ST: Gibraltar - Prophets and Loss
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Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 2
Good stuff. Bringing in the Bajorans was a real shocker. I liked it.
About bringing down husky/fat boy ... I'm less excited. Star Trek fan fiction, in my experience, has a strong tendency to make canon character look bad in favor of original characters which is something I don't really subscribe to. It is one of the reasons I avoid reading original stories which mix in canon characters.
BUT the exchange between Riker and Ramirez was very well written and I commend you for that.
I'm sorry if I offer a more cautios tone regarding your new story but I figure you get enough praise from the others.
I am looking forward to see where you take us with this though.
Good stuff. Bringing in the Bajorans was a real shocker. I liked it.
About bringing down husky/fat boy ... I'm less excited. Star Trek fan fiction, in my experience, has a strong tendency to make canon character look bad in favor of original characters which is something I don't really subscribe to. It is one of the reasons I avoid reading original stories which mix in canon characters.
BUT the exchange between Riker and Ramirez was very well written and I commend you for that.
I'm sorry if I offer a more cautios tone regarding your new story but I figure you get enough praise from the others.
I am looking forward to see where you take us with this though.
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 2
I thought you did a good job with the Riker-Ramirez exchange. It is easy to 'bash' canon characters--especially those you don't like--I've seen it done plenty of times in Buffy fandom. You've avoided that trap nicely. You're showing a three dimensional Will Riker who neither overshadows your original character, nor is overshadowed by her--rather, they fit rather easy together--I could well see a scene like this playing out on TNG or DS9.
I also like how your developing the Alshains. I have a feeling they're going to be rather prickly--and embarrassing--allies of the Federation.
Looking forward to more!
I thought you did a good job with the Riker-Ramirez exchange. It is easy to 'bash' canon characters--especially those you don't like--I've seen it done plenty of times in Buffy fandom. You've avoided that trap nicely. You're showing a three dimensional Will Riker who neither overshadows your original character, nor is overshadowed by her--rather, they fit rather easy together--I could well see a scene like this playing out on TNG or DS9.
I also like how your developing the Alshains. I have a feeling they're going to be rather prickly--and embarrassing--allies of the Federation.
Looking forward to more!
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 2
Bajorans? Bajorans you say?!
Very nice... question is, are they Bajoran's with "borrowed" Starfleet technology, or has somebody on Bajor been building their own little army? Coz last time I checked, they didn't seem advanced enough to be using personal cloaks so effectively... although in hindsight their method of attacking a larger vessel with a wing of smaller (fighter?) ships seems very Bajoran!
Bajorans? Bajorans you say?!
Very nice... question is, are they Bajoran's with "borrowed" Starfleet technology, or has somebody on Bajor been building their own little army? Coz last time I checked, they didn't seem advanced enough to be using personal cloaks so effectively... although in hindsight their method of attacking a larger vessel with a wing of smaller (fighter?) ships seems very Bajoran!
Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Holosuite 3, Deck 6 - USS Gibraltar
Parrises Squares Competition
Pava’s Pirates – 4
Tark’s Thugs – 2
Lieutenant Pava Lar’agos heaved the ion mallet for all he was worth, contacting the orb with a resounding thud that reverberated off the walls of the playing grid. The playing sphere rocketed away, spinning into opposing territory as the scoreboard registered a point for the El Aurian’s team. Lar’ragos jumped from the descending platform and onto its rising neighbor, struggling to keep his balance as the roving tactiball screamed by, delivering a glancing blow to his left shoulder as he landed atop the moving square.
He was of average height, perhaps a bit on the smallish side, but Lar’ragos was deceptively strong and nimble. His dark, tightly curled hair was cut short, and his brown eyes hinted at an ample intelligence, bolstered by several lifetimes of experience. His current posting was as Chief Security/Tactical officer of the starship Gibraltar, and at the moment he was deeply engrossed in a tactical training scenario.
Across the grid, the leader of the opposing team struggled to meet the incoming orb. Master Chief Tark, a stout Tellarite, charged up his team’s launch ramp. He leaped into the air as he swung the mallet, missing the illuminated sphere by scant centimeters before toppling forward and landing hard atop an ascending riser. The impact drove the breath from him, and he struggled to rise on wobbling arms as he looked around for the fumbled ion mallet.
“What’s the matter, old man?” asked Petty Officer 1st Class Saihra Dunleavy as she charged past, now in possession of the mallet, “Did da wittle piggy fall down, go boom?”
Tark attempted a snarl that emerged sounding more like a desperate wheeze. Dunleavy sprinted the ramp, jumping from the crest and delivering a solid blow to the orb on its rebound off the back wall. It arced into enemy territory, sending Pava’s Pirates scrambling to intercept it.
Ensign Diamato moved to snare the orb in his under-arm catch net but lost his footing between ascending and descending risers, falling and cracking his shin and leaving him writhing in pain atop a plummeting square. En route to his own rendezvous with the orb, Specialist Sharpe experienced an unfortunate high-velocity encounter with the tactiball. He was knocked backwards, falling onto a square currently radiating a containment field that immobilized him for the required thirty seconds.
Lar’ragos’ only remaining teammate was deep in the well, waiting for the undulating tide of risers to bring him back up and into play. His chest heaving with the effort, Lar’ragos charged forward, stutter-stepping from one square to another in quick succession, while trying to track the orb’s path through the air. His legs burned but kept pumping, sending him upwards to catch the ball as it bounced off his team’s score-pad and registered a point for Tark’s Thugs.
Wielding the ion mallet like Thor’s hammer, he rose to meet the ricocheting orb, screaming out a primal cry of defiance. His victory call was cut short as he completely missed the sphere with the mallet, and made the unwitting decision to strike it squarely with his face instead. He fell like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed, collapsing into the now ascending risers making their way back up from the well.
As the pain in his head and side subsided, Lar’ragos became aware of the growing sound of raucous laughter. The rest of the security team stood, sat, or lay on the floor of the now deactivated holosuite depending on their level of infirmity. A hairy, porcine face peered down at Lar’ragos, and a meaty hand grasped his, hauling him back to his feet. Wiping at the blood coursing from his broken nose, Lar’ragos gurgled, “Thank you, Master Chief.”
Clearing his throat, Lar’ragos announced, “Folks, this concludes today’s security training exercise. You all did very well. A good game of Parrises squares forces you to maintain your situational awareness in a dynamic environment, just like in a fire fight.” He assessed the group, noting numerous injuries. “Everyone here got banged up, but you all stayed in the fight. That speaks both to your stamina as well as your dedication.” He wiped the sleeve of his blue Parrises jumpsuit across his nose again. “Let’s go get patched up in Sickbay, then meet in the rec lounge for debrief and drinks.”
The group of limping security personnel assisted each other out of the holosuite, grinning and chatting animatedly. Tark noted with a smile the difference between Lar’ragos’ new training regimen and his previous campaign of endless, excruciating drills and holographic scenarios. The security personnel were still learning valuable skills, but without the burn-out and the oppressive psychological toll that grueling earlier schedule had taken on them.
Their last assignment had resulted in nearly every member of the ship’s security department having been either killed or seriously injured. Although Tark knew the circumstances of that mission were something that would almost certainly never be repeated, those who’d survived the ordeal had gelled and grown stronger for the experience. Those ‘old-timers’ now formed the core of the ship’s newly expanded security detachment.
As Tark helped Lar’ragos through the parting holosuite doors, he asked, “So what do you call that move, sir? Cranial intercept? Full facial volley?”
Lar’ragos chuckled, wincing and holding his aching ribs. “Don’t forget, little man. I know where you live.”
*****
Sickbay, USS Gibraltar
The doors parted to allow Lieutenant JG Issara Taiee and her guest into what had been, until two hours earlier, her Sickbay. Taiee was a career Starfleet officer, and she knew that life was change. That being said, at this moment she was ready to admit that so much change in such a compressed period of time was a bit hard to swallow.
The ship’s medical staff were assembled in formation, an almost unheard of occurrence. Medical technicians and nurses stood at attention in two rows, flanking the main diagnostic exam table on either side. Stepping aside to allow her guest to take center stage, Taiee kept her voice carefully neutral as she announced, “People, I’d like to introduce you to our new Chief Medical Officer, Lt. Commander Murakawa.”
Doctor Denise Murakawa followed Taiee into what she had to admit was an impressive medical center, especially given the size of this ship. Currently classified as an escort, the Gibraltar had been briefly refitted as a hospital ship earlier in her service, and after being brought out of mothballs during the Dominion War the engineers overseeing her refit had decided to let the ship keep some of that expanded medical capacity. She now supported forty biobeds and four surgical suites, in addition to a host of dedicated laboratories and even a null-g ward.
The woman Murakawa was replacing, albeit temporarily, was not a doctor but an accomplished nurse practitioner. In the wake of the war’s losses, not every starship could be afforded a full-fledged doctor and surgeon. Smaller ships like the Gibraltar made due with nurses, relying more heavily on their Emergency Medical Holograms than did larger, better staffed vessels.
Taiee looked on, feeling both humiliated and unappreciated, but striving to bury both unworthy emotions under a façade of tolerant acceptance. In the past five months aboard this ship she had treated numerous injuries, helping save the lives of not only the captain but countless crew from theirs and other vessels. During the war, Taiee had served in a front line mobile surgical hospital, often nearer the conflict than many starships. She felt that her record and skills spoke for themselves, as they had certainly been sufficient to warrant her original posting as the CMO. Until now, apparently.
