Time to revisit this strange little tale . . .
E.B. 22 July 2265
HMS Truculent
Captain's quarters - 2230 hours
En route to the Vega System
“Captain’s log – 23 July 2265, James T. Kirk recording. Truculent is finally underway and en route to rendezvous with the relief convoy destined for the Vega system. Lt. Scott and his engineers are to be commended for their diligent work in getting the ship underway, though I suspect the Chief Engineer is not thinking kind thoughts toward me. Be that as it may, all major systems are functioning – most important being the space warp drive. At our current warp factor, we should catch up with the convoy in another 36 hours.”
Kirk paused and glanced at the noteboard on his desk, which contained Lt. Uhura’s thorough analysis of Fleet intel.
“If Lt. Uhura’s assessment is correct, and I suspect it is, there’s a very good chance we will run into trouble before we get the convoy to Vega III. Those fat, slow freighters loaded with fuel, medical supplies and food make a very tempting target. It’s our job to ensure the raiders are dissuaded.”
He closed and saved his log entry and picked up the noteboard. On the screen was the image of an ex-Royal Star Fleet captain – Ronald Tracey. Tracey was the former commanding officer of HMS Exeter, a highly decorated officer and cunning tactician. He likely would have achieved flag rank, but his sympathies with the separatist movement and criticism of the crown ultimately cost him his command. Rather than languish in a desk-job on a backwater planet, he had resigned his commission and simply disappeared. Tracey came out of self-imposed exile shortly after Black Day, commanding a squadron of raiders that preyed on merchant vessels.
He thought back to the one time he met Captain Tracey. Kirk had been a wet-behind-the-ears midshipman when he attended a lecture by Tracey on battle-group tactics. The veteran Captain had been eloquent and his thesis brilliant. Kirk had been greatly impressed by the thin-faced Captain with the commanding baritone voice. What had caused the highly decorated officer to turn his back on Queen and empire? Kirk had no idea.
Kirk did not relish having to fight a former RSF officer, particularly one as crafty as Tracey, but he would do what was necessary to safeguard the convoy. His respect for Tracey’s tactical acumen was tempered by his disgust with the man’s decision to turn rogue. He tossed the noteboard on his desk, the brooding image of Ronald Tracey gazing up with eyes full of intense malevolence.
* * *
E.B. 23 July 2265
HMS Truculent - En route to the Vega System
Captain’s quarters - 0622 hours
Captain Kirk jutted his jaw and turned his head slightly as he applied his shaving razor to the last bit of shaving soap along his neck-line. He winced as he accidentally nicked himself and frowned as he regarded the speck of blood in the mirror. Annoyed, he wiped the remaining soap from his face and blotted at his self-inflicted wound with a towel.
He considered slipping on his tropical white tunic, but decided to wait, lest he drip blood on the front of his uniform. Throwing the towel around his neck, he stepped into the outer room of his quarters, only to find Dr. McCoy seated at the small table, eating breakfast - Kirk’s breakfast.
“Enjoying yourself, Doctor?” Kirk asked, dryly.
“Hope you don’t mind, I let myself in. I saw this sitting here and figured it was just getting cold. No point in it going to waste. Here, I saved you some toast.” McCoy gestured to a half-slice of wheat toast left on the tray.
“Very generous of you, Bones,” he said, sarcastically.
McCoy pointed a fork at Kirk. “I’m doing you a favor, Jim. Have you seen your cholesterol numbers?”
“Not lately,” he answered while pouring coffee into a china cup.
“Well I have! And your blood pressure numbers are through the roof.”
Kirk took a sip of coffee. “So give me a pill. Isn’t that your job?”
McCoy snorted. “Pills, Hell! If you people would just eat right, exercise a little and lay off the booze and tobacco, I could downsize the pharmacy by two-thirds and have room for some up-to-date surgical equipment, not the relics from the Inquisition we have now!”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Doctor.”
McCoy sighed and sat back in his chair. A frustrated expression came over his face.
“Jim, just what in blazes are we doing out here?”
“I’m drinking coffee; you’re eating my breakfast while lecturing me on my poor eating habits.”
“Dammit, Jim – be serious for a minute! I’m talking about the Royal Fleet, this ship – what’s the point of all this galavanting around the galaxy like tin toys in a bathtub? Our home planet is dead and gone. For God’s sake, Jim, most of the colony worlds are barely hanging on. All the money spent on ‘showing the flag’ could be better spent elsewhere.”
