drink sat on his thigh, nearly forgotten, the fingers of the hand holding it drumming an almost silent cadence against the glass. “Then I will impart this wisdom to you, as it was imparted to me by a more senior commander after similar circumstances. It is your duty to think not only of your own crew, but also those who will be coming to your aid. Someday it will be you riding to the rescue, and you will want to be armed with the most complete information possible.” He nodded wordlessly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. The distant stare had returned. “Captain,” Trujillo said gently. “Give me your eyes.” Withropp seemed to force his gaze back to meet Trujillo’s. “Sir?” “You’ve done good work here today. You came to the aid of a colony under attack. You defeated two ships crewed by Klingon warriors and bested those sent aboard to seize your ship. You have taken casualties, yes, and you’ve been wounded yourself. In spite of those losses, you and your crew have performed in the finest tradition of Starfleet. My report to Command will emphasize that.” He sat a little straighter in his chair, mustering an unconvincing smile. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” “Remember that you will have time for grief and recriminations later, but right now your crew needs their captain to be a pillar of strength. Regardless of what you’re feeling, you must project that.” Another nod. “I understand, Captain.” “Good. Now finish your drink, that stuff was damnably expensive,” Trujillo said with a wry grin. * * * Trujillo stepped into the brig, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting scheme. Large Klingons dressed in form-fitting jumpsuits sat, stood, or paced in their detention cells as security personnel kept close watch over them. Glal was conferring with Jarrod at the central data terminal and paused his conversation to step over to Trujillo. “I have an update for you, Captain.” He gestured to the corridor beyond. They stepped out into the passageway, moving just beyond the doors. “They won’t talk, no surprise there. They’re obviously mortified to have been taken prisoner. One of them’s already attempted suicide, and I anticipate he won’t be the last.” Trujillo appeared to ponder that. “Anything from the forensic analysis of the ship or their equipment?” “That’s where we’ve made the most progress, sir,” Glal acknowledged. “Their gear is all recent issue, top of the line, none of it bearing the typical manufacturing stamps. The ship’s weapons systems have been enhanced by some talented technicians, as has their power plant. It may have been an old Alshain castoff at some point, but when we crippled her that ship was as powerful as someone could make it. The ship’s computer operating systems are all Klingon, and the interface architecture has been extensively modified for ease of use.” “Well,” Trujillo snorted derisively, “that’s not suspicious at all.” Glal continued, “No pirate crew desperate enough to attack a well-defended colony would have access to the kinds of resources necessary to modify a vessel so extensively.” He held up a torn tunic of rough-hewn material. “The crew was dressed in a mix of military uniforms and civilian clothing, but none of them were wearing any rank insignia or house sigils. That’s nearly unheard of, even from Klingons not actively serving in the military. Your clothing is a testament to battles won and family honors accrued. A Klingon warrior without such adornment might as well be a shopkeeper or a sanitation worker.” “What I hear you saying, Commander, is that someone really wanted them to look like unaffiliated pirates.” The Tellarite bobbed his head. “Affirmative, sir. This whole mess stinks of covert Klingon military action.” Trujillo frowned. “So, you think we’re looking at the Klingons probing colony defenses secretly? Advance intelligence gathering in preparation for an actual attack by imperial forces?” “My friends at Intel believe so, sir. There’s been a slight but noticeable increase in pirate raids in this and adjoining sectors, almost exclusively against non-aligned systems. Coincidently, the colonies that have been spared attacks from such pirates are those whose governments do extensive business with the empire.” “Okay,” Trujillo said with a irritated grunt. “I’m going to go have a chat with Command and see what, if anything, they want to do about this. In the meantime, you keep at the members of the Plausible Deniability Club in there. I’ll take a hard confession over conjecture any given day.” Glal gave her an inscrutable look. “I don’t have a lot to work with here, sir. If we’re playing by the rules, the Seldonis Convention would seem to apply.” Trujillo offered him a smirk laden with menace. “The convention only applies to prisoners of war from an identified signatory government. These are non-aligned pirates, as someone has gone to great lengths to establish. If we can’t get them to talk, perhaps the Boslic down on the colony might want a crack at them, eh?” Glal’s answering smile was as genuine as it was feral. “I will do that straight-away, sir.” * * *
Great Star Wars like line... And some fun reasoning regarding the treatment of the prisoners. My sword master warned me to not hide behind my shield - as that allowed him to hide on the other side of it. These klingons want to hide their military affiliation - well... two can play that game... Graying in his 30's? Sounds like Withropp's been under more than just recent stress. Thanks!! rbs
Friend of foe, Trujillo is a straight-shooter who gives it to you plain. I like that. Something odd is going on here with these very un-Klingon Klingons. I suppose, like most other major powers, they too carry out clandestine operations, but you gotta wonder what kind of honor-bound Klingon would want to sign-up for that kind of deal? Very few songs being sung in Sto-vo-kor about sneaking around and pretending to be a pirate.