Murakawa was presently the senior medical officer aboard the starship Sutherland, a post she’d held for the last six years. She’d been on leave, attending Starfleet’s annual medical symposium, held this year on Bajor as a testament to that planet’s rapid progress in rebuilding its post-occupation medical infrastructure. Her time at the renowned convention had been cut short, however.
On orders from Dr. Beverly Crusher of the Enterprise, Murakawa had been unexpectedly reassigned as CMO of the Gibraltar during its participation in the Briar Patch taskforce. The ship’s medical capacity made it a definite asset to the mission, but Crusher had judged that an actual physician needed to in charge should the ship be asked to assist with a mass casualty or evacuation scenario. Other attendees of the symposium had been likewise assigned to other ships in the flotilla, bolstering their existing medical teams in preparation for coping with the humanitarian disaster that presumably awaited them within the nebula.
Murakawa set her shoulders, meeting the expectant gazes of her new staff with a faint smile. “I know this change in leadership comes as an unwelcome surprise. I was caught off guard by this suddenness of this as well. I assure all of you that this arraignment is only temporary, and shouldn’t be construed as a lack of confidence in your collective abilities. I’m not here to rock the boat, or to play power games, but to complete a task to the best of my ability.” She turned to look at Taiee, who was doing an admirable job of looking supportive. “Lt. Taiee and I will endeavor to make sure we’re prepared for whatever the Briar Patch has in store for us. Now, let’s get down to business.”
*****
Forward Observation Post B'hala
Aulerg Moon
The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
Anij awoke to find herself laying atop an uncomfortable metal-frame cot, alone in a darkened room. The air was stale and humid, and Anij was drenched in persperation. She stared at the ceiling for a few moments, concentrating on breathing and clearing her head. The last thing she remembered was fleeing through the corridors of the stricken Alshain warship, following Gallatin and their mysterious rescuers.
There had been a wild chase through a confusing series of corridors, their escape beset by random firefights between their liberators and the Alshain. That’s where things grew hazy for her, but she supposed some kind of beamout had occurred. This certainly didn’t resemble the interior of the Alshain cruiser.
She sat up, her nose crinkling at her own unwashed smell. How long since she last bathed? How many days had passed since her entire civilization had been wiped out in a handful of minutes? Anij fought off another wave of fruitless tears, determined to figure out where precisely she was, and how she’d gotten here.
*****
Only meters from Anij’s cot, separated by layers of lunar rock and thermal concrete, Vadark Jobrin Adnai stared impassively at the Son’a officer seated across from him in the cramped cement walled room. The Son’a’s face was a tortured mask of stretched flesh that only seemed to underscore for Jobrin the Prophets' displeasure with the Son’a’s naïve attempts to hold death at bay.
Adhar Wuuten, the latest in a long line of Son’a strongmen, sipped idly at the cup of springwine his Bajoran host had provided. He choked down the sickly, flowery scented liquor, unwilling to upset his hosts’ delicate sensibilities. The Bajora Tava had very little in the way of creature comforts, and the offer to share drink with an outworlder was a sign of deepest respect. Their culture was so totally geared to martial sensibilities that they seemed to have neither the time nor the desire to actually enjoy their lives. It was a cultural trait, Wuuten knew, the ultimate example of delayed gratification. Paradise would await them in the next life with the Prophets. This life was for making war.
“You and your people are to be congratulated on your bravery and skill, Vadark.” He made certain to address the man by his Bajoran religious title, “The rescue of the prisoners was superbly executed, but I wonder, why did you not destroy the Alshain ship when you had the chance?”
Jobrin set down his empty cup, eyeing the foreign leader warily. “We left the ship intact because you asked us to rescue their prisoners, nothing more. As yet, the Alshain are not our enemies. It was gratifying to test our abilities against them, to be sure, but you know very well we have marshaled our strength for the tasks that lay ahead.”
Wuuten inclined his head, conceding the point. “Perhaps I should be more detailed in my future requests?”
Jobrin’s countenance darkened, “Do not mistake us for servants like your Tarlac and Ellora, Adhar. We are allies because such a relationship benefits us both. The moment you forget this fact and attempt to command us like chattel, that relationship will be irrevocably severed.”
“I would never attempt to do so, Vadark. We value your help in whatever capacity you select to offer it.” Wuuten hated the obsequious act he was forced to put on for the benefit of these arrogant warrior monks, but as the Son’a were currently being hunted down and killed by the rapacious Alshain, one took allies wherever one could find them.
Jobrin tilted his head, accepting Wuuten’s gesture of humility and appreciation. “Your new mimetic armor served us well, Adhar. Many lives were saved by its use; the Alshain are ferocious fighters, especially when defending their own ship.”
“Fates willing, we will repel their advance into our space and the Son’a will be left in peace.”
Apparently moved by that sentiment, Jobrin poured them both another cup of the cloying liquid. As they raised their glasses, the vadark intoned, “Perhaps someday, the Son’a will stand beside us as we retake Bajor from the clutches of the Cardassians. It is the Prophets’ will.”
Wuuten smiled, his haphazardly placed artificial teeth making the expression more horrific than celebratory. “Death to Cardassia,” he said.
“Death to Cardassia,” Jobrin of the Bajora Tava repeated, his invocation moving him almost to tears.
*****
Ready Room - USS Gibraltar
En-route to Starbase 12, Warp 6.5
Liana Ramirez stood at parade rest in front of Sandhurst’s desk. He’d been silent for nearly a minute, mulling over how severe a dressing down he should or could give to a subordinate who’d done nothing more than answered honestly a question posed by a superior.
He finally uttered, “Would you like to tell me what all that was about?”
Ramirez stared over his shoulder through the circular viewport where an airlock door had once stood. The stars fell behind them as streaks of light in the void as Gibraltar and her sister ships made way for Starbase 12 in tight formation.
“He asked me my opinion, and I gave it. Simple as that, sir.”
Sandhurst sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed his chin. “Have we lost that much ground, you and I?” He shook his head regretfully. “Liana, I’ll ask one more time. You can either answer and get it out of your system, or stay quiet and fume about it for the next five weeks. I know you’ll do your duty either way, that’s not the issue. It’s more about your comfort level.”
She considered that. “Fine. I disagree with your decision to take part in this mission in the strongest possible terms.”
“Why?”
“This isn’t about the Son’a for Picard, it’s about the Ba’ku. And it isn’t about either of them for you, Captain. It’s about the Cardassians, and all those people we left for dead back there on Lakesh.”
Sandhurst’s face colored, but he held his temper in check. “You don’t feel our helping to intervene in a slaughter of innocents is a worthy assignment?”
“Under different circumstances, certainly. But in this scenario Picard’s going to get us embroiled in a blood feud deep inside of a spatial anomaly that prevents us from calling for backup. The Alshain Starforce may not be what it was three hundred years ago, but it’s certainly more than a match for a dozen starships.”
Sitting forward and placing his elbows on the table, Sandhurst marshaled his patience with his young, headstrong first officer. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Liana. However, this is going to have to be one of those occasions where we agree to disagree. The mission stands.” He forced himself to relax, “I do appreciate your feelings on the matter.”
“Do you?” was her sharp retort.
His head dipped in growing exasperation. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that I think if you’d really cared about my opinion, you’d have asked for it before signing onto this job. After all your talk of our shared responsibility for this crew, you go and volunteer us for something this dangerous without even consulting your executive officer.”
He leaned back in his chair, examining her thoughtfully. “And how do you know I volunteered?”
She directed an incredulous glare at him, “I got my hands on a copy of Picard’s original mission proposal. It asked for ten ships, and Gibraltar wasn’t on the list.”
“Oh,” was all Sandhurst could think to say.
Ramirez continued, “And with the exception of the hospital ship Bethesda, the other taskforce vessels are all heavy cruisers or explorers that might stand a chance taking on an Alshain warship one-on-one.”
“Your point?” Sandhurst’s patience was beginning to wear thin, due more to Ramirez’s insight than anything else.
“I’d be less worried if the taskforce was staying together once inside the Briar Patch, but we’re going to be scattered on individual assignments. That makes us all vulnerable, and Gibraltar doubly so. With our speed restricted to one-half impulse within the nebula, we certainly can’t outrun trouble. And even with our paltry allotment of six quantum torpedoes in addition to our photons, we’re in no shape to fight our way out of a confrontation.”
“We didn’t have quantums at Lakesh, and we survived that battle,” Donald pointed out, immediately regretting the comment the instant it had left his lips.
Ramirez went rigid, her eyes flaming. “With respect, sir, we did not all survive that engagement.” The burning, listing bridge of the Phoenix intruded into her thoughts, and she shook her head as if trying to cast the image out.
“I’m sorry.” Sandhurst closed his eyes briefly. “I wasn’t thinking.” He sought to atone for the gaff by offering an olive branch. “I understand your feelings regarding this mission, and I apologize for not consulting you. That being said, I think we can do some good out there in the Briar Patch.” His eyes sought out hers, trying to convey his deep conviction. “We have to try, Liana. It’s what makes us different, makes the Federation a beacon of hope for others.”
She nodded. “I too hope things go according to plan, sir.” Taking a deep breath, Ramirez grasped the proffered branch. “I appreciate you letting me vent my spleen, Captain.”
He smiled slightly, the gesture small but genuine. “Always, Commander. Anything else on your plate?”
She thought about that briefly. “Only one other matter I can think of, sir. We’ve received updated orders from Starfleet. Apparently Admiral Covey wants us to have a diplomatic officer aboard for the duration of the mission.”
“Very well. Make sure we make arrangements for that officer’s billet once we’ve reached Starbase 12.”
