Tales from Topographic Oceans: Star Beagle Adventures episodes 20 - 24

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 21: The Revealing Science of God, Part 2
Scene 6: We Once Knew So Well


What happened to this song
We once knew so well...

21.6
We Once Knew So Well​

“I know there has been some talk about war crimes. Vice Admiral Ho Lin Thao has advised that idle speculation of that sort in advance of an investigation is irresponsible, especially coming from flag officers. I will be filing my report with her.”


Grimur Nurzer had again chosen the U.S.S. Mako’s caudal lounge for this meeting. He had planned to deliver this report aboard the U.S.S. Citadel with Commander Alicia Wyr in attendance, but that ship had sailed less than an hour ago under emergency speed.

Nurzer had taken a liking to this room, farthest aft on the Intrepid class ship. A nicely appointed conference room, but the décor was less formal than the executive conference room and not as coldly functional as the rooms in the ship’s conference center. Most importantly, because of its location, it was a very private setting. Captains Rhonda Carter and Ronald “Skip” Howard, XIV, and Commodore Yui Song were in attendance. Nurzer had also invited General Krank, Carter’s first officer, Lieutenant Commander Zizira Gross and her coxswain, Master Chief Bill Waller, as a courtesy.


“This is an overview of my findings,” Nurzer said. “Commodore Yui will be provided all the records and all of the evidence collected, as well as scientific analysis that support each finding. Regarding the holy landers taking over the U.S.S. Escort and all the events leading to the Escort’s escape from their control while in the Jar Galaxy, it is my opinion that Captain Carter was simply unfortunate. Any human Star Fleet officer would have been equally vulnerable to the holy warrior’s song. It is of note that alone among her crew, Carter was able to free herself from that spell enough to wrest the Escort from their control.” Nurzer nodded to his assistant, the very young vulcan, Yeoman Svort. Svort made a note in his pad.

“Regarding the neurological assault on the Escort’s crew, and particularly against Captain Carter, by the alien characterized as a giant space shrimp…” Nurzer paused long enough to shake his head at how strange this sounded. “The giant space shrimp known colloquially as Stephanie, leading to the attack against said alien conducted directly and only by Captain Carter using the Escort’s phasers, my finding is that Captain Carter had reason to assume that her ship and crew were at danger and were actually under attack, a belief that Stephanie deliberately initiated and supported…” Nurzer drew his breath again. “This very much appears to be a suicide by starship on the part of the alien, who needed that attack to provide her the energy to give birth to the alien hybrids known colloquially as the godchildren.”

Again, at the prompting only of a glance, Svort closed and transmitted the relevant files from his pad.

“Regarding the use of the Escort’s transporters as a weapon against a population of inter-dimensional space mushrooms, known colloquially as leprishrooms, the ship’s records support Captain Carter’s assertion that the transporters were the only weapon that could be effective against these attacking aliens. Furthermore, analysis of these aliens reveals that they were engaged in exactly the same sort of attack against the Escort’s nacelles, extracting hydrogen from the ship. It has been pointed out that hydrogen is an essential component of every member of Escort’s crew. This tactic was a hard, but in my opinion, a brilliant choice by Captain Carter and, in my opinion, was the only action that could have saved the lives of her crew.”

Nurzer took a deep breath. “That dispatches three of the four charges I was commissioned to investigate. In each of these three, my finding is not only that Captain Carter acted correctly, but in the best tradition of Star Fleet, to protect her ship and crew. However, there is one issue remaining.”

Yeoman Svort opened the next file on his pad.

The trill inquisitor paused to stretch slightly and straighten himself. “Before I turn to the final issue, Commodore, do you have any questions arising from these findings at this point?”


Commodore Yui Song leaned slightly forward in her chair. “No.”


Nurzer nodded. “Thank you, sir. I now turn to the final issue. Regarding the failure to thoroughly investigate the gas giant named Leprechaun D, my finding is that a cascade of errors led to the Escort coming under attack, the attack alluded to previously, conducted by the aforementioned leprishrooms. Those errors all arose from actions taken or, more specifically, not taken, by Captain Carter.”

“In summary, Captain Carter allowed Ensign John Sevork to, during his rotation in command, order the Escort to approach Leprechaun D without first dispatching a probe into orbit for preliminary study and hazard assessment. Carter has stated that she anticipated that Sevork might make such an error and did not adequately prepare for it either by refreshing Sevork’s training in advance of planetary approach, or by ordering the probe launch in advance. She has also stated that she was monitoring Sevork’s actions from her quarters and did not countermand his order or advise him in situ. Her plan was to cover this issue in review as a training issue. This indicates that she severely underestimated the potential consequences from this failure of procedure.”