USS Reykjavík Captain’s Ready Room “You’ve had an opportunity to review the information I sent, sir?” Trujillo asked, directing the question at Vice-Admiral Markopoulos via a subspace comm-link with Starbase Earhart. The legendarily garrulous older Human with his wild shock of white hair and bushy beard glanced to a data-slate held in one hand. “I have, Captain. I’ve also had our Intel analysts pouring over all the evidence you’ve collected. They agree with your assessment that this certainly appears to be Klingon expansionism disguised as common piracy.” “With their government so dependent upon ongoing Federation technical support to help repair the ecological damage to Qo'noS, a covert expansion of their territory is the only way they could pull it off,” Trujillo reinforced. “Agreed,” Markopoulos replied noncommittally. Trujillo held her tongue for a moment hoping that Markopoulos would suggest a course of action, but the admiral said nothing. “With respect, Admiral, I would recommend this is something we should act on sooner rather than later. If we cut this operation off at the knees, it will serve notice to the High Council and their military that the Federation won’t stand for renewed aggression.” Markopoulos leveled an incredulous look at her from across subspace. “They’re Klingons, Nandi. The fact that their dependance upon our largess has kept them in check for thirty years is a miracle in and of itself. We always knew they’d swing back around to military adventurism eventually.” “So we let them run roughshod over the Boslic and anyone else they like, sir?” The admiral’s patience in the face of Trujillo’s outburst was laudable. “Starfleet’s retooling for a renewed exploratory push as we speak, Captain. A full fifth of our heavy cruisers are undergoing refit in preparation for deep-space exploration assignments. Meanwhile, we’ve had run-ins with the Tzenkethi, Tholians and the Cardassians in the past eighteen months. The Romulans are still watching us from behind the Neutral Zone and refusing all diplomatic overtures. This isn’t an ideal time to start a renewed conflict with the Klingons.” “Again, sir, smothering this faux-piracy program of theirs now may preclude just such a conflict. The empire would still retain plausible deniability and could cut their losses without overt dishonor.” “Are you proposing something, Captain?” Markopoulos asked, clearly determined to drag it out of her and seeming to enjoy every excruciating moment of her discomfort. She kept a resigned sigh in check, but only just. “Yes, sir. I would like to assemble a task force to track down and neutralize the threat this group poses.” “You, Captain?” Considering that much of his face was hidden behind his beard and unkempt hair, Markopoulos’ expression was still able to convey an impressive range of emotions. He now radiated skepticism. “Unless you have a better candidate in mind to lead such an operation, sir?” Trujillo rejoined, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “I am, of course, willing to assist in whatever capacity you might wish.” Markopoulos held her gaze from across the lightyears for a prolonged moment, then appeared to come to a decision. “Okay, Captain, cards on the table. Despite your undeniable qualifications for leading such a mission, you managed to piss off Admiral Langford and the Diplomatic Corps during that business with the Cardassians and Task Force Hadrian. You came dangerously close to insubordination, and don’t think that I and others at Command don’t know that Captain ch’Valos took a lot of heat for that fiasco that should by rights have been directed at you.” Trujillo’s expression froze for a moment before her face drew into a reluctant frown. “I acknowledge that I earned that rebuke, Admiral. I allowed my concern for possible Starfleet POW's to trump my better judgement in those circumstances.” “Yes you did, and in so doing you did serious damage to your reputation. I need commanders I can trust in delicate situations, not hotheaded zealots.” She nodded slowly, her plans and aspirations burning down around her. “I understand, sir.” Markopoulos referenced his tablet again. “You are exceptionally lucky, Captain. If it were solely up to me, I’d have Olaf Kiersonn