Ramirez hesitated fractionally, “Actually, sir, we’re scheduled to divert from the formation briefly to rendezvous with a runabout bringing her outbound from Pacifica.”
Sandhurst scowled. “Really? That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Then, his eyes widened slightly as he did the math in his head. Covey. Diplomatic officer. Looking physically pained, the captain asked, “And the name of this officer?”
“Lt. Commander Pell Ojana, if I remember correctly, sir. She’s Bajoran.”
Sandhurst rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “She certainly is.”
Ramirez studied him curiously, then asked, “I take it you know her.”
“You could say that.”
Quirking an eyebrow, his exec summarized, “This is Monica being a meddlesome wench again, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes indeed, Commander.”
*****
Chapter 3
Holosuite 3, Deck 6 - USS Gibraltar
Parrises Squares Competition
Pava’s Pirates – 4
Tark’s Thugs – 2
Lieutenant Pava Lar’agos heaved the ion mallet for all he was worth, contacting the orb with a resounding thud that reverberated off the walls of the playing grid. The playing sphere rocketed away, spinning into opposing territory as the scoreboard registered a point for the El Aurian’s team. Lar’ragos jumped from the descending platform and onto its rising neighbor, struggling to keep his balance as the roving tactiball screamed by, delivering a glancing blow to his left shoulder as he landed atop the moving square.
He was of average height, perhaps a bit on the smallish side, but Lar’ragos was deceptively strong and nimble. His dark, tightly curled hair was cut short, and his brown eyes hinted at an ample intelligence, bolstered by several lifetimes of experience. His current posting was as Chief Security/Tactical officer of the starship Gibraltar, and at the moment he was deeply engrossed in a tactical training scenario.
Across the grid, the leader of the opposing team struggled to meet the incoming orb. Master Chief Tark, a stout Tellarite, charged up his team’s launch ramp. He leaped into the air as he swung the mallet, missing the illuminated sphere by scant centimeters before toppling forward and landing hard atop an ascending riser. The impact drove the breath from him, and he struggled to rise on wobbling arms as he looked around for the fumbled ion mallet.
“What’s the matter, old man?” asked Petty Officer 1st Class Saihra Dunleavy as she charged past, now in possession of the mallet, “Did da wittle piggy fall down, go boom?”
Tark attempted a snarl that emerged sounding more like a desperate wheeze. Dunleavy sprinted the ramp, jumping from the crest and delivering a solid blow to the orb on its rebound off the back wall. It arced into enemy territory, sending Pava’s Pirates scrambling to intercept it.
Ensign Diamato moved to snare the orb in his under-arm catch net but lost his footing between ascending and descending risers, falling and cracking his shin and leaving him writhing in pain atop a plummeting square. En route to his own rendezvous with the orb, Specialist Sharpe experienced an unfortunate high-velocity encounter with the tactiball. He was knocked backwards, falling onto a square currently radiating a containment field that immobilized him for the required thirty seconds.
Lar’ragos’ only remaining teammate was deep in the well, waiting for the undulating tide of risers to bring him back up and into play. His chest heaving with the effort, Lar’ragos charged forward, stutter-stepping from one square to another in quick succession, while trying to track the orb’s path through the air. His legs burned but kept pumping, sending him upwards to catch the ball as it bounced off his team’s score-pad and registered a point for Tark’s Thugs.
Wielding the ion mallet like Thor’s hammer, he rose to meet the ricocheting orb, screaming out a primal cry of defiance. His victory call was cut short as he completely missed the sphere with the mallet, and made the unwitting decision to strike it squarely with his face instead. He fell like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed, collapsing into the now ascending risers making their way back up from the well.
As the pain in his head and side subsided, Lar’ragos became aware of the growing sound of raucous laughter. The rest of the security team stood, sat, or lay on the floor of the now deactivated holosuite depending on their level of infirmity. A hairy, porcine face peered down at Lar’ragos, and a meaty hand grasped his, hauling him back to his feet. Wiping at the blood coursing from his broken nose, Lar’ragos gurgled, “Thank you, Master Chief.”
Clearing his throat, Lar’ragos announced, “Folks, this concludes today’s security training exercise. You all did very well. A good game of Parrises squares forces you to maintain your situational awareness in a dynamic environment, just like in a fire fight.” He assessed the group, noting numerous injuries. “Everyone here got banged up, but you all stayed in the fight. That speaks both to your stamina as well as your dedication.” He wiped the sleeve of his blue Parrises jumpsuit across his nose again. “Let’s go get patched up in Sickbay, then meet in the rec lounge for debrief and drinks.”
The group of limping security personnel assisted each other out of the holosuite, grinning and chatting animatedly. Tark noted with a smile the difference between Lar’ragos’ new training regimen and his previous campaign of endless, excruciating drills and holographic scenarios. The security personnel were still learning valuable skills, but without the burn-out and the oppressive psychological toll that grueling earlier schedule had taken on them.
Their last assignment had resulted in nearly every member of the ship’s security department having been either killed or seriously injured. Although Tark knew the circumstances of that mission were something that would almost certainly never be repeated, those who’d survived the ordeal had gelled and grown stronger for the experience. Those ‘old-timers’ now formed the core of the ship’s newly expanded security detachment.
As Tark helped Lar’ragos through the parting holosuite doors, he asked, “So what do you call that move, sir? Cranial intercept? Full facial volley?”
Lar’ragos chuckled, wincing and holding his aching ribs. “Don’t forget, little man. I know where you live.”
*****
Sickbay, USS Gibraltar
The doors parted to allow Lieutenant JG Issara Taiee and her guest into what had been, until two hours earlier, her Sickbay. Taiee was a career Starfleet officer, and she knew that life was change. That being said, at this moment she was ready to admit that so much change in such a compressed period of time was a bit hard to swallow.
The ship’s medical staff were assembled in formation, an almost unheard of occurrence. Medical technicians and nurses stood at attention in two rows, flanking the main diagnostic exam table on either side. Stepping aside to allow her guest to take center stage, Taiee kept her voice carefully neutral as she announced, “People, I’d like to introduce you to our new Chief Medical Officer, Lt. Commander Murakawa.”
Doctor Denise Murakawa followed Taiee into what she had to admit was an impressive medical center, especially given the size of this ship. Currently classified as an escort, the Gibraltar had been briefly refitted as a hospital ship earlier in her service, and after being brought out of mothballs during the Dominion War the engineers overseeing her refit had decided to let the ship keep some of that expanded medical capacity. She now supported forty biobeds and four surgical suites, in addition to a host of dedicated laboratories and even a null-g ward.
The woman Murakawa was replacing, albeit temporarily, was not a doctor but an accomplished nurse practitioner. In the wake of the war’s losses, not every starship could be afforded a full-fledged doctor and surgeon. Smaller ships like the Gibraltar made due with nurses, relying more heavily on their Emergency Medical Holograms than did larger, better staffed vessels.
Taiee looked on, feeling both humiliated and unappreciated, but striving to bury both unworthy emotions under a façade of tolerant acceptance. In the past five months aboard this ship she had treated numerous injuries, helping save the lives of not only the captain but countless crew from theirs and other vessels. During the war, Taiee had served in a front line mobile surgical hospital, often nearer the conflict than many starships. She felt that her record and skills spoke for themselves, as they had certainly been sufficient to warrant her original posting as the CMO. Until now, apparently.
Murakawa was presently the senior medical officer aboard the starship Sutherland, a post she’d held for the last six years. She’d been on leave, attending Starfleet’s annual medical symposium, held this year on Bajor as a testament to that planet’s rapid progress in rebuilding its post-occupation medical infrastructure. Her time at the renowned convention had been cut short, however.
On orders from Dr. Beverly Crusher of the Enterprise, Murakawa had been unexpectedly reassigned as CMO of the Gibraltar during its participation in the Briar Patch taskforce. The ship’s medical capacity made it a definite asset to the mission, but Crusher had judged that an actual physician needed to in charge should the ship be asked to assist with a mass casualty or evacuation scenario. Other attendees of the symposium had been likewise assigned to other ships in the flotilla, bolstering their existing medical teams in preparation for coping with the humanitarian disaster that presumably awaited them within the nebula.
Murakawa set her shoulders, meeting the expectant gazes of her new staff with a faint smile. “I know this change in leadership comes as an unwelcome surprise. I was caught off guard by this suddenness of this as well. I assure all of you that this arraignment is only temporary, and shouldn’t be construed as a lack of confidence in your collective abilities. I’m not here to rock the boat, or to play power games, but to complete a task to the best of my ability.” She turned to look at Taiee, who was doing an admirable job of looking supportive. “Lt. Taiee and I will endeavor to make sure we’re prepared for whatever the Briar Patch has in store for us. Now, let’s get down to business.”
*****
Forward Observation Post B'hala
Aulerg Moon
The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
Anij awoke to find herself laying atop an uncomfortable metal-frame cot, alone in a darkened room. The air was stale and humid, and Anij was drenched in persperation. She stared at the ceiling for a few moments, concentrating on breathing and clearing her head. The last thing she remembered was fleeing through the corridors of the stricken Alshain warship, following Gallatin and their mysterious rescuers.
There had been a wild chase through a confusing series of corridors, their escape beset by random firefights between their liberators and the Alshain. That’s where things grew hazy for her, but she supposed some kind of beamout had occurred. This certainly didn’t resemble the interior of the Alshain cruiser.
She sat up, her nose crinkling at her own unwashed smell. How long since she last bathed? How many days had passed since her entire civilization had been wiped out in a handful of minutes? Anij fought off another wave of fruitless tears, determined to figure out where precisely she was, and how she’d gotten here.
