Star Trek: Their Finest Hour
- Thread starter Funngunner
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Chapter Nine: Roundhouse
The metal scaffoldings of the shipyards resembled a series of ribcages as they stretched up into the burnt-orange Massachusetts sunset. The shipyard was eerily silent, a stark reminder of how the depression had devastated the industrial core of Boston.
Clad in a blue windbreaker, and a ball cap covering his unkempt brown hair Seth McClusky remembered fondly how the shipyards had looked when he was younger while he walked to work.
Back then, the now empty scaffolds had been full of the stainless-steel hulls of freighters and passenger ships. During those better days, sparks would dance from the structures as each day the ships gradually took shape. The shipyard had been a beehive of activity, constantly abuzz with sound, and the occasional cheering when a completed starship left from their Earth-bound cradles and made their first voyages into the heavens. But those days were long over, and the shipyard, like the neighborhood around it, was now a ghost town.
McClusky’s family had been hit particularly hard by the Depression. His father, a metal worker at Federated Enterprises’ shipyards, had been out of work for nearly a year – like many of the residents of their run-down Boston neighborhood who lost their livelihoods when the shipyards went silent. The same economic crash that had cost his father’s job had also taken the family’s meager savings, forcing the six McClusky children to join a suffering workforce, scrounging for every credit they could in menial jobs.
Like his three brothers, after graduating from high school, Seth took a job working the nightshift at a small manufacturing plant. Six days a week, he would make the four-mile trek to the factory and work until 1 a.m. The pay was practically nothing, barely enough to help support the struggling family. But combined, the brothers were able to afford the family’s mortgage while their two sisters’ paychecks helped keep food on the table, and bottles of beer in their father’s hand.
The family’s plight left Seth with no money for college, a fact that would have troubled him more had he been accepted to a university. His grades were satisfactory, although far from stellar, and his aptitude scores were far above the norm for the meager inner-city educational system.
But, without money, no college was interested in admitting him. Test scores or not, with the devastated economy, area institutions were more interested in applicants with financial support. Charity cases relying on scholarships and hardship waivers, like Seth, need not apply.
Back home, on his desk in the cramped room he shared with his youngest brother, sat a small pile of rejection letters. Out of ten schools, only the government-funded Starfleet Academy had seen fit not to reject him outright, selecting to wait list Seth instead. The possibility of attending the Academy filled him with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. It would allow him to escape his rapidly-decaying hometown, but at the same time, the idea of a four-year commitment upon graduation felt equally terrifying.
Each working night, until the chime marking the end of his shift, McClusky would daydream, imaging himself in the dark blue uniform of a Starfleet officer, his chest festooned with ribbons and medals while also trying to reconcile himself with the idea of military service.
Once out of the factory, McClusky would step out into the dark night, and weave his way past prostitutes, drug dealers, and thugs towards one of the countless hole-in-the-wall bars that filled vacant buildings in the neighborhood. Each night, he would venture down a side alley, enter the back entrance, change clothes and step into the ring.
In the boxing ring, for a brief while he could escape the harsh reality of his youth, and pocket a little extra cash for himself. Getting to beat the crap out of a few old school-yard rivals was an added bonus as well.
Tonight, however, was not going quite the way he had planned.
The roundhouse punch slammed into McClusky’s jaw like a missile. Nerve endings screamed in pain as the punch drove his head around, and sent him staggering backwards across the mat. His vision blurred, and for a brief instant, Seth lowered his guard. His hands, cut and bloodied, dropped from in front of his face, revealing the snarling face of his attacker. And a fist.
Seth tried too late to bring his arms back up in a desperate effort to protect his face from another salvo. A quick jab, it slammed into his nose with a sickening crumple of cartilage and skin tissue. His head felt like it would snap off, as it whipped back, absorbing the kinetic energy. The world swam in a whirling kaleidoscope of sound and lights, and the center of his vision, his assailant’s snaggle-toothed grin loomed like a spectre.
Yelling. Cheers. Groans. Insults. Wagers. It was a moment of perfect clarity He could hear them all. They blended into a constant load freight train of white noise, blocking out all but the most primordial of thoughts.
Fight or flight.
It was that simple, Seth realized as his survival instincts kicked into overdrive. He could not take much more of the beating, every nerve in his body indicated as much, the pounding of his head only emphasizing the message
Two seconds had passed since the roundhouse punch.
Seth took a few ragged steps backwards, his guard falling once more. The crowd jeered loudly as he retreated. His assailant, a heavy-set bruiser known on the streets of Boston as Spooney, advanced confidently. He could sense Seth’s pain, like any good fighter, and pressed his attack to finish Seth off.
Clarity. Through the pain, Seth watched Spooney close into range. Sweat dripped off the heavy man’s chest, as he strode in, left shoulder leading the way. Already, his muscled right arm curled into a fist. He fired, the right hand lancing out from his side, straight toward the battered left side of Seth’s face.
The punch cut through the space vacated by Seth's ducking head a fraction of a second before. The crowd roared at the perfectly-timed dodge. Like a mongoose, Seth hopped slightly into the air, resetting himself into an offensive stance as he landed.
Powered by all his strength, Spooney’s intended knockout punch carried his body off balance, leaving him exposed to Seth, as he took the offensive. It was the perfect bait-and-switch, and the wide-eyed look of dismay in Spooney’s eyes as his brain began to comprehend the deception was worth almost anything.
The only thing better than the expression of surprise on Spooney’s face was the exhilarating thud as Seth’s left fist blasted against his stomach. The force of the impact reversed Spooney’s turn and he jerked his arms downward to protect his kidneys from another volley. It was a perfectly rational move, providing desperately needed cover to his vital organs.
It was also a mistake. Seth McClusky’s launched a right hook that caught the dark-haired man’s now undefended face just above the jaw. An audible crack filled the bar as Spooney’s left cheekbone cracked. He cried out, sending his mouth guard into the air, surrounded by a small geyser of spit mixed with blood.
The crowd roared itself into frenzy as the two men grappled like snarling animals. The cheering momentum fueled Seth as he drove another fist into Spooney’s stomach and immediately followed with another blast to the head, hitting the same damaged area for added effect. Spooney staggered, his pupils dilated and fixed on some distant point in space. He stumbled, punch-drunk from the violent assault, and fell to his knees in the center of the ring.
Seth thrust both arms into the air signaling his triumph and focused intently on his fallen foe. A good man would grant him mercy. That’s how it worked on the boxing holo-vids, he thought, contemplating Spooney’s fate. But, those matches aren’t being waged in some dirty back-alley bar in New Boston.
“We don't give mercy. We don’t ask for it either.”
The words bubbled up from his childhood. Seth was just a small boy, only six, when he received his education on that hard lesson of life in the industrial section of Boston. His mind recalled the feel of the broken blacktop cutting into his back. The snarl on that greasy face and the smell of the older boy’s breath as he pummeled the young student were forever engrained in Seth’s memory, a set of mental scars to go with his forever dislocated nose and the long scar the knife cut in his side.
Hatred boiled in his blood while the crowd at once celebrated and bemoaned the outcome. For those who had made the right bets, it would be a good night with the beer and whiskey flowing like water. Some of them might use their fortunate windfall to put more food on their tables, Seth thought wistfully, but 19 years of New Boston living told him that it would be spent on booze, and narcos.
Seth looked down and met the eyes of his foe, still knelt before him in surrender, and smiled. Spooney’s battered face responded in a gruesome approximation of gratefulness. Seth leaned in close enough to Spooney’s greasy face that sweat dripped on to it from short-cropped blonde hair. The gratefulness fell from Spooney’s face with one look into Seth’s eyes.
“Remember me,” Seth snarled, and administered a devastating coupe d’ grace against the side of Spooney’s face. He spun around from the blow, and collapsed to the mat in a clump.
The metal scaffoldings of the shipyards resembled a series of ribcages as they stretched up into the burnt-orange Massachusetts sunset. The shipyard was eerily silent, a stark reminder of how the depression had devastated the industrial core of Boston.
Clad in a blue windbreaker, and a ball cap covering his unkempt brown hair Seth McClusky remembered fondly how the shipyards had looked when he was younger while he walked to work.
Back then, the now empty scaffolds had been full of the stainless-steel hulls of freighters and passenger ships. During those better days, sparks would dance from the structures as each day the ships gradually took shape. The shipyard had been a beehive of activity, constantly abuzz with sound, and the occasional cheering when a completed starship left from their Earth-bound cradles and made their first voyages into the heavens. But those days were long over, and the shipyard, like the neighborhood around it, was now a ghost town.
McClusky’s family had been hit particularly hard by the Depression. His father, a metal worker at Federated Enterprises’ shipyards, had been out of work for nearly a year – like many of the residents of their run-down Boston neighborhood who lost their livelihoods when the shipyards went silent. The same economic crash that had cost his father’s job had also taken the family’s meager savings, forcing the six McClusky children to join a suffering workforce, scrounging for every credit they could in menial jobs.
Like his three brothers, after graduating from high school, Seth took a job working the nightshift at a small manufacturing plant. Six days a week, he would make the four-mile trek to the factory and work until 1 a.m. The pay was practically nothing, barely enough to help support the struggling family. But combined, the brothers were able to afford the family’s mortgage while their two sisters’ paychecks helped keep food on the table, and bottles of beer in their father’s hand.
The family’s plight left Seth with no money for college, a fact that would have troubled him more had he been accepted to a university. His grades were satisfactory, although far from stellar, and his aptitude scores were far above the norm for the meager inner-city educational system.
But, without money, no college was interested in admitting him. Test scores or not, with the devastated economy, area institutions were more interested in applicants with financial support. Charity cases relying on scholarships and hardship waivers, like Seth, need not apply.
Back home, on his desk in the cramped room he shared with his youngest brother, sat a small pile of rejection letters. Out of ten schools, only the government-funded Starfleet Academy had seen fit not to reject him outright, selecting to wait list Seth instead. The possibility of attending the Academy filled him with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. It would allow him to escape his rapidly-decaying hometown, but at the same time, the idea of a four-year commitment upon graduation felt equally terrifying.
Each working night, until the chime marking the end of his shift, McClusky would daydream, imaging himself in the dark blue uniform of a Starfleet officer, his chest festooned with ribbons and medals while also trying to reconcile himself with the idea of military service.
Once out of the factory, McClusky would step out into the dark night, and weave his way past prostitutes, drug dealers, and thugs towards one of the countless hole-in-the-wall bars that filled vacant buildings in the neighborhood. Each night, he would venture down a side alley, enter the back entrance, change clothes and step into the ring.
In the boxing ring, for a brief while he could escape the harsh reality of his youth, and pocket a little extra cash for himself. Getting to beat the crap out of a few old school-yard rivals was an added bonus as well.
Tonight, however, was not going quite the way he had planned.
The roundhouse punch slammed into McClusky’s jaw like a missile. Nerve endings screamed in pain as the punch drove his head around, and sent him staggering backwards across the mat. His vision blurred, and for a brief instant, Seth lowered his guard. His hands, cut and bloodied, dropped from in front of his face, revealing the snarling face of his attacker. And a fist.
Seth tried too late to bring his arms back up in a desperate effort to protect his face from another salvo. A quick jab, it slammed into his nose with a sickening crumple of cartilage and skin tissue. His head felt like it would snap off, as it whipped back, absorbing the kinetic energy. The world swam in a whirling kaleidoscope of sound and lights, and the center of his vision, his assailant’s snaggle-toothed grin loomed like a spectre.
Yelling. Cheers. Groans. Insults. Wagers. It was a moment of perfect clarity He could hear them all. They blended into a constant load freight train of white noise, blocking out all but the most primordial of thoughts.
Fight or flight.
It was that simple, Seth realized as his survival instincts kicked into overdrive. He could not take much more of the beating, every nerve in his body indicated as much, the pounding of his head only emphasizing the message
Two seconds had passed since the roundhouse punch.
Seth took a few ragged steps backwards, his guard falling once more. The crowd jeered loudly as he retreated. His assailant, a heavy-set bruiser known on the streets of Boston as Spooney, advanced confidently. He could sense Seth’s pain, like any good fighter, and pressed his attack to finish Seth off.
Clarity. Through the pain, Seth watched Spooney close into range. Sweat dripped off the heavy man’s chest, as he strode in, left shoulder leading the way. Already, his muscled right arm curled into a fist. He fired, the right hand lancing out from his side, straight toward the battered left side of Seth’s face.
The punch cut through the space vacated by Seth's ducking head a fraction of a second before. The crowd roared at the perfectly-timed dodge. Like a mongoose, Seth hopped slightly into the air, resetting himself into an offensive stance as he landed.
Powered by all his strength, Spooney’s intended knockout punch carried his body off balance, leaving him exposed to Seth, as he took the offensive. It was the perfect bait-and-switch, and the wide-eyed look of dismay in Spooney’s eyes as his brain began to comprehend the deception was worth almost anything.
The only thing better than the expression of surprise on Spooney’s face was the exhilarating thud as Seth’s left fist blasted against his stomach. The force of the impact reversed Spooney’s turn and he jerked his arms downward to protect his kidneys from another volley. It was a perfectly rational move, providing desperately needed cover to his vital organs.
It was also a mistake. Seth McClusky’s launched a right hook that caught the dark-haired man’s now undefended face just above the jaw. An audible crack filled the bar as Spooney’s left cheekbone cracked. He cried out, sending his mouth guard into the air, surrounded by a small geyser of spit mixed with blood.
The crowd roared itself into frenzy as the two men grappled like snarling animals. The cheering momentum fueled Seth as he drove another fist into Spooney’s stomach and immediately followed with another blast to the head, hitting the same damaged area for added effect. Spooney staggered, his pupils dilated and fixed on some distant point in space. He stumbled, punch-drunk from the violent assault, and fell to his knees in the center of the ring.
Seth thrust both arms into the air signaling his triumph and focused intently on his fallen foe. A good man would grant him mercy. That’s how it worked on the boxing holo-vids, he thought, contemplating Spooney’s fate. But, those matches aren’t being waged in some dirty back-alley bar in New Boston.
“We don't give mercy. We don’t ask for it either.”
The words bubbled up from his childhood. Seth was just a small boy, only six, when he received his education on that hard lesson of life in the industrial section of Boston. His mind recalled the feel of the broken blacktop cutting into his back. The snarl on that greasy face and the smell of the older boy’s breath as he pummeled the young student were forever engrained in Seth’s memory, a set of mental scars to go with his forever dislocated nose and the long scar the knife cut in his side.
Hatred boiled in his blood while the crowd at once celebrated and bemoaned the outcome. For those who had made the right bets, it would be a good night with the beer and whiskey flowing like water. Some of them might use their fortunate windfall to put more food on their tables, Seth thought wistfully, but 19 years of New Boston living told him that it would be spent on booze, and narcos.
Seth looked down and met the eyes of his foe, still knelt before him in surrender, and smiled. Spooney’s battered face responded in a gruesome approximation of gratefulness. Seth leaned in close enough to Spooney’s greasy face that sweat dripped on to it from short-cropped blonde hair. The gratefulness fell from Spooney’s face with one look into Seth’s eyes.
“Remember me,” Seth snarled, and administered a devastating coupe d’ grace against the side of Spooney’s face. He spun around from the blow, and collapsed to the mat in a clump.
Chapter 11: Consequences
“Prisoner 78-1194," the voice barked over the decrepit loudspeaker, “face the wall, and step into the corner." The orange-clad inmate took a second to stare at the unusual request coming from the rusted speaker mounted in the ceiling, before rising and obediently shuffling to the far wall of his cell. He placed his arms behind his back, palms open, and stared at the cold concrete wall. His ears strained, taking in every sound in a stomach-twisting combination of fear and anxiety.
Boots, several pair from the sound of the footfall, he thought. That meant guards, and lots of them. Another sound echoed down the corridor with the rhythmic march of the guards, a jangling of metal on metal. Keys. His heart leapt as his mind turned toward the possibility of freedom.
The processional of the guards came to a halt, and the jangle of the keys in the lock began to sound like a rousing symphony. Buoyed by the thought of leaving his dark six-by-six dungeon, Inmate 78-1194 stood just a little bit taller as the guards frisked him down for make-shift weapons. They checking his hands, pockets, the inside of his jumpsuit, and finally swept him down with a metal detector. "Turn around,” one of the guards ordered in a tone of voice indicating he was unaccustomed to repeating his instructions. Filled with thoughts of fresh air and sunshine, the prisoner had no intentions of making him repeat the command.
Jonathan James Carmichael spun on his heels, and promptly faced the quartet of men arrayed before him. On both sides, two prison guards, stood at ease, but their bodies rippled with tension. From experience, J.J. Carmichael knew they had seen too many inmates take an ill-advised opportunity to make a break for it or attempt to attack the guards. He also knew it took less than a second for the guards to reach their stun-batons, and ensure that any such action would be remembered as a mistake, for a long time.
The other two men were also immediately familiar to Carmichael. To the left, was the rotund Jurisdictional Magistrate Archibald Fairchild. His face was locked in a grimace, scowling at what J.J. hoped was the unpleasant duty of witnessing his parole. But, Magistrate Fairchild’s presence helped to damper some of J.J.’s heightened spirits. There’s no way I’m getting out, he thought, Fairchild won’t allow it, not after my response to his offer during the hearing.
It had been a mistake, he knew almost as soon as the two bailiffs had roughly escorted him out of the Magistrate’s chambers. The judge had offered him a choice, the lesser of two evils. He could either serve out a ten-year sentence in prison for the reckless manslaughter of Kelly Valdez and Marissa Patton, or he could serve a tour of duty, lasting no less than six years in the United Earth Armed Forces.
It was a no-win choice, J.J. thought. Either one was a bitter poison. In that moment, serving in the same military that had ripped away his father and destroyed his family, sent white-hot anger coursing through his veins. In a heartbeat, the same willful insolence that had gotten him into countless run-ins over the years reared its head. Only, never had it faced a situation with such high stakes. It was not until too late, the teenager recollected, that he realized the gift had been offering him. A gift to avoid the unknown quantity: a decade of incarceration -- and he had responded with typical teenage bravado and vulgarity: a solitary raised finger, and a self-confident sneer.
“Mister Carmichael,” the magistrate said, his tone dripping with disdain. "Are the accommodations of the Gwinnett Correctional Facility to your liking?” Carmichael’s lips turned upwards slightly.
