USS Pétain
Lieutenant Sonel made sure to play the transmission back a second time to make certain he’d heard it correctly. He knew his report would set in motion a great many things, most of them quite serious, and the fastidious Vulcan needed to be assured he was on firm footing.
Once Sonel was certain of his facts, he touched a hand to his combadge, summoning the scout ship’s commanding officer, Lt. Commander Gioele Raffaele.
Raffaele’s response was unsurprisingly disjointed.
“Wha— what the hell, Sonel,” he groaned. “
It’s not even 0600 hours.”
Raffaele was nursing a hangover. That in and of itself was not unusual, seeing as Raffaele was a functioning alcoholic. The degree to which he was functional, however, depended on the day in question.
Ever the pragmatist, Sonel merely said, “I regret that the interruption is unavoidable under the circumstances, Captain. We’ve received confirmation from an asset in the Cuellar system that the Second Order’s fleet has departed their layover four days ahead of schedule. This, coupled with our information on their increased logistics timetable is suggestive of imminent military action.”
There was the sound of fumbling in the background, and then the hiss of a hypospray.
“Understood,” Raffaele replied in a steadier voice.
“On my way.”
Sonel and the other twenty crew of the intelligence scout
Pétain tolerated Raffaele’s drinking because when he was sober, the man was one of the finest intelligence analysts and commanding officers any of them had ever encountered. Raffaele had been a rising star in Starfleet Intelligence until his problematic drinking had resisted multiple attempts at treatment, and in lieu of outright termination, he’d been shunted into the open command billet of what amounted to a mobile intelligence platform.
Stationed along the Federation/Cardassian border, Raffaele and his crew had been tasked with keeping eyes and ears on the ever-scheming Cardassian Union. They were part of an early-warning system that would, hopefully, alert the Federation to any aggressive actions by the Union before lives were lost.
Raffaele entered the command center moments later, his uniform rumpled and creased. It wasn’t easy to do with a form-fitting one-piece jumpsuit, but somehow he managed to pull it off. Sonel’s heightened olfactory senses could easily detect the alcohol on the captain’s breath and seeping from his pores.
The ‘bridge’ of
Pétain, if it could be called that, was a small, Spartan affair. All the workstations were set into claustrophobic alcoves save for the expansive intelligence analysis suite, the largest console in the compartment.
Sonel decoupled the lock on his chair and moved it along its floor track to make way for Raffaele as he took the compact folding jump-seat next to him. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he muttered blearily.
A flurry of charts, graphs, and intel reports popped up on various screens in front of him, and Raffaele drank it all in, despite his being at considerably less than one-hundred percent.
“Well… shit,” he said gravely after a few minutes. “I was really hoping you were wrong, old chap.”
“Then you confirm my analysis,” Sonel summarized.
Raffaele heaved a sigh. “Yes,” he said grudgingly.
Sonel nodded sagely. “Then it is incumbent upon you to ‘show me the currency’, sir.”
The captain gave his Vulcan XO a theatrical look of surprise. “You’re hustling me? Now? When we’re likely on the brink of war?”
“A bet is a bet,” Sonel offered stolidly. “You yourself set the parameters. Double-or-nothing, due to your recurrent losses in our poker game.”
“I don’t recall that, Mister Sonel. You must be mistaken,” Raffaele dissembled, clearly stalling.
“With respect, Captain, I beat you like the proverbial expired equine. By the rules of our financial arrangement, you must make good your wager.”
Raffaele gave another faux-sigh. “Fine.” He called up an ancillary display to deliver the required latinum from his personal stores with one hand as he flagged their collective intelligence assessment for immediate delivery to Starfleet with the other.
“Would you care to double down, Lieutenant? We could bet on the Second Order’s intended targets?”
Sonel raised an eyebrow. “By my calculations, I have already nearly depleted your present stores of gold-pressed latinum, making further high-value wagers a losing proposition from my standpoint. Additionally, betting on potential Cardassian targets where Federation citizens would be the intended victims is morally questionable.”
Raffaele shrugged. “You make a good point. Okay, all wagers aside, where do you think they’ll hit first?”
“Based on the capabilities of the Second Order, the military craft involved, and given Legate Verun’s tendency towards exercising caution and utilizing overwhelming force, I believe their intended targets to be somewhere in the vicinity of the Setlik or Ronara systems.”
Raffaele drummed his fingers on the lip of the console, lost in thought as he contemplated this. “Very well considered, my friend. However, with the information we received last month about Verun’s tenuous relationship with Central Command, I believe that he needs to do something big to salvage his reputation and his career. He’s got a host of young bucks nipping at his heels who’d happily take his place and would love to launch something daring with a high-degree of difficulty in order to make a name for themselves.”
“You’re suggesting an attack on the two closest, less well defended targets is too conservative for him at this juncture?” Sonel inquired.
“I do. Even if they razed both of our colonies in that sector, we’re only talking fifteen-thousand inhabitants. It’s an attention-grabber, to be sure, but Verun needs something more ambitious. Our logistics analysis confirmed he’s had elements of the Fifth Order’s shock troop contingent transferred to his command for an indeterminate period. That’s nearly doubled his surface-troop strength. Given that unit’s experiences with seizing and occupying inhabited planets, it suggests that he intends to take something big and keep it.”
“A more concentrated number of larger Federation colonies?” Sonel posited.
As he called up a star chart, Raffaele tapped the display with his finger. “Here.”