*****
Only meters from Anij’s cot, separated by layers of lunar rock and thermal concrete, Vadark Jobrin Adnai stared impassively at the Son’a officer seated across from him in the cramped cement walled room. The Son’a’s face was a tortured mask of stretched flesh that only seemed to underscore for Jobrin the Prophets' displeasure with the Son’a’s naïve attempts to hold death at bay.
Adhar Wuuten, the latest in a long line of Son’a strongmen, sipped idly at the cup of springwine his Bajoran host had provided. He choked down the sickly, flowery scented liquor, unwilling to upset his hosts’ delicate sensibilities. The Bajora Tava had very little in the way of creature comforts, and the offer to share drink with an outworlder was a sign of deepest respect. Their culture was so totally geared to martial sensibilities that they seemed to have neither the time nor the desire to actually enjoy their lives. It was a cultural trait, Wuuten knew, the ultimate example of delayed gratification. Paradise would await them in the next life with the Prophets. This life was for making war.
“You and your people are to be congratulated on your bravery and skill, Vadark.” He made certain to address the man by his Bajoran religious title, “The rescue of the prisoners was superbly executed, but I wonder, why did you not destroy the Alshain ship when you had the chance?”
Jobrin set down his empty cup, eyeing the foreign leader warily. “We left the ship intact because you asked us to rescue their prisoners, nothing more. As yet, the Alshain are not our enemies. It was gratifying to test our abilities against them, to be sure, but you know very well we have marshaled our strength for the tasks that lay ahead.”
Wuuten inclined his head, conceding the point. “Perhaps I should be more detailed in my future requests?”
Jobrin’s countenance darkened, “Do not mistake us for servants like your Tarlac and Ellora, Adhar. We are allies because such a relationship benefits us both. The moment you forget this fact and attempt to command us like chattel, that relationship will be irrevocably severed.”
“I would never attempt to do so, Vadark. We value your help in whatever capacity you select to offer it.” Wuuten hated the obsequious act he was forced to put on for the benefit of these arrogant warrior monks, but as the Son’a were currently being hunted down and killed by the rapacious Alshain, one took allies wherever one could find them.
Jobrin tilted his head, accepting Wuuten’s gesture of humility and appreciation. “Your new mimetic armor served us well, Adhar. Many lives were saved by its use; the Alshain are ferocious fighters, especially when defending their own ship.”
“Fates willing, we will repel their advance into our space and the Son’a will be left in peace.”
Apparently moved by that sentiment, Jobrin poured them both another cup of the cloying liquid. As they raised their glasses, the vadark intoned, “Perhaps someday, the Son’a will stand beside us as we retake Bajor from the clutches of the Cardassians. It is the Prophets’ will.”
Wuuten smiled, his haphazardly placed artificial teeth making the expression more horrific than celebratory. “Death to Cardassia,” he said.
“Death to Cardassia,” Jobrin of the Bajora Tava repeated, his invocation moving him almost to tears.
*****
Ready Room - USS Gibraltar
En-route to Starbase 12, Warp 6.5
Liana Ramirez stood at parade rest in front of Sandhurst’s desk. He’d been silent for nearly a minute, mulling over how severe a dressing down he should or could give to a subordinate who’d done nothing more than answered honestly a question posed by a superior.
He finally uttered, “Would you like to tell me what all that was about?”
Ramirez stared over his shoulder through the circular viewport where an airlock door had once stood. The stars fell behind them as streaks of light in the void as Gibraltar and her sister ships made way for Starbase 12 in tight formation.
“He asked me my opinion, and I gave it. Simple as that, sir.”
Sandhurst sighed, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed his chin. “Have we lost that much ground, you and I?” He shook his head regretfully. “Liana, I’ll ask one more time. You can either answer and get it out of your system, or stay quiet and fume about it for the next five weeks. I know you’ll do your duty either way, that’s not the issue. It’s more about your comfort level.”
She considered that. “Fine. I disagree with your decision to take part in this mission in the strongest possible terms.”
“Why?”
“This isn’t about the Son’a for Picard, it’s about the Ba’ku. And it isn’t about either of them for you, Captain. It’s about the Cardassians, and all those people we left for dead back there on Lakesh.”
Sandhurst’s face colored, but he held his temper in check. “You don’t feel our helping to intervene in a slaughter of innocents is a worthy assignment?”
“Under different circumstances, certainly. But in this scenario Picard’s going to get us embroiled in a blood feud deep inside of a spatial anomaly that prevents us from calling for backup. The Alshain Starforce may not be what it was three hundred years ago, but it’s certainly more than a match for a dozen starships.”
Sitting forward and placing his elbows on the table, Sandhurst marshaled his patience with his young, headstrong first officer. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Liana. However, this is going to have to be one of those occasions where we agree to disagree. The mission stands.” He forced himself to relax, “I do appreciate your feelings on the matter.”
“Do you?” was her sharp retort.
His head dipped in growing exasperation. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that I think if you’d really cared about my opinion, you’d have asked for it before signing onto this job. After all your talk of our shared responsibility for this crew, you go and volunteer us for something this dangerous without even consulting your executive officer.”
He leaned back in his chair, examining her thoughtfully. “And how do you know I volunteered?”
She directed an incredulous glare at him, “I got my hands on a copy of Picard’s original mission proposal. It asked for ten ships, and Gibraltar wasn’t on the list.”
“Oh,” was all Sandhurst could think to say.
Ramirez continued, “And with the exception of the hospital ship Bethesda, the other taskforce vessels are all heavy cruisers or explorers that might stand a chance taking on an Alshain warship one-on-one.”
“Your point?” Sandhurst’s patience was beginning to wear thin, due more to Ramirez’s insight than anything else.
“I’d be less worried if the taskforce was staying together once inside the Briar Patch, but we’re going to be scattered on individual assignments. That makes us all vulnerable, and Gibraltar doubly so. With our speed restricted to one-half impulse within the nebula, we certainly can’t outrun trouble. And even with our paltry allotment of six quantum torpedoes in addition to our photons, we’re in no shape to fight our way out of a confrontation.”
“We didn’t have quantums at Lakesh, and we survived that battle,” Donald pointed out, immediately regretting the comment the instant it had left his lips.
Ramirez went rigid, her eyes flaming. “With respect, sir, we did not all survive that engagement.” The burning, listing bridge of the Phoenix intruded into her thoughts, and she shook her head as if trying to cast the image out.
“I’m sorry.” Sandhurst closed his eyes briefly. “I wasn’t thinking.” He sought to atone for the gaff by offering an olive branch. “I understand your feelings regarding this mission, and I apologize for not consulting you. That being said, I think we can do some good out there in the Briar Patch.” His eyes sought out hers, trying to convey his deep conviction. “We have to try, Liana. It’s what makes us different, makes the Federation a beacon of hope for others.”
She nodded. “I too hope things go according to plan, sir.” Taking a deep breath, Ramirez grasped the proffered branch. “I appreciate you letting me vent my spleen, Captain.”
He smiled slightly, the gesture small but genuine. “Always, Commander. Anything else on your plate?”
She thought about that briefly. “Only one other matter I can think of, sir. We’ve received updated orders from Starfleet. Apparently Admiral Covey wants us to have a diplomatic officer aboard for the duration of the mission.”
“Very well. Make sure we make arrangements for that officer’s billet once we’ve reached Starbase 12.”
Ramirez hesitated fractionally, “Actually, sir, we’re scheduled to divert from the formation briefly to rendezvous with a runabout bringing her outbound from Pacifica.”
Sandhurst scowled. “Really? That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Then, his eyes widened slightly as he did the math in his head. Covey. Diplomatic officer. Looking physically pained, the captain asked, “And the name of this officer?”
“Lt. Commander Pell Ojana, if I remember correctly, sir. She’s Bajoran.”
Sandhurst rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “She certainly is.”
Ramirez studied him curiously, then asked, “I take it you know her.”
“You could say that.”
Quirking an eyebrow, his exec summarized, “This is Monica being a meddlesome wench again, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes indeed, Commander.”
*****
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
Enjoying the story so far. Loved the Riker/Ramirez part of Chapter 2, I could hear his voice clearly.
Enjoying the story so far. Loved the Riker/Ramirez part of Chapter 2, I could hear his voice clearly.
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
^^Thank you, DarKush and CaptainDonovin, I'm glad you're enjoying the tale. I appreciate the kind words regarding Ramirez's confrontation with Riker. Both DarKush and DavidFalkayn were instrumental in helping me craft that scene (after more than one revision).
Dar, I'm looking forward to Pell and Murakawa coming aboard. No doubt, they'll be shaking things up.
^^Thank you, DarKush and CaptainDonovin, I'm glad you're enjoying the tale. I appreciate the kind words regarding Ramirez's confrontation with Riker. Both DarKush and DavidFalkayn were instrumental in helping me craft that scene (after more than one revision).
Dar, I'm looking forward to Pell and Murakawa coming aboard. No doubt, they'll be shaking things up.
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
I don't even pretend that I understood the rules to parrisses squares here but Pava taking that "full facial volley" made me laugh out loud.
I like that your brining in characters from Sutherland and Dark Territory. And I'm really looking forward to the reunion between Sandhurst and Pell. I've been waiting for that since Darkush's last story.
Bajoran warrior monks is way cool too. And they don't know about the end of the occupation? How is that possible? That happened like forever ago. I like it.
:thumbsup: This is all great stuff. Can't wait for more.