“Actually," he began, and stopped before replying with a sarcastic ‘The service is slow, and find the housekeeping staff keeps forgetting to put a mint on my pillow.’ "Actually, sir,” he said deliberately, phrasing each word carefully. “To be honest, no. I’m afraid I was brash, and hasty in my... choice of actions in your chambers.” Carmichael stammered as he struggled to find the right words and suppress his youthful desire to ‘stick it’ to the plump judge. Fairchild’s face remained stoic; his eyes, dispassionate, as they looked over the pleading teen-ager.
Frustration caused Carmichael to tense up, an action that both guards noted by subtly moving their hands closer to their batons. Sensing the now-palpable hostility in the room, the fourth man, a thin older Japanese man with salt and pepper hair, coughed and with a step, physically inserted himself into the conversation. He wore the uniform of a United Earth Starfleet officer, a simple dark blue jacket atop a white dress shirt. The only markings of rank were a pair of silver stars set upon a gold rectangle on the jacket’s epaulettes.
The man rubbed a hand across his wrinkled face. "That, Mister Carmichael,” he said in a voice surprisingly soft, yet still demanding of attention, “Is exactly why I am here.” Carmichael’s eyes narrowed as he carefully studied the naval officer.
“...And what reason would that be again,” Carmichael prodded, abandoning his act of decorum. The officer walked out of the protective cordon of the two guards and took a seat on Carmichael’s bunk. Absently, he patted the thin mattress.
“Ah yes, where are my manners,” he answered and extended his hand to Carmichael. “I’m here to offer you a second chance. Of course, hopefully, this time you won’t make the wrong one. That is, if you want it.” Carmichael’s eyes darted from the Nagumo to the magistrate as he shook the officer’s out-stretched hand.
Magistrate Fairchild hates this guy, Carmichael realized as looked at the glare the portly man cast at the officer. Which means he might not be so bad -- for now. "The enemy of my enemy,” he muttered under his breath, slightly more audible than he had intended. The man’s eyes flashed in delight for a fraction of an instant before scrutinizing the prisoner again. "What’s the deal,” he asked.
“I believe the terms, as laid out by the Honorable Magistrate were... six years of service in the United Earth Armed Forces. You would be released from your sentence first thing tomorrow morning,” Nagumo recalled with a finger resting on the tip of his nose. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, Fairchild nodded. “Or," Nagumo continued, “you can remain here, living in a dim six by six cell for the next ten years, on a mattress that reminds me of my first destroyer assignment.”
Carmichael looked around the four gray walls, at the guards, the olive-drab blanket atop the lumpy pin-striped bunk. It was an opportunity to get his life back. To be free again, or at least, more free than he was in Gwinnett Correctional Facility. Anything, he thought, has to be better than this. Better than remaining here in this hell-hole. But, the military? My entire life I’ve hated them, and what they stood for... ever since Dad died.
Tired of waiting, the Magistrate stood, and walked out. Likewise, Nagumo stood, and made his way to the cell door. Behind the officer, Carmichael sighed, gave a barely perceivable nod.
“Before I decide,” Carmichael said, suddenly realizing he never got the man’s name. “I want to know two things. What’s your name, and why are you doing this?” Nagumo turned and looked at the brown-haired boy in the orange prison-issued jumpsuit. The old officer smiled wistfully, his eyes focused on a distant memory from the past. He straightened his uniform and, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, stood just a little bit taller than he had before.
“You don’t remember me,” the officer sounded hurt by the realization. “My name is Isoruku Nagumo and I’m the commanding officer of the United Earth’s Starfleet Academy. Johnny,” he continued, calling Carmichael by a name he had not heard in fifteen years, “I’m doing this because of a promise I made many years ago, to your father.”
“Maybe you have been out of the loop, but he’s dead. I think you are off the hook on owed promises nowadays.” Carmichael retorted, keeping his guard up. J.J. remembered him; he could recall the memories as soon as the Japanese man had spoken his name. Nagumo still had that same soft, lilting quality to his voice that he had used when addressing a much younger J.J. But Nagumo’s face had grown older, wrinkles and permanent sad expression had replaced the youthful visage that J.J. remembered coming through the front door with his father countless times. He had always had a gift for the young boy, a trinket from one of the worlds that the Abukuma had visited on its last assignment, and the presents always brought the same admonishment from his mother: ignored pleas to avoid spoiling J.J. rotten.
For a fraction of second, a faint smile crossed the teenager’s lips at the pleasant memory. But, the warm remembrances soon gave way to the last time that “Uncle ‘Ruku” had stepped through the front door. That time, five years ago, he had arrived with no gifts in his hands. J.J. could recall standing there, his arms wrapped around his mother’s waist as Nagumo, his officer’s cap clutched tight in his hands, had stood there with tears in his eyes. That was the day the boy learned his father would never be coming home.
“I know he is,” Nagumo said quietly, pain reflecting in the man’s dark eyes. “I just thought, I would offer you a chance – an opportunity – to escape this place. I owed it to him, and to you, to not let this be your destiny.”
“My destiny?” J.J. barked, his voice crackling with anger. “My destiny was fixed the moment he didn’t come back, and you did. No, Captain Nagumo, I appreciate your time, but I think we have nothing more to discuss.”
Nagumo looked crestfallen as he nodded, accepting the brash teenager’s decision. He reached a scarred hand into his jacket, withdrew a small envelope, and tossed it onto the J.J.’s bunk. Carmichael reached over, stuffed the envelope into his orange jumpsuit pocket, and looked at Nagumo in confusion.
“My card is in there – in case you change your mind,” the Captain said softly as he picked up his cap from the table. “Also, something your father wanted you to have.” The captain turned and strode to the door. He waved his hand in front of the small window to signal the guards to open. “Don’t worry,” Nagumo said to J.J. as he stepped through the doorway, “the guards have already checked it for contraband, so they won’t confiscate it.”
* * *
The bright lights illuminating the corridor went out, plunging the cell block into darkness and forcing Carmichael to stop midway through his nightly series of sit-ups. The inmate picked himself up off the ground and wiped the sweat of his face with a thread-bare towel that he promptly tossed into the corner of the cold prison cell. His muscles throbbed in pain as he crashed down onto the thin mattress, rolled over and stared at the bare concrete ceiling.
He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep as he listened to the creaks and groans of the prison echo through the rickety pipes next to his head. He squirmed, trying to adjust his positioning on the mattress to a vague semblance of comfort, but to no avail. He sighed in resignation, reluctantly reached into his pocket and he pulled out the small white envelope that Nagumo had left behind.
The envelope was unsealed, unsurprisingly since the guards had checked it for contraband. Not that there was any cause for concern, Carmichael noted as pulled out the contents, the Captain was not the kind of man who would smuggle in a nail file or a knife. The inmate’s blue eyes focused on the small business card that came out first, focusing on the gold stylized delta in the middle.
“Captain Isoruku Nagumo,” Carmichael whispered as he read. “Commandant, United Earth Starfleet Academy. What a waste of your time, and mine.” He tossed the card down on to the mattress next to him, and pulled out the two other items from the envelope. A shiver ran down the teenager’s spine as he held up the two slips of paper up to his face. At the top of the glossy paper was the helmeted face of a football player staring down the field, a silver football clutched in his right hand.
Even a non-sports fan may have recognized the image of the player, but having grown up as a Berlin Blitzkrieg fan, Carmichael immediately knew the player: Chase Maclin, Berlin’s record-setting quarterback. He smiled, remembering wearing a replica of Ward’s black and gold jersey almost every day as a child. He had even taken Maclin’s number when he began playing football in high school. Sadly, his own abilities had never quite lived up to his idol’s performance.
What little light there was reflected off the shiny foil printing of the tickets. “Berlin Blitzkrieg,” Carmichael whispered softly,” versus the Atlanta Fire. Row: 1, Section A.” These were good seats, Carmichael thought admiringly. He checked the date, and felt his heart freeze. “February 2, 2142,” he said. A month after his father was killed. When he received his father’s letter, the last one he would ever send, promising to take him to the Berlin game, Carmichael had been ecstatic. He had taken it to school, to brag to his classmates, and pinned it to the wall over his bed. He counted down the days until the game, each hashmark on the calendar serving to increase the boy’s excitement. Carmichael stared at the tickets, allowing himself to recall that joyous and ultimately devastating month as he fell asleep in the cell. Silently, tears slipped down his cheeks as he dreamed, and remembered.
* * *
The whispers had started about four hours after Abukuma’s scheduled dock time, Carmichael recalled. Less than an hour later, the rumors had become wildfires, spreading across the crowd. The hand-painted banners reading “Welcome home, Abukuma,” were now lying crumpled against the wall. The brass band that had filled the space station’s docking area with its trumpet-driven fanfare had long since gone and families huddled in small groups, their conversations hushed and apprehensive. The Cruiser Squadron Two Public Affairs Officer was nearly mobbed when he strode to the podium, a piece of paper clenched in his hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he had said solemnly. “I have an announcement concerning the Abukuma.” Friends and family of the cruiser’s crew crowded around the speaker, “I’m reading now from a statement from the Commander-in-Chief, United Earth Defense Forces: Unconfirmed reports indicate that the Abukuma may have been lost while returning from a classified deployment. Search vessels have been in the vicinity of her last known position for the last few days. The announcement of Abukuma’s potential loss was delayed in the hope that she may have suffered a mere loss of communications and arrived today, as scheduled. However, now that she is overdue nearly six hours, we must begin to believe the worst. Search and rescue efforts will continue until further notice.”
At first, J.J. and his mother remained on the pier with the other families, waiting anxiously, as if Abukuma’s glistening white hull would emerge out of the darkness, her red and green running lights blinking steadily. But, it never came. The drizzle of tears that ran down the faces of the assembled family members slowly turned into a driving rain as the reality began to set in.
When the floodlights that illuminated the docking area switched off, the crowd finally dispersed. Only the dark silhouettes of the cruisers of Squadron Two remained, docked up on each side of the space station’s pier, with a conspicuous gap left for the mooring of the Abukuma.
“Prisoner 78-1194," the voice barked over the decrepit loudspeaker, “face the wall, and step into the corner." The orange-clad inmate took a second to stare at the unusual request coming from the rusted speaker mounted in the ceiling, before rising and obediently shuffling to the far wall of his cell. He placed his arms behind his back, palms open, and stared at the cold concrete wall. His ears strained, taking in every sound in a stomach-twisting combination of fear and anxiety.
Boots, several pair from the sound of the footfall, he thought. That meant guards, and lots of them. Another sound echoed down the corridor with the rhythmic march of the guards, a jangling of metal on metal. Keys. His heart leapt as his mind turned toward the possibility of freedom.
The processional of the guards came to a halt, and the jangle of the keys in the lock began to sound like a rousing symphony. Buoyed by the thought of leaving his dark six-by-six dungeon, Inmate 78-1194 stood just a little bit taller as the guards frisked him down for make-shift weapons. They checking his hands, pockets, the inside of his jumpsuit, and finally swept him down with a metal detector. "Turn around,” one of the guards ordered in a tone of voice indicating he was unaccustomed to repeating his instructions. Filled with thoughts of fresh air and sunshine, the prisoner had no intentions of making him repeat the command.
Jonathan James Carmichael spun on his heels, and promptly faced the quartet of men arrayed before him. On both sides, two prison guards, stood at ease, but their bodies rippled with tension. From experience, J.J. Carmichael knew they had seen too many inmates take an ill-advised opportunity to make a break for it or attempt to attack the guards. He also knew it took less than a second for the guards to reach their stun-batons, and ensure that any such action would be remembered as a mistake, for a long time.
The other two men were also immediately familiar to Carmichael. To the left, was the rotund Jurisdictional Magistrate Archibald Fairchild. His face was locked in a grimace, scowling at what J.J. hoped was the unpleasant duty of witnessing his parole. But, Magistrate Fairchild’s presence helped to damper some of J.J.’s heightened spirits. There’s no way I’m getting out, he thought, Fairchild won’t allow it, not after my response to his offer during the hearing.
It had been a mistake, he knew almost as soon as the two bailiffs had roughly escorted him out of the Magistrate’s chambers. The judge had offered him a choice, the lesser of two evils. He could either serve out a ten-year sentence in prison for the reckless manslaughter of Kelly Valdez and Marissa Patton, or he could serve a tour of duty, lasting no less than six years in the United Earth Armed Forces.
It was a no-win choice, J.J. thought. Either one was a bitter poison. In that moment, serving in the same military that had ripped away his father and destroyed his family, sent white-hot anger coursing through his veins. In a heartbeat, the same willful insolence that had gotten him into countless run-ins over the years reared its head. Only, never had it faced a situation with such high stakes. It was not until too late, the teenager recollected, that he realized the gift had been offering him. A gift to avoid the unknown quantity: a decade of incarceration -- and he had responded with typical teenage bravado and vulgarity: a solitary raised finger, and a self-confident sneer.
“Mister Carmichael,” the magistrate said, his tone dripping with disdain. "Are the accommodations of the Gwinnett Correctional Facility to your liking?” Carmichael’s lips turned upwards slightly.
“Actually," he began, and stopped before replying with a sarcastic ‘The service is slow, and find the housekeeping staff keeps forgetting to put a mint on my pillow.’ "Actually, sir,” he said deliberately, phrasing each word carefully. “To be honest, no. I’m afraid I was brash, and hasty in my... choice of actions in your chambers.” Carmichael stammered as he struggled to find the right words and suppress his youthful desire to ‘stick it’ to the plump judge. Fairchild’s face remained stoic; his eyes, dispassionate, as they looked over the pleading teen-ager.
Frustration caused Carmichael to tense up, an action that both guards noted by subtly moving their hands closer to their batons. Sensing the now-palpable hostility in the room, the fourth man, a thin older Japanese man with salt and pepper hair, coughed and with a step, physically inserted himself into the conversation. He wore the uniform of a United Earth Starfleet officer, a simple dark blue jacket atop a white dress shirt. The only markings of rank were a pair of silver stars set upon a gold rectangle on the jacket’s epaulettes.
The man rubbed a hand across his wrinkled face. "That, Mister Carmichael,” he said in a voice surprisingly soft, yet still demanding of attention, “Is exactly why I am here.” Carmichael’s eyes narrowed as he carefully studied the naval officer.
“...And what reason would that be again,” Carmichael prodded, abandoning his act of decorum. The officer walked out of the protective cordon of the two guards and took a seat on Carmichael’s bunk. Absently, he patted the thin mattress.
“Ah yes, where are my manners,” he answered and extended his hand to Carmichael. “I’m here to offer you a second chance. Of course, hopefully, this time you won’t make the wrong one. That is, if you want it.” Carmichael’s eyes darted from the Nagumo to the magistrate as he shook the officer’s out-stretched hand.
Magistrate Fairchild hates this guy, Carmichael realized as looked at the glare the portly man cast at the officer. Which means he might not be so bad -- for now. "The enemy of my enemy,” he muttered under his breath, slightly more audible than he had intended. The man’s eyes flashed in delight for a fraction of an instant before scrutinizing the prisoner again. "What’s the deal,” he asked.
“I believe the terms, as laid out by the Honorable Magistrate were... six years of service in the United Earth Armed Forces. You would be released from your sentence first thing tomorrow morning,” Nagumo recalled with a finger resting on the tip of his nose. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, Fairchild nodded. “Or," Nagumo continued, “you can remain here, living in a dim six by six cell for the next ten years, on a mattress that reminds me of my first destroyer assignment.”
Carmichael looked around the four gray walls, at the guards, the olive-drab blanket atop the lumpy pin-striped bunk. It was an opportunity to get his life back. To be free again, or at least, more free than he was in Gwinnett Correctional Facility. Anything, he thought, has to be better than this. Better than remaining here in this hell-hole. But, the military? My entire life I’ve hated them, and what they stood for... ever since Dad died.
Tired of waiting, the Magistrate stood, and walked out. Likewise, Nagumo stood, and made his way to the cell door. Behind the officer, Carmichael sighed, gave a barely perceivable nod.
“Before I decide,” Carmichael said, suddenly realizing he never got the man’s name. “I want to know two things. What’s your name, and why are you doing this?” Nagumo turned and looked at the brown-haired boy in the orange prison-issued jumpsuit. The old officer smiled wistfully, his eyes focused on a distant memory from the past. He straightened his uniform and, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, stood just a little bit taller than he had before.
“You don’t remember me,” the officer sounded hurt by the realization. “My name is Isoruku Nagumo and I’m the commanding officer of the United Earth’s Starfleet Academy. Johnny,” he continued, calling Carmichael by a name he had not heard in fifteen years, “I’m doing this because of a promise I made many years ago, to your father.”
“Maybe you have been out of the loop, but he’s dead. I think you are off the hook on owed promises nowadays.” Carmichael retorted, keeping his guard up. J.J. remembered him; he could recall the memories as soon as the Japanese man had spoken his name. Nagumo still had that same soft, lilting quality to his voice that he had used when addressing a much younger J.J. But Nagumo’s face had grown older, wrinkles and permanent sad expression had replaced the youthful visage that J.J. remembered coming through the front door with his father countless times. He had always had a gift for the young boy, a trinket from one of the worlds that the Abukuma had visited on its last assignment, and the presents always brought the same admonishment from his mother: ignored pleas to avoid spoiling J.J. rotten.
For a fraction of second, a faint smile crossed the teenager’s lips at the pleasant memory. But, the warm remembrances soon gave way to the last time that “Uncle ‘Ruku” had stepped through the front door. That time, five years ago, he had arrived with no gifts in his hands. J.J. could recall standing there, his arms wrapped around his mother’s waist as Nagumo, his officer’s cap clutched tight in his hands, had stood there with tears in his eyes. That was the day the boy learned his father would never be coming home.
“I know he is,” Nagumo said quietly, pain reflecting in the man’s dark eyes. “I just thought, I would offer you a chance – an opportunity – to escape this place. I owed it to him, and to you, to not let this be your destiny.”
“My destiny?” J.J. barked, his voice crackling with anger. “My destiny was fixed the moment he didn’t come back, and you did. No, Captain Nagumo, I appreciate your time, but I think we have nothing more to discuss.”
Nagumo looked crestfallen as he nodded, accepting the brash teenager’s decision. He reached a scarred hand into his jacket, withdrew a small envelope, and tossed it onto the J.J.’s bunk. Carmichael reached over, stuffed the envelope into his orange jumpsuit pocket, and looked at Nagumo in confusion.
“My card is in there – in case you change your mind,” the Captain said softly as he picked up his cap from the table. “Also, something your father wanted you to have.” The captain turned and strode to the door. He waved his hand in front of the small window to signal the guards to open. “Don’t worry,” Nagumo said to J.J. as he stepped through the doorway, “the guards have already checked it for contraband, so they won’t confiscate it.”
