Stardate 79627.2 They came for him in his dreams, as they were often wont to do. They were in the Sickbay, the purgatory his subconscious seemed unable to escape. Again, he was subjected to the agonizing realization of just how far the captain would go… had gone already. Over two decades of psychotherapy had been unable to quench the nightmares entirely, so profound was the trauma he’d endured. The towering, muscular Bolian, the gentle giant, lay atop the biobed mutilated and enslaved by Borg implants. An acknowledged pacifist who had steadfastly refused to take part in the captain’s macabre vision, he had been forced to do the man’s bidding anyway. Compliance was not optional. That had been the day he’d decided. As a Starfleet officer he could countenance no more. He and some of the others had commandeered a shuttle and fled, out into the unexplored reaches of an alien galaxy. He had naively believed he had left the last of the horrors behind him on that ship of the damned. Had he known what atrocities awaited him in the savage garden of the Large Magellanic Cloud, he might well have remained behind, consequences be damned. The ship’s intercom jolted him from the nightmare just seconds before he would have begun screaming. That’s how he usually woke from this particular abeyant terror. “Bridge to the captain. We’ve received a distress call from a Corvallen passenger ship in an adjoining sector. They appear to be under attack from Romulan vessels, affiliation unknown.” He rolled onto his side, then sat up with a groan, levering his legs over the edge of the bed. “Understood,” he said heavily, his voice thick with sleep. “Set intercept course and engage at max speed. I’ll be topside presently.” He reached out a hand to wake her, only to find that side of the bed empty and cold to the touch. She’s a thousand light-years away now, he reminded himself, his heart racing with an inexplicable rush of adrenaline. He forced himself to his feet before his maudlin thoughts could immobilize him. He was in and out of the sonic shower in under thirty seconds, taking less than a minute to don his uniform jumpsuit. He ran a brush through his hair, which only now in his forty-fifth year was starting to grey, albeit unevenly. He checked the proper placement of his combadge and his four rank pips and found them acceptable. Having decided that he was sufficiently presentable to resume shipboard duty, Brett Lightner stepped out of his quarters. * * * Captain Lightner entered onto the bridge, the turbolift doors opening to a soft susurration of voices in overlapping conversations. He immediately assessed the mood of the bridge crew, finding them calm but focused. The forward viewscreen showed the expected warping starfield as he made his way to the center seat. The bridge was dimly lit, red tell-tails engaged to signify red-alert status. The relative darkness served to enhance the brightness of the consoles and holographic interfaces at the various workstations. The ship’s XO, the ascetic Jürgen Wilt, avoided the captain’s chair at every opportunity. The man stubbornly remained in his own seat to the captain’s immediate right. Lightner seated himself next to him. “What have we got, Jürgen?” The interminably reserved Wilt recited, “Corvallen ship, the Invoxsim. Federation-flagged, registry out of Minos Korva. Registered flight plan indicates she’s carrying four-hundred forty passengers and a crew of seventy-nine, bound for Regulus. They sent an initial distress call saying they’d been attacked by two Romulan T’Liss-class warbirds and that they were trying to make it to the Etroth Nebula to seek shelter.” “ETA to intercept?” “Thirty-seven minutes at warp nine-point-nine-nine-three, sir.” Lightner frowned, rubbing his chin. “You mentioned something about no ID’s on the ships?” “Correct, Captain. The Corvallens said neither of the ships had visible livery, so we’re unable to determine which faction they might belong to.” From the arch console behind the two, the cybernetic Tactical Officer 1971 offered, “The T’Liss-class cruiser is a recent design, Captain, and is used by both the Romulan Free State and the New Rihann faction. There have also been reports of several of this class ship having been sold to non-affiliated insurgent groups within the Romulan zone of influence.” Lightner cast a glance over his shoulder, “So, it could basically be just about anybody?” The cyborg half-smirked, replying in his digitized voice, “Yes, sir.” Lightner cocked his head in an oh-well gesture and turned back to face the viewscreen. “Open a channel to the Corvallen ship.” “Aye, sir. Channel open.” “This is Captain Brett Lightner of the Federation starship Gibraltar. We have received your distress call and are en route to render assistance. What is your current situation?” The viewscreen flared to life, displaying the juddering image of a vaguely reptilian-looking Corvallen female in a battered, smoke-filled command center. “Captain, we remain under attack by two Romulan ships. They’ve nearly neutralized our shielding, and our propulsion systems are heavily damaged. They’ve opened communications with us just long enough to demand we turn over one of our passengers, a Romulan national. There’s little chance of