I don't even pretend that I understood the rules to parrisses squares here but Pava taking that "full facial volley" made me laugh out loud.
I like that your brining in characters from Sutherland and Dark Territory. And I'm really looking forward to the reunion between Sandhurst and Pell. I've been waiting for that since Darkush's last story.
Bajoran warrior monks is way cool too. And they don't know about the end of the occupation? How is that possible? That happened like forever ago. I like it.
:thumbsup: This is all great stuff. Can't wait for more.
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
Wow! Who knew Parises Squares could be so violent! That was almost like an Ender Wiggin training session!
Great chapter, as usual, and nice to see Pell Ojana finding a home aboard Gibraltar. Just one thing: Do you and DK and Dave ever get confused passing these characters back and forth?
Wow! Who knew Parises Squares could be so violent! That was almost like an Ender Wiggin training session!
Great chapter, as usual, and nice to see Pell Ojana finding a home aboard Gibraltar. Just one thing: Do you and DK and Dave ever get confused passing these characters back and forth?
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
My friend, I wish I could do more than gush. Okay, so my first post was not gushing, but when it comes to your story-telling ability and your innate controll of the English language and its use in this context -- not to mention your command of Trekdom -- all I can do is tell you how much I enjoy the ride your taking us on. Again. I wish I had half your ability. LOL! I wish most writers -- Trek and othewise -- had half your ability!
My friend, I wish I could do more than gush. Okay, so my first post was not gushing, but when it comes to your story-telling ability and your innate controll of the English language and its use in this context -- not to mention your command of Trekdom -- all I can do is tell you how much I enjoy the ride your taking us on. Again. I wish I had half your ability. LOL! I wish most writers -- Trek and othewise -- had half your ability!
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
Sometimes its work to keep them straight, but they're so damn fun to include in each other's work that it's worth the effort. The trouble, just like using a canon Trek character, is you want them to look/sound as they should, thereby doing right by their creators.
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
Liked how you've fleshed out parisses squares and I thought you did a good job capturing Denise's 'voice'. And now Pell coming in...things are going to get very interesting here...
Liked how you've fleshed out parisses squares and I thought you did a good job capturing Denise's 'voice'. And now Pell coming in...things are going to get very interesting here...
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 3
I'm glad you mentioned that, David; it's something I'd meant to comment on, myself, in my initial post. I really like how you took advantage of the sketchy info we had about the game and made it into something interesting amd excotomg ... while still keeping it vague enough for further embellishment in the future.
Well done! :thumbsup:
I'm glad you mentioned that, David; it's something I'd meant to comment on, myself, in my initial post. I really like how you took advantage of the sketchy info we had about the game and made it into something interesting amd excotomg ... while still keeping it vague enough for further embellishment in the future.
Well done! :thumbsup:
Prophets and Loss - Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Alshain Heavy Cruiser Venska
In orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII
The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
The weapons officer glanced back at his sutahr, his muzzle flecked with salivation from his excited state. “Five-hundred thousand kilometers, sir. Still no signs that they’ve detected us.”
The Venska sat cloaked in orbit of a planet populated by the Tarlac. The inhabitants below had been seeded by the nascent Son’a Imperium with the proviso that they should be fruitful and multiply, thereby providing their masters with slave labor and foot soldiers. Now an Alshain warship perched unseen above a flotilla of civilian rescue ships, dispatched by several non-aligned worlds in the vicinity of the Briar Patch in an attempt to deliver some portion of the region’s civilian populations from harm.
No Alshain vessel had yet penetrated so deeply into Son’a controlled space. The major engagements were being fought along a front some lightyears distant, contiguous to the Briar Patch. The Starforce had attempted a few sorties within the great cloud, but as yet the Son’a were still too formidable and wily so deep in their own backyard, and had visited defeats upon the Alshain like the crippling of the cruiser G’Shrora.
But here within the diaphanous veils of nebular gas was the crèche in which the Son’a enemy birthed and reared their armies. To attack here would weaken the heart of their defenses, and sew panic and confusion among their servant races. And here was where Sutahr Vlask R’Voss would avenge the dishonor visited upon his family.
“Type and number of enemy warships present?” asked R’Voss, making a final tally of his ship’s weaponry on a display panel as he projected firing solutions in his mind’s eye.
“One Ellora-crewed frigate, Sutahr. Compliment of thirty-seven; reading class-four armaments.”
R’Voss sneered, “A single shepherd guarding such a fat herd of meat-stock.” He nodded knowingly to his first officer, “The day will be ours.” The bulky transports clustered like animals at a water hole, beaming and shuttling aboard the alien chattel that were now his by the ancestral right of the hunt.
“Perhaps you should look again, before you leap, Sutahr.” This note of caution was sounded by their Klingon advisor, Captain Yejokk, the man responsible for the maintenance of the Imperial cloaking device that had allowed their unobserved approach to this most pregnant target.
R’Voss turned to look back at the Klingon officer, irritated by the man’s reluctance to let the call of the prey heat his blood. The warriors of Qo’noS prided themselves as hunters, but secretly the Alshain laughed at the audacity of the ridge-headed little man-apes. Real hunters relied not upon spears or knives or disruptors, but on tooth and claw, muscle and bone. “You have found something, Captain?”
Yejokk toggled a sensor display, enlarging an image of Norfander XII’s northern polar region. “As we approached, I detected an errant sensor return from near the polar magnetic field. Perhaps it is nothing, or perhaps it is an enemy warship laying in wait.”
R’Voss growled impatiently. His cousin, a revered member of his family Sept, was Sutahr R’Vor of the G’Shrora. R’Vor’s defeat at the hands of presumed mercenaries in the Son’a’s employ had cast a shadow of embarrassment over all their kin. Thus, R’Voss had vowed revenge upon their foes. They were so close now he could smell them, and the call of his instincts was rivaling that more rational part of his mind which was listening to Yejokk’s counsel.
His muscles ached for the release of the pursuit and the kill, but R’Voss reigned in his baser callings. He gestured to the helmsman. “Re-align for polar orbit, Z plus fifteen hundred kilometers. Bring us in above whoever may be hiding in the magnetosphere.”
“Immediately, Sutahr.”
*****
Pell Ojana hadn’t know what to expect when she materialized aboard the Gibraltar, but it certainly wasn’t the sight of the ship’s captain manning the console in an otherwise unoccupied transporter room.
She shifted the strap of the duffle bag on her shoulder, straightening as she announced formally, “Lt. Commander Pell Ojana, Diplomatic Officer, reporting as ordered.” A traditionalist, she added, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”
Sandhurst stepped out from behind the transporter console, all stoic professionalism. “Permission granted, Commander.” He extended a hand, “Welcome aboard the Gibraltar.”
Pell stepped down off the dais, taking his hand and shaking it lightly, her eyes drinking in her old friend’s new and unfamiliar appearance. ‘He looks worn down,’ she thought finally, ‘But there’s also a strength there I don’t remember from before.’
“It’s been too long, Donald.”
He inclined his head thoughtfully, “Four years and eight months, give or take a week or two.” Sandhurst cracked a self-conscious grin, “But who’s counting, right?”
She returned his hesitant smile, the expression on her face causing a dull pang in Sandhurst’s chest. He remembered that smile. Once upon a time, the woman to whom that smile belonged had loved him.
“Last time we met, I was the superior officer. How quickly things change, eh?” Pell stood facing him, struggling against the part of her mind that seemed determined to replay the memories of the first time they’d made love. She railed internally against that selfish recollection. This wasn’t her. She didn’t do this, daydreaming like some addled schoolgirl. She’d given her imagination too much free reign during her leave on Pacifica, spinning what-if’s and might-have-been’s as she watched her good friend Jasmine struggle with the potential dissolution of her marriage. Pell directed her mind to an image of her long dead husband Soyam, and the errant line of thought abruptly terminated.
Attempting to make small talk to break the tension, she said, “I have to admit, Donald, I knew you’d be a fantastic chief engineer but I never saw this coming.” Pell reached up and ran a finger along the four pips that adorned his collar. He flinched unexpectedly at the gesture, causing her to freeze. Looking mortified, she withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry, Captain, that wa—“
Sandhurst’s face flushed with embarrassment, his hand shooting out to capture her retreating one. “No!” he blurted. “I mean…” his voice suddenly abandoned him, and he released his grasp of her hand. Shaking his head, he turned and sat down on the edge of the transporter pad, looking haggard. “Damn it, Ojana, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how I could make this any more awkward or uncomfortable for you.”
Pell lowered her duffle to the deck, taking a seat beside Sandhurst and placing a hand on his shoulder. “If nothing else, I’m glad to see you’re as worked up about this as I am,” she said softly.
He sighed, looking morose. “I’m sorry about this. I know Monica’s using your expertise as an excuse to play matchmaker, but I’d be lying if I said we didn’t need someone of your caliber with us. My exec is a superb tactician, but neither of us has any appreciable diplomatic experience.” Sandhurst turned to look at her. “If this isn’t going to be doable for you, I can transfer you to whichever of the other ships could use your services.”
She shrugged lightly, her smile now radiating reassurance. “The Aegis is gone, and I’m just fresh from prison with no immediate job prospects.” She laughed lightly at that, running a hand through her hair in another unconscious gesture that Sandhurst had once cherished but had since forgotten. “Now’s there’s something I’d never have expected to hear myself say.”
Sandhurst relaxed enough to join in her quiet laughter. “Aren’t we a pair? Me a captain, and you an ex-con. Who’d have thought?”