“I’m sure the Sino-Japanese Alliance would be happy to beat their swords into ploughshares, Bones. Why don’t you contact Emperor Chang and you can clear up the whole matter with him. And while you’re at it, maybe you could do something about the mysterious aliens that wiped out the Alberta IV colony last year . . . or the raiders that are stealing the very supplies needed by the colonies you mentioned.” Kirk regarded his old friend and shook his head. “You’re a fine surgeon, Bones, but sometimes you’re dangerously naive.”
“Am I? What about you, Captain Kirk? Have you taken a single moment to grieve your losses? What would Carol Marcus say about how you’re driving yourself?”
Kirk glared at McCoy silently for several moments. When he spoke again, his voice was tight with barely restrained anger.
“You’re very close to crossing a line, Doctor. I suggest you back away.”
McCoy glared back. “Don’t forget I lost Joanne on Black Day! Even though we hadn’t spoken a civil word to each other in three years, I still loved her. I know what you’re feeling . . .”
Kirk shook his head. “No, Bones - you don’t know. Everyone is different. Every loss – personal.”
“Bull!” McCoy snapped. “I may not know everyone else on this god-forsaken bucket of rust, but I know Jim Kirk – you’re going to drive yourself to death so you don’t have to feel the pain any more.” He shook his head in resignation. “But until you come to grips with her death . . . well . . .”
MCcoy’s voice trailed off. “Ah, Hell. I’m a Doctor, not a Priest – you don’t want to open up? Fine – just remember that if you drive yourself over the brink, you’ll be taking a crew of 400 with you. Thanks for breakfast.”
The curmudgeonly surgeon stood, tossed his linen napkin on the table and turned to leave.
“She was pregnant, Bones,” Kirk spoke, his voice barely audible.
McCoy stopped abruptly and turned. “What?”
“Carol. She found out just a few days before . . . it happened . . .”
McCoy looked down at the carpeted deck and sighed. “Aw, damn. I’m sorry Jim. Sorry as Hell.”
A ghost of a smile twitched across Kirk’s face. “Yeah - Thanks. And . . . thanks for being a friend . . . Father Leonard.”
McCoy snorted. “That’ll be the day.” Feeling suddenly awkward, the Doctor abruptly changed the subject. “I’m headed back to Sickbay. Oh, and ease up on the caffeine – I hate to think what all that coffee is doing to your insides.”
“Dismissed, Doctor,” said Kirk, now grinning.
* * *
E.B. 23 July 2265
HMS Truculent - En route to the Vega System
Bridge - 0748 hours
The bridge was a quiet hive of activity as various officers and ratings manned myriad control stations – keeping a sharp eye on the complex systems that allowed Truculent to travel many times the speed of light.
Just aft of the main bridge, separated by transparent acoustic panels, was the Combat and Control Center. In the subdued lighting Captain Kirk stood over the tactical plotter, accompanied by Lt. Commander Spock, Lt. Uhura and the tactical officer, Lt. Sean Finnegan. The Irish tactical officer appeared somewhat nervous in the presence of the new commanding officer, most likely due to the fact that, as an upper classman at the academy, Finnegan had hazed young Kirk without mercy.
For his part, Kirk was enjoying the irony of the role reversal. He had no intention of holding the events of 15 years past against Finnegan, but it wouldn’t hurt to let his former nemesis sweat – just a little.
“Leftenant Uhura, you did an excellent job with your intelligence analysis,” complemented Kirk, prompting a pleased smile from the lovely officer. “Now I would like to probe Tracey’s head – figure out his weaknesses and how we might gain tactical superiority if we should encounter him. I also want your input, Commander Spock, Lieutenant Finnegan – as you both have key roles in our defense strategy. Both of you have read Uhura’s report?” Spock and Finnegan both nodded.
Uhura tapped in a command on the plotter’s keyboard. A rather stodgy-looking ship appeared on the screen, evidently a bulk freighter or transport of some kind.
“This is Tracey’s ‘weapon’ of choice,” began Uhura. “As you can see, it appears to be a pedestrian Appalachia-class freighter. Thousands of them were built between 2210 and 2247. Originally designed as a bulk freighter, many were converted into transports, tankers, research vessels, even low-budget cruise ships. As-built, they are sturdy and reliable ships, though neither fast nor maneuverable. However, it is apparent that Tracey has made significant upgrades in his ships.” She tapped in another command and a series of figures appeared by the image. Finnegan let out a whistle of surprise.