“Captain Carter is familiar with doctrine and protocol,” Nurzer continued. “But that knowledge was not backed up by the training that nearly every Star Fleet officer receives at academy, or reserve officer training corps, or even officer candidate school. The training that puts the “why” to the “how” provided by protocol.”

The trill inquisitor gestured toward the gray-haired captain. “Rhonda Carter is one of only four officers in the history of Star Fleet to be promoted from the ranks directly into the officer corps without attending OCS and to subsequently rise to the level of captain. And the only one to serve in that role for more than six months without attending captain’s training. That training is critical because it provides the context for doctrine and protocol. Carter is an unparalleled warrior. But she was never trained to be an explorer. It is my opinion that her failure to countermand Ensign Sevork’s order to enter orbit of Leprechaun D without first dispatching a probe arose directly from this lack of training.”


Commodore Yui Song waited a few moments to confirm that the trill officer had concluded his primary presentation. “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. Please provide your recommendations.”


“Commodore, my recommendation to the Inspector General’s office will be that at minimum, a reprimand should be entered into Captain Carter’s record for her failure to follow exploratory protocol and that she should be temporarily reduced in rank to commander, given appropriate responsibilities, and placed under the general command of an experienced and properly trained captain until such time as she completes the mandatory captain’s training and passes the tests associated with that training.”

“My recommendation will also note that such action should have been taken immediately upon her assignment to this task force. Therefore, a reprimand entered into your record, Commodore, as her superior officer, for failure to ensure she met the requirements of her office, would also be appropriate.”

“I admit that I may get some push back from certain parties within the admiralty because all of my recommendations have already been carried out, but no one should be surprised that a commanding officer with decades of experience would come to similar conclusions.”


Commodore Yui Song made an amused noise. Then made it again. “I must express some admiration for your resolve, Mr. Nurzer. You’re stuck out here on the rim for at least the next year under my general protection, but you showed no fear bearding the lion in its den.”

Grimur Nurzer drew a breath. “I am unfamiliar with the idiom, but I have seen images of terrestrial lions. So I get the gist.. I would like to think that if I had to make such a recommendation about Commandant Star Fleet, that I would not quail to make it to her face.”

“Well, as you said, your recommendations reflect the actions I have already taken, so I am not displeased with your determinations,” Yui said. “Which is very far from saying that I am happy with them, but that has more to do with the events under investigation, not your investigation of them. You are dismissed to make your report. Contact Commander Clark. He will assign you temporary quarters and an office on Deck 3 for your use. And then tomorrow, if I am not mistaken, you are authorized to begin a year’s paternity leave to help birth, nurture, and raise a child that is not yours. I wish you greatest luck in your next endeavor. From what I understand of the situation on Rattleroot Island and of Akri Dexx, you’re going to need it.”


Nurzer came to attention without saluting. “Thank you, Commodore.”


Captain Skip Howard put his hand on Carter’s shoulder and waited until everyone else exited the caudal lounge.

The two captains looked at each other for a moment.

“What did I tell you, Rhonda?”


“Yeah. I owe you dinner. And a drink…” She took a deep breath. Rolled her eyes. “Several drinks..."

21.6​

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 21: The Revealing Science of God, Part 2
Scene 7: Caught Within the Spell


Signed promise for moments
Caught within the spell

21.7
Caught Within the Spell​

Shadow had reached the top of some towering structure. She was running on pure instinct and fear, and both were telling her to find the highest place she could, as if that could save her from the worms.

She had fled them, staying just ahead of them, not stopping as they overwhelmed first llem, then nallem, then llellem as she raced past them. She was so fast that no one who saw her had a chance to register much more than a purple streak. It was the bubbling gray mass following her that stopped anyone from following her.

Some things eventually did follow, but the misshapen creatures following her were no longer the people she had passed in her desperate flight from whatever horrendous curse the dying holy lander had cast on this planet.

She had never been trained for this. But she had been bred for it and her instincts and superior reaction speed, stamina and running ability, all far beyond those native for her species, kept her ahead of the wave even as the local population were overwhelmed by it.

She knew the simple, stone door, no matter how well fitted, would not keep the worms out of this highest room, but they seemed to have other priorities at the moment.