* * *
The bright lights illuminating the corridor went out, plunging the cell block into darkness and forcing Carmichael to stop midway through his nightly series of sit-ups. The inmate picked himself up off the ground and wiped the sweat of his face with a thread-bare towel that he promptly tossed into the corner of the cold prison cell. His muscles throbbed in pain as he crashed down onto the thin mattress, rolled over and stared at the bare concrete ceiling.
He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep as he listened to the creaks and groans of the prison echo through the rickety pipes next to his head. He squirmed, trying to adjust his positioning on the mattress to a vague semblance of comfort, but to no avail. He sighed in resignation, reluctantly reached into his pocket and he pulled out the small white envelope that Nagumo had left behind.
The envelope was unsealed, unsurprisingly since the guards had checked it for contraband. Not that there was any cause for concern, Carmichael noted as pulled out the contents, the Captain was not the kind of man who would smuggle in a nail file or a knife. The inmate’s blue eyes focused on the small business card that came out first, focusing on the gold stylized delta in the middle.
“Captain Isoruku Nagumo,” Carmichael whispered as he read. “Commandant, United Earth Starfleet Academy. What a waste of your time, and mine.” He tossed the card down on to the mattress next to him, and pulled out the two other items from the envelope. A shiver ran down the teenager’s spine as he held up the two slips of paper up to his face. At the top of the glossy paper was the helmeted face of a football player staring down the field, a silver football clutched in his right hand.
Even a non-sports fan may have recognized the image of the player, but having grown up as a Berlin Blitzkrieg fan, Carmichael immediately knew the player: Chase Maclin, Berlin’s record-setting quarterback. He smiled, remembering wearing a replica of Ward’s black and gold jersey almost every day as a child. He had even taken Maclin’s number when he began playing football in high school. Sadly, his own abilities had never quite lived up to his idol’s performance.
What little light there was reflected off the shiny foil printing of the tickets. “Berlin Blitzkrieg,” Carmichael whispered softly,” versus the Atlanta Fire. Row: 1, Section A.” These were good seats, Carmichael thought admiringly. He checked the date, and felt his heart freeze. “February 2, 2142,” he said. A month after his father was killed. When he received his father’s letter, the last one he would ever send, promising to take him to the Berlin game, Carmichael had been ecstatic. He had taken it to school, to brag to his classmates, and pinned it to the wall over his bed. He counted down the days until the game, each hashmark on the calendar serving to increase the boy’s excitement. Carmichael stared at the tickets, allowing himself to recall that joyous and ultimately devastating month as he fell asleep in the cell. Silently, tears slipped down his cheeks as he dreamed, and remembered.
* * *
The whispers had started about four hours after Abukuma’s scheduled dock time, Carmichael recalled. Less than an hour later, the rumors had become wildfires, spreading across the crowd. The hand-painted banners reading “Welcome home, Abukuma,” were now lying crumpled against the wall. The brass band that had filled the space station’s docking area with its trumpet-driven fanfare had long since gone and families huddled in small groups, their conversations hushed and apprehensive. The Cruiser Squadron Two Public Affairs Officer was nearly mobbed when he strode to the podium, a piece of paper clenched in his hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he had said solemnly. “I have an announcement concerning the Abukuma.” Friends and family of the cruiser’s crew crowded around the speaker, “I’m reading now from a statement from the Commander-in-Chief, United Earth Defense Forces: Unconfirmed reports indicate that the Abukuma may have been lost while returning from a classified deployment. Search vessels have been in the vicinity of her last known position for the last few days. The announcement of Abukuma’s potential loss was delayed in the hope that she may have suffered a mere loss of communications and arrived today, as scheduled. However, now that she is overdue nearly six hours, we must begin to believe the worst. Search and rescue efforts will continue until further notice.”
At first, J.J. and his mother remained on the pier with the other families, waiting anxiously, as if Abukuma’s glistening white hull would emerge out of the darkness, her red and green running lights blinking steadily. But, it never came. The drizzle of tears that ran down the faces of the assembled family members slowly turned into a driving rain as the reality began to set in.
When the floodlights that illuminated the docking area switched off, the crowd finally dispersed. Only the dark silhouettes of the cruisers of Squadron Two remained, docked up on each side of the space station’s pier, with a conspicuous gap left for the mooring of the Abukuma.
(Yeah, I know, there are two Chapter 11's now...)
Chapter 11: Smoke and Mirrors
Ketyal knew few enlisted members of the guard were accepted in to the program. Even fewer were as low-ranking as Uhlans, as she had been. But what the trainee lacked in rank, she made up for in determination, drive and ambition.
Ketyal’s morning regimen had been the same since she had been admitted into the program five years ago. Wakeup before the sun crossed over the mountains, calisthenics and brisk morning three-mile job, breakfast as the rest of the trainees were still waking up. The Program even taught students to enjoy traditional human breakfast dishes while at the same time providing them with healthier, more substantial dishes.
Classes began shortly thereafter, usually there was a brief bit of time before the morning classes if Ketyal timed everything right – today’s was on the human economic system – so Ketyal, or Vanessa Macgruder as she was known during classes, spent her time reviewing the intelligence on her target: the real Vanessa Macgruder.
As she sat in the empty classroom, Ketyal noted that the latest intelligence read more like a gossip column than actual data and it made the young trainee’s head spin. ‘How could anyone with so much going for her act the way she had?’ Vanessa asked herself. The report said that the ‘real’ Macgruder had aced her preparatory courses, including several advanced-placement programs, which was to be expected. Over the last five years, Vanessa had come to anticipate academic success from her human counterpart.
No pictures were included in the latest dossier, but the previous images showed a tall, attractive youth shopping fancy stores, driving her father’s expensive cars and going to parties every weekend. To Ketyal’s eyes, Vanessa seemed like a normal well-adjusted teenager. At the same time a police report noted that the 18-year-old girl had been caught with a bag of stims. She had not been charged with a crime, merely reprimanded – a direct result of her grandfather’s influence in the small town of Riverside, Iowa. But, she asked herself, Macgruder had risked her entire future on a small one-gram bag of chemicals. Stupid. Her punishment, being forced to take a menial job and spend her last summer of youth working for a living, while not exceptionally harsh would be devastating to the socialite.
‘I have everything I ever wanted,’ Ketyal observed as she tried to place herself in Vanessa’s shoes. ‘Brains, money, things. What am I missing? What else do I want? Why do I need to do stims and get in trouble with the police? I have a good family, and an honorable name from the Eugenics Wars. Of course, that same name and wealth means I’m often alone. The house is big and empty at night,’ she recalled from the images in one of her earlier dispatches. ‘My friends stop by once in a while, but they’re all enrolled in preparatory classes for Yale and Harvard while I haven’t even decided on a school yet.’
A call over the room’s intercom interrupted her exploration of Vanessa’s motives. “Urhal Ketyal, report to the headmaster’s office, immediately,” the voice said in its usual stern and measured tone.
The headmaster’s secretary, a thick-browed female, ushered Ketyal into the office, and left the young trainee standing alone in the middle of the office. Without acknowledging her presence, the headmaster read a report off the angular data pad he held in his hand. Ketyal stared ahead as the head of the program peered up at her through thick bangs the color of seal skin.
“The question about whether or not you will ever graduate appears to have been made for us,” he rumbled as he waved the pad in the air. “A report from our agents in place on Earth. It appears your Vanessa Macgruder has decided on a university after all.”
In a breach of proper protocol, Ketyal smiled. She knew that Vanessa’s list had narrowed down to two options: Columbia, as far from her parent’s California home as possible and Kenyon in the Ohio province.
“She surprised us all,” the headmaster continued. “We were not even aware that she had even applied for the Academy.”
Ketyal was stunned. “The Starfleet Academy?”
“She received a sponsorship last winter, obviously a result of her family name and father’s connections,” he grumbled. “We are fortunate – we learned she was in search of employment in the San Francisco area about two Earth weeks ago. One of our operatives did some searching to determine why –“
“Punishment,” Ketyal interjected, “for her near-arrest on possession of contraband narcotics.” The headmaster nodded in appreciation for Ketyal’s filling in of the minor detail. He was not a man who appreciated vagarities in his intelligence reports.
“Regardless,” he said in a flat tone. “She is to report for orientation in a few weeks, leaving us a very small window of opportunity.”
Ketyal blinked. “Sir, I don’t understand. What is to be my assignment?”
“Your counterpart-target is about to enter Starfleet Academy. We cannot risk inserting an operative into the Academy, particularly given her declared specialty: Cryptology and Communications. Anyone placed in such a situation would have little chance of surviving the security screenings. They are very intense, especially so for their cryptologists. They check every move from present day to birth, check with parents, relatives, neighbors.
“The applicant for a security clearance initiates the process with a detailed report on her background, relatives, addresses,” the headmaster said, his voice reflecting his nervousness with the mission. “You would have to supply every detail of Macgruder’s life – from memory. You could ill afford to risk being apprehended with a dossier on yourself. And the process would have to be repeated every five years while you remained in Starfleet. Could you accomplish such a feat?”
“Of course, sir,” Ketyal answered confidently, ignoring the subtle implication of the headmaster’s question. He, like the other instructors, had never expected her to graduate. She simply did not possess the genetic disposition for covert operations. That much was clear whenever she submitted a blood sample and her crimson blood sat separated from the true potential operatives and their pure copper-based green blood.
The headmaster hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. If any of his Romulan students had made such a confident reply he would have dismissed the statement as mere bravado. But not Ketyal. The female innately knew how to think a human, in no small part because she was one. On Earth, surrounded by her red-blooded siblings, she would be able to blend in and disappear like no Romulan could dream of accomplishing. In addition, she knew her counterpart so well, so completely, that it was almost frightening. She had far surpassed any of the other student-target linkages.
“You will need augmentations,” he said. “To properly mimic your target’s appearance. If the scars from the procedure do not heal in time, you will be discovered.”
“I assume Macgruder will be in San Francisco until mid-July,” she said promptly. “The summer orientation course starts then, as I recall. That gives us five Earth weeks before we need to intercept the target. That should be plenty of time for my human physiology to heal, and the scars would not need to be too extensive, sir. My … her parents won’t be visiting very often. Besides, first-year cadets are not allowed visitors until Armistice Day. By then, her appearance will have changed sufficiently to mask any minor differences –“ Ketyal's voice became distant, almost depressed – “that is, if my … her … parents notice at all.”
The headmaster scarcely noticed Ketyal’s change in moods or her juxtaposition of herself with the real Vanessa Macgruder. He was far too busy marveling at the young brunette’s extensive knowledge of even the most esoteric bits of information on her target.
“This will have to be approved by the Tal Shiar,” the headmaster said, sounding as excited now as Ketyal had earlier. “But, we have an opportunity --the opportunity – to pull off the greatest espionage coup in our people’s history.”
“Yes sir,” Ketyal answered crisply, though she was not thinking about espionage coups, or success or failure. Her mind was realizing the far more personal triumph she would accomplish. For the first time in two centuries, ever since her ancestors were violently forced off the planet by their rebellious subordinates, a Singh was returning home.
Chapter 11: Smoke and Mirrors
Ketyal knew few enlisted members of the guard were accepted in to the program. Even fewer were as low-ranking as Uhlans, as she had been. But what the trainee lacked in rank, she made up for in determination, drive and ambition.
Ketyal’s morning regimen had been the same since she had been admitted into the program five years ago. Wakeup before the sun crossed over the mountains, calisthenics and brisk morning three-mile job, breakfast as the rest of the trainees were still waking up. The Program even taught students to enjoy traditional human breakfast dishes while at the same time providing them with healthier, more substantial dishes.
Classes began shortly thereafter, usually there was a brief bit of time before the morning classes if Ketyal timed everything right – today’s was on the human economic system – so Ketyal, or Vanessa Macgruder as she was known during classes, spent her time reviewing the intelligence on her target: the real Vanessa Macgruder.
As she sat in the empty classroom, Ketyal noted that the latest intelligence read more like a gossip column than actual data and it made the young trainee’s head spin. ‘How could anyone with so much going for her act the way she had?’ Vanessa asked herself. The report said that the ‘real’ Macgruder had aced her preparatory courses, including several advanced-placement programs, which was to be expected. Over the last five years, Vanessa had come to anticipate academic success from her human counterpart.
No pictures were included in the latest dossier, but the previous images showed a tall, attractive youth shopping fancy stores, driving her father’s expensive cars and going to parties every weekend. To Ketyal’s eyes, Vanessa seemed like a normal well-adjusted teenager. At the same time a police report noted that the 18-year-old girl had been caught with a bag of stims. She had not been charged with a crime, merely reprimanded – a direct result of her grandfather’s influence in the small town of Riverside, Iowa. But, she asked herself, Macgruder had risked her entire future on a small one-gram bag of chemicals. Stupid. Her punishment, being forced to take a menial job and spend her last summer of youth working for a living, while not exceptionally harsh would be devastating to the socialite.
‘I have everything I ever wanted,’ Ketyal observed as she tried to place herself in Vanessa’s shoes. ‘Brains, money, things. What am I missing? What else do I want? Why do I need to do stims and get in trouble with the police? I have a good family, and an honorable name from the Eugenics Wars. Of course, that same name and wealth means I’m often alone. The house is big and empty at night,’ she recalled from the images in one of her earlier dispatches. ‘My friends stop by once in a while, but they’re all enrolled in preparatory classes for Yale and Harvard while I haven’t even decided on a school yet.’
A call over the room’s intercom interrupted her exploration of Vanessa’s motives. “Urhal Ketyal, report to the headmaster’s office, immediately,” the voice said in its usual stern and measured tone.
The headmaster’s secretary, a thick-browed female, ushered Ketyal into the office, and left the young trainee standing alone in the middle of the office. Without acknowledging her presence, the headmaster read a report off the angular data pad he held in his hand. Ketyal stared ahead as the head of the program peered up at her through thick bangs the color of seal skin.
“The question about whether or not you will ever graduate appears to have been made for us,” he rumbled as he waved the pad in the air. “A report from our agents in place on Earth. It appears your Vanessa Macgruder has decided on a university after all.”
In a breach of proper protocol, Ketyal smiled. She knew that Vanessa’s list had narrowed down to two options: Columbia, as far from her parent’s California home as possible and Kenyon in the Ohio province.
“She surprised us all,” the headmaster continued. “We were not even aware that she had even applied for the Academy.”
Ketyal was stunned. “The Starfleet Academy?”
“She received a sponsorship last winter, obviously a result of her family name and father’s connections,” he grumbled. “We are fortunate – we learned she was in search of employment in the San Francisco area about two Earth weeks ago. One of our operatives did some searching to determine why –“
“Punishment,” Ketyal interjected, “for her near-arrest on possession of contraband narcotics.” The headmaster nodded in appreciation for Ketyal’s filling in of the minor detail. He was not a man who appreciated vagarities in his intelligence reports.
“Regardless,” he said in a flat tone. “She is to report for orientation in a few weeks, leaving us a very small window of opportunity.”
Ketyal blinked. “Sir, I don’t understand. What is to be my assignment?”
“Your counterpart-target is about to enter Starfleet Academy. We cannot risk inserting an operative into the Academy, particularly given her declared specialty: Cryptology and Communications. Anyone placed in such a situation would have little chance of surviving the security screenings. They are very intense, especially so for their cryptologists. They check every move from present day to birth, check with parents, relatives, neighbors.
“The applicant for a security clearance initiates the process with a detailed report on her background, relatives, addresses,” the headmaster said, his voice reflecting his nervousness with the mission. “You would have to supply every detail of Macgruder’s life – from memory. You could ill afford to risk being apprehended with a dossier on yourself. And the process would have to be repeated every five years while you remained in Starfleet. Could you accomplish such a feat?”
“Of course, sir,” Ketyal answered confidently, ignoring the subtle implication of the headmaster’s question. He, like the other instructors, had never expected her to graduate. She simply did not possess the genetic disposition for covert operations. That much was clear whenever she submitted a blood sample and her crimson blood sat separated from the true potential operatives and their pure copper-based green blood.
The headmaster hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. If any of his Romulan students had made such a confident reply he would have dismissed the statement as mere bravado. But not Ketyal. The female innately knew how to think a human, in no small part because she was one. On Earth, surrounded by her red-blooded siblings, she would be able to blend in and disappear like no Romulan could dream of accomplishing. In addition, she knew her counterpart so well, so completely, that it was almost frightening. She had far surpassed any of the other student-target linkages.
“You will need augmentations,” he said. “To properly mimic your target’s appearance. If the scars from the procedure do not heal in time, you will be discovered.”
“I assume Macgruder will be in San Francisco until mid-July,” she said promptly. “The summer orientation course starts then, as I recall. That gives us five Earth weeks before we need to intercept the target. That should be plenty of time for my human physiology to heal, and the scars would not need to be too extensive, sir. My … her parents won’t be visiting very often. Besides, first-year cadets are not allowed visitors until Armistice Day. By then, her appearance will have changed sufficiently to mask any minor differences –“ Ketyal's voice became distant, almost depressed – “that is, if my … her … parents notice at all.”
The headmaster scarcely noticed Ketyal’s change in moods or her juxtaposition of herself with the real Vanessa Macgruder. He was far too busy marveling at the young brunette’s extensive knowledge of even the most esoteric bits of information on her target.
“This will have to be approved by the Tal Shiar,” the headmaster said, sounding as excited now as Ketyal had earlier. “But, we have an opportunity --the opportunity – to pull off the greatest espionage coup in our people’s history.”
“Yes sir,” Ketyal answered crisply, though she was not thinking about espionage coups, or success or failure. Her mind was realizing the far more personal triumph she would accomplish. For the first time in two centuries, ever since her ancestors were violently forced off the planet by their rebellious subordinates, a Singh was returning home.
Chapter 12: The Setting and Rising of the Sun
Twenty-four hours.
The exact amount of time it took Earth to complete a full rotation along its axis. On the larger scale, it was just another tick in the galactic clock of celestial mechanics: the subtle relationships of rotation and orbits that marked the passage of time for a space-faring people.
One complete rotation of Earth as it wound around its single yellow star.
One day of freedom. That’s exactly how long Nagumo had given him to get ‘his affairs in order,’ as he so eloquently put it. Along with his ever-present friend, a small homing bracelet, J.J. Carmichael briskly walked down the streets of Atlanta. After a lifetime years of calling this bustling mass of steel and concrete home, twenty-four hours was scarcely enough time.
And yet, he thought glumly, considering the next six years would be spent in uniform, it was a lifetime.