our reaching the nebula now, given the dama—” The image froze, oscillated and then winked out, replaced by the rushing starfield. “Rina, what was that?” Lightner asked the Operations officer. Lieutenant Rina Wójcik, a spritely female with long auburn hair tied into a single braid, looked back from her station near the front of the bridge. “Transmission jammed at the source, Captain.” Lightner closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Open a channel in the clear, directed towards those coordinates.” He stood as Wójcik acknowledged the order. “Romulan vessels, this is the Federation starship Gibraltar. We are on our way to your location. You have attacked a vessel in Federation space in violation of treaty. You will stand down and discontinue your attack, or we will take steps to neutralize your ships upon our arrival. If you do not reply within thirty-seconds, I will take that as a refusal to comply with my directives, and I will respond accordingly.” He signaled for Wójcik to terminate the transmission and turned to face his executive officer. “Thoughts?” The diminutive Commander Wilt frowned. “This appears to be another example of inter-factional strife among the Romulans. The person aboard the Corvallen ship they’re after is probably related to a faction warlord, or some other Romulan power broker. They’ll likely have snatched the target and have cloaked and be well away by the time we arrive, sir.” Lightner nodded grudging assent, “That’s a possibility.” He looked over Wilt’s head to where 1971 sat behind the horseshoe Tactical station. “Seventy-One, how will we fare against two T’Liss-class ships?” 1971’s eyes flickered as he completed a series of calculations. “We would likely sustain mild-to-moderate damage, sir, in a worst-case engagement. However, all things being equal, a Ross-class starship is more than a match for two vessels of that design.” “Still, if it comes to a fight I’d rather ensure we had the advantage,” Lightner allowed. “Any other starships in the area responding to this distress call?” “Rustazh and Allegiant, but they’re both over three hours away, sir.” “It’s up to us, then.” “Their thirty seconds are up, sir,” Wójcik noted. Lightner glanced at the ship’s chronometer, now set to count down their ETA, a trick he’d picked up from his time as a young helmsman. “I’m going to go report this to Command. If this is the Free State or one of the other major factions, this could create diplomatic waves. Best to keep Starfleet in the loop.” As Lightner stepped through the doors to his ready room, Lieutenant Wójcik cast a look back at Commander Wilt. Though the man met her gaze unflinchingly, he nodded almost imperceptibly. He shifted his eyes in silent rebuke, and she turned back to her station. Her message had been clear. Do you think he’s up for this? * * *
Captain’s Personal Log, Stardate 79628.6 As Commander Wilt postulated, we’ve arrived too late at the scene of the attack on the Corvallen transport Invoxsim. Thankfully, the damage to the ship was relatively light and aside from the abducted Romulan passenger, there were only minor injuries to the crew and passengers. The attacking Romulans exercised considerable discipline in their engagement, clearly not the hallmark of brazen pirates or factional mercenaries. Professional soldiers staged this abduction, for reasons that remain unknown. We’ve tended to Invoxsim’s wounded and assisted in the ship’s repairs. The starships Allegiant and Rustazh have arrived on scene, and Rustazh will be escorting Invoxsim to Star Station Tantalus for further repairs. Allegiant and Gibraltar will conduct a search of nearby systems utilizing antiproton sweeps to attempt to detect any cloaked Romulan activity, though I have little hope that this will prove effective. Whoever did this is long gone. Our orders from Command, should our subsequent search prove fruitless, is to return to our patrol sector along the Romulan border. My inquiries regarding Gibraltar being posted to exploratory duties have been met with polite indifference. Next month will signify the end of my first year commanding this ship, and try as I might, I feel as though can’t quite get a grasp on what makes this particular crew tick. I’ll freely admit that I’ve not been the captain I was, the man who led the Aristotle and Gandhi on so many successful missions. I mean, really, who the hell waits until their third and most prestigious command before falling apart? Maybe it’s the ship… the name, and all the baggage it carries with it. Perhaps I was naïve to think Gibraltar’s reputation was safe from the stains of my time aboard Europa? Maybe I just have too much emotional scar tissue, and decades of therapy and neuro-cognitive intervention have finally failed me? I think I just need to get off my ass and get my head on straight, preferably before Gibraltar gets thrown into a mission that requires me to be at my best. So far it’s been patrol, diplomatic, and escort duties, far beneath the potential of a ship and crew this size. It’s clear Command is testing me, trying to determine where my breaking point is before I stumble across it myself. Almost two months since Avela left the ship. She won’t return my messages, and her new ship is destined