She had hit her communicator on the way up and generated a repeating message, a desperate request for beamout.

Shadow wasn’t risking it. She opened a window and closed it behind her and crawled up the nearly shear wall of the turret until she could crouch at the top of it, her wetsuit protecting her from the cold rain as it went from freshening to pelting.





“Transfer 2nd platoon from the Crow to the Cassowary.” Major Cameron Payne was in communication with the lieutenants in command of both vessels. “Be sure you’re out of range of the EMP coming from that holy lander destroyer. We were about to target it, but the landing party has decided to take refuge in it. Let’s assume that they are not going to figure out how to turn off that EMP.”

“Putting both platoons in the Cassowary is going to choke this boat to the gills,” Lieutenant Kevin Axlerod observed.

“Not for long, Lieutenant,” Payne replied. “Once you land, open your hatches and lower shields, the EMP will suppress the Cassowary’s power systems. They’ll come back up once you knock out that EMP. You will disembark all hands except yourself, Ensign Jas, and two marines to guard each hatch. Your mission is to bring Captain Phlox and the landing party safely back and into the Cassowary. Failing that, to secure them inside the holy lander destroyer, find that EMP generator and shut it off.”

Payne turned his attention to the other runabout’s crew. “Lieutenant Stoneking, as long as you keep your shields up, the EMP will have no effect on your ship. You will use the Crow’s phasers to suppress the attacking locals. Avoid deadly force as long as possible, but if you can’t keep them down, put them down permanently. Close air support. No mistakes.”




The first phaser blast from Captain Phlox’s honor guard caught Shadow’s attention. There was nothing for her to do but watch. Another blast, then another, then the team stopped using their phasers. Shadow checked her own phaser. No power reading. Then she heard the sidearms. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Regular. Measured. Disciplined.

Gradually, the panic eased. Maybe the worms would crawl out on this roof and get her. She had nothing to fight them with now. She wasn’t certain now where all the terror was coming from. It was still there, but breathing the open air helped. Watching the scene below unfolding, even though obscured by the rain, was helping.

The ravening, misshapen, rain-obscured crowd got to the locals who were following the marines. One at a time they went down. Then one of the marines went down as the others were filing into the downed holy lander ship. Only to find that they had a fight on their hands there, too. Enough of the craft was missing for Shadow to see the marines using their knives. Going hand-to-hand. Still, it was a more defensible position than any other they could find.

Then a big fat green column of light descended on the crowd and swept around, knocking the barely visible masses down. Shadow nearly lost her grip on the stone roof of the turret and found herself hugging the top spire. When her sight returned, she could see vague figures in the pelting rain picking themselves back up.

The green light swept around again and this time it wasn’t playing around. When it was done, there wasn’t much left of the people it put down.


The runabouts had not looked very big when she was boarding them. Or riding in them. But they looked enormous sweeping down into the walled keep. One of them landed in what was probably the clearest space the pilot could find. But there were almost certainly bodies underneath it.


“Don’t come out!” Shadow shouted uselessly into the storm.


The hatches of the enormous spaceship opened and marines poured out and streamed toward the holy lander ship. Too many for her to count. They were not using phasers. Shadow had not observed these guns in use before, but she understood the concept of an automatic rifle. Her people had something similar. Not any that could produce as high a rate of fire as the ones carried by the marines below. Her people also had energy weapons, just not as small, versatile and reliable as the one currently slung to her back.


It took only one brief salvo for the marines to learn that only a head shot would be effective. From her perch far above the fray, Shadow couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the marines below had to put down one of their own just outside the downed alien ship. Then it was obvious they had to put down another of their own. Then Captain Phlox and the marines broke out and made their way toward the landed runabout. The running lights for that ship were off, but the other runabout was hovering closely overhead, using its phasers to keep a clear path.

Shadow found herself holding her breath as the marines crowded into the downed runabout. She was almost certain she could see one of the marines carrying what could only be Pel. They had to manually close the runabout's hatches, mere inches it seemed from the giant columns of suppressing fire coming from the other runabout.


Once Captain Phlox and the surviving marines were sealed in the powerless runabout on the ground, the other one, still hovering, flew up and began unleashing much more serious phaser fire on the downed holy lander ship. Carefully disintegrating it. One section at a time.


The lights for the landed runabout suddenly came on and a few seconds later, it lifted off.


Shadow stood up, one arm wrapped around the spire crowning the turret. Waving frantically with her other arm. “Don’t leave me down here!!” she screamed hopelessly as both runabouts vanished into the rain.