Or, rather the end of one.
The streets were already beginning to teem with life, as inhabitants of the city began their morning rituals. The swarm of humanity breathing life into the city jostled J.J. and exchanged angry glares with the brown haired teen as he made is way against the current, through a pair of wrought-iron gates and into the quiet sanctuary of grass.
He could care less for their inconvenience, like a man possessed, he only had one objective: to get to Kelly. She was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged in the green grass, sun shimmering and glinting off golden earrings.
It had been a long time since they last saw each other. Her yellow shirt and red hair beckoned like a lighthouse to a ship in distress. His heartbeat quickened, threatening to leap out of the confines of his chest and leave the rest of him behind if he did not get to her soon enough.
She turned and saw him, setting down the medical text she had been reading. Beautiful green eyes flashed in excitement, as a summer breeze tossed stray wisps of her hair into her face. Frustrated with her blowing hair, she drew her hair back in to a ponytail and waved as he neared.
J.J. breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the subtle spice of Kelly’s perfume. He knelt down beside her in the grass, brushed an errant red strand from her cheek and sighed in relief.
“You’re okay,” he asked, his voice tinged with concern as he caressed her soft hands. Her skin beneath his fingers was soft and silky. She always rubbed that hand softener stuff on her hands in class, he thought with a laugh. Kelly looked up, her bright eyes gazing warmly at his face.
“Of course I am,” she replied sweetly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
J.J. stammered, caught off guard by the question.
“It’s just, I heard...well, everyone told me...,” his voice trailed off as bits and pieces of a nightmare flashed through his mind.
The car. The screams all came back, a slow motion replay as he tried to comprehend it all. Kelly's red hair. Marissa being thrown forward. The windshield shattering, like his life, into millions of tiny shards. The gentle shimmering sound that filled the air after it was all over and the glass fell to the ground. Pent-up emotions: anger, embarrassment, pity, and countless other feelings erupted from him. Kelly watched him impassively as his eyes glistened and he fought to control the sobs that threatened to wrack his body.
“They said you were dead,” he blurted out. Kelly blinked in confusion and looked down at her textbook and the small red spot on the open page disapprovingly. She wiped furiously at the pages trying to remove the spot, instead transforming it into a smear across the page.
“Damn," she grumbled. “I need to know this for that medical school exam!" She wiped harder, causing the page to crumple and rip from the book. On the next page, another spot, identical to the first appeared. J.J. leaned in close to her, taking both her hands in his.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “Let me help you.”
“You can’t,” Kelly whispered in reply. “It’s ok.”
Letting go of her hands, he reached out underneath her quivering chin and raised her face to kiss her. She leaned closer until the cool skin of her lips meet his. After what felt like a lifetime, they pulled away. J.J. gazed at the gentle features of her face; mocha colored skin, dotted with small freckles, marred only by small red streak. He reached out, touching it, and felt it in his fingers. Blood.
Kelly reached up, touching her forehead and examined the red coating on her fingers. Sadness crossed her face.
“I have to go,” she whispered. J.J. shook his head in rejection even as he examined the blood on his fingers. He couldn't wipe it off. Kelly took his hands as a salty tear streaked down the side of his face.
“Don’t,” he coughed.
“I don't have a choice,” she replied, stroking his cheek.
"Don't...” he repeated, closing his eyes as tears ran down his face.
J.J. opened his blurry eyes, and looked around for Kelly.
She was gone.
So were the blanket, and the text book.
He looked down at his hands. The blood he had wiped from her forehead was gone, too. The only trace was the slight scent of her perfume, the faint aroma of roses that mingled with the cut grass of the cemetery. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, he looked at the cold gray slab of marble before him and slowly reached out to it. The smooth polished rock was cold to his touch as he traced Kelly’s engraved name with his fingertips.
Calmness washed over him as he felt his eyes well up with tears once again. He placed his hand fully on the gravestone this time, letting the coldness seep into his skin and send a shiver down his spine. Choking down a sob, he wiped his eyes once more with his shirt sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the cold marble. “I’m sorry...”
He pulled his hand away, and turned away from Kelly’s grave. The heat of twin suns bathing him in light as he walked silently through the grass. On the wind, the leaves rustled in the summer breeze, and if he tried hard enough he could still hear her voice. He smiled slightly, for the first time since that night, and strode through the gates of the cemetery and to his fate.
Twenty-four hours.
The exact amount of time it took Earth to complete a full rotation along its axis. On the larger scale, it was just another tick in the galactic clock of celestial mechanics: the subtle relationships of rotation and orbits that marked the passage of time for a space-faring people.
One complete rotation of Earth as it wound around its single yellow star.
One day of freedom. That’s exactly how long Nagumo had given him to get ‘his affairs in order,’ as he so eloquently put it. Along with his ever-present friend, a small homing bracelet, J.J. Carmichael briskly walked down the streets of Atlanta. After a lifetime years of calling this bustling mass of steel and concrete home, twenty-four hours was scarcely enough time.
And yet, he thought glumly, considering the next six years would be spent in uniform, it was a lifetime.
Or, rather the end of one.
The streets were already beginning to teem with life, as inhabitants of the city began their morning rituals. The swarm of humanity breathing life into the city jostled J.J. and exchanged angry glares with the brown haired teen as he made is way against the current, through a pair of wrought-iron gates and into the quiet sanctuary of grass.
He could care less for their inconvenience, like a man possessed, he only had one objective: to get to Kelly. She was waiting for him, sitting cross-legged in the green grass, sun shimmering and glinting off golden earrings.
It had been a long time since they last saw each other. Her yellow shirt and red hair beckoned like a lighthouse to a ship in distress. His heartbeat quickened, threatening to leap out of the confines of his chest and leave the rest of him behind if he did not get to her soon enough.
She turned and saw him, setting down the medical text she had been reading. Beautiful green eyes flashed in excitement, as a summer breeze tossed stray wisps of her hair into her face. Frustrated with her blowing hair, she drew her hair back in to a ponytail and waved as he neared.
J.J. breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the subtle spice of Kelly’s perfume. He knelt down beside her in the grass, brushed an errant red strand from her cheek and sighed in relief.
“You’re okay,” he asked, his voice tinged with concern as he caressed her soft hands. Her skin beneath his fingers was soft and silky. She always rubbed that hand softener stuff on her hands in class, he thought with a laugh. Kelly looked up, her bright eyes gazing warmly at his face.
“Of course I am,” she replied sweetly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
J.J. stammered, caught off guard by the question.
“It’s just, I heard...well, everyone told me...,” his voice trailed off as bits and pieces of a nightmare flashed through his mind.
The car. The screams all came back, a slow motion replay as he tried to comprehend it all. Kelly's red hair. Marissa being thrown forward. The windshield shattering, like his life, into millions of tiny shards. The gentle shimmering sound that filled the air after it was all over and the glass fell to the ground. Pent-up emotions: anger, embarrassment, pity, and countless other feelings erupted from him. Kelly watched him impassively as his eyes glistened and he fought to control the sobs that threatened to wrack his body.
“They said you were dead,” he blurted out. Kelly blinked in confusion and looked down at her textbook and the small red spot on the open page disapprovingly. She wiped furiously at the pages trying to remove the spot, instead transforming it into a smear across the page.
“Damn," she grumbled. “I need to know this for that medical school exam!" She wiped harder, causing the page to crumple and rip from the book. On the next page, another spot, identical to the first appeared. J.J. leaned in close to her, taking both her hands in his.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “Let me help you.”
“You can’t,” Kelly whispered in reply. “It’s ok.”
Letting go of her hands, he reached out underneath her quivering chin and raised her face to kiss her. She leaned closer until the cool skin of her lips meet his. After what felt like a lifetime, they pulled away. J.J. gazed at the gentle features of her face; mocha colored skin, dotted with small freckles, marred only by small red streak. He reached out, touching it, and felt it in his fingers. Blood.
Kelly reached up, touching her forehead and examined the red coating on her fingers. Sadness crossed her face.
“I have to go,” she whispered. J.J. shook his head in rejection even as he examined the blood on his fingers. He couldn't wipe it off. Kelly took his hands as a salty tear streaked down the side of his face.
“Don’t,” he coughed.
“I don't have a choice,” she replied, stroking his cheek.
"Don't...” he repeated, closing his eyes as tears ran down his face.
J.J. opened his blurry eyes, and looked around for Kelly.
She was gone.
So were the blanket, and the text book.
He looked down at his hands. The blood he had wiped from her forehead was gone, too. The only trace was the slight scent of her perfume, the faint aroma of roses that mingled with the cut grass of the cemetery. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, he looked at the cold gray slab of marble before him and slowly reached out to it. The smooth polished rock was cold to his touch as he traced Kelly’s engraved name with his fingertips.
Calmness washed over him as he felt his eyes well up with tears once again. He placed his hand fully on the gravestone this time, letting the coldness seep into his skin and send a shiver down his spine. Choking down a sob, he wiped his eyes once more with his shirt sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the cold marble. “I’m sorry...”
He pulled his hand away, and turned away from Kelly’s grave. The heat of twin suns bathing him in light as he walked silently through the grass. On the wind, the leaves rustled in the summer breeze, and if he tried hard enough he could still hear her voice. He smiled slightly, for the first time since that night, and strode through the gates of the cemetery and to his fate.
Chapter 13: Pawns in Play
On the eve of an watershed event in human history, the arrival of a small group of Vulcans is met with little scrutiny -- an oversight that could have dire consequences of mankind. Meanwhile, Captain Nagumo faces criticism for his actions from an unlikely source.
Even as he walked through the passageway connecting the shuttle to the main customs terminal, T’Rau knew he was a dead man. The realization, even if he had allowed himself the brief undisciplined moment to feel, was far from a surprise. After all, he knew he was dead from the moment he, and his five-person archeological team had boarded that filthy human tramp freighter at Tagus III. He had spent the majority trip alternating meditating and conferring privately with his team on their findings.
To the freighter’s crew, this behavior, if somewhat peculiar, seemed perfectly in line with their perceptions of Vulcans. Or, “Greenies,” as they routinely referred to their passengers when out of earshot. Of course, T’Rau observed with curiosity, the ship’s rough-edged crew seemed remarkably uneducated when it came to the enhanced hearing abilities of their guests. All in all, he had to admit, it was not the most flattering of introductions to the human species.
Thus far, the crowded terminal of San Francisco’s civilian spaceport had not served to discredit his earlier observations. The scurrying of humans, all traveling a frantic awkward pace added a sense of pandemonium to the situation. With cold detachment he watched as a young family dragged a train of young children by the hands while trying to eat some unidentifiable processed food product at the same time.
Some of the passengers huddled around the viewscreens scattered around the concourse, watching dignitaries after dignitaries stand before their audience at the Warp Five complex and wax poetic about “ushering in a new era in human history.” T’Rau himself stole the occasional glance, although his interest was less in the pontificating of the speakers. Instead, it was the sleek lines of the ship behind them that captivated his attention.
"When Zefram Cochrane made his legendary warp flight ninety years ago... and drew the attention of our new friends, the Vulcans, we realized that we weren't alone in the galaxy. Today we're about to cross a new threshold. For nearly a century, we've waded ankle-deep in the ocean of space... now it's finally time to swim."
Bathed in the celestial light of the sun, the viewscreens provided him with more details about this new ship than any of the intelligence reports that the Empire possessed. Studying the gleaming metal of the hull -- the name ‘Enterprise’ emblazoned across the saucer in matte black paint -- he noted that the humans seemed to eschew the Vulcan philosophy of ring-shaped warp engines in favor of paired nacelles – much like the Empire’s war birds. “Fascinating,” he said quietly, making a mental note to find out what prompted them to ignore the advice of their Vulcan consultants, before turning his attention back to the present.
"The warp five engine wouldn't be a reality without men like Doctor Cochrane and Henry Archer, who worked so hard to develop it. So it's only fitting that Henry's son, Jonathan Archer, will command the first starship powered by that engine."
T’Rau spun on his heel, a quick deliberate turn that sent his black robes billowing around him, to check on the other members of the archeological team. The three men and two women, each carrying a backpack and steel suitcase, clad with Vulcan Science Institute markings, were still behind him. Their severe expressionless faces swiveled back in forth, a sign that they were just as lost in this sea of raw uncontrolled emotion as T’Rau was.
"Rather than quoting Doctor Cochrane, I think we should listen to his own words from the ground breaking ceremony for the Warp Five Complex... thirty-two years ago..."
“It must be stealing an eternity,” Ketyal commented from behind as the party approached the customs official. The youngest of the scientific team, Ketyal had found the opportunity to visit her genetic ancestry to be a highly interesting study. As a result, the woman had spent the majority of their transit to Earth trying to learn the idioms that marked their speech patterns.
"On this site, a powerful engine will be built. An engine that will someday help us to travel a hundred times faster than we can today. Imagine it. Thousands of inhabited planets, at our fingertips."
“--Taking an eternity,” T’Rau corrected, “and from what do you derive this observation?” he asked, testing her analytic skills. With a barely perceivable tilt of her head, she indicated the line of humans waiting behind them. Several of them were quickly tapping their feet or checking their watches anxiously. The man nearest the party exhaled loudly, a frustrated sigh that caused Ketyal to turn around in surprise.
“Are you suffering a problem with you nasal passages,” she asked the man candidly. Surprised, he just stood there dumbfounded as Ketyal turned back around to face T’Rau and nodded at the customs agent ahead of them. “It appears,” she said, the faintest hint of amusement glimmering in her eye, “that we are next in the line.”
“And so we are,” T’Rau agreed as he led the party and their luggage up to the checkpoint.
And we'll be able to explore those strange new worlds and seek out new life, and new civilizations. This engine will let us go boldly, where no man has gone before.
* * *
Silently, the Maglev train decelerated as it pulled into the covered station. T’Rau blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to adjust from the brilliant light of a California summer day to the dimmer incandescent lighting of the Maglev terminal. The train slowed to a stop, and the doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Its payload of passengers, mostly those recently disgorged from the shuttles and liners that had docked at the San Francisco spaceport, but also a few workers making their way home at the end of their shifts, quickly stepped out onto the platform as the next load filled in behind them. On the platform near the back of the train, T’Rau acquired his bearings and with a quick press of a button checked the directions on his data pad. He pointed as he lifted one of the silver containers and led his team out of the terminal and on to the streets of San Francisco.
It was a ten-minute walk from the terminal to their destination, a deserted bar near the Golden Gate Bridge. The words “The Shuttlepad” blinked on and off in a neon script over their heads. Setting down the silver baggage, T’Rau looked out at the bay. His eyes followed the orange-red steel structure as it stretched across the bay toward the gleaming towers of Starfleet Command and the academy grounds behind it. Against the blue sky, T’Rau could make out the glint of sunlight reflecting off shuttlecraft as they scurried around the installation. Had he felt emotions, T’Rau would have been inspired by the picturesque scene. Instead, he simply compared to the views of his home, and turned dispassionately to knock on the door.
The front door of the bar opened, revealing a husky older man with a craggily white beard. He motioned them inside with a conspiratorial look up and down the street. After the all five members of T’Rau’s archeological team had crossed the threshold, the man again poked his head outside before sliding the door shut and activating a series of locks.
“Lights,” the older man rasped. Artificial light from the ceiling flooded down on the group, illuminating the tables and chairs of the bar. Now in the light, T’Rau carefully studied the man before him, watching his hands intently as he lowered his robe’s black hood, revealing T’Rau’s seal-skin hair and his pointed ears. “Jolan Tru,” the bearded human said tentatively as he too carefully watched every move T’Rau made.
“Jolan Tru,” T’Rau replied, easing his grip on the disruptor he carried in his robes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other members of his party likewise relax at the standard greeting from their home world. “It is good to see you again, Lakar, my old friend,” T’Rau added with a smile.
The grizzled old barkeep nodded and looked at the other members of the group. “I would recommend you all change as quickly as possible,” he said. The tone of his voice made the comment sound more like an order than a suggestion. “There are not a lot of Vulcans on Earth, particularly ones that are not part of the joint science programs or members of the ambassador’s staff. There are garments matched to your appropriate sizes and genders in the store room. Make use of them.”
T’Rau watched as his team walked over the store room and shut the door to change. “I assume you have appropriate attire for me as well,” he asked. Lakar nodded as T’Rau rubbed his ears.
“You might want to remove the ears now,” the older man suggested. “Make sure everyone else removes their prosthetics as well.” T’Rau nodded in understanding as reached up and pulled the fake pointed tips of his ears off. “Funny isn’t it,” the barkeep observed. “They surgically remove your points before you leave, so you can blend in when you arrive. But, to get you there, they masquerade you as a Vulcan, so you wind up with synthetics of the pointy ears you had in the first place.”
“Ah yes,” T’Rau replied with a grin. “The bureaucratic mentality -- It is the one constant in the universe, isn’t it Lakar?” Lakar let out a guttural laugh as he slapped T’Rau on the back.
“Indeed it is, Subcommander, indeed it is. Now, tell me which one of these damned suitcases has that bottle of Romulo Ale you promised.”
* * *
“I've seen a lot of strange ideas from you, Sir, but this has to be the worst one yet,” the woman said, setting down the data pad and looking across the desk at the silver-haired man. “I mean, this has got to be the worst group of candidates, and I use that term lightly, I have ever laid eyes upon.”
Captain Isoruku Nagumo smiled thinly as the captain continued to rant over the list of student applicants he had handed her the day before. He glanced at the chronometer on the wall. Seventeen minutes, he thought, suppressing a smirk. And she's still going. Just like she had been going, across the Quad, through the Administration building, and up to Nagumo's office. And, it was showing no signs of ending, anytime soon.
Revelation over, he returned his attention to Commander Ostrowski's continuing dissertation on how these students were not suitable for training.
“Look, 'Ruku,” Beth Ostrowski emphasized, dropping the formal title of the man she had known, and served with for over two decades. “I know these new Rapid Deployment Squadrons are supposed to be comprised of personnel with a wide range of specialties, but these… these… applicants…they simply don't have what it takes. Fourteen recent high school graduates and eight dropouts. All of which have some problem or another. Hell, all of the mustangs have only been out of boot for less than a year. They're still wet behind the ears. There are a handful of good applicants in this, but that's it. There's not enough for a training squadron, not even close.”
“Their scores in basic training were exemplary,” he said, playing devil’s advocate with Ostrowski. “Each came highly recommended by their training commanders.”
“No time in space, though,” she grunted. “For all we know, they'll all get space sick the instant they hit zero-gee for the first time. And look at their background profiles,” she said, sliding the data pad around to face Nagumo, and tapping the screen with her finger.