“The Pleiades,” Sonel noted. “The Detapa Council
has been exerting diplomatic pressure regarding the recent expansion of the Federation’s footprint there.”
“If Legate Verun could seize our colonies in the Pleiades Cluster, not only would he solidify his standing with Central Command, he’d also get his foot in the door politically with the Detapa Council. He’d be effectively untouchable, even by the Obsidian Order.”
“Will Intel Command agree with your assessment?”
Raffaele smiled disarmingly. “They’ll have to. After all, I’m right.”
* * *
Sandhurst’s half-hearted attack resulted in th’Skaar side-stepping, tripping him as he passed, and then assisting his descent to the padded floor.
“Use your opponent’s momentum against them,” the commander instructed as he helped Sandhurst back to his feet. “If you’re facing multiple threats, keep as many of them off balance as possible. While a threat is busy picking themselves off the ground, they’re not attacking you.”
Th’Skaar gestured for another cadet to come out onto the mats and join Sandhurst. Midshipman Regina Daughtry stepped forward. The Andorian officer moved back and invited the two cadets to attack. Daughtry came at him first, ahead of the reticent Sandhurst. She threw a punch at th’Skaar, which he blocked and then closed the distance to grab a hold of her, drawing her in and using her as barrier to thwart Sandhurst’s following attack as he grappled with her.
“Try as much as possible to use one threat as a barrier to the others. Unlike popular entertainment portrays, your enemies won’t attack one at a time. They’ll rush you all at once if they can.”
He set the class to sparring among themselves, more senior cadets instructing the junior ones under th’Skaar’s watchful eye.
Lar’ragos was moving to pair up with Sandhurst when Bartolo intercepted him.
“Mister Lar’ragos, with me.”
He dutifully followed the larger man to a corner of the mat-room. Bartolo turned to face him. “Attack.”
Lar’ragos advanced, throwing a slow training punch which Bartolo easily parried and then answered with a series of strikes; jab, cross, uppercut and hook. Lar’ragos blocked some of the blows and covered his face with his forearms to absorb others.
They fell into an easy rhythm with one playing the aggressor and then the other.
“It’s good that you’re looking out for Donald,” Bartolo said, blocking a strike before dropping to a crouch and delivering a low-power blow to Lar’ragos’ exposed ribs, “but you’re missing the whole picture.”
“Picture’s pretty clear from where I’m standing,” Lar’ragos replied, driving a hook at Bartolo’s head which he intercepted with a gloved hand.
“You’ve known the kid for two weeks.” More combinations now, changing up the tempo and targets on one-another’s bodies. “I’ve been with him for a year. There’s a method to what I’m doing, one you’re not privy to.”
Lar’ragos threw a kick at Bartolo’s legs, which the larger man blocked with a raised pad-clad shin. “So bullies have better organization than when I was young,” Lar’ragos remarked dryly. “I guess that’s progress.”
“Donny’s just like my kid brother, a total gear-head. Great with machines, not so good with people.” Punch, kick, block, punch. “That awkwardness makes him a target for real bullies, and unfortunately the academy still has its share of them.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Their tempo increased along with the power behind their strikes as each man came to their own determination that the other could cope with such.
“I give him grief, but never more than he can handle. I’ve also marked him as my ‘territory.’ Other would-be bullies know the only person who can mess with him is me.”
“Then why mess with him at all? Why not just leave the kid alone?”
“Because he has to learn. Life is friction and humanoids are cliquish. We handle him with kid gloves here and then what? His first assignment out of the academy and he’s got some jackass junior lieutenant trying to make his name by riding the ensigns into the deck. How’s he going to deal with that if he’s had no experience with it?”
Their conversation was cut short by th’Skaar calling the training session to a close. The other cadets filtered out heading for the sonic showers, but Bartolo and Lar’ragos remained in their corner. The Andorian gave the pair a questioning look.
“With respect, Commander, Mister Lar’ragos and I have some issues to work out.”
Th’Skaar looked from one to the other and then nodded fractionally. He turned and left without a word.
Bartolo turned to look at Lar’ragos. “You’ve been holding back. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“That’s a bad idea,” Lar’ragos warned.
The security cadet rushed him, throwing punches at full speed and power as he did so. His suspicions were confirmed when, seconds later, he was face-down on the mat with his arm locked agonizingly behind his back. He tapped out and Lar’ragos relinquished his grip.
He rolled over to look up at the smaller man. “Sciences? Really?”
“New leaf,” Lar’ragos answered. He extended at hand to Bartolo and pulled him to his feet.
“Starfleet’s good for that, Lar’ragos. Countless people have joined to remake themselves or redeem themselves.”
“You think that’s what I’m doing?”
“Maybe. I don’t really care. That’s your path; I have my own. You’re right about me being a legacy. My grandfather retired as an admiral, and my mother died commanding a starship in battle against the Tholians. I’ve trained my entire life for this. I know who I am and where I’m going. Unless I miss my mark, you don’t know any of those things.”
Lar’ragos bristled at that. “You sure you shouldn’t be a psychologist?”
“No, I’m a leader, born and bred. I’m also pretty good at reading people.” Bartolo removed his sparring gloves and moved to towel off. “I’ve only got a year left before I graduate, and Project Sandy won’t be completed by then.” He gave Lar’ragos a meaningful look. “Are you up to the challenge?”
Lar’ragos had no answer to that.
* * *
If memory serves, Akinola was still a master chief petty officer at this time and Captain Darby Reninger was C.O.)