She was still screaming as the transport cycle started.

21.7​

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 21: The Revealing Science of God, Part 2
Scene 8: All Our Lives


We must have waited all our lives for this moment, moment …

21.8
All Our Lives​

“I can tell something’s wrong. I’ve been feeling it ever since we set foot on that planet. It’s getting worse.” Captain Phillip Phlox was seated at the helm of the U.S.S. Cassowary. The only other Star Fleet officer aboard, Ensign Jas Hollin was fidgeting with his family earring. Both were quite fidgety and were looking a little gray. United States marines were crowded behind them, with the sound of more shuffling about in the main compartment behind. There was an undisciplined quality to their restless movement and a low rumble of murmuring among them.


“We are keeping Shadow’s pattern in the transport buffer,” advised Major Cameron Payne from the helm of the U.S.S. Bluebird. “The biofilters are simply not able to keep up with the growth of contaminants in her system, even in transit stasis. We can’t risk materializing her without an adequate decontamination procedure. Readings from Cassowary indicate that everyone onboard, yourself included, is similarly contaminated and the foreign, um, infestation is growing exponentially. You are already reaching the contamination levels that were evident in Shadow when we beamed her up out of that place.”

Captain Phlox was entering commands into the panel in front of him as Payne was talking. “Major, I am turning control of the Cassowary over to you and I have set the ship’s transporters to place the entire complement of this ship into medical stasis.”

“You can do that?” Payne asked.

“Technically, no,” the half-denobulan captain answered. He was scratching just above his ear. “It’s really more than the transporters of these runabouts were ever designed to handle, especially with this many people. Transporters are not medical stasis field generators. But I have programmed Cassowary’s transporters to generate a similar effect and this is our only chance. It might slow down the infection long enough for us to rendezvous with Citadel. Ow!”

Phlox stopped scratching and looked briefly at his hand, then shook his head. “Our only hope is that the Citadel’s medical systems can stabilize us long enough for Doctor Braeburn to figure out how to delouse me, Pel, Shadow, Hollin here, and all these marines.” He gestured vaguely at the dozen or so large men visible behind him. “I want you to take control of this ship and move it and the Bluebird toward the Citadel at best speed.”

Phlox turned his attention to the commanding officer aboard the U.S.S. Crow, displayed on another viewscreen. “Lieutenant Stoneking, Ensign Baker, the Crow will remain in orbit of Aorden 6, monitor the situation and report status. I want you to document everything you can about these cultures and capture as much imagery as you can. Sensors indicate 26 holy lander destroyers are on their way here from various locations and with Citadel now having to drop out of warp to rendezvous with us enroute and try to save all our lives, at least a dozen of them will get here before we can return. Possibly more. Whatever those holy landers do, stay out of their way and do not interfere. Please confirm my order.”

Lieutenant Sarah Stoneking did not like having to repeat an order. “We are to remain in orbit of this planet, stay out of the way of the holy landers, and not interfere with them.”

“Retreat if you need to, Lieutenant,” Phlox said. “You can use the Skyline probes to continue monitoring. Under no conditions are you to engage or provoke the holy landers. Absolutely no heroics. Unless I miss my guess, things are about to become very unpleasant.”


“Are you telling us this has been a picnic up until now, Captain?” Ensign David Baker asked.


“That is exactly what I am telling you, David,” Phlox answered. “This situation is about to get much, much worse. Keep your passengers alive, your databases intact, and your ship in one piece. We’ll be back. But not soon enough.” He shuddered, realizing his movements had been growing increasingly nervous and erratic. He spared a glance at the bajoran ensign next to him and the marines behind him. “We’re out of time. Engaging transporter.” Phlox touched a control on the panel and transporter fields appeared around him, Ensign Jas, and the marines behind him. None of the Cassowary’s complement dematerialized, but all were frozen in place within their individual transporter beams.




In Bluebird's flight cabin, Major Cam Payne responded with his fingers dancing on the controls. The image of the Cassowary's flight cabin on the screen directly in front of him was replaced by an external view with a superscript and subscript, both reading "U.S.S. Cassowary." He turned to the pilot seated next to him. "Mr. Singleterry, you are flying Bluebird, I am flying Cassowary. Break orbit and best speed to intercept Citadel." He opened a channel. “U.S.S. Citadel, this is the U.S.S. Bluebird, Major Cameron Payne commanding. I have new orders from Captain Phlox...”