“Here, Seth McClusky. He didn’t even graduate high school – he got a GED instead, what three months ago? His record says he attended a community college in Boston over the summer, but failed out after a semester.
“How am I supposed to teach advanced aerospace sciences to a kid who can't even handle basic calculus? Or this one, Serena von Ortman. A farmer's daughter, are you kidding me? She's even a native Terran. She's from the Mars colony for god-sakes.” Nagumo waited until the Captain inhaled to fire another barrage for before replying.
“First off, Beth, look at their aptitude scores, von Ortman rated as an advanced marksman at JROTC,” Nagumo said, as he stood and walked over to the large bay window overlooking the academy grounds. She had already seen them, he knew it, but he also enjoyed playing with her, like a cat with its prey. “Hell, she even broke your old record for bull’s-eyes in a session. And McClusky, the kid's a pure athlete, and a hell of a hard worked from what his former teachers have said.”
“The worst part is that they aren't the ones I have the biggest problem with,” Ostrowski said from behind him. “The others are even worse. Hell, one of them was given a choice between joining the Fleet or going to jail.” Nagumo turned to face Ostrowski, his brow furrowed.
“Let's not go there, Beth.”
“He was drunk,” she continued, missing the warning. “Killed two people in a drunken driving accident the day he graduated from college. His record shows he consistently disregards authority, he's reckless, and he’s dangerous. This applicant would be a menace to the rest of the squadron.”
“Let it go, Commander,” Nagumo bristled. “That applicant's father is a living legend, and two of the people in this room owe their lives to him.”
This time, Ostrowski comprehended the warning indicator buzzing in her head, and moved to another applicant. “Okay, this Ariah Richards would be a fine applicant for the Fleet academy, but not this assignment. Her intelligence scores were off the chart, and she can meet the minimum athletic requirements, but these other marks: “Coordination: Poor. Balance: Sub-Par. Dexterity: Insufficient. She's not cutout to be a pilot.”
“Her mother was,” Nagumo said still looking out upon the campus. “She flew with the Red Dragons. She died in that performance crash a few years ago. Ms. Richards saw it happen. Do you want to tell her she's not cutout to follow in her mother's footsteps?
“Commander Ostrowski, that is the list,” he said slowly. “the final list for Cadet Training Squadron 47. Every single one of them is going to be arriving here for flight training and combat training. And, since Lieutenant Reed was transferred to help commission Enterprise, you, Captain, are going to command them. Is that clear?”
Ostrowski rose at full attention, recognizing the note of finality in her old friend's voice. “A question, sir. Why them?” Nagumo turned to face his old friend.
“I believe we are heading for a time when we are going to need them. The sort of officers who will break -- and deviate -- from the chain of command. The kind who will buck the system. I think we're going to need them, Beth, and I think we're going to need them soon.”
Ostrowski looked at the wrinkled face of the captain, the gold insignia on each collar of his dark blue uniform, and the rows of ribbons over his left breast. “Are you willing to stake your career on this, sir?” she asked worriedly.
Nagumo didn't even blink. “I already have.”
On the eve of an watershed event in human history, the arrival of a small group of Vulcans is met with little scrutiny -- an oversight that could have dire consequences of mankind. Meanwhile, Captain Nagumo faces criticism for his actions from an unlikely source.
Even as he walked through the passageway connecting the shuttle to the main customs terminal, T’Rau knew he was a dead man. The realization, even if he had allowed himself the brief undisciplined moment to feel, was far from a surprise. After all, he knew he was dead from the moment he, and his five-person archeological team had boarded that filthy human tramp freighter at Tagus III. He had spent the majority trip alternating meditating and conferring privately with his team on their findings.
To the freighter’s crew, this behavior, if somewhat peculiar, seemed perfectly in line with their perceptions of Vulcans. Or, “Greenies,” as they routinely referred to their passengers when out of earshot. Of course, T’Rau observed with curiosity, the ship’s rough-edged crew seemed remarkably uneducated when it came to the enhanced hearing abilities of their guests. All in all, he had to admit, it was not the most flattering of introductions to the human species.
Thus far, the crowded terminal of San Francisco’s civilian spaceport had not served to discredit his earlier observations. The scurrying of humans, all traveling a frantic awkward pace added a sense of pandemonium to the situation. With cold detachment he watched as a young family dragged a train of young children by the hands while trying to eat some unidentifiable processed food product at the same time.
Some of the passengers huddled around the viewscreens scattered around the concourse, watching dignitaries after dignitaries stand before their audience at the Warp Five complex and wax poetic about “ushering in a new era in human history.” T’Rau himself stole the occasional glance, although his interest was less in the pontificating of the speakers. Instead, it was the sleek lines of the ship behind them that captivated his attention.
"When Zefram Cochrane made his legendary warp flight ninety years ago... and drew the attention of our new friends, the Vulcans, we realized that we weren't alone in the galaxy. Today we're about to cross a new threshold. For nearly a century, we've waded ankle-deep in the ocean of space... now it's finally time to swim."
Bathed in the celestial light of the sun, the viewscreens provided him with more details about this new ship than any of the intelligence reports that the Empire possessed. Studying the gleaming metal of the hull -- the name ‘Enterprise’ emblazoned across the saucer in matte black paint -- he noted that the humans seemed to eschew the Vulcan philosophy of ring-shaped warp engines in favor of paired nacelles – much like the Empire’s war birds. “Fascinating,” he said quietly, making a mental note to find out what prompted them to ignore the advice of their Vulcan consultants, before turning his attention back to the present.
"The warp five engine wouldn't be a reality without men like Doctor Cochrane and Henry Archer, who worked so hard to develop it. So it's only fitting that Henry's son, Jonathan Archer, will command the first starship powered by that engine."
T’Rau spun on his heel, a quick deliberate turn that sent his black robes billowing around him, to check on the other members of the archeological team. The three men and two women, each carrying a backpack and steel suitcase, clad with Vulcan Science Institute markings, were still behind him. Their severe expressionless faces swiveled back in forth, a sign that they were just as lost in this sea of raw uncontrolled emotion as T’Rau was.
"Rather than quoting Doctor Cochrane, I think we should listen to his own words from the ground breaking ceremony for the Warp Five Complex... thirty-two years ago..."
“It must be stealing an eternity,” Ketyal commented from behind as the party approached the customs official. The youngest of the scientific team, Ketyal had found the opportunity to visit her genetic ancestry to be a highly interesting study. As a result, the woman had spent the majority of their transit to Earth trying to learn the idioms that marked their speech patterns.
"On this site, a powerful engine will be built. An engine that will someday help us to travel a hundred times faster than we can today. Imagine it. Thousands of inhabited planets, at our fingertips."
“--Taking an eternity,” T’Rau corrected, “and from what do you derive this observation?” he asked, testing her analytic skills. With a barely perceivable tilt of her head, she indicated the line of humans waiting behind them. Several of them were quickly tapping their feet or checking their watches anxiously. The man nearest the party exhaled loudly, a frustrated sigh that caused Ketyal to turn around in surprise.
“Are you suffering a problem with you nasal passages,” she asked the man candidly. Surprised, he just stood there dumbfounded as Ketyal turned back around to face T’Rau and nodded at the customs agent ahead of them. “It appears,” she said, the faintest hint of amusement glimmering in her eye, “that we are next in the line.”
“And so we are,” T’Rau agreed as he led the party and their luggage up to the checkpoint.
And we'll be able to explore those strange new worlds and seek out new life, and new civilizations. This engine will let us go boldly, where no man has gone before.
* * *
Silently, the Maglev train decelerated as it pulled into the covered station. T’Rau blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes to adjust from the brilliant light of a California summer day to the dimmer incandescent lighting of the Maglev terminal. The train slowed to a stop, and the doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Its payload of passengers, mostly those recently disgorged from the shuttles and liners that had docked at the San Francisco spaceport, but also a few workers making their way home at the end of their shifts, quickly stepped out onto the platform as the next load filled in behind them. On the platform near the back of the train, T’Rau acquired his bearings and with a quick press of a button checked the directions on his data pad. He pointed as he lifted one of the silver containers and led his team out of the terminal and on to the streets of San Francisco.
It was a ten-minute walk from the terminal to their destination, a deserted bar near the Golden Gate Bridge. The words “The Shuttlepad” blinked on and off in a neon script over their heads. Setting down the silver baggage, T’Rau looked out at the bay. His eyes followed the orange-red steel structure as it stretched across the bay toward the gleaming towers of Starfleet Command and the academy grounds behind it. Against the blue sky, T’Rau could make out the glint of sunlight reflecting off shuttlecraft as they scurried around the installation. Had he felt emotions, T’Rau would have been inspired by the picturesque scene. Instead, he simply compared to the views of his home, and turned dispassionately to knock on the door.
The front door of the bar opened, revealing a husky older man with a craggily white beard. He motioned them inside with a conspiratorial look up and down the street. After the all five members of T’Rau’s archeological team had crossed the threshold, the man again poked his head outside before sliding the door shut and activating a series of locks.
“Lights,” the older man rasped. Artificial light from the ceiling flooded down on the group, illuminating the tables and chairs of the bar. Now in the light, T’Rau carefully studied the man before him, watching his hands intently as he lowered his robe’s black hood, revealing T’Rau’s seal-skin hair and his pointed ears. “Jolan Tru,” the bearded human said tentatively as he too carefully watched every move T’Rau made.
“Jolan Tru,” T’Rau replied, easing his grip on the disruptor he carried in his robes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other members of his party likewise relax at the standard greeting from their home world. “It is good to see you again, Lakar, my old friend,” T’Rau added with a smile.
The grizzled old barkeep nodded and looked at the other members of the group. “I would recommend you all change as quickly as possible,” he said. The tone of his voice made the comment sound more like an order than a suggestion. “There are not a lot of Vulcans on Earth, particularly ones that are not part of the joint science programs or members of the ambassador’s staff. There are garments matched to your appropriate sizes and genders in the store room. Make use of them.”
T’Rau watched as his team walked over the store room and shut the door to change. “I assume you have appropriate attire for me as well,” he asked. Lakar nodded as T’Rau rubbed his ears.
“You might want to remove the ears now,” the older man suggested. “Make sure everyone else removes their prosthetics as well.” T’Rau nodded in understanding as reached up and pulled the fake pointed tips of his ears off. “Funny isn’t it,” the barkeep observed. “They surgically remove your points before you leave, so you can blend in when you arrive. But, to get you there, they masquerade you as a Vulcan, so you wind up with synthetics of the pointy ears you had in the first place.”
“Ah yes,” T’Rau replied with a grin. “The bureaucratic mentality -- It is the one constant in the universe, isn’t it Lakar?” Lakar let out a guttural laugh as he slapped T’Rau on the back.
“Indeed it is, Subcommander, indeed it is. Now, tell me which one of these damned suitcases has that bottle of Romulo Ale you promised.”
* * *
“I've seen a lot of strange ideas from you, Sir, but this has to be the worst one yet,” the woman said, setting down the data pad and looking across the desk at the silver-haired man. “I mean, this has got to be the worst group of candidates, and I use that term lightly, I have ever laid eyes upon.”
Captain Isoruku Nagumo smiled thinly as the captain continued to rant over the list of student applicants he had handed her the day before. He glanced at the chronometer on the wall. Seventeen minutes, he thought, suppressing a smirk. And she's still going. Just like she had been going, across the Quad, through the Administration building, and up to Nagumo's office. And, it was showing no signs of ending, anytime soon.
Revelation over, he returned his attention to Commander Ostrowski's continuing dissertation on how these students were not suitable for training.
“Look, 'Ruku,” Beth Ostrowski emphasized, dropping the formal title of the man she had known, and served with for over two decades. “I know these new Rapid Deployment Squadrons are supposed to be comprised of personnel with a wide range of specialties, but these… these… applicants…they simply don't have what it takes. Fourteen recent high school graduates and eight dropouts. All of which have some problem or another. Hell, all of the mustangs have only been out of boot for less than a year. They're still wet behind the ears. There are a handful of good applicants in this, but that's it. There's not enough for a training squadron, not even close.”
“Their scores in basic training were exemplary,” he said, playing devil’s advocate with Ostrowski. “Each came highly recommended by their training commanders.”
“No time in space, though,” she grunted. “For all we know, they'll all get space sick the instant they hit zero-gee for the first time. And look at their background profiles,” she said, sliding the data pad around to face Nagumo, and tapping the screen with her finger.
“Here, Seth McClusky. He didn’t even graduate high school – he got a GED instead, what three months ago? His record says he attended a community college in Boston over the summer, but failed out after a semester.
“How am I supposed to teach advanced aerospace sciences to a kid who can't even handle basic calculus? Or this one, Serena von Ortman. A farmer's daughter, are you kidding me? She's even a native Terran. She's from the Mars colony for god-sakes.” Nagumo waited until the Captain inhaled to fire another barrage for before replying.
“First off, Beth, look at their aptitude scores, von Ortman rated as an advanced marksman at JROTC,” Nagumo said, as he stood and walked over to the large bay window overlooking the academy grounds. She had already seen them, he knew it, but he also enjoyed playing with her, like a cat with its prey. “Hell, she even broke your old record for bull’s-eyes in a session. And McClusky, the kid's a pure athlete, and a hell of a hard worked from what his former teachers have said.”
“The worst part is that they aren't the ones I have the biggest problem with,” Ostrowski said from behind him. “The others are even worse. Hell, one of them was given a choice between joining the Fleet or going to jail.” Nagumo turned to face Ostrowski, his brow furrowed.
“Let's not go there, Beth.”
“He was drunk,” she continued, missing the warning. “Killed two people in a drunken driving accident the day he graduated from college. His record shows he consistently disregards authority, he's reckless, and he’s dangerous. This applicant would be a menace to the rest of the squadron.”
“Let it go, Commander,” Nagumo bristled. “That applicant's father is a living legend, and two of the people in this room owe their lives to him.”
This time, Ostrowski comprehended the warning indicator buzzing in her head, and moved to another applicant. “Okay, this Ariah Richards would be a fine applicant for the Fleet academy, but not this assignment. Her intelligence scores were off the chart, and she can meet the minimum athletic requirements, but these other marks: “Coordination: Poor. Balance: Sub-Par. Dexterity: Insufficient. She's not cutout to be a pilot.”
“Her mother was,” Nagumo said still looking out upon the campus. “She flew with the Red Dragons. She died in that performance crash a few years ago. Ms. Richards saw it happen. Do you want to tell her she's not cutout to follow in her mother's footsteps?
“Commander Ostrowski, that is the list,” he said slowly. “the final list for Cadet Training Squadron 47. Every single one of them is going to be arriving here for flight training and combat training. And, since Lieutenant Reed was transferred to help commission Enterprise, you, Captain, are going to command them. Is that clear?”
Ostrowski rose at full attention, recognizing the note of finality in her old friend's voice. “A question, sir. Why them?” Nagumo turned to face his old friend.
“I believe we are heading for a time when we are going to need them. The sort of officers who will break -- and deviate -- from the chain of command. The kind who will buck the system. I think we're going to need them, Beth, and I think we're going to need them soon.”
Ostrowski looked at the wrinkled face of the captain, the gold insignia on each collar of his dark blue uniform, and the rows of ribbons over his left breast. “Are you willing to stake your career on this, sir?” she asked worriedly.
Nagumo didn't even blink. “I already have.”
Chapter 14: Doppelganger
Try as she might, Ketyal could not avoid being at least slightly awed by the opulent lobby of the St. Regis hotel as she studied from her vantage point in one of the secluded sitting area surrounding an ornate Greek columns. The lobby was lavishly decorated, filled with high-backed chairs of synthetic leather, and the soft peals of a grand piano resonated with pitch-perfect precision from the adjoining hotel bar. The high glass ceiling of lobby, several stories above her head, bathed the atrium in a comforting glow as the moon lazily traced its way through the night sky. The soft light, coupled with a gentle breeze from outside the lobby sapped at Ketyal’s energy, forcing her to struggle to overcome the impulse to simply curl up in the soft fabric of the chair.
The subtle cough from a nearby lounge chair, as unremarkable as it was intrusive to Ketyal’s state of relaxation, drew her back from her thoughts and to the matter at hand. With a tense nod, and a quick rub of her face, she lifted the data pad she was reading closer to her face. Refocused, she pretended to peruse the daily headlines as her eyes scanned every person entering the lobby. She waited.
T’Rau rubbed his furrowed brow as he monitored the young operative’s progress from the nearby lounger. The spymaster sipped from a cup of tea, trying to placate the growing sense of unease that washed over him. The feeling was a common occurrence when he considered Ketyal’s ability to carry out her mission. Even after three weeks of close observation, scrutinizing every interaction she had with humans as she worked as a waitress at The Shuttlepad, he still found her lacking the intense focus and dedication of previous operatives he had worked with.
Ultimately, he realized, her biggest flaw was that she was simply too human. An interesting criticism, he noted, considering that Ketyal was genetically just as human as the billions of inhabitants of this small ball of rock and its outlying colonies. Of course, unlike Ketyal, these humans were slowly encroaching toward the sovereign territory of the Romulan Star Empire, and in accordance with the Praetor’s wishes, must be investigated. After all, as the great Romulan warlords had once written: “Victory was won, not on the battlefields, but in the temples.”
Every loyal soldier to the Empire had those words driven into their heads early in their training. T’Rau was no different, and he knew full well that knowing one’s enemy was the first key to securing that victory. The Tal Shiar, and numerous intelligence operations, had taught him that lesson. The veteran spymaster was still ruminating on how to evaluate Ketyal’s effectiveness thus far when the young woman accidentally let her data pad drop to the floor with a clatter. The sound echoed through the lobby, drawing a handful of quick glances from other patrons before they returned their attention back to their own affairs.
Ketyal bent down to pick up the data pad off the floor, smoothing her black skirt as she did so, and glanced back at T’Rau. For a brief moment, the girl’s blue eyes met with his. Replying with a terse nod, his eyes darted to inspect the newest arrival into the lobby. The Romulan barely avoided doing a double-take as he focused on the target: Vanessa Macgruder.
‘The Tal Shiar had outdone themselves this time,’ he thought, masking a pleased smile, as the new arrival tried to untangle her blond hair, still unruly from a long day of work. Like clockwork, the target would return to her room, shower, change, and head out for a late night in the Market District’s bustling clubs. Even exhausted, the woman was nearly a mirror image for his young operative, even down to the slightly pouty expression that permanently graced her lips. Slowly, he touched his ear, triggering the small receiver resting inside.