to transit the Bajoran wormhole in three weeks. Really, though, this is a personal best for me. Who else could fall in love with their ship’s counselor and then drive her away to the other side of the galaxy? My personal and professional selves seem to be in a race to see who can unravel the fastest. Place your wagers, folks. - END PERSONAL LOG * * * Wilt parried almost effortlessly, wielding his rapier with admirable efficiency. He deflected Lightner’s comparatively clumsy thrusts and then transitioned to an attack that proved as ferocious as it was focused. Lightner had been sparring with various bladed weapons for years and had been taught by some of the best instructors, both real and holographic. None of that mattered here and now, with his XO dismantling him with dispassionate resolve. Lightner feinted left, then ducked under what he anticipated to be Wilt’s riposte, only to have his rapier torn from his hand by a blindingly fast slashing attack. “Shit!” he yelped, cradling his bruised hand with his other. “Okay…” he panted, “…I’m done. I just don’t have it today, whatever the hell ‘it’ is.” Wilt nodded inside his safety mask, holding his blade up and clicking his heels together theatrically. “Yes, Captain.” The XO removed his mask and moved to the nearby table, reaching for a towel. Lightner noted sourly that the smaller man had barely broken a sweat during their match. Lightner reflected that the little bastard reminded him of Pava Lar’ragos, minus the creepy little smile and the man’s proclivity for inciting mayhem. “Have you looked at Orto’s idea for the antiproton/tachyon detection net?” Lightner asked as he slumped down onto the bench, removing his own mask and mopping his face and neck with a towel. “I have,” Wilt said succinctly, his tone indicating disapproval. “Not a fan?” “Wasted effort, sir. The Romulans who staged that kidnapping are gone. This was a well-planned, carefully executed operation. They’re not going to loiter in the area waiting to be detected.” “So, you’d prefer we just go back to our patrol route and continue harassing non-aligned merchant vessels transporting Romulan ale and restricted Borg technology across the border?” “If that’s what Command believes is the best use of our talents, Captain,” Wilt answered cryptically. Lightner sat forward, glaring at the man. “What’s that supposed to mean, Commander?” Wilt took a long draught from his water bottle, appearing to consider his next words carefully. “Permission to speak candidly, Captain?” “By all means.” “We’re out here spinning our collective wheels for two reasons. The first reason is that the Federation can’t decide what to do about the Romulan Diaspora, despite helping to prop up the Free State and opposing all the other factions, no matter how much better allies any of them might make. We continue to march back and forth across the border, our swords in hand, playing our part in this little drama as though we have any chance of detecting, let alone interdicting, any illegal commerce. “The second reason we’re out here is that Command can’t seem to make up its collective mind about you.” Lightner bristled, “What the hell—” Wilt held up his hands. “You granted me permission, sir,” he observed calmly. A curt nod was Lightner’s only reply. “When I come on shift, sir, I don’t know which version of you I’m going to get. Some days you’re approachable, affable, and on top of everything that comes our way. Other days you’re distant, mercurial, and totally distracted. At those times I find myself wishing you’d just retreat to your ready room and let me run the show. To put it bluntly, Captain, I’m exhausted. I’ve been running interference for you with the crew for months now, and my repeated reassurance to them that you’re getting yourself sorted is beginning to damage my credibility.” A long sigh escaped Lightner and he nodded reluctantly. “You’re right, and I’m sorry, Jürgen. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, and my having chased off Counselor Nornjen isn’t helping me to get my personal issues corrected.” “No, sir, it’s not. I feel obligated to tell you that I’m seriously considering putting in for a transfer. Now that the Corps of Engineers has rebuilt Starfleet’s shipyards there are dozens of ships coming online monthly. There are plenty of XO’s billets available, and I might even be able to secure my own command.” Lightner stood while trying to dampen his sense of alarm at hearing this. “I hope you won’t do anything rash. I just need a little more time—” “Bridge to Captain Lightner. Incoming communique from Command, sir. Deep Space 12 has detected what appears to be an inter-Romulan battle nearby and we’ve been ordered to investigate.” Lightner almost winced at the ill-timed summons. “Understood. I’m on my way. Set course and engage at maximum warp. Initiate yellow alert.” He looked to Wilt, his expression regretful. “I’d like to continue this conversation later, if you’re willing?” Wilt hesitated, then gave an unenthusiastic nod. “Yes, sir.” * * *
Lightner has a lot on his plate. What Captain doesn't? Commander Wilt seems to be a good officer. Romulans versus Romulans... That's a can of worms that is bound to explode all over the canvas of the Alpha Quadrant.