“Warp factor 7? I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” the Irishman said in disbelief.
“These performance figures have been verified,” replied Uhura. “Royal Intelligence managed to place an operative in Tracey’s gang of cutthroats who provided very helpful data on their ships. Unfortunately, R.I. has lost contact with their agent. Either he has gone to ground or he has been compromised.”
Kirk winced at the thought. “Let’s hope not. Please continue, Leftenant.”
“As you can see, Tracey’s ships can match us in speed, though not in maneuverability. They are very well armed,” with a stylus, she pointed to several spots on the display, “with torpedo launchers here, here and here. Also, this extended super-structure hides a kinetic rail gun, capable of shredding the hull of any merchant vessel.”
“Not to mention what it could do to us, if we let them in range,” murmured Kirk. “What about their defenses?”
“Intel is less specific in that regard. We know it varies from ship to ship. Apparently, Tracey’s personal ship is up-armored and equipped with point-defense missiles and laser batteries.”
“Making his ship very nearly equal to our own,” observed Spock.
“True,” agreed Kirk “But we have an edge in maneuvering speed and three times the number of rail guns.” He did not mention Tracey’s obvious edge in experience. It was painfully obvious to all that Kirk was the wild card in the scenario – a young C.O. with far less experience than the rogue Captain.
“Mr. Finnegan – what can you tell me about the raiders’ tactics?” Kirk asked.
“They favor the element of surprise. In all the previous attacks, they’ve approached from multiple vectors, taking out the maneuvering engines of the merchant vessels. The escorts were typically outnumbered and outflanked with predictable results. Usually, the raiders send in a few ships in a feinting maneuver to draw off our capital ships. They know our standard defensive tactics all too well.”
“Then we will have to throw out standard tactics, Mr. Finnegan.”
“Captain,” began Spock, “you do realize that we will be under the command of Captain Garrovick of HMS Cornwallis. He’s the senior commander of the escort group and tends to be rather ‘by the book.’”
Kirk nodded, frowning. “Yes, I’m aware of that, Mr. Spock. But once the balloon goes up, signals can sometimes get confused, isn’t that right, Lt. Uhura?”
Uhura gave a conspiratorial wink. “Oh, yes sir. Very confused.”
Spock lifted an eyebrow and a tiny smile formed on his thin face. “Indeed,” he murmured.
“On to Ronald Tracey,” continued Kirk. “We’ve all read your analysis, Uhura. We know his strengths – he’s brilliant, unorthodox and ruthless. What about his weak points? What can we use against him?”
Uhura’s brow knitted in thought. “Well, he’s arrogant, for one thing. That’s apparent from reading his old personnel jacket. He’s smart and he knows it. When he was First Officer of the Hood, his C.O. once called him a ‘cocky S.O.B.’ As he got older, he learned to temper that arrogance, but I believe it’s still there.”
“Overconfidence,” nodded Kirk. “Anything else?”
“He’s well versed in standard fleet tactics,” continued Uhura. “He’s unlikely to expect any response that isn’t ‘by the book.’” She smiled at Spock who nodded.
Finnegan frowned. “Well, he’s got a right to be cocky. He’s never lost an engagement, not when he was in the fleet or now as a stinkin’ pirate.” He glanced up at Kirk. “He’s got surprise and ruthlessness on his side. How do we counter that?”
Kirk smiled at the Tactical Officer. “I recall a certain senior midshipman who had a knack for setting up some very cruel, creative and unexpected pitfalls for a particular hapless plebe. I want you to apply that same, sadistic genius to this situation, Mr. Finnegan.”
The Irishman’s face reddened as a rueful smile appeared on his face. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but Ronald Tracey is hardly a plebe.”
“No, but he is a cocky, tight-assed, arrogant S.O.B. I should think that would make him a tempting challenge for you.”
A mischievous gleam formed in Finnegan’s eye and his grin widened. “Yes sir. It does at that.”
“Then I will leave you to your evil schemes, Mr. Finnegan. Thank you for the excellent brief, Lt. Uhura. Mr. Spock, you’re with me.”
* * *
I can't wait to meet this universe's Dr. McCoy, and see what kind of saw-bones the Royal Star Navy has produced. 
Very well done.