“Target acquired,” he whispered, using his tea cup to conceal his mouth. “Number two, you may proceed with the plan – acquire the room number and report back to me.” A simple click, the sound of the second operative tapping his earpiece, was the only reply that T’Rau received. He watched the other Romulan, dressed in a black Vulcan robe with the hood drawn over his head, rise from his chair and follow the young woman on to the lift.
Stepping out of the steaming shower stall, Vanessa Macgruder was slipping on her white robe when he heard the door’s chime sound. “Housekeeping,” a young man’s voice announced. “May I turn your bed down?”
The hotel had some delicious-looking attendants working there, Vanessa recalled, some were young Polynesian men working their way through school. This one, she noted, sounded more promising than the last few attendants on duty when she had returned home. She would have to be leaving soon, she realized with a quick check of the time, but figured she might as well have a look. Who knew, she added with a slight smile, when she got back he might make her last night of civilian life very special.
“Come in,” she said coyly over her shoulder as she admired herself in the mirror. She heard the door slide open with a hiss –
A hand clamped down tight over her nose and mouth. When she reached up, trying to pry the hands from her face, she felt a sharp sudden sting in her shoulder. The edges of her vision began to darken. Desperation kicked in and Vanessa swung hard as she could; feeling the reassuring sensation of fist upon flesh. She heard a muffled grunt as the hand on her face fell away. Vanessa gasped for air before felt her head snap down and sideways. A hand was around her throat and face, tighter this time. The more the girl struggled to free herself, the weaker she became – her muscles now refusing to work. The hands left her face, but she had no more resistance. Feeling incredibly weak, she stumbled forward against the bureau, tried to balance herself and fought the urge to collapse. Slowly, Vanessa turned around.
Or did she turn? When she was able to bring her vision into focus, she found herself looking at herself.
At the same time, Ketyal stared right back at the object of all her training for so many months – the real Vanessa Dominique Macgruder. As close as the resemblance was, as Ketyal studied her doppelganger she noted that Vanessa’s hair had a more of brownish tint that her own. Also, she stood almost a full inch taller than Vanessa and, while they had the same build, Ketyal’s figure was somewhat more muscular. No doubt Vanessa’s nights of drinking and drug use accounted for the subtle differences that even the Tal Shiar had failed to keep up with. Still, she had to admit, the overall impression was of near look-alikes.
Vanessa Macgruder studied the face peering back at him, scrambling for answers through the fog that was slowly enveloping her mind. It could have been a twin, she thought, but that was impossible. Some sort of hallucination? God, she thought, I’d better loosen up on the drugs and alcohol. “Are you real,” she slurred through numbed lips.
“Yes, Vanessa,” her doppelganger replied. “I am real. As real as you are.” Vanessa’s eyes widened. She reached out to touch the apparition. Hallucination? No … a dream come true.
“Who are you?” Vanessa asked, still staring in disbelief.
“I am you Vanessa,” Ketyal answered. “I am Vanessa Macgruder. I’ve come to help you.”
“Thank you,” Vanessa replied, her dilated pupils darting back and forth, still studying the all-too-familiar face in front of her. Ketyal blinked in surprise. So did T’Rau and the pair of Tal Shiar operatives that had entered Vanessa’s hotel room with her.
“Give her here, Uhlan” seethed one of the operatives impatiently. “We don’t have all night –" Ketyal spun on her heel and scowled at the one who had dared make the impudent remark.
“Shut up,” she hissed. “And no Romulan. These walls are paper-thin.”
Through rapidly dulling senses, Vanessa reached out and clutched Ketyal’s arm. The grip tightened as the girl fought to keep from falling. Carefully, Ketyal led her across the room to the over-sized bed, and gently laid her down. Her breathing grew ragged. Blonde locks of hair framed Vanessa’s face like a halo as she whispered a faint cry of help into Ketyal’s ear. The agent did not reply. Instead, she raised her head and nodded to T’Rau. Silently and efficiently, T’Rau strode over to the side of the bed, locking eyes with the young operative.
“Are you prepared,” he asked, his eyes never waivering from Ketyal’s. She simply nodded, pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down. With the faintest touch, like a feather being swiped along her cheek, T’Rau laid his fingers on her face. She could feel the cool touch of his skin as fingers found their positions: one along her cheekbone, two more rested upon her temple, and the last hovered over her ear. She closed her eyes, forcing her racing heartbeat to slowdown as T’Rau repeated the process on the barely-conscious Vanessa. Ketyal felt her breathing slow and her sense of space and time begin to fade into nothingness as T’Rau chanted in a slow and hypnotic tone.
“Your mind to her mind … Her mind to your mind …”
Ketyal’s mind registered the sensation as a brilliant white flash of light, so bright that she reflexively squeezed her already-closed eyes. Memories hurled into her mind as if fired from a psychic supernova, but they were foreign to her. Faced with the experiences of a life not her own, Ketyal struggled to process them all, trying to catalogue each individual recollection. Yet, for every memory she could decipher, a thousand more rushed to take its place. The stream of thought devolved into a mish-mashed cloud of brief snippets, images, sensations. Only
Ketyal’s eyes snapped upon with start as T’Rau removed his hand from face, severing the psychic connection between the Romulan agent and the girl on the bed. Without a word, the seal-skin haired spymaster rose from between the two women and waved the two operatives waiting by the door over. “It took longer than it should have,” one of them muttered as he pushed past Ketyal and began to strip off Vanessa’s robe and jewelry.
“She cheated,” Ketyal said half-aloud. “On the entrance exam. She didn’t even want to come to the Academy. Her father, though, he wanted her to. She cheated on it to avoid disappointing him.” Ketyal rubbed her eyes and her temples, trying to absorb it all -- the personal impact of nearly 19 years of memories and experiences.
“Get undressed, Ketyal,” the operative said, shoving the robe and a small collection of rings into her arms. The blonde spy gave him a bewildered look.
“Vanessa,” she said as if by rote. "“The name is Vanessa.”
“Whatever your name is,” he replied hurriedly. “Get undressed and get these clothes on.” In less than minute, the two operatives had tossed Vanessa’s clothes to her and were busy putting Ketyal’s clothes on the corpse that lay on the bed. Ketyal sat back in the chair and closed her eyes trying to stop the beginnings of a pounding headache. When she opened them again, T’Rau was gone, as were the other two operatives. So too was the lifeless body of Vanessa Macgruder. Still shaky inside, Ketyal stood up and made her way to the hotel room door. Opening the door, she peered down the hallway. Nothing. The entire floor was completely empty and eerily silent.
A faint smile crossed her lips, as Ketyal looked into the mirror and began to slip on the rings that lay on the bureau. Ketyal, Daughter of the Singh, and a descendent of the rightful heirs to an empire that stretched from the Urals to the China Sea, was about to experience her first night as a human named Vanessa Macgruder.
Now she was the real Vanessa Macgruder.
The only one.
Try as she might, Ketyal could not avoid being at least slightly awed by the opulent lobby of the St. Regis hotel as she studied from her vantage point in one of the secluded sitting area surrounding an ornate Greek columns. The lobby was lavishly decorated, filled with high-backed chairs of synthetic leather, and the soft peals of a grand piano resonated with pitch-perfect precision from the adjoining hotel bar. The high glass ceiling of lobby, several stories above her head, bathed the atrium in a comforting glow as the moon lazily traced its way through the night sky. The soft light, coupled with a gentle breeze from outside the lobby sapped at Ketyal’s energy, forcing her to struggle to overcome the impulse to simply curl up in the soft fabric of the chair.
The subtle cough from a nearby lounge chair, as unremarkable as it was intrusive to Ketyal’s state of relaxation, drew her back from her thoughts and to the matter at hand. With a tense nod, and a quick rub of her face, she lifted the data pad she was reading closer to her face. Refocused, she pretended to peruse the daily headlines as her eyes scanned every person entering the lobby. She waited.
T’Rau rubbed his furrowed brow as he monitored the young operative’s progress from the nearby lounger. The spymaster sipped from a cup of tea, trying to placate the growing sense of unease that washed over him. The feeling was a common occurrence when he considered Ketyal’s ability to carry out her mission. Even after three weeks of close observation, scrutinizing every interaction she had with humans as she worked as a waitress at The Shuttlepad, he still found her lacking the intense focus and dedication of previous operatives he had worked with.
Ultimately, he realized, her biggest flaw was that she was simply too human. An interesting criticism, he noted, considering that Ketyal was genetically just as human as the billions of inhabitants of this small ball of rock and its outlying colonies. Of course, unlike Ketyal, these humans were slowly encroaching toward the sovereign territory of the Romulan Star Empire, and in accordance with the Praetor’s wishes, must be investigated. After all, as the great Romulan warlords had once written: “Victory was won, not on the battlefields, but in the temples.”
Every loyal soldier to the Empire had those words driven into their heads early in their training. T’Rau was no different, and he knew full well that knowing one’s enemy was the first key to securing that victory. The Tal Shiar, and numerous intelligence operations, had taught him that lesson. The veteran spymaster was still ruminating on how to evaluate Ketyal’s effectiveness thus far when the young woman accidentally let her data pad drop to the floor with a clatter. The sound echoed through the lobby, drawing a handful of quick glances from other patrons before they returned their attention back to their own affairs.
Ketyal bent down to pick up the data pad off the floor, smoothing her black skirt as she did so, and glanced back at T’Rau. For a brief moment, the girl’s blue eyes met with his. Replying with a terse nod, his eyes darted to inspect the newest arrival into the lobby. The Romulan barely avoided doing a double-take as he focused on the target: Vanessa Macgruder.
‘The Tal Shiar had outdone themselves this time,’ he thought, masking a pleased smile, as the new arrival tried to untangle her blond hair, still unruly from a long day of work. Like clockwork, the target would return to her room, shower, change, and head out for a late night in the Market District’s bustling clubs. Even exhausted, the woman was nearly a mirror image for his young operative, even down to the slightly pouty expression that permanently graced her lips. Slowly, he touched his ear, triggering the small receiver resting inside.
“Target acquired,” he whispered, using his tea cup to conceal his mouth. “Number two, you may proceed with the plan – acquire the room number and report back to me.” A simple click, the sound of the second operative tapping his earpiece, was the only reply that T’Rau received. He watched the other Romulan, dressed in a black Vulcan robe with the hood drawn over his head, rise from his chair and follow the young woman on to the lift.
* * *
Stepping out of the steaming shower stall, Vanessa Macgruder was slipping on her white robe when he heard the door’s chime sound. “Housekeeping,” a young man’s voice announced. “May I turn your bed down?”
The hotel had some delicious-looking attendants working there, Vanessa recalled, some were young Polynesian men working their way through school. This one, she noted, sounded more promising than the last few attendants on duty when she had returned home. She would have to be leaving soon, she realized with a quick check of the time, but figured she might as well have a look. Who knew, she added with a slight smile, when she got back he might make her last night of civilian life very special.
“Come in,” she said coyly over her shoulder as she admired herself in the mirror. She heard the door slide open with a hiss –
A hand clamped down tight over her nose and mouth. When she reached up, trying to pry the hands from her face, she felt a sharp sudden sting in her shoulder. The edges of her vision began to darken. Desperation kicked in and Vanessa swung hard as she could; feeling the reassuring sensation of fist upon flesh. She heard a muffled grunt as the hand on her face fell away. Vanessa gasped for air before felt her head snap down and sideways. A hand was around her throat and face, tighter this time. The more the girl struggled to free herself, the weaker she became – her muscles now refusing to work. The hands left her face, but she had no more resistance. Feeling incredibly weak, she stumbled forward against the bureau, tried to balance herself and fought the urge to collapse. Slowly, Vanessa turned around.
Or did she turn? When she was able to bring her vision into focus, she found herself looking at herself.
At the same time, Ketyal stared right back at the object of all her training for so many months – the real Vanessa Dominique Macgruder. As close as the resemblance was, as Ketyal studied her doppelganger she noted that Vanessa’s hair had a more of brownish tint that her own. Also, she stood almost a full inch taller than Vanessa and, while they had the same build, Ketyal’s figure was somewhat more muscular. No doubt Vanessa’s nights of drinking and drug use accounted for the subtle differences that even the Tal Shiar had failed to keep up with. Still, she had to admit, the overall impression was of near look-alikes.
Vanessa Macgruder studied the face peering back at him, scrambling for answers through the fog that was slowly enveloping her mind. It could have been a twin, she thought, but that was impossible. Some sort of hallucination? God, she thought, I’d better loosen up on the drugs and alcohol. “Are you real,” she slurred through numbed lips.
“Yes, Vanessa,” her doppelganger replied. “I am real. As real as you are.” Vanessa’s eyes widened. She reached out to touch the apparition. Hallucination? No … a dream come true.
“Who are you?” Vanessa asked, still staring in disbelief.
“I am you Vanessa,” Ketyal answered. “I am Vanessa Macgruder. I’ve come to help you.”
“Thank you,” Vanessa replied, her dilated pupils darting back and forth, still studying the all-too-familiar face in front of her. Ketyal blinked in surprise. So did T’Rau and the pair of Tal Shiar operatives that had entered Vanessa’s hotel room with her.
“Give her here, Uhlan” seethed one of the operatives impatiently. “We don’t have all night –" Ketyal spun on her heel and scowled at the one who had dared make the impudent remark.
“Shut up,” she hissed. “And no Romulan. These walls are paper-thin.”
Through rapidly dulling senses, Vanessa reached out and clutched Ketyal’s arm. The grip tightened as the girl fought to keep from falling. Carefully, Ketyal led her across the room to the over-sized bed, and gently laid her down. Her breathing grew ragged. Blonde locks of hair framed Vanessa’s face like a halo as she whispered a faint cry of help into Ketyal’s ear. The agent did not reply. Instead, she raised her head and nodded to T’Rau. Silently and efficiently, T’Rau strode over to the side of the bed, locking eyes with the young operative.
“Are you prepared,” he asked, his eyes never waivering from Ketyal’s. She simply nodded, pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down. With the faintest touch, like a feather being swiped along her cheek, T’Rau laid his fingers on her face. She could feel the cool touch of his skin as fingers found their positions: one along her cheekbone, two more rested upon her temple, and the last hovered over her ear. She closed her eyes, forcing her racing heartbeat to slowdown as T’Rau repeated the process on the barely-conscious Vanessa. Ketyal felt her breathing slow and her sense of space and time begin to fade into nothingness as T’Rau chanted in a slow and hypnotic tone.
“Your mind to her mind … Her mind to your mind …”
Ketyal’s mind registered the sensation as a brilliant white flash of light, so bright that she reflexively squeezed her already-closed eyes. Memories hurled into her mind as if fired from a psychic supernova, but they were foreign to her. Faced with the experiences of a life not her own, Ketyal struggled to process them all, trying to catalogue each individual recollection. Yet, for every memory she could decipher, a thousand more rushed to take its place. The stream of thought devolved into a mish-mashed cloud of brief snippets, images, sensations. Only
Love. Laughter. Getting her first puppy. A skinned knee. Pain. Her mother’s face. A kiss. “There all better.” Candles. A cake. Birthdays. Singing. Her father smiling as she blows out the candles. The brilliant colors of presents. School. Fear. Apprehension. Dread. Faces of friends. Of family. Of Teachers. A boy with red hair. Awkward. Shy. Holding hands. A first kiss. Heartbreak. Dances. Dresses. Prom. A date. A party. More dancing. Exams. Bad scores. Disappointment. Another test. The Academy Placement Exam. A wrist. Answers. A top score. A father’s pride. An arrest. A punishment. An acceptance letter. San Francisco. A job. Rude customers. The hotel. A knock on the door. Fear. Pain. Confusion. Release.
A second flash of light.
A second flash of light.
Ketyal’s eyes snapped upon with start as T’Rau removed his hand from face, severing the psychic connection between the Romulan agent and the girl on the bed. Without a word, the seal-skin haired spymaster rose from between the two women and waved the two operatives waiting by the door over. “It took longer than it should have,” one of them muttered as he pushed past Ketyal and began to strip off Vanessa’s robe and jewelry.
“She cheated,” Ketyal said half-aloud. “On the entrance exam. She didn’t even want to come to the Academy. Her father, though, he wanted her to. She cheated on it to avoid disappointing him.” Ketyal rubbed her eyes and her temples, trying to absorb it all -- the personal impact of nearly 19 years of memories and experiences.
“Get undressed, Ketyal,” the operative said, shoving the robe and a small collection of rings into her arms. The blonde spy gave him a bewildered look.
“Vanessa,” she said as if by rote. "“The name is Vanessa.”
“Whatever your name is,” he replied hurriedly. “Get undressed and get these clothes on.” In less than minute, the two operatives had tossed Vanessa’s clothes to her and were busy putting Ketyal’s clothes on the corpse that lay on the bed. Ketyal sat back in the chair and closed her eyes trying to stop the beginnings of a pounding headache. When she opened them again, T’Rau was gone, as were the other two operatives. So too was the lifeless body of Vanessa Macgruder. Still shaky inside, Ketyal stood up and made her way to the hotel room door. Opening the door, she peered down the hallway. Nothing. The entire floor was completely empty and eerily silent.
A faint smile crossed her lips, as Ketyal looked into the mirror and began to slip on the rings that lay on the bureau. Ketyal, Daughter of the Singh, and a descendent of the rightful heirs to an empire that stretched from the Urals to the China Sea, was about to experience her first night as a human named Vanessa Macgruder.
Now she was the real Vanessa Macgruder.
The only one.
Chapter 15: Commitment
All Ariah Richards ever wanted to be was a member of Starfleet, like her mother. Now, at 18, she stands at the start of her journey towards realizing that dream. But, she could not imagine how the experience would change not only her life, but also the future of Earth itself.
One thousand, eighty-nine…
For three years, the face stared at her. Unblinking, all knowing, and unavoidable, the gentle green eyes peered out at her, watching her grow from an awkward young girl to the person she was today. The smile on the face became a reminder, an ever-present impetus to ‘never quit, never surrender, and never lose.’ The picture drove her.
One thousand, ninety …
Her mother had taught her that simple mantra when she was twelve. She could still remember her mother’s face, as she had spoken the words -- the motto of Starfleet's Aerospace Command. A glint of cold steel flashed behind the kind eyes and she felt a swell of pride at herself and her daughter.
One thousand, ninety-one…
Just two days before, Ariah Richards had attended the Armistice Day air show to watch her own mother perform with the Fleet acrobatic team, the Red Dragons. From the ground, jaw agape, she stared as her mother, and seven other pilots, flung their fighters through crowd-pleasing maneuvers.