Star Trek: Gibraltar, the Next Generation? Nice. And an unexpected end of year treat. How interesting that you’ve chosen Lightner as the initial focus character here, considering his mostly low-key role in the main series. No longer the young bright eyed officer on his first assignment, but a seasoned starship captain with enough baggage to fill a 737. Really curious to learn more about this iteration of Gibraltar, this turbulent time period and all these new characters. Although I’m also holding out hope for the return of some familiar faces.
Did someone deliberately place Lightner on another ship named Gibraltar? Given their previous misadventures, I would think Star Fleet would put any survivors of Europa into a de-humidifier for a few decades to drain out all the PTSD and give them time to unscramble their brains. Speaking of scrambled brains... I'm not sure I've caught up with all the horrors of Europa. Wilt seems like a superb right-hand man. Really interesting reboot for the series.
Prithee pardon my ignorance.. did I miss the end of the Sandhurst adventures? Also, do you have a timeline of Gibraltar adventures available somewhere? Definitely enjoying this story though. Your writing always engrosses and entertains.
While I have no firmly established timeline, here are the Gibraltar stories in sequential order. http://www.adastrafanfic.com/viewseries.php?seriesid=6 Last we left Zeischt (né Sandhurst) was in the as yet incomplete UT: Task Force Vanguard, Part IV: Solitary Frontier. I've just taken the liberty of jumping ahead to the ST: Picard era timeframe.
USS Gibraltar (NCC-81694) is a Ross-class starship, an upgraded variant of the venerable Galaxy-class. https://thomasmarrone.artstation.com/projects/qAg8Ry?album_id=49779 https://www.deviantart.com/enethrin/art/Ross-Class-Starship-High-Resolution-903450771
* * * The chronometer display in the corner of Lightner’s holo-comms window indicated their ETA to the location of the battle was less than fifteen minutes. The Reliant-class starship Allegiant kept pace with Gibraltar, with Captain McGillivray on comms with Lightner from their respective ready rooms. “So, how do you figure we play this?” McGillivray asked. “Diplomatic, at least until we have a better understanding of what’s going on,” Lightner answered. “Depending on who’s involved, this could be anything from minor factional infighting to a major political upheaval.” “What are the odds these aren’t the same Romulans from the attack on Invoxsim?” McGillivray smirked. “Remote, but anything’s possible this close to their border. Is it bad that I find myself wishing for the old Neutral Zone of my childhood?” McGillivray laughed. “No, but I’d caution you to remember they weren’t too fond of staying on their side of that particular political construct, either.” Lightner ceded the point with an inclination of his head. “Rather than chase them out immediately, I’d favor offering assistance to any survivors we find. The longer we’re able to sniff around the more answers we’re liable to get.” “You’re the senior captain, I’ll follow your lead,” McGillivray offered. “You can do all the talking, and I’ll just hang back, looking menacing in my ship that’s a third the size of yours.” Lightner chuckled, the first levity he had experienced in days. “You do that, Captain. I’m just grateful to have a native Scot watching my back.” “Och,” McGillivray purred, amplifying her natural brogue. “We’re better’na pack o’ Klingons, we are.” Lightner rolled his eyes, “Gibraltar, out.” Back on the bridge, Lightner settled into his seat, weirdly irked to find it cold as Wilt had maintained his customary spot in the XO’s chair. “Sensor returns of the area are still inconclusive, sir,” Wilt offered unbidden. “We’ve detected scattered debris, but no signs of intact vessels. Long-rang anti-proton scans were also indeterminate. Whatever was happening when DS12 detected the original contact, it looks to be over now.” “Late to the party seems to be our theme for the week,” Lightner groused. “Sciences, Ops and Tactical, full anti-proton sweep when we drop out of warp. Helm, give Allegiant some space, I don’t want to bunch up and make us both vulnerable to the same attack. Auxiliary power to shields and weapons systems.” The various senior staff confirmed their orders, and Lightner sat back in his chair, awaiting