She squeezed his arm lightly. “I honestly can’t imagine anyplace I’d rather be than someplace I’m actually needed, Donald.” ‘Or wanted,’ she added silently in her head. Her eyes met his. “Are you okay with this?”
Sandhurst took a moment to consider the question, finding that he in fact was. “Yes.” He stood, straightening his uniform and trying to regain some semblance of his command persona. She watched him, suddenly recognizing his strange reticence and disproportionate responses to stimuli. Pell had seen such reactions in herself and others long ago, just after having been liberated from squalor and despair of the Cardassians’ Gallitep labor camp.
Having reasserted his bearing, Sandhurst announced, “I’ll show you to your quarters, Commander.”
She followed him to her feet, retrieving her duffle. “After you, sir.”
*****
Tarlac destroyer SDU-17
In polar orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII
The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
The Tarlac officer rubbed his eyes, taking a brief respite from staring at the monotonous prism of the sensor scope. They had remained here, mired in the soup of the polar magnetic field for the past two days, standing watch over the motley collection of civilian transports and cargo carriers as they strained to load every last Tarlac refugee their hulls could contain. While the Elloran frigate was the obvious guardian, his ship had been given the dubious honor of covert over-watch.
Although he could just barely make out the signatures of his charges through the sensor scrambling magnetic interference, he continued to do so, terrified that a moments inattention could spell disaster for the whole evacuation.
The first indication that something was amiss took the form of a volley of merculite rockets fired scattershot from above by the newly decloaked Venska. The tactic was a variant of the old naval depth charges designed to rattle a hidden enemy and provide a better sensor return with which to calibrate a more robust attack.
“Shields!” the Tarlac captain howled above the screeching alarms, blinking against the strobing confusion now dominating the sensor returns. Abandoning the scanners, he stumbled towards his command couch, struggling to keep his footing as the deck trembled from weapons impacts.
“Shields raised, now holding at thirty-one percent.” The engineer called out. “We’ve taken structural damage to the engines, and systems damage to life support, tactical, navigat—“
“Fire! Return fire!” the captain roared, pounding his fist against the inoperative weapons panel at his command console.
“Incoming!” shouted the sensor chief, who flung himself out of his chair and curled into a tight ball beneath the illusory safety of his workstation.
Having pinpointed the destroyer’s exact whereabouts with the merculite salvo, the Venska trained her exciser cannons on the smaller ship, the scintillating bluish-white beams punching through its depleted defense screens to carve chunks from the hull, venting air and crew into the vacuum.
A chorus of rending metal drove all thought of escape from the Tarlac captain’s mind. He moved past the flailing weapons officer and hastily pushed the helmsman from his seat. Taking the controls of his dying ship, the captain came about and set sublight engines to full, running headlong towards the oncoming Alshain cruiser.
The captain’s valiant suicide run was ended prematurely by Venska’s disruptor batteries, which peeled the hull of the ship away like the skin of a fruit before leaving the glowing hulk of the destroyer’s shattered interior to cool in the pitiless cold of space.
R’Voss grinned savagely at his crews’ handiwork displayed on the viewscreen before turning his attention to the burgeoning transports. “Now, Klingon, you shall watch how true predators make the hunt.”
*****
The Elloran frigate fought hard and well, but it was outmatched by its opponent. The loss of the Tarclac destroyer on over-watch meant that the escort ship was the only thing standing before the Alshain and the helpless Tarlac civilians.
The crew of the smaller ship struggled valiantly to give the civilian ships time to escape, but most of the transports continued to remain on station, awaiting recovery of their surface teams via transporter and shuttle. In the end, all that could be said of the frigate was that it died well, having depleted the cruiser’s forward shields by forty percent.
Now, nothing remained to keep the Alshain warship from its intended prey.
*****
Angosian Hospital Ship Thruuma II
In orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII
Captain Brinig Uxtel navigated the teeming corridors of his ship, weaving through and around the clutching knots of Tarlac refugees that had spilled into the passageways from the vessel’s overcrowded compartments and holds. The aging craft’s life support and waste reclamation systems had been upgraded specifically for this mission of mercy, so there was no danger of running out of breathable air, but the sheer numbers of people jamming every cabin, health ward, hold and closet aboard couldn’t help but give the ship a claustrophobic feel.
Uxtel stopped every so often, inquiring about the well being of his passengers and attempting to reassure the emotionally exhausted evacuees that everything was being done in order to transport them out of the war zone. Doctors, medics, counselors, and other volunteers from a half-dozen non-aligned planets helped make the transition for the frightened people somewhat easier.
The Federation had its plate full with recovering from the war and trying to secure their borders, and apparently could not be bothered to assist with the growing humanitarian crisis in and around the Briar Patch. A coalition of planets not affiliated with any of the great powers had combined their meager resources in an attempt to at least lessen the suffering of those innocents caught between the Son’a and the Alshain.
His earpiece comm chirped, “Captain, our Ellora escort says we’re under attack. They’ve just lost their covert sentry and are tracking the approach of an Alshain attack cruiser.”
His stomach clenching at the thought of an Alshain warship running amuck deep behind Son’a lines, Uxtel threaded his way through the mass of bodies as quickly as possible, heading for the command cabin. He had seen enough war in his time. Indeed, he’d been personally responsible for countless deaths, and not all of them could be easily categorized as ‘enemy.’
As a physician and researcher for the Angosian government, Uxtel had helped to create a generation of physiologically enhanced super-soldiers to defend their homeworld in the Tarsian War. Those among their programmed and bio-modified ranks who survived the conflict were scarred physically and emotionally for life, many unable to readapt to the society that had spawned them.
Uxtel’s self-imposed atonement for those sins had come as captain of this ship, a vessel whose crew had sworn to make a difference in the galaxy, despite their limited range and resources. He had elected to ally himself with people whose view of the galaxy was unique, people who purported to put morality ahead of politics.
Uxtel arrived in the command cabin just in time to witness a nearby Lissepian freighter explode, its spinning debris the result of a concentrated disruptor barrage. Rolwik, one of the very soldiers his captain had helped to forge, manned the helm. He glanced back from his bulky acceleration seat, noting almost laconically, “The Alshain cruiser has opened fire on our convoy.”
Uxtel envied the man his endless reserve of calm, ordering. “Take us out of here, best speed.” He hated abandoning the other ships to this ghoulish shooting gallery, but the Thruuma II had no weaponry.
“Coming about, sublight engines ahead full.”
The local comms channels were clogged with panicked voices; ships laden with refugees pleading for mercy from the Alshain attack. Their entreaties were met with surgically precise weapons fire. A Rutian cargo carrier listed towards the planet, holed through from repeated exciser strikes, trailing glittering contrails of frozen gas as it slid towards the planet’s upper atmosphere.
The Venska moved into the confused melee, firing weapons in all directions. The cruiser took note of the quickly retreating silhouette of the Thruuma II, and moved to pursue.
“They’re coming after us,” Rolwik stated with a dissatisfied grumble.
“Escape pods?” the captain asked.
“It might… confuse them.” Rolwik smirked. “They may slow to try and capture or destroy them.”
“Then by all means…”
Rolwik tapped at an auxiliary panel, entering a series of codes and safety overrides. Four of Thruuma II’s escape pods launched away, drifting into the path of the oncoming warship.
Rolwik eyed the sensors. “They aren’t even bothering to fire on them. Not taking prisoners today, apparently. They’re just going to mow straight through them.”
Uxtel grunted, “Cold hearted bastards, aren’t they?”
“Big bad wolves.” Rolwik said, reinforcing their aft shields a moment before an Alshain disruptor pulse crashed into their rear screens.
Venska’s forward shields plowed into the tiny capsules, triggering the trilithium laced tri-cobalt explosives encased within undetectable subspace shielded housings. The resulting detonations rocked the cruiser, overloading their shield grid and causing multiple hull breaches along the leading edge of the ship’s prow.
“Oops,” Rolwik noted dryly, “Our life pods appear to have exploded.”
Uxtel frowned, “How strange. You usually don’t see that kind of behavior in emergency escape vehicles. Remind me to order a diagnostic on the other pods when we get home.”
“Not a problem,” the ex-soldier replied as the Thruuma II quickly fled the planet’s orbital zone. Behind them those remaining craft still under their own power also moved to escape, taking advantage of the precious few moments the Angosians’ ploy had given them. The Alshain would not be disabled for long.
Activating a specially encrypted subspace transceiver, Uxtel began preparing his report. They would be unable to broadcast it until they’d cleared the nebula, but the captain wanted to make sure he’d properly underscored the seriousness of the growing catastrophe within the Briar Patch. He had to convince Starfleet Intelligence that this was something worth intervening in.
*****
Captain Yejokk emptied the bulky Alshain extinguisher onto the crackling console fire, depriving it of oxygen just long enough to suffocate the flames. Throwing the device aside with derision, he approached R’Voss’ command seat, where the large lupanoid cradled his head in his hands as his crew scurried about, reinstating damaged systems. On the flickering viewscreen, a dozen scattering transports darted into the nearest tendrils of nebular gas.
“And where,” Yejokk asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “does a true predator go to lick his wounds?”
*****
Chapter 4
Alshain Heavy Cruiser Venska
In orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII
The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
The weapons officer glanced back at his sutahr, his muzzle flecked with salivation from his excited state. “Five-hundred thousand kilometers, sir. Still no signs that they’ve detected us.”