21.8​

 

[Will The Serious]

"Are you telling us this has been a picnic up until now, Captain?” Ensign David Baker asked.

And the ants are in the mayonnaise.

Nice.

-Will

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

And the ants are in the mayonnaise.

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 21: The Revealing Science of God, Part 2
Scene 9: Possess the Future


Past present movers, moments we'll possess the future
But only through him we know
Send flowered rainbows

21.9
Possess the Future​

The ASA 4 Colony on Rattleroot Island had more than doubled in size. Before leaving orbit, the U.S.S. Citadel had disembarked an additional 79 colonists, prefabricated huts for the entire colony, and sufficient building materials for what would become a small town, including a couple of hangars to support 10 short-range interceptors and one general purpose shuttlecraft each.

A large communication array had been constructed, and two well-appointed research stations were underway. One of them, focused on colonial agriculture, was already mostly built and included extensive greenhouses.

The island was easily large enough to accommodate a large population, the largest in a chain of islands comparable in land mass to the Hawaiian Islands on Earth, if far more isolated from the two populated continents and scattered across a larger group of islands.


Captain Jim Whitesand finished his morning inspection around the colony and the edge of the forest. He took it at a run, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying close attention to every sight, scent, and sound. He was getting familiar with the local flora and fauna. What it should smell like. When it should smell that way. The sounds of the animals he scared up. The sounds of the animals that weren’t scared. The rhythms of the colonists. It had only taken a few weeks for him to understand who was sleeping with whom, in which order.


The new colonists were mostly family units, including a few babies and children. They were fairly settled. The original colonists, on the other hand, had been somewhat demented by their encounter with the local gods, a primarily aquatic race of giant squids, one of whom, dubbed SkipRock, was now the colony’s unofficial protector. While their hormones were no longer being accelerated by the telekinetic and telepathic squids, these people had never really settled down and had remained both highly sexually active and promiscuous. With one notable exception. And it wasn’t the ancient colonial governor, T’Eln, who had taken to regularly sharing her bed with one of the young marines (when he wasn’t with somebody else.)

The surprise holdout was Whitesand’s companion for his morning rounds, Lance Corporal Petra Spitze. Spike had occasionally voiced her opinion that having sex too frequently would dull the reactions and the sex would quickly lose its appeal. She was pregnant with Cetris Rye’s children, but not yet showing.


As they rounded the greenhouses toward the beachfront, they could see that SkipRock had moved from his usual perch to stand on his back, tentacles toward the sky, near the stone pavilion that served as the primary gathering hall for the community. Governor T’Eln was standing near him, looking up into the early morning sky.

Captain Whitesand looked up. Spike looked around. “What’s up?” she asked.

After a few moments, the heavily muscled African American marine captain responded: “The better question is what’s coming down.”

Spike closed her eyes for a few moments. Then: “It’s a godchild.”

Jim Whitesand looked at his NCO. “How do you know that?”

“Felt them before. This is what it feels like when one of them gets close.”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Wait for it. She’s touching our minds. They have a light touch.”


Captain Whitesand took a deep breath, then looked up again. He could see it now. A dark pinpoint in the sky, growing larger, descending steadily.


“She?” he asked. “Do you know which one it is?”

“I think it’s the one that looks like a face made out of ribbon, like a giant spring,” Spike replied. “Key. I’m not sure. It’s definitely not Steph Junior or Rider and it is one of the females. Not Rock either.”


It was another few minutes before the outline of the descending landthorn became clear and another before the tip of the landthorn touched the pad that SkipRock preferred to recline on. It was only in that last minute that Whitesand could see any part of the godchild and he could only see the top two winds. The top looked like stylized hair and the next wind looked like a forehead. Enough to confirm that the godchild was Key.

Whitesand had become accustomed to just how large SkipRock was. In space, it was difficult to appreciate just how large a godchild was. Key’s landthorn alone was more massive than the gigantic squid, itself more than twice the mass of a bull elephant.

“Captain Whitesand,” came the voice of Governor T’Eln. “Key would like to meet with us.” The ancient vulcan turned her attention to the NCO. “Lance Corporal Spitze, she would like for you to join us as well.”

Whitesand found himself wondering how he would scale the inverted mountain for the requested interview.

Almost as if in answer to the marine captain’s unspoken question, the ancient former premiere of the Vulcan Science Academy wrapped herself in one of SkipRock’s tentacles and was lifted to and deposited on the surface of Key’s habitat. Spike went up next.