taking point on this. As it stands, Admiral Saavik and the sector’s standing Rapid Response Committee decided three hours ago that your name topped the list of prospective candidates to lead just such a reaction force. I’m forced to defer to my superior’s judgement in this matter.” Trujillo blinked, experiencing a moment of cognitive whiplash. “I’m sorry, sir… did you say—” “Yes, damn it, Nandi. We’re giving you a task force to run these Klingons down. Don’t screw this up, or I’ll have your guts for garters, after Saavik gets done eviscerating me!” “I—uh, thank you, sir. I’ll certainly keep—” He waved off her awkward reply. “I’m sending you Shras, Hathaway, Vespula, Feynman, and al-Ashtar. If we can scrape up any more combat-worthy ships, we’ll send them your way as well. What do you plan to do with Zelenskyy?” “We’ll effect repairs to her as best we’re able, sir, and then we’ll bring her with us. Any chance you can attach a long-range tender to the task force?” A few more keystrokes on his tablet were followed with, “Done. The Falmouth has been tasked to your group.” “Thank you, Admiral.” “You’re welcome,” he replied. “We’re giving you a brevet promotion to commodore for the duration of this mission. Enjoy it while it lasts.” “For what it’s worth, sir, I appreciate Command’s vote of confidence in my abilities.” “You should,” Markopoulos retorted. “There’s a lot riding on this, and if you foul this up you might plunge us into another war with the Klingons.” Despite her earlier reprimand, Trujillo had to smile at the statement. “To quote Professor Markopoulos from his academy Intraspecies Astropolitical Science class, ‘there will always be another war with the Klingons.’” “Yes, I said that. However, I never inferred that I’d be the one starting it.” Markopoulos set down the slate, once again directing his full attention to Trujillo. “Coordinate with Captain Muchumba at Sector Ops to make rendezvous arrangements with your ships. This will be Operation Venatic. Your task force designation?” “Scythe, sir,” she answered simply. The corner of Markopoulos’ mouth twitched. “Naturally. Very well then, good hunting with Task Force Scythe, Commodore.” The screen winked, the admiral’s visage replaced with the Starfleet Command delta. Trujillo sank back into her chair, her cumulative tension escaping in the form of a long sigh. She toggled a call button to the bridge, summoning her XO. Glal stepped into the compartment, favoring Trujillo with an expectant look. “And how did that go, sir?” “Better than I deserve, frankly,” she admitted. “Command still fretting about that business with the Cardassians?” “Oh, yes,” she confirmed. “Very much so. Saavik green-lighted my task force proposal over Markopoulos’ objections, apparently.” “Well, sir, you’ve never gone out of your way to avoid aggravating the Chic Greek. It was bound to come back around to bite you sometime. And I would remind you this advice is coming from a Tellarite.” Trujillo actually laughed at that, a much needed release of stress. “I yield to your wisdom, Commander.” “What did they give us?” “Seven ships, including Zelenskyy and a tender.” He raised a bushy, skeptical eyebrow. “Starships or warships, sir?” “An Andor-class missile cruiser, a Constellation, two destroyers and a frigate. They’ll hold their own.” Glal nodded approvingly. “And what are we calling this party, sir?” “Task Force Scythe.” That elicited a snort from the older officer. “Oh, very good sir. Very subtle. May I presume Task Force Death Orgy was already taken?” She pointed emphatically to the exit. “I’ll see myself out, Commodore.” * * *
Loving the dynamic between Gial and Trujillo. And quite enjoying the dynamic between Trujillo and Markopoulos (chic Greek.) This kind of banter makes these stories pop both on screen and in print. Daring-do just isn't complete without sarcastic badinage. Which is why I'm quite tickled with a tellarite side-kick - a holy-roaster, if you will. Makes this a fast and fun read. I also appreciate the inclusion of a tender and its significance for verisimilitude. My father served on one in the during Vietnam. Thanks!! rbs
“Oh, very good sir. Very subtle. May I presume Task Force Death Orgy was already taken?” I like this dude, he's fun!