One-thousand, ninety-two…
She’d covered her eyes several times, as the fighters roared past each with carefully choreographed precision, the tips of their aerofoils streaking past each other’s cockpits with just mere feet to spare. At least twice, the blurs of red had merged together, and Ariah swore that the small, maneuverable craft had collided. But there was no fire, no panic, and no sign of any trouble, except the gasp of a small girl.
One thousand, ninety-three…
When she asked whether they had hit each other, up there in the baby blue sky, Mother explained later that it was simply an optical illusion. It had been a perfect performance, she added with a contented smile and confident thumbs-up. It was the same expression; Ariah had seen when the Red Dragons taxied back to the flight line, their performance complete.
One thousand, ninety-four…
When the fighters were stopped and powered down, all eight pilots stood in their cockpits; brilliant in their immaculate red flight suits, removed their helmets, and waved to the adoring crowd. Ariah remembered watching, captivated and clapping wildly, as her mother stood, tucked her helmet under her left arm, and her beautiful auburn hair spilled down around her shoulders. She cast the crowd a recruiting poster perfect smile, and thumbs up.
One thousand, ninety-five…
“I want to be a pilot, like you!”
On the drive home several hours later, Ariah, still bubbling with excitement, had blurted out those words. It was a radical transformation for the young girl, who just a day before had been more interested in boys, fashion and music. Now, in the blink of an eye, she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and become a member of the United Earth Aerospace Command. Ariah could see her mother’s eyes glisten, her voice filled with pride, as she explained what it would take to her young daughter: intelligence, athletic prowess, and discipline.
One thousand, ninety-six…
Ariah had always been good at school, particularly in her scientific studies and mathematics. After her mother’s speech however, those scores jumped to the top of the class. Awards and recognition came soon afterwards, blue ribbons in city-wide science fairs, and math competitions. She became unrelentingly competitive, studying, cramming, and pushing for every percentage point when it came to grades.
One thousand, ninety-seven…
Athletic prowess was another story. Her mother was gifted with the grace and inner balance of a ballerina. But that genetic treasure had not carried down to her daughter. She struggled with team sports, and gymnastics became its own particular brand of hell. Ariah could remember coming home from a competition, in tears, after failing to stick the dismount from the uneven bars. It had cost her team a chance to win, and the guilt, shame, and disappointment broke her normally stubborn pride.
Her mother, home on leave, had taken her aside when she ran in the front door. Tears flowed down her face as Ariah admitted her defeat. She couldn’t do it. She was too uncoordinated. She would never become a pilot.
“You can too,” her mother said, wiping her daughter’s tears away with a tissue, “if you really want to be. You’ll just have to work on the athletic part. You are lucky, most people struggle in the academic part. But, for you it’s easy. But, you have to want to try.”
One thousand, ninety-eight…
Ariah looked up hopefully at her mother, green eyes meeting green eyes. She nodded, even as salty tears still flowed down her rosy cheeks. That night, they began running through the neighborhood, doing push-ups, doing sit-ups. Throughout secondary school, while most students spent their nights studying for their classes, she spent the evening following doggedly after her mother.
Day after day, she struggled to keep up, until finally one day, her junior year, she looked down, as the miles past under her feet that she was keeping up. Stride for muscular stride, push-up for push-up, sit-up for strenuous sit-up.
One thousand, ninety-nine…
Ariah lifted herself off the floor of her room, once more, carefully regulating her breathing as her arms pushed her into the air. Her back remained ramrod straight, as she reached her apex. She exhaled. and headed back to the floor, to repeat the cycle.
Her determined green eyes focused on the picture of her mother on her dresser.
Each day, she looked more and more like her mother now. The petite build, slender strength, determination lurking behind her green eyes. Even her auburn hair, wrapped in a tight bun as she worked out, was the same. The only difference was the smattering of freckles on her cheeks.
She could even hear her mother’s gentle voice in her head: Come on baby, one more. Ariah rose and fell, blowing an errant wisp of hair out of her face. You can do it; I know it, her mother said from deep in her mind. I know you can. Now, say it . . .
Her exhausted arms quivered, and sweat beaded on her forehead, as Cadet Ariah Fairchild Richards lifted herself once more into the air. Her breathing was ragged, her entire body aching, but up she went. As she reached the top, she held herself there, gritting her teeth as her body tried to disobey her commands.
“One-hundred,” she yelled, filling her room with the pronouncement.
Her voice echoed through the house. In his bedroom, watching the holo-screen, her widower father heard it. He looked up, eyes full of concern, and sighed. Hoisting up his can of beer, he stood and looked at the picture of his wife, draped with a black cloth. “Well,” he slurred drunkenly, “she made I … she got in … another member of the family to die in the name of the United Earth.” He walked up to the picture, and glowered at it. “I just hope you’re proud of yourself.”
As she bounded up to the top of the stairs after her five-mile run, Ariah Richards saw her father leaving the bedroom unsteadily and looking at something in his hand. He looked worried, Ariah thought. “Is something wrong, Dad,” she asked, wiping beads of sweat from her brow with a towel.
Startled, Giovanni Richards turned quickly. “Oh, Ariah. I was looking for you,” he said, his speech slightly slurred from the ever-present alcohol. He hesitated, and then held out a small box. “I want you to have this. Your mother bought it when she was deployed to Tellar, and …”
His voice trailed off as Ariah opened the box. Inside was a small golden ring with a brilliant flame-red ruby mounted atop it. Ariah looked up and saw tears forming in her father’s eyes. “Dad,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
Giovanni looked at his daughter, only seventeen, petite, bright and full of fun – just like her mother. She’s been a cheerleader, student council president, a gymnast and a top student too, he thought, his chest swelling with pride. ‘But,’ his mind added sourly, ‘she doesn’t even realize what a sacrifice she is making by entering the military – even if it is Starfleet. And, I don’t know how to tell her.’ It was the moments like this, most of all, which made Giovanni ache for Ariah’s mother. She would have known how to explain the challenges that their daughter would face.
He reached out and ran his fingers through his daughter’s brown hair. “You had to cut off almost all your hair,” he said with a hint of sadness. “It’s so short now.”
Ariah laughed her mother’s full throaty laugh. “I know,” she said, fingering her straight her absently. “Remember when I found out I’d have to cut it and said, ‘That’s it. I’m not going?’” The young girl shook her head.
“It’s cute, honey,” replied Giovanni warmly, his doubts increasing to near-panic proportions. ‘I’m sending my first-born to go learn how to be a warrior,’ his mind screamed. ‘How will she ever survive alone?’
Giovanni tried to fight back his emotions, but it was impossible to contain his anxiety about her impending departure any longer. “Ariah,” he blurted out. “I don’t want you to leave.” It was a lament, not a request, for he knew Ariah’s resolve. He pulled his daughter close and hugged her tightly, not wanting to let go.
“I love you, Dad,” Ariah whispered, clinging just as strongly to her father. ‘I’m not sure I want to leave yet either,’ she added silently. Yet, imbued with the confidence of youth, the petite girl knew this was the right thing.
Ariah had always wanted to enlist in Starfleet after graduating from college. The adventure and opportunity to travel beyond the confines of the solar system attracted her, like it did tens of thousands of other enlistees. Her dream to become a pilot, like her mother had been, only pushed her further toward that path. And, Giovanni knew perfectly well, that the more he tried to pull her away from the military, the closer she got to it. After all, just like her mother, Ariah was ingrained with an unyielding desire to pursue anything and everything placed off-limits.
“We’d better get you ready,” he said, letting go first, and stroking his daughter’s hair one more time. “Your friends will be here to take you to the yacht club in a few minutes.” Ariah walked down to the bathroom to shower, stopped and looked back at her father in the hallway. “Go on,” he said calmly. “I’ll be fine. You have fun.”
Ariah was not prepared for the crowd that awaited her at the yacht club that evening. Friends, family, fellow cheerleaders and the football team succeeded in surprising her with a cake that read: “Move over Fellas! Here I come!” and a pair of camouflage bikini underwear that read “STARFLEET PROPERTY” on the seat. After a last toast to Ariah, her friends ceremoniously picked her up on their shoulders, and carried her out to the pier. Despite her protests, they promptly heaved her into the chilly Piscataqua River for her first ‘wetting down’ ceremony. Ariah splashed to surface, her clothes clinging to her skin. Her teeth chattered as she laughed. The heart-warming sound echoed down the river and back to the lit patio of the yacht club, where Giovanni heard it and smiled at the sounds of his daughter’s joy.
For that moment, he was sure; it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
It seemed to Ariah a thing of great beauty, just across the bay, resplendent bathed in the oranges and reds of the setting sun. Sparkling blue water and lush green fields surrounded the massive contemporary buildings of beige stone and smoky brown glass thrust amid the older buildings of grey-white stone and sea-green roofs that made up the ancient Presidio.
The tremendous copper dome of Cochrane Hall, gleaming the sun’s dying light, rose higher than all others, as if symbolizing the surpremacy of faith, honor, and respect – the traditions of the newly-formed Starfleet. Ariah did not know the names of all the buildings, only the ones highlighted in the recruiting information, but it made no difference. Not now, in her eyes, they all formed together into an architectural monument called Starfleet Academy. A man-made temple that there was a brighter future for mankind somewhere out in the heavens, and that mankind was going to achieve that future.
She stood there at the scenic overlook near the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, pausing on this final leg of her trek from Virginia. Tomorrow, July 6 2250, Ariah Denise Richards would be embarking on her future as one of the first cadets admitted to Starfleet Academy. She had worked toward this goal, long before her Parliament representive had signed the letter of recommendation, granting the teenager his permission for her to be granted admission. She had heard a 4.0 grade-point average in her classes and trained herself physically, but the emotional preparation had been the most challenging.
Ariah’s friends and family had been supportive, even her father, although his misgivings about her decision was obvious. Others around her, however, held widely differing opinions. Her jaw tightened as she recalled the taunts of “green-blood,” and “Vulcan lover” flung at her by some of the students in her school. Some claimed she was trying to run away from an abusive father, a charge that had resulted in Ariah rewarding the accuser with a busted lip. Others claimed she was going to transformed into a mindless automotron, bent on killing – a sign that even a century after the end of the Eugenics Wars, there was still a strong undercurrent of distrust toward the military.
‘How could they be so narrow-minded,’ Ariah wondered. ‘How hard is it to believe that I want to see what’s out there. That I want to help people by exploring new worlds?’ She shook her head in frustration. “Screw ‘em,” her father had whispered one night after she came home fuming from the accusations. “You don’t have to prove anything to them. Just be the best officer you can. Don’t let their prejudices get you down and eventually they’ll see what you have believed all along.”
This was a glorious moment, Ariah thought, wishing her family could see the panoramic view. But, she also knew the real triumph would lay nearly four years in the future.
She studied the buildings a moment longer. They looked so immaculate, so pure – so wholly dedicated to the moral, mental and physical preparation of professional Starfleet officers. Their gleaming facades promised enlightenment, challenge, and hard work. The satisfaction of giving her utmost in the service of her planet would be the highest reward she could receive.
As the sun dropped below the Presidio’s hilly peaks, Winston Churchill’s words flashed through Ariah’s mind: “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat ...”
All Ariah Richards ever wanted to be was a member of Starfleet, like her mother. Now, at 18, she stands at the start of her journey towards realizing that dream. But, she could not imagine how the experience would change not only her life, but also the future of Earth itself.
One thousand, eighty-nine…
For three years, the face stared at her. Unblinking, all knowing, and unavoidable, the gentle green eyes peered out at her, watching her grow from an awkward young girl to the person she was today. The smile on the face became a reminder, an ever-present impetus to ‘never quit, never surrender, and never lose.’ The picture drove her.
One thousand, ninety …
Her mother had taught her that simple mantra when she was twelve. She could still remember her mother’s face, as she had spoken the words -- the motto of Starfleet's Aerospace Command. A glint of cold steel flashed behind the kind eyes and she felt a swell of pride at herself and her daughter.
One thousand, ninety-one…
Just two days before, Ariah Richards had attended the Armistice Day air show to watch her own mother perform with the Fleet acrobatic team, the Red Dragons. From the ground, jaw agape, she stared as her mother, and seven other pilots, flung their fighters through crowd-pleasing maneuvers.
One-thousand, ninety-two…
She’d covered her eyes several times, as the fighters roared past each with carefully choreographed precision, the tips of their aerofoils streaking past each other’s cockpits with just mere feet to spare. At least twice, the blurs of red had merged together, and Ariah swore that the small, maneuverable craft had collided. But there was no fire, no panic, and no sign of any trouble, except the gasp of a small girl.
One thousand, ninety-three…
When she asked whether they had hit each other, up there in the baby blue sky, Mother explained later that it was simply an optical illusion. It had been a perfect performance, she added with a contented smile and confident thumbs-up. It was the same expression; Ariah had seen when the Red Dragons taxied back to the flight line, their performance complete.
One thousand, ninety-four…
When the fighters were stopped and powered down, all eight pilots stood in their cockpits; brilliant in their immaculate red flight suits, removed their helmets, and waved to the adoring crowd. Ariah remembered watching, captivated and clapping wildly, as her mother stood, tucked her helmet under her left arm, and her beautiful auburn hair spilled down around her shoulders. She cast the crowd a recruiting poster perfect smile, and thumbs up.
One thousand, ninety-five…
“I want to be a pilot, like you!”
On the drive home several hours later, Ariah, still bubbling with excitement, had blurted out those words. It was a radical transformation for the young girl, who just a day before had been more interested in boys, fashion and music. Now, in the blink of an eye, she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps, and become a member of the United Earth Aerospace Command. Ariah could see her mother’s eyes glisten, her voice filled with pride, as she explained what it would take to her young daughter: intelligence, athletic prowess, and discipline.
One thousand, ninety-six…
Ariah had always been good at school, particularly in her scientific studies and mathematics. After her mother’s speech however, those scores jumped to the top of the class. Awards and recognition came soon afterwards, blue ribbons in city-wide science fairs, and math competitions. She became unrelentingly competitive, studying, cramming, and pushing for every percentage point when it came to grades.
One thousand, ninety-seven…
Athletic prowess was another story. Her mother was gifted with the grace and inner balance of a ballerina. But that genetic treasure had not carried down to her daughter. She struggled with team sports, and gymnastics became its own particular brand of hell. Ariah could remember coming home from a competition, in tears, after failing to stick the dismount from the uneven bars. It had cost her team a chance to win, and the guilt, shame, and disappointment broke her normally stubborn pride.
Her mother, home on leave, had taken her aside when she ran in the front door. Tears flowed down her face as Ariah admitted her defeat. She couldn’t do it. She was too uncoordinated. She would never become a pilot.
“You can too,” her mother said, wiping her daughter’s tears away with a tissue, “if you really want to be. You’ll just have to work on the athletic part. You are lucky, most people struggle in the academic part. But, for you it’s easy. But, you have to want to try.”
One thousand, ninety-eight…
Ariah looked up hopefully at her mother, green eyes meeting green eyes. She nodded, even as salty tears still flowed down her rosy cheeks. That night, they began running through the neighborhood, doing push-ups, doing sit-ups. Throughout secondary school, while most students spent their nights studying for their classes, she spent the evening following doggedly after her mother.
Day after day, she struggled to keep up, until finally one day, her junior year, she looked down, as the miles past under her feet that she was keeping up. Stride for muscular stride, push-up for push-up, sit-up for strenuous sit-up.
One thousand, ninety-nine…
Ariah lifted herself off the floor of her room, once more, carefully regulating her breathing as her arms pushed her into the air. Her back remained ramrod straight, as she reached her apex. She exhaled. and headed back to the floor, to repeat the cycle.
Her determined green eyes focused on the picture of her mother on her dresser.
Each day, she looked more and more like her mother now. The petite build, slender strength, determination lurking behind her green eyes. Even her auburn hair, wrapped in a tight bun as she worked out, was the same. The only difference was the smattering of freckles on her cheeks.
She could even hear her mother’s gentle voice in her head: Come on baby, one more. Ariah rose and fell, blowing an errant wisp of hair out of her face. You can do it; I know it, her mother said from deep in her mind. I know you can. Now, say it . . .
Her exhausted arms quivered, and sweat beaded on her forehead, as Cadet Ariah Fairchild Richards lifted herself once more into the air. Her breathing was ragged, her entire body aching, but up she went. As she reached the top, she held herself there, gritting her teeth as her body tried to disobey her commands.
“One-hundred,” she yelled, filling her room with the pronouncement.
Her voice echoed through the house. In his bedroom, watching the holo-screen, her widower father heard it. He looked up, eyes full of concern, and sighed. Hoisting up his can of beer, he stood and looked at the picture of his wife, draped with a black cloth. “Well,” he slurred drunkenly, “she made I … she got in … another member of the family to die in the name of the United Earth.” He walked up to the picture, and glowered at it. “I just hope you’re proud of yourself.”
* * *
As she bounded up to the top of the stairs after her five-mile run, Ariah Richards saw her father leaving the bedroom unsteadily and looking at something in his hand. He looked worried, Ariah thought. “Is something wrong, Dad,” she asked, wiping beads of sweat from her brow with a towel.
Startled, Giovanni Richards turned quickly. “Oh, Ariah. I was looking for you,” he said, his speech slightly slurred from the ever-present alcohol. He hesitated, and then held out a small box. “I want you to have this. Your mother bought it when she was deployed to Tellar, and …”
His voice trailed off as Ariah opened the box. Inside was a small golden ring with a brilliant flame-red ruby mounted atop it. Ariah looked up and saw tears forming in her father’s eyes. “Dad,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
Giovanni looked at his daughter, only seventeen, petite, bright and full of fun – just like her mother. She’s been a cheerleader, student council president, a gymnast and a top student too, he thought, his chest swelling with pride. ‘But,’ his mind added sourly, ‘she doesn’t even realize what a sacrifice she is making by entering the military – even if it is Starfleet. And, I don’t know how to tell her.’ It was the moments like this, most of all, which made Giovanni ache for Ariah’s mother. She would have known how to explain the challenges that their daughter would face.
He reached out and ran his fingers through his daughter’s brown hair. “You had to cut off almost all your hair,” he said with a hint of sadness. “It’s so short now.”
Ariah laughed her mother’s full throaty laugh. “I know,” she said, fingering her straight her absently. “Remember when I found out I’d have to cut it and said, ‘That’s it. I’m not going?’” The young girl shook her head.