the last few seconds until Gibraltar went sub-light. “We are secure from warp speed, velocity now one-quarter impulse.” “Sensors detecting wreckage fields composed of known Romulan hull materials, sir.” “No sign of active threat vessels, Captain,” 1971 observed in his oddly modulated voice from the Tactical station. Five minutes of unproductive searching by both starships revealed little else, aside from the fact that the wreckage had been from two separate Romulan craft, one of them a T’Liss-class vessel, possibly one of those from the assault on Invoxsim. From Operations, Wójcik called, “Sir, scans have picked up a trail of radioactive particles, possibly from a damaged warp nacelle.” The viewscreen shifted to display a computer-enhanced image of a trail of particles leading away in the direction of a nearby stellar group. Lightner stood, studying the image for a moment before turning to Wilt. “If you’re leaking radiation that badly, what’s the point of expending additional power by cloaking?” “None, sir,” Wilt confirmed. “I’d surmise that’s bait.” “I’d agree,” Lightner said, turning towards the Science station. “Lieutenant Avritt, initiate a tachyon sweep of the area.” The science officer did so, issuing her findings moments later. “Tachyon sweep was inconclusive, sir, but I am detecting a very minute trail of chroniton radiation.” “Let’s see it,” Lightner said. The computer-enhanced image showed a sporadic path leading off towards a visible star in nearly the opposite direction from the first detected radiation trail. “Project course,” he ordered. “If the trail maintains its present course, it will intersect with the Chedrova system, Captain.” Intuiting Lightner’s next question, Avritt added, “It’s a Federation protectorate system containing sixteen planets, two of which are Class-M. One of the two Class-M worlds is home to a sentient paleolithic-level species.” Wójcik looked back from the Operations station. “If I were limping away from a fight and looking for someplace to lay low… ” Lightner nodded. “Indeed.” He patted Wójcik on the shoulder on his way back to his seat. “Open a channel to Allegiant.” Captain McGillivray was soon on screen and was quickly apprised of their findings. “So, you want us to follow the obvious trail and see where it leads?” she surmised with a wary expression. “Unfortunately, yes. It’ll save us the trouble of having to choose, and if it really is two separate ships that survived this battle, we might manage to nab both of them,” Lightner postulated. “Okay, fine. Here’s hoping we’re not walking straight into an ambush, Captain.” “If you think it’s unwise to split up—” “No, no,” McGillivray interjected, “I see the necessity of it. I’m just not enthusiastic about halving our strength.” “Nor am I,” Lightner agreed. “Alright, we’ll follow the ‘bait’ trail. If it fades away, as I suspect it might, we’ll circle back to meet you in the Chedrova system. Good hunting, Captain.” “And to you,” Lightner replied, severing the comm-link from his armrest interface. Lightner made an exaggerated waving motion toward the viewscreen. “Helm, follow that chroniton trail and don’t spare the antimatter.” * * * Captain’s Log, Stardate 79628.7 We’ve arrived at the sixth planet in the Chedrova system to find a heavily damaged D’deridex-class warbird in a quickly decaying orbit around one of the two Class-M planets. The ship appears abandoned, and the chroniton radiation it’s leaking seems to be interacting with particles in the planet’s ring-system which is causing interference with local subspace communications. I am dispatching an away team led by Commander Wilt to the surface by shuttlecraft, as we’ve identified a group of Romulan survivors in an encampment on the surface. Given that chronometric radiation and transporters are a bad combination, the shuttle will have to suffice until the interference clears up. The D’deridex may be a forty-year old design, but they’re still very impressive, both in size and firepower. We hope to find a way to suppress the chroniton radiation surges emanating from the ship long enough to tow it out of orbit. My chief science officer isn’t sure what precisely the release of the warbird’s artificial quantum singularity upon impact with the surface would mean for the planet, only that it would be… problematic. * * * Wilt stepped out of the shuttle’s