Love the characters in this series! A hard-charging Captain, reminiscent of Kirk, and a wise but sarcastic Tellarite First Officer who, compared to another Tellarite of your acquaintance, is the very picture of decorum. The other crew members are a good mix of aliens, newbies, veterans, etc. It's also a good look into the era where a young Rachel Garrett is still learning the ropes. I must say, the actions of the Klingons is puzzling. Usually, they're as subtle as a brick tossed through a window. This subterfuge is almost Romulanesque in its design, but the Ridge-heads came up short in its execution. Now, Task Force Death Orgy . . . um, Scythe, is about to saddle up, give chase, and kick some Klingon butt!
Captain’s Personal Log, Stardate 3122.9 As Operation Venatic approaches the three-week mark, we have disappointingly little to show for our efforts. Feynman and al-Ashtar engaged three raiders a week ago near the Tarius Pulsar Creche, with one raider destroyed and another badly damaged ship escaping into the severe gravimetric shear of the creche, almost certain suicide. Aside from that encounter, we’ve found no additional clues as to where the Klingon pirates are staging from or what their next targets may be. Our Klingon prisoners still refuse to talk, and four of them have begun starving themselves in protest of their confinement. The Boslic whose colony they attacked refused to take custody of the Klingons or interrogate them after discovering their true identity, and I can’t really blame them. Who wants to draw that kind of attention to themselves? The lack of results is discouraging and is clearly testing the admiralty’s patience. Markopoulos has been hounding me for updates almost daily, and if we can’t locate and dig out the raiders soon, he’ll be only too happy to reallocate Task Force Scythe’s ships elsewhere. I’ve decided to keep two-thirds of our ships on patrol in this sector, checking in with Federation and non-aligned colonies alike to make sure they’re seen to be protected by anyone watching. We’ve also been rendering assistance in upgrading some of the non-aligned colonies’ orbital defense systems. We’re not sharing Federation weapons technology with them, just making sure their own systems are working at peak efficiency, providing replicated parts and technical expertise where applicable. Meanwhile, I’ve tasked Reykjavík, Zelenskyy and Vespula to visit local outposts and commercial stations, hoping to find someone somewhere who knows where the Klingons are based, or who might be supplying them. If it turns out that the imperial military is funding and supplying the operation completely, this may be yet another waste of time. I’d hate to come up short on this mission, seeing as it was my own idea. Failure here would mean another personal loss of face with Command, and another nail in the coffin for the quickly dying idea of dedicated Starfleet warships. As much as this assignment may impact my career, I’m embarrassed that I have to remind myself that there are lives hanging in the balance here. * * * Harksea Trade Station, Gamma Galadtonia System The Xepolite trading outpost was over two centuries old but was well maintained, giving it a kind of exotic classical quality. The interior bulkheads were inset with pergium and nillimite, decorated with intricate scrollwork and flourishes that one seldom encountered in more modern structures. The visiting Starfleet personnel had been given limited R&R privileges by Commodore Trujillo, and the senior staffs of both Reykjavík and Zelenskyy had the added duty of hunting for any information on the Klingon raiders. The crews had quickly discarded the idea of trying to go undercover, given that they were largely of known Federation member species, and both looked and carried themselves as Starfleet personnel. Generous portions of gold-pressed latinum had been issued from ship’s stores to the senior officers as bribes for actionable intelligence on their quarry. Gael Jarrod, Arwen DeSilva, and Rachel Garrett walked through the commercial ring of the station, passing exotic store fronts and kiosks selling all manner of goods. Ligonian holo-sim dealers hawked their wares next to Klaestron bladesmiths and Orion weapons merchants. The enticing scents of dozens of different foods from countless different species mingled in the air and diverted visitors’ attention. The smell of freshly cooked hasperat from a Bajoran