The Venska sat cloaked in orbit of a planet populated by the Tarlac. The inhabitants below had been seeded by the nascent Son’a Imperium with the proviso that they should be fruitful and multiply, thereby providing their masters with slave labor and foot soldiers. Now an Alshain warship perched unseen above a flotilla of civilian rescue ships, dispatched by several non-aligned worlds in the vicinity of the Briar Patch in an attempt to deliver some portion of the region’s civilian populations from harm.
No Alshain vessel had yet penetrated so deeply into Son’a controlled space. The major engagements were being fought along a front some lightyears distant, contiguous to the Briar Patch. The Starforce had attempted a few sorties within the great cloud, but as yet the Son’a were still too formidable and wily so deep in their own backyard, and had visited defeats upon the Alshain like the crippling of the cruiser G’Shrora.
But here within the diaphanous veils of nebular gas was the crèche in which the Son’a enemy birthed and reared their armies. To attack here would weaken the heart of their defenses, and sew panic and confusion among their servant races. And here was where Sutahr Vlask R’Voss would avenge the dishonor visited upon his family.
“Type and number of enemy warships present?” asked R’Voss, making a final tally of his ship’s weaponry on a display panel as he projected firing solutions in his mind’s eye.
“One Ellora-crewed frigate, Sutahr. Compliment of thirty-seven; reading class-four armaments.”
R’Voss sneered, “A single shepherd guarding such a fat herd of meat-stock.” He nodded knowingly to his first officer, “The day will be ours.” The bulky transports clustered like animals at a water hole, beaming and shuttling aboard the alien chattel that were now his by the ancestral right of the hunt.
“Perhaps you should look again, before you leap, Sutahr.” This note of caution was sounded by their Klingon advisor, Captain Yejokk, the man responsible for the maintenance of the Imperial cloaking device that had allowed their unobserved approach to this most pregnant target.
R’Voss turned to look back at the Klingon officer, irritated by the man’s reluctance to let the call of the prey heat his blood. The warriors of Qo’noS prided themselves as hunters, but secretly the Alshain laughed at the audacity of the ridge-headed little man-apes. Real hunters relied not upon spears or knives or disruptors, but on tooth and claw, muscle and bone. “You have found something, Captain?”
Yejokk toggled a sensor display, enlarging an image of Norfander XII’s northern polar region. “As we approached, I detected an errant sensor return from near the polar magnetic field. Perhaps it is nothing, or perhaps it is an enemy warship laying in wait.”
R’Voss growled impatiently. His cousin, a revered member of his family Sept, was Sutahr R’Vor of the G’Shrora. R’Vor’s defeat at the hands of presumed mercenaries in the Son’a’s employ had cast a shadow of embarrassment over all their kin. Thus, R’Voss had vowed revenge upon their foes. They were so close now he could smell them, and the call of his instincts was rivaling that more rational part of his mind which was listening to Yejokk’s counsel.
His muscles ached for the release of the pursuit and the kill, but R’Voss reigned in his baser callings. He gestured to the helmsman. “Re-align for polar orbit, Z plus fifteen hundred kilometers. Bring us in above whoever may be hiding in the magnetosphere.”
“Immediately, Sutahr.”
*****
Pell Ojana hadn’t know what to expect when she materialized aboard the Gibraltar, but it certainly wasn’t the sight of the ship’s captain manning the console in an otherwise unoccupied transporter room.
She shifted the strap of the duffle bag on her shoulder, straightening as she announced formally, “Lt. Commander Pell Ojana, Diplomatic Officer, reporting as ordered.” A traditionalist, she added, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”
Sandhurst stepped out from behind the transporter console, all stoic professionalism. “Permission granted, Commander.” He extended a hand, “Welcome aboard the Gibraltar.”
Pell stepped down off the dais, taking his hand and shaking it lightly, her eyes drinking in her old friend’s new and unfamiliar appearance. ‘He looks worn down,’ she thought finally, ‘But there’s also a strength there I don’t remember from before.’
“It’s been too long, Donald.”
He inclined his head thoughtfully, “Four years and eight months, give or take a week or two.” Sandhurst cracked a self-conscious grin, “But who’s counting, right?”
She returned his hesitant smile, the expression on her face causing a dull pang in Sandhurst’s chest. He remembered that smile. Once upon a time, the woman to whom that smile belonged had loved him.
“Last time we met, I was the superior officer. How quickly things change, eh?” Pell stood facing him, struggling against the part of her mind that seemed determined to replay the memories of the first time they’d made love. She railed internally against that selfish recollection. This wasn’t her. She didn’t do this, daydreaming like some addled schoolgirl. She’d given her imagination too much free reign during her leave on Pacifica, spinning what-if’s and might-have-been’s as she watched her good friend Jasmine struggle with the potential dissolution of her marriage. Pell directed her mind to an image of her long dead husband Soyam, and the errant line of thought abruptly terminated.
Attempting to make small talk to break the tension, she said, “I have to admit, Donald, I knew you’d be a fantastic chief engineer but I never saw this coming.” Pell reached up and ran a finger along the four pips that adorned his collar. He flinched unexpectedly at the gesture, causing her to freeze. Looking mortified, she withdrew her hand. “I’m sorry, Captain, that wa—“
Sandhurst’s face flushed with embarrassment, his hand shooting out to capture her retreating one. “No!” he blurted. “I mean…” his voice suddenly abandoned him, and he released his grasp of her hand. Shaking his head, he turned and sat down on the edge of the transporter pad, looking haggard. “Damn it, Ojana, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how I could make this any more awkward or uncomfortable for you.”
Pell lowered her duffle to the deck, taking a seat beside Sandhurst and placing a hand on his shoulder. “If nothing else, I’m glad to see you’re as worked up about this as I am,” she said softly.
He sighed, looking morose. “I’m sorry about this. I know Monica’s using your expertise as an excuse to play matchmaker, but I’d be lying if I said we didn’t need someone of your caliber with us. My exec is a superb tactician, but neither of us has any appreciable diplomatic experience.” Sandhurst turned to look at her. “If this isn’t going to be doable for you, I can transfer you to whichever of the other ships could use your services.”
She shrugged lightly, her smile now radiating reassurance. “The Aegis is gone, and I’m just fresh from prison with no immediate job prospects.” She laughed lightly at that, running a hand through her hair in another unconscious gesture that Sandhurst had once cherished but had since forgotten. “Now’s there’s something I’d never have expected to hear myself say.”
Sandhurst relaxed enough to join in her quiet laughter. “Aren’t we a pair? Me a captain, and you an ex-con. Who’d have thought?”
She squeezed his arm lightly. “I honestly can’t imagine anyplace I’d rather be than someplace I’m actually needed, Donald.” ‘Or wanted,’ she added silently in her head. Her eyes met his. “Are you okay with this?”
Sandhurst took a moment to consider the question, finding that he in fact was. “Yes.” He stood, straightening his uniform and trying to regain some semblance of his command persona. She watched him, suddenly recognizing his strange reticence and disproportionate responses to stimuli. Pell had seen such reactions in herself and others long ago, just after having been liberated from squalor and despair of the Cardassians’ Gallitep labor camp.
Having reasserted his bearing, Sandhurst announced, “I’ll show you to your quarters, Commander.”
She followed him to her feet, retrieving her duffle. “After you, sir.”
*****
Tarlac destroyer SDU-17
In polar orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII
The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
The Tarlac officer rubbed his eyes, taking a brief respite from staring at the monotonous prism of the sensor scope. They had remained here, mired in the soup of the polar magnetic field for the past two days, standing watch over the motley collection of civilian transports and cargo carriers as they strained to load every last Tarlac refugee their hulls could contain. While the Elloran frigate was the obvious guardian, his ship had been given the dubious honor of covert over-watch.
Although he could just barely make out the signatures of his charges through the sensor scrambling magnetic interference, he continued to do so, terrified that a moments inattention could spell disaster for the whole evacuation.
The first indication that something was amiss took the form of a volley of merculite rockets fired scattershot from above by the newly decloaked Venska. The tactic was a variant of the old naval depth charges designed to rattle a hidden enemy and provide a better sensor return with which to calibrate a more robust attack.
“Shields!” the Tarlac captain howled above the screeching alarms, blinking against the strobing confusion now dominating the sensor returns. Abandoning the scanners, he stumbled towards his command couch, struggling to keep his footing as the deck trembled from weapons impacts.
“Shields raised, now holding at thirty-one percent.” The engineer called out. “We’ve taken structural damage to the engines, and systems damage to life support, tactical, navigat—“
“Fire! Return fire!” the captain roared, pounding his fist against the inoperative weapons panel at his command console.
“Incoming!” shouted the sensor chief, who flung himself out of his chair and curled into a tight ball beneath the illusory safety of his workstation.
Having pinpointed the destroyer’s exact whereabouts with the merculite salvo, the Venska trained her exciser cannons on the smaller ship, the scintillating bluish-white beams punching through its depleted defense screens to carve chunks from the hull, venting air and crew into the vacuum.
A chorus of rending metal drove all thought of escape from the Tarlac captain’s mind. He moved past the flailing weapons officer and hastily pushed the helmsman from his seat. Taking the controls of his dying ship, the captain came about and set sublight engines to full, running headlong towards the oncoming Alshain cruiser.
The captain’s valiant suicide run was ended prematurely by Venska’s disruptor batteries, which peeled the hull of the ship away like the skin of a fruit before leaving the glowing hulk of the destroyer’s shattered interior to cool in the pitiless cold of space.
R’Voss grinned savagely at his crews’ handiwork displayed on the viewscreen before turning his attention to the burgeoning transports. “Now, Klingon, you shall watch how true predators make the hunt.”