hatch, followed by a rifle-toting 1971 and his security team of four similarly armed specialists. They had set down a kilometer-and-a-half away from the Romulans’ makeshift camp, careful to mask their approach behind a low ridge of intervening hills. The gravity here was just a fraction higher than Earth-standard, and the area was dominated by grassy, undulating topography interspersed with rocky outcroppings. The temperature was a shade over seven degrees Celsius, necessitating the away mission jackets worn by the Starfleet contingent. Lt. Commander Orto, their Denobulan chief engineer as well as the ship’s CMO, Dr. S’Len, also accompanied the away mission. “Ensign Croftsman and I will make contact,” Wilt informed the team, “and once we’ve established that it’s safe, I’ll provide you with the proper countersign to bring the rest of you down to their camp. We don’t know who we’re dealing with here, what faction they might represent, and what their reasons are for being in Federation territory.” Wilt checked the setting on his phaser rifle. “If we encounter a hostile reception, we’ll try to fall back to the shuttle. If we’re killed or captured, you are to return to the ship. Under no circumstances risk yourselves to try and effect a rescue. Is that clear?” They all indicated their understanding and Wilt and Croftsman set off at a brisk pace. * * * At Wilt’s direction, both men kept their phaser rifles slung over their shoulders as they crested the hill. Wilt brought out a pair of binoculars and observed a small cluster of perhaps a dozen single-story prefabricated structures and large survival tents, with approximately a hundred humanoid figures moving among them. Five Romulan shuttles sat parked in formation nearby, guarded by armed sentries. Using the tricorder uplink in his optics, Wilt scanned the encampment. “One-hundred seven life-signs, all Romulan. They’re equipped with small-arms disruptor pistols and rifles, and at least three isomagnetic disintegrators,” he noted. The ensign looked around, clearly uncomfortable. “We’re sky-lined in this position, sir, easy for them to spot.” “Precisely, Mister Croftsman. We’re going to stay up here until they’ve seen us, and then we’ll head down.” “Easing into this meeting, sir?” “A correct assessment, Ensign,” Wilt said from behind his binoculars. “We have the advantage here. They can’t very well pretend they’re not in Federation space. There’s no sense in alarming them— ah, here we go.” Through the optics, Wilt could see a series of people begin pointing in their direction, their presence likely detected by Romulans utilizing tricorders of their own. Wilt tucked the binoculars away, waved one hand back and forth over his head for a moment, and then started down the hill, rifle still slung with Croftsman trailing behind. Ten minutes later, Wilt and Croftsman were met a hundred meters outside of the camp by a group of seventeen Romulans, all of them armed. However, Wilt noted that the Romulans had their rifles either slung or held at a low ready, none of them aiming directly at the new arrivals. “Good afternoon,” Wilt greeted them almost cheerily. “I am Commander Wilt of the starship Gibraltar. You appear in need of assistance. How can we help you?” The Romulans exchanged glances, some appearing skeptical, and others nearly dumbfounded. “We are in your territory without authorization,” one Romulan officer spoke, breaking the awkward silence. He held his rifle up, though not threateningly. “We are armed in your space.” “All true,” Wilt said agreeably. “However, based on the state of your ship, I can guess you have people in need of medical attention. The reasons you are here, and the significance of it, all that can wait. Let us help you, first.” The Romulan, whose rank insignia identified him as a Sub-Commander, looked as though he wanted to believe Wilt. “This… this is not the Romulan way. If our situations were reversed, we would have fallen upon you in force.” “Then it is fortunate for all our sakes that we are not in Romulan space,” Wilt replied. He held the man’s gaze. “Welcome to the Federation.” The Romulans looked at one another again, a few conferring quietly. Finally, one of them gestured towards the encampment, “I will show you to where we have established a rudimentary medical center.” “Lead on,” Wilt said with a practiced smile. * * *