refugee’s food stall sought to overwhelm the aroma of Acamarian parthas souffle. “So, how are you finding the position of executive officer?” Jarrod asked DeSilva. Reykjavík’s Operations officer had been temporarily transferred to Zelenskyy to serve as Captain Withropp’s XO, owing to the deaths of several of his senior officers in the battle at the gas giant. Other ships from Task Force Scythe had also contributed replacement crew to help fill Zelenskyy’s open billets. “Challenging and…” she cast a glance over her shoulder to ensure no Zelenskyy crew were within earshot, “…awkward,” she finished. “They’ve been through a lot, and it was a fairly new crew to begin with. Trying to get all the replacements settled in and situated in their departments has been a headache, but Captain Withropp’s been supportive and easy to work with.” Jarrod nodded, pausing to inspect a Kreetassan dagger in the display window of the bladesmith’s shop. “It’s great experience for you. You’re practically a shoe-in for when Glal finally calls it quits.” Both DeSilva and Garrett’s heads snapped around in unison at that statement. “You know something I don’t?” DeSilva inquired. She was aware that Jarrod and Trujillo were romantically involved and guessed that some privileged information may have come his way. “Only that he’s not getting any younger. Glal’s been in uniform for forty-two years. He was on the cusp of retirement before the commodore poached him away from Captain Sulu, and that was four years ago. I figure he’s done his bit for king and country. Besides, his family’s very involved in politics back home, and rumor has it they’re wanting him to run for a seat in the Ministerial Conclave.” DeSilva cocked her head, appearing thoughtful. “I mean… I wouldn’t turn it down. Gods, those would be big boots to fill, though.” “Tellarite cloven feet are actually rather smaller than Hum—” Garrett offered helpfully, only to be cut off by a sharp look from DeSilva. “Hush, Ensign, the adults are talking.” The junior officer held up a belaying hand with a smirk. “Just kidding, sir. Gosh, you’re really getting salty in your old age, Lieutenant.” DeSilva’s jaw dropped open and Jarrod had to turn away, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. “Swear to the Great Bird, Ensign, I’m going to find a way to transfer you to waste management. I’ll have you scrubbing the waste conduits with your own toothbrush!” DeSilva mock-growled. Garrett looked to Jarrod. “Oh, that really wasn’t half bad. Lower her voice a couple of octaves and make her left eye twitch a little and she could almost pass for Commander Glal.” DeSilva rolled her eyes and walked away to the sound of Jarrod’s now audible laughter. Garrett mimed gripping something at the sides of her mouth with the thumb and forefinger of both hands. “You need tusks, though, but I’m pretty sure there’s a body-mod shop around here somewhere...” DeSilva glanced back to recommend stopping at a nearby confectioner’s storefront in time to see Jarrod ducking into the doorway of the bladesmith’s with Garrett following in his wake. She followed them inside, pausing to scan an almost overwhelming variety of cutting implements from a score of different worlds. DeSilva was about to fire off a jibe about Jarrod shopping for his own collection when she spied what must have caught the security officer’s attention. At the back of the store an employee was sharpening a Klingon bat’leth sword on a spinning grinding stone. “Say, I’m something of a collector, and a genuine Klingon bat’leth is almost impossible to find,” Jarrod said by way of greeting to the young man behind the counter. “Is that the real thing?” The dark-complected man, Human in appearance, grunted. “It is, in fact,” he said over the whine of stone on metal, a fount of sparks showering him. He paused the work to examine the fine edge of the weapon. “Real composite baakonite, not those shoddy tritanium knock-offs the Orions are always peddling,” the man replied. “How much?” Jarrod inquired, his expression radiating an enthusiasm that was all too genuine. “Not for sale,” the man countered. “I could make you one, but it’ll take the better part of a week. A little less if you don’t want all the ornamentation.” Jarrod could see the painstaking craftsmanship that had gone into the blade, replete with blood-grooves fashioned into Klingon glyphs and other elaborate adornment. “We’re only in port for a