“It’s cute, honey,” replied Giovanni warmly, his doubts increasing to near-panic proportions. ‘I’m sending my first-born to go learn how to be a warrior,’ his mind screamed. ‘How will she ever survive alone?’
Giovanni tried to fight back his emotions, but it was impossible to contain his anxiety about her impending departure any longer. “Ariah,” he blurted out. “I don’t want you to leave.” It was a lament, not a request, for he knew Ariah’s resolve. He pulled his daughter close and hugged her tightly, not wanting to let go.
“I love you, Dad,” Ariah whispered, clinging just as strongly to her father. ‘I’m not sure I want to leave yet either,’ she added silently. Yet, imbued with the confidence of youth, the petite girl knew this was the right thing.
Ariah had always wanted to enlist in Starfleet after graduating from college. The adventure and opportunity to travel beyond the confines of the solar system attracted her, like it did tens of thousands of other enlistees. Her dream to become a pilot, like her mother had been, only pushed her further toward that path. And, Giovanni knew perfectly well, that the more he tried to pull her away from the military, the closer she got to it. After all, just like her mother, Ariah was ingrained with an unyielding desire to pursue anything and everything placed off-limits.
“We’d better get you ready,” he said, letting go first, and stroking his daughter’s hair one more time. “Your friends will be here to take you to the yacht club in a few minutes.” Ariah walked down to the bathroom to shower, stopped and looked back at her father in the hallway. “Go on,” he said calmly. “I’ll be fine. You have fun.”
Ariah was not prepared for the crowd that awaited her at the yacht club that evening. Friends, family, fellow cheerleaders and the football team succeeded in surprising her with a cake that read: “Move over Fellas! Here I come!” and a pair of camouflage bikini underwear that read “STARFLEET PROPERTY” on the seat. After a last toast to Ariah, her friends ceremoniously picked her up on their shoulders, and carried her out to the pier. Despite her protests, they promptly heaved her into the chilly Piscataqua River for her first ‘wetting down’ ceremony. Ariah splashed to surface, her clothes clinging to her skin. Her teeth chattered as she laughed. The heart-warming sound echoed down the river and back to the lit patio of the yacht club, where Giovanni heard it and smiled at the sounds of his daughter’s joy.
For that moment, he was sure; it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.
* * *
It seemed to Ariah a thing of great beauty, just across the bay, resplendent bathed in the oranges and reds of the setting sun. Sparkling blue water and lush green fields surrounded the massive contemporary buildings of beige stone and smoky brown glass thrust amid the older buildings of grey-white stone and sea-green roofs that made up the ancient Presidio.
The tremendous copper dome of Cochrane Hall, gleaming the sun’s dying light, rose higher than all others, as if symbolizing the surpremacy of faith, honor, and respect – the traditions of the newly-formed Starfleet. Ariah did not know the names of all the buildings, only the ones highlighted in the recruiting information, but it made no difference. Not now, in her eyes, they all formed together into an architectural monument called Starfleet Academy. A man-made temple that there was a brighter future for mankind somewhere out in the heavens, and that mankind was going to achieve that future.
She stood there at the scenic overlook near the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, pausing on this final leg of her trek from Virginia. Tomorrow, July 6 2250, Ariah Denise Richards would be embarking on her future as one of the first cadets admitted to Starfleet Academy. She had worked toward this goal, long before her Parliament representive had signed the letter of recommendation, granting the teenager his permission for her to be granted admission. She had heard a 4.0 grade-point average in her classes and trained herself physically, but the emotional preparation had been the most challenging.
Ariah’s friends and family had been supportive, even her father, although his misgivings about her decision was obvious. Others around her, however, held widely differing opinions. Her jaw tightened as she recalled the taunts of “green-blood,” and “Vulcan lover” flung at her by some of the students in her school. Some claimed she was trying to run away from an abusive father, a charge that had resulted in Ariah rewarding the accuser with a busted lip. Others claimed she was going to transformed into a mindless automotron, bent on killing – a sign that even a century after the end of the Eugenics Wars, there was still a strong undercurrent of distrust toward the military.
‘How could they be so narrow-minded,’ Ariah wondered. ‘How hard is it to believe that I want to see what’s out there. That I want to help people by exploring new worlds?’ She shook her head in frustration. “Screw ‘em,” her father had whispered one night after she came home fuming from the accusations. “You don’t have to prove anything to them. Just be the best officer you can. Don’t let their prejudices get you down and eventually they’ll see what you have believed all along.”
This was a glorious moment, Ariah thought, wishing her family could see the panoramic view. But, she also knew the real triumph would lay nearly four years in the future.
She studied the buildings a moment longer. They looked so immaculate, so pure – so wholly dedicated to the moral, mental and physical preparation of professional Starfleet officers. Their gleaming facades promised enlightenment, challenge, and hard work. The satisfaction of giving her utmost in the service of her planet would be the highest reward she could receive.
As the sun dropped below the Presidio’s hilly peaks, Winston Churchill’s words flashed through Ariah’s mind: “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat ...”
The soundtrack for part one of "Their Finest Hour" is available online:
http://www.clearspring.com/widgets/48f3ef6c29317865?p=48f3ef6c62740582
The track list is:
Attack on the Abukuma: “1SQ” from Crimson Tide by Hans Zimmer
Tribunal and Aftermath: “Roll Tide” from Crimson Tide by Hans Zimmer
Objects in Motion: “Car Crash” from Clumsy by Our Lady Peace
Roundhouse: “The Warrior Code” by The Dropkick Murphys
Consequences: “Helluva Bar Talk” from Star Trek by Michael Giacchino
Setting and Rising of the Sun: “Lifetime” by Better Than Ezra
Doppelganger: “Death of Vesper” from Casino Royale by David Arnold
Commitment: “I don’t belong here” from The Time Machine by Klaus Badelt
http://www.clearspring.com/widgets/48f3ef6c29317865?p=48f3ef6c62740582
The track list is:
Attack on the Abukuma: “1SQ” from Crimson Tide by Hans Zimmer
Tribunal and Aftermath: “Roll Tide” from Crimson Tide by Hans Zimmer
Objects in Motion: “Car Crash” from Clumsy by Our Lady Peace
Roundhouse: “The Warrior Code” by The Dropkick Murphys
Consequences: “Helluva Bar Talk” from Star Trek by Michael Giacchino
Setting and Rising of the Sun: “Lifetime” by Better Than Ezra
Doppelganger: “Death of Vesper” from Casino Royale by David Arnold
Commitment: “I don’t belong here” from The Time Machine by Klaus Badelt
CHAPTER 16: Vows Made, Graces Received
On the morning of Induction Day, future Starfleet cadet Seth McClusky looks for guidance from a source far beyond the limits of the known universe as he prepares to cast aside his old life for a new world of adventure.
Seth McClusky tried to slip discretely into the back pew, hoping he could remember the Act of Contrition. It had been a long time since he had entered a church, and even longer since he had prayed. He glanced around the smooth walled sanctuary almost furtively. The church looked nothing like the one he had attended as child, yet he still half expected someone to point him out even though he was a continent away from his home parish. Despite the differences, the smell of incense, the holy water fountains and plaster Stations of the Cross were familiar enough to rekindle memories of Boston and years of stormy and terrifying Good Fridays.
A pang of guilt stabbed through him. It had been six years since he had last attended mass, seven since he had performed his Easter duty and gone to confession and communion. He’d been an altar boy, a good Catholic boy at any standards. But then that wellspring of adolescence had erupted in him. Along with a deepening of his voice they also brought about awareness in Seth of an unsolvable problem: How could he possibly be truthful in confession? How could he confess to the frail old father, a frequent guest at the McCluskys’ dinner table, what he wanted to do – and sometimes did – with just about every girl he laid his hazel eyes on?
He could not. That was as close to an answer as he could find. Not then, and not now. The corresponding drift away from church had been slow, but inevitable, like a piece of driftwood slowly washing out into the cold waters of the Atlantic. He tried to substitute direct prayer for the confessional, avoiding the dilemma entirely, but to no avail. No true South Boston Catholic could ever really believe that there was communion without absolution. So he was trapped. Teenage rebellion was one thing, but eternal damnation quite another. The only solution left then had been to ignore the whole thing.
He began to understand a little what it was that had kept the parishioners in his old neighborhood coming to mass. Every morning, rain or shine, the front pews would fill with little old ladies running their hands along their rosaries, casting disapproving looks at old man Gerhardt and his sidekick Quigley, who were drunk together in Foley’s Tavern every night and hung-over together every morning at mass.
When Seth’s urges began to get the upper hand on his faith, he would sit in the incense-laden sanctuary trying to negotiation his own personal deal with God, trying to maintain contact outside the varnished pine walls of the confessional. His fellow altar boys, like Seth the rough and raucous sons of steelworkers, would question the existence of God over a bottle of pilfered sacramental wine. But, Seth never doubted the Supreme Being’s presence – not even for a moment. He just was not entirely convinced that God had a need for men like Pops Trombley to intercede. Surely, Seth reasoned, God would not have put all that mindless passion between his legs and then expect him to ignore it, as Father Trombley obviously did.
Early on, Seth’s prayers had been simple: Please, Dear God, keep Dad sober, or if he gets drunk, don’t let him go to church. And: Please don’t let Sister Kenelma deck me with her sweet right cross because I didn’t do my homework.
But as he grew older, he found that he was not praying. He was talking, as he would to a sober father or a loving mother. He was trying to work out a plan, to bring together the sense he had of being somebody against the continual hard knocks of being poor. He tried working out a deal. Maybe that would be a way to get to school, make a little money, come back and do a little something for the church. But, the offer simply fell on Father Trombley’s deaf ears.
Seth knew you could not pay off God – although he suspected that God was the only one who couldn’t be paid off in South Boston – but, he reasoned, sometimes a little extra prayer, a little extra talk, seemed to do the trick. He felt he’d prayed his way into his first ground car, a rickety rust-covered sedan. And on a handful of occasions, he’d prayed to get his girl of the week into the back seat for a little time together, until he suddenly succeeded in satisfying those teenage impulses and immediately felt he’d been sacrilegious.
But, as his last year of school wound to a close, he prayed, negotiated, talked and begged for one thing: A chance to escape from the economic wasteland of South Boston, and the black hole that was his neighborhood, an abyss that swallowed up his friends and classmates and trapped them in an unending cycle of poverty, violence, and suffering.
He had prayed to flee the crumbling bungalow with the overgrown yard and windows covered by aluminum that his family called home. He prayed to escape his father’s drunken rampages and the morass that consumed his mother. She had become a pathetic, lie-down comic as the family slid deeper into poverty and misery, dispensing bitter defensive irony with the same fervor that her husband dispensed lies.
When Seth had walked out for the last time, a week ago, her favorite observation -- and only attempt to explain her state -- was “We’re Irish, of course, Seth. But not lace-curtain Irish, not even shanty Irish. We’re aluminum-window Irish.” Whenever she said it, she’d laugh heartily, revealing an array of missing of teeth. Even four-thousand kilometers away, the memory of that wheezing laugh tore at Seth. He’d tried to understand them, tried to understand what he should do, how he could help, but it never worked. So, he talked to God instead. And, for once, the teenager got an answer: Leave. Go to California. Don’t look back. He obeyed.
The church, nestled in the heart of San Francisco, was deserted except for two little Italian women in the front row, swathed in black. Seth felt around in his pockets, finding a wadded up credit. He went forward to the candles flickering in front of the statue of Saint Joseph. He’d always liked Saint Joseph, who, in Seth’s mind, had never gotten a fair deal either. It could not have been easy, he thought, having a virgin for a wife and a god for a son.
Seth dropped the folded-up C-bill into the offering box, lit a candle, and ran quickly through three Hail Mary’s, three Our Fathers and an Act of Contrition. Then he got serious, clinched his eyes shut and knelt before the altar.
“Please, dear God,” he whispered. “Just let me get through the Academy. Don’t make me go back to that place, no matter what happens. Don’t let me go back.” For a moment, he waited for an answer, hoping against hope that a thunderous voice would answer him or a burning bush would provide him some sense that God was listening. There was none.
Seth rose from his knees, tossing his backpack over his shoulder, and walked down the center aisle of the sanctuary and out onto the street. He looked around, savoring the peaceful stillness of the California morning and watched as the darkness of the pre-dawn morning slowly faded away, bathing the sky in an ever brightening shade of purple.
A sense of satisfaction and calmness filled his body as he turned and walked down the steep sidewalk toward the gleaming steel bridge glowing a brilliant orange as the first rays of morning washed over it. At the foot of the bridge lay the Presidio, the Academy, and the new life that awaited him.
On the morning of Induction Day, future Starfleet cadet Seth McClusky looks for guidance from a source far beyond the limits of the known universe as he prepares to cast aside his old life for a new world of adventure.
Seth McClusky tried to slip discretely into the back pew, hoping he could remember the Act of Contrition. It had been a long time since he had entered a church, and even longer since he had prayed. He glanced around the smooth walled sanctuary almost furtively. The church looked nothing like the one he had attended as child, yet he still half expected someone to point him out even though he was a continent away from his home parish. Despite the differences, the smell of incense, the holy water fountains and plaster Stations of the Cross were familiar enough to rekindle memories of Boston and years of stormy and terrifying Good Fridays.
A pang of guilt stabbed through him. It had been six years since he had last attended mass, seven since he had performed his Easter duty and gone to confession and communion. He’d been an altar boy, a good Catholic boy at any standards. But then that wellspring of adolescence had erupted in him. Along with a deepening of his voice they also brought about awareness in Seth of an unsolvable problem: How could he possibly be truthful in confession? How could he confess to the frail old father, a frequent guest at the McCluskys’ dinner table, what he wanted to do – and sometimes did – with just about every girl he laid his hazel eyes on?
He could not. That was as close to an answer as he could find. Not then, and not now. The corresponding drift away from church had been slow, but inevitable, like a piece of driftwood slowly washing out into the cold waters of the Atlantic. He tried to substitute direct prayer for the confessional, avoiding the dilemma entirely, but to no avail. No true South Boston Catholic could ever really believe that there was communion without absolution. So he was trapped. Teenage rebellion was one thing, but eternal damnation quite another. The only solution left then had been to ignore the whole thing.
He began to understand a little what it was that had kept the parishioners in his old neighborhood coming to mass. Every morning, rain or shine, the front pews would fill with little old ladies running their hands along their rosaries, casting disapproving looks at old man Gerhardt and his sidekick Quigley, who were drunk together in Foley’s Tavern every night and hung-over together every morning at mass.
When Seth’s urges began to get the upper hand on his faith, he would sit in the incense-laden sanctuary trying to negotiation his own personal deal with God, trying to maintain contact outside the varnished pine walls of the confessional. His fellow altar boys, like Seth the rough and raucous sons of steelworkers, would question the existence of God over a bottle of pilfered sacramental wine. But, Seth never doubted the Supreme Being’s presence – not even for a moment. He just was not entirely convinced that God had a need for men like Pops Trombley to intercede. Surely, Seth reasoned, God would not have put all that mindless passion between his legs and then expect him to ignore it, as Father Trombley obviously did.
Early on, Seth’s prayers had been simple: Please, Dear God, keep Dad sober, or if he gets drunk, don’t let him go to church. And: Please don’t let Sister Kenelma deck me with her sweet right cross because I didn’t do my homework.
But as he grew older, he found that he was not praying. He was talking, as he would to a sober father or a loving mother. He was trying to work out a plan, to bring together the sense he had of being somebody against the continual hard knocks of being poor. He tried working out a deal. Maybe that would be a way to get to school, make a little money, come back and do a little something for the church. But, the offer simply fell on Father Trombley’s deaf ears.
Seth knew you could not pay off God – although he suspected that God was the only one who couldn’t be paid off in South Boston – but, he reasoned, sometimes a little extra prayer, a little extra talk, seemed to do the trick. He felt he’d prayed his way into his first ground car, a rickety rust-covered sedan. And on a handful of occasions, he’d prayed to get his girl of the week into the back seat for a little time together, until he suddenly succeeded in satisfying those teenage impulses and immediately felt he’d been sacrilegious.
But, as his last year of school wound to a close, he prayed, negotiated, talked and begged for one thing: A chance to escape from the economic wasteland of South Boston, and the black hole that was his neighborhood, an abyss that swallowed up his friends and classmates and trapped them in an unending cycle of poverty, violence, and suffering.
He had prayed to flee the crumbling bungalow with the overgrown yard and windows covered by aluminum that his family called home. He prayed to escape his father’s drunken rampages and the morass that consumed his mother. She had become a pathetic, lie-down comic as the family slid deeper into poverty and misery, dispensing bitter defensive irony with the same fervor that her husband dispensed lies.
When Seth had walked out for the last time, a week ago, her favorite observation -- and only attempt to explain her state -- was “We’re Irish, of course, Seth. But not lace-curtain Irish, not even shanty Irish. We’re aluminum-window Irish.” Whenever she said it, she’d laugh heartily, revealing an array of missing of teeth. Even four-thousand kilometers away, the memory of that wheezing laugh tore at Seth. He’d tried to understand them, tried to understand what he should do, how he could help, but it never worked. So, he talked to God instead. And, for once, the teenager got an answer: Leave. Go to California. Don’t look back. He obeyed.
The church, nestled in the heart of San Francisco, was deserted except for two little Italian women in the front row, swathed in black. Seth felt around in his pockets, finding a wadded up credit. He went forward to the candles flickering in front of the statue of Saint Joseph. He’d always liked Saint Joseph, who, in Seth’s mind, had never gotten a fair deal either. It could not have been easy, he thought, having a virgin for a wife and a god for a son.
Seth dropped the folded-up C-bill into the offering box, lit a candle, and ran quickly through three Hail Mary’s, three Our Fathers and an Act of Contrition. Then he got serious, clinched his eyes shut and knelt before the altar.
“Please, dear God,” he whispered. “Just let me get through the Academy. Don’t make me go back to that place, no matter what happens. Don’t let me go back.” For a moment, he waited for an answer, hoping against hope that a thunderous voice would answer him or a burning bush would provide him some sense that God was listening. There was none.
Seth rose from his knees, tossing his backpack over his shoulder, and walked down the center aisle of the sanctuary and out onto the street. He looked around, savoring the peaceful stillness of the California morning and watched as the darkness of the pre-dawn morning slowly faded away, bathing the sky in an ever brightening shade of purple.
A sense of satisfaction and calmness filled his body as he turned and walked down the steep sidewalk toward the gleaming steel bridge glowing a brilliant orange as the first rays of morning washed over it. At the foot of the bridge lay the Presidio, the Academy, and the new life that awaited him.