*****
The Elloran frigate fought hard and well, but it was outmatched by its opponent. The loss of the Tarclac destroyer on over-watch meant that the escort ship was the only thing standing before the Alshain and the helpless Tarlac civilians.
The crew of the smaller ship struggled valiantly to give the civilian ships time to escape, but most of the transports continued to remain on station, awaiting recovery of their surface teams via transporter and shuttle. In the end, all that could be said of the frigate was that it died well, having depleted the cruiser’s forward shields by forty percent.
Now, nothing remained to keep the Alshain warship from its intended prey.
*****
Angosian Hospital Ship Thruuma II
In orbit of Son’a administrated Tarlac colony Norfander XII
Captain Brinig Uxtel navigated the teeming corridors of his ship, weaving through and around the clutching knots of Tarlac refugees that had spilled into the passageways from the vessel’s overcrowded compartments and holds. The aging craft’s life support and waste reclamation systems had been upgraded specifically for this mission of mercy, so there was no danger of running out of breathable air, but the sheer numbers of people jamming every cabin, health ward, hold and closet aboard couldn’t help but give the ship a claustrophobic feel.
Uxtel stopped every so often, inquiring about the well being of his passengers and attempting to reassure the emotionally exhausted evacuees that everything was being done in order to transport them out of the war zone. Doctors, medics, counselors, and other volunteers from a half-dozen non-aligned planets helped make the transition for the frightened people somewhat easier.
The Federation had its plate full with recovering from the war and trying to secure their borders, and apparently could not be bothered to assist with the growing humanitarian crisis in and around the Briar Patch. A coalition of planets not affiliated with any of the great powers had combined their meager resources in an attempt to at least lessen the suffering of those innocents caught between the Son’a and the Alshain.
His earpiece comm chirped, “Captain, our Ellora escort says we’re under attack. They’ve just lost their covert sentry and are tracking the approach of an Alshain attack cruiser.”
His stomach clenching at the thought of an Alshain warship running amuck deep behind Son’a lines, Uxtel threaded his way through the mass of bodies as quickly as possible, heading for the command cabin. He had seen enough war in his time. Indeed, he’d been personally responsible for countless deaths, and not all of them could be easily categorized as ‘enemy.’
As a physician and researcher for the Angosian government, Uxtel had helped to create a generation of physiologically enhanced super-soldiers to defend their homeworld in the Tarsian War. Those among their programmed and bio-modified ranks who survived the conflict were scarred physically and emotionally for life, many unable to readapt to the society that had spawned them.
Uxtel’s self-imposed atonement for those sins had come as captain of this ship, a vessel whose crew had sworn to make a difference in the galaxy, despite their limited range and resources. He had elected to ally himself with people whose view of the galaxy was unique, people who purported to put morality ahead of politics.
Uxtel arrived in the command cabin just in time to witness a nearby Lissepian freighter explode, its spinning debris the result of a concentrated disruptor barrage. Rolwik, one of the very soldiers his captain had helped to forge, manned the helm. He glanced back from his bulky acceleration seat, noting almost laconically, “The Alshain cruiser has opened fire on our convoy.”
Uxtel envied the man his endless reserve of calm, ordering. “Take us out of here, best speed.” He hated abandoning the other ships to this ghoulish shooting gallery, but the Thruuma II had no weaponry.
“Coming about, sublight engines ahead full.”
The local comms channels were clogged with panicked voices; ships laden with refugees pleading for mercy from the Alshain attack. Their entreaties were met with surgically precise weapons fire. A Rutian cargo carrier listed towards the planet, holed through from repeated exciser strikes, trailing glittering contrails of frozen gas as it slid towards the planet’s upper atmosphere.
The Venska moved into the confused melee, firing weapons in all directions. The cruiser took note of the quickly retreating silhouette of the Thruuma II, and moved to pursue.
“They’re coming after us,” Rolwik stated with a dissatisfied grumble.
“Escape pods?” the captain asked.
“It might… confuse them.” Rolwik smirked. “They may slow to try and capture or destroy them.”
“Then by all means…”
Rolwik tapped at an auxiliary panel, entering a series of codes and safety overrides. Four of Thruuma II’s escape pods launched away, drifting into the path of the oncoming warship.
Rolwik eyed the sensors. “They aren’t even bothering to fire on them. Not taking prisoners today, apparently. They’re just going to mow straight through them.”
Uxtel grunted, “Cold hearted bastards, aren’t they?”
“Big bad wolves.” Rolwik said, reinforcing their aft shields a moment before an Alshain disruptor pulse crashed into their rear screens.
Venska’s forward shields plowed into the tiny capsules, triggering the trilithium laced tri-cobalt explosives encased within undetectable subspace shielded housings. The resulting detonations rocked the cruiser, overloading their shield grid and causing multiple hull breaches along the leading edge of the ship’s prow.
“Oops,” Rolwik noted dryly, “Our life pods appear to have exploded.”
Uxtel frowned, “How strange. You usually don’t see that kind of behavior in emergency escape vehicles. Remind me to order a diagnostic on the other pods when we get home.”
“Not a problem,” the ex-soldier replied as the Thruuma II quickly fled the planet’s orbital zone. Behind them those remaining craft still under their own power also moved to escape, taking advantage of the precious few moments the Angosians’ ploy had given them. The Alshain would not be disabled for long.
Activating a specially encrypted subspace transceiver, Uxtel began preparing his report. They would be unable to broadcast it until they’d cleared the nebula, but the captain wanted to make sure he’d properly underscored the seriousness of the growing catastrophe within the Briar Patch. He had to convince Starfleet Intelligence that this was something worth intervening in.
*****
Captain Yejokk emptied the bulky Alshain extinguisher onto the crackling console fire, depriving it of oxygen just long enough to suffocate the flames. Throwing the device aside with derision, he approached R’Voss’ command seat, where the large lupanoid cradled his head in his hands as his crew scurried about, reinstating damaged systems. On the flickering viewscreen, a dozen scattering transports darted into the nearest tendrils of nebular gas.
“And where,” Yejokk asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “does a true predator go to lick his wounds?”
*****
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 4
Excellent, I love it!
The only slight caveat I have to offer is that you should be careful not to employ too many similarities to earth-based canines or variations thereof - it's a mistake many have accused of being done with the Kzinti (but with felines obviously), and something that should definitely be avoided here.
The first nod to this was the name "Alshain."
Alsatians, by any other name...?
Excellent, I love it!
The only slight caveat I have to offer is that you should be careful not to employ too many similarities to earth-based canines or variations thereof - it's a mistake many have accused of being done with the Kzinti (but with felines obviously), and something that should definitely be avoided here.
The first nod to this was the name "Alshain."
Alsatians, by any other name...?
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 4
Alas, the Alshain are not my creation, but one DarKush has been generous enough to allow me to use. And I'm guessing it's probably in the nature of humanoids to anthropomorphize any creatures similar to animals from their homeworld... or known beasts from another world, such as Earth.
Be that as it may, it's good advice, and I'll keep the references to a minimum.
Alas, the Alshain are not my creation, but one DarKush has been generous enough to allow me to use. And I'm guessing it's probably in the nature of humanoids to anthropomorphize any creatures similar to animals from their homeworld... or known beasts from another world, such as Earth.
Be that as it may, it's good advice, and I'll keep the references to a minimum.
Re: Prophets and Loss - Chapter 4
Great chapter. I think you are doing a very good job fleshing out the Alshain, making them a formidable enemy and of really giving life to what has essentially been a series of 'throwaway' lines about Alshain aggression that I've seeded throughout several of my stories. The Pell/Sandhurst exchange was also good and flowed naturally. They acted the way I would expect them to after all that's happened to them both in the past several months. Also, nice seeing Yejokk ("Embers of the Fire") get some spotlight.
The Kzinti and the Mirak from the Trek role-playing games(?) were inspirations for the Alshain. So were the Kilrathi from Wing Commander and the Bothans from the Star Wars novels. Their look was inspired by the Lycans from Underworld and the werewolves from the movie Dog Soldiers.
The name Alshain was actually a feline-alien character in SF author's Steven Barnes comic book Fusion. Originally the Alshain were going to be feline, but I realized that with the Caitians already out there, it might a bit redundant to make another feline species. Plus, I wanted more freedom to develop the Alshain.
I don't know anything about the Alsatians.
So, a lot of the animal/anthromorphic references are my "fault"
But Gibraltar I say continue having fun with them. I like your depiction of the Alshain so far.
Great chapter. I think you are doing a very good job fleshing out the Alshain, making them a formidable enemy and of really giving life to what has essentially been a series of 'throwaway' lines about Alshain aggression that I've seeded throughout several of my stories. The Pell/Sandhurst exchange was also good and flowed naturally. They acted the way I would expect them to after all that's happened to them both in the past several months. Also, nice seeing Yejokk ("Embers of the Fire") get some spotlight.
The Kzinti and the Mirak from the Trek role-playing games(?) were inspirations for the Alshain. So were the Kilrathi from Wing Commander and the Bothans from the Star Wars novels. Their look was inspired by the Lycans from Underworld and the werewolves from the movie Dog Soldiers.
The name Alshain was actually a feline-alien character in SF author's Steven Barnes comic book Fusion. Originally the Alshain were going to be feline, but I realized that with the Caitians already out there, it might a bit redundant to make another feline species. Plus, I wanted more freedom to develop the Alshain.
I don't know anything about the Alsatians.
So, a lot of the animal/anthromorphic references are my "fault"
But Gibraltar I say continue having fun with them. I like your depiction of the Alshain so far.Similar threads