When Jim Whitesand was deposited on the top of the landthorn, after his first time to have a giant tentacle wrapped around him, he found that now, more than 20 feet off the ground, he still had a rather steep climb to get up to Key’s divan so that he could be at eye level with her. Spike and T’Eln were already seated.

While he had seen images of the godchildren and memorized their names and had occasionally glimpsed them in space through a viewscreen or a viewport, Whitesand had never been in the presence of one. If Key had been an entire face, at more than 20 feet tall, that would have been disturbing enough. But half of the head was missing and what was actually there was a spiral strip, as if someone had taken a gigantic vegetable peeler to a human head, removed a rind in a spiral pattern, and placed that on a giant, thorn-shaped rock.

“I, um…” Whitesand started, unused to feeling self-conscious. He finished his climb, settled on the divan, and started again. “I thought it was dangerous for you to enter the atmosphere of a planet and attempt a landing.”


“It was.” Key’s voice was soft and melodious, oddly comforting, and very human. Looking at her again, Captain Whitesand imagined the rest of the face. If it had been there, she would have been a pretty Mexican woman. With vulcan ears and eyebrows.


“Our capabilities continue to evolve,” Key continued. “I came to recruit you, Captain, and you, Spike, for a diplomatic mission back to Earth.”

“Earth is a very long way from here,” Whitesand replied. “Even at very high warp.”

“For us space travelers, yes, it is,” Key replied. “But not for SkipRock’s people. They can have you there in less than three hours. But it is an extremely unsettling way to travel.”

“SkipRock can take you there,” Governor T’Eln added. “But the journey is more than you can handle, psychologically. SkipRock has taken me a few places and even after five such journeys, it takes all of my discipline to avoid panic. In order to travel with him, he will have to swallow you and excrete you into a skintight shell, which is unpleasant enough. But the actual impact of the journey is beyond the human intellectual and emotional capacity. Even if you were to survive the trip, you would arrive in such a deep psychosis that it is doubtful you would ever recover.”

“I am assuming you have a solution?” Whitesand asked. “Like rendering us unconscious for the journey?”

“You must be conscious for the journey. There will come a moment when you have to voluntarily choose to step through the door. What I propose is to temporarily block your emotional responses. Fleet Admiral Scumuk, the Executive Director of Star Fleet Medical, will have the ability to remove the block after you arrive, and put it back in place for your return voyage.”

“Okay,” Whitesand responded. “I’m appropriately terrified. I assume this must be a vital mission.”


“A mission of great urgency,” Key added. “Governor T’Eln will provide the details. But in addition to a complex and dangerous rescue mission, my siblings and I have a personal request. We would like for you to bring a message to our grandparents.”


“I must impress on you, before you agree to this mission, that you could very possibly experience long-lasting aftereffects from your memories of this journey.” T’Eln said. “While disconnected from your emotions, you will be intellectually aware that this will be the most frightening experience of your lives. One of the reasons I am asking the two of you, of your entire marine contingent, is that the two of you have the highest ratings for emotional stability.”

21.9​

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

I based Key's appearance on a lithograph by M.C. Escher titled "Rind."

 

[Will The Serious]

A being of mental construction over physical.

The ride to Earth sounds both terrifying and... unpleasant. But, the door has me curious.

-Will

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The ride to Earth sounds both terrifying and... unpleasant. But, the door has me curious.

The Colored Door of Time - inspired, like so much of this series, by Yes lyrics:
Sad preacher nailed upon the colored door of time …

Described in Episode 18.1:

Even as she was naming Skip, she could sense the immense pressure of the depths of the ocean, the bottom of the ocean, just outside what was now a fragile shell. So much pressure that the interior of the shell was glowing.

T’Eln kept her eyes closed. This new light was far too bright, and she could experience it easily through her closed eyelids. One brilliant color after another. Faster and faster. Pulsating bands of color.

And the shell was gone. Here in the deepest part of the ocean, surrounded by brilliant colors, the ancient vulcan now stood, eyes opened, next to a gigantic, ancient, squid-like creature. The colors were pulsing through SkipRock’s skin. But they were coming through the door.

And Governor T’Eln and SkipRock stepped together through the Colored Door of Time.

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 21: The Revealing Science of God, Part 2
Scene 10: Flowers of the Dark


A piece apart chased flowers of the dark and light of songs

21.10
Flowers of the Dark​