day,” Jarrod pressed. “You sure this one’s spoken for?” He held up a small satchel of latinum strips, jingling the bag for emphasis. “I’d make it more than worth your while.” “I can guarantee the owner of this blade would use many of the other weapons you see in here to make her displeasure known to me,” the smith replied. “I wouldn’t live to spend your coin.” Jarrod’s disappointment wasn’t feigned. “Okay, I understand. Can you tell me when she’s due to return to pick it up? I’d like the opportunity to try and purchase it from her.” The younger man laughed. “Why so eager, Starfleet? You can buy a replica nearly anywhere.” “I don’t want a replica,” Jarrod insisted. “I want the genuine article, and I haven’t seen anyone anywhere else in this sector who makes them by hand. The only other way to get a real bat’leth is to slay its owner in combat and seeing as we haven’t fought a war with the Klingons in sixty years that’s not likely to happen anytime soon.” “Its owner is a very private person, unfortunately,” the man responded. Jarrod reached into the bag, producing two slips of latinum. He held them up. “I’m serious about this. All I want is the chance to negotiate for the sale of that gorgeous weapon.” The bladesmith sighed, his expression torn. “Fine, but it’ll cost you four slips, and you absolutely cannot let her know I told you when she was going to be here.” “That’s a deal,” Jarrod enthused, fishing another two slips out of the satchel. Nearer the front of the shop, Garrett unslung her tricorder from over her shoulder and began scanning the vicinity, pretending to peruse the various cutlery on display. “It really is some of my finest work,” the man noted proudly, holding it out toward Jarrod for him to examine. “I am one of only a handful of non-Klingon artificers allowed to make and sell these beauties to the tlhIngan.” “That’s quite a testament to your skill,” Jarrod noted, leaning in to study the sword’s artistry. The bladesmith flipped the sword up with surprising speed and delivered a slashing strike towards Jarrod’s throat. The security officer flinched back, bringing up an arm that only partially blocked the strike and caused the blade to bite into his forearm and slice across his jawline rather than his neck. Though not the death-blow his attacker had hoped, the force and speed of the attack was sufficient to send the wounded Jarrod sprawling. DeSilva took a sliding step back and reached down to grab the small Type-I phaser affixed to her uniform belt. The door next to the bladesmith crashed open loudly and a hand clutching a pistol of some kind thrust out of the darkness beyond. The weapon sent three sizzling blue bolts of energy into DeSilva’s chest as she was still bringing her phaser up and into play. Gouts of sparks erupted from the impacts as DeSilva was blasted off her feet. Behind her two comrades, Garrett dropped her tricorder and tapped her combadge as she dove behind a display case festooned with knives and swords. “Reykjavík, we’re under attack! Three for emergency beam-out at my location! We have casualties!” Another flurry of energy pulses blasted the display case apart, showering Garrett with bits of glass, wood, and a spattering of liquified metals from partially vaporized blades. The bladesmith slid around the corner of the wrecked display case, the bat’leth held nearly at port-arms, clearly wielded by a man with significant skill. He snarled, “tlhaw'DIyo! DaH Hugh vISuvjaj,” as he brought the blade forward and down with practiced speed. The transporter beam swept Garrett and the others away an instant before the bat’leth cleaved flesh. * * *
Loved the sudden transition from banter to deadly attack. It sounds like our intrepid trekkers might well had encountered a ridge-less klingon - (one of these puts in an appearance near the end of STH - known throughout the empire as "Original Series Klingons...") Really great banter as well. And it seems like Jarrod was being quite clever in his interrogation and did manage to elicit some valuable information - nearly at the cost of his own life. Looks like they've found a little nest of baddies here. Also entertaining to see a young Rachel Garrett cutting her teeth against klingons - nice foreshadowing... Thanks!! rbs
Should've known something was up but the relaxed banter did lull me into a false sense of calm. And then boom! Or rather slash! Looks like Garrett saved the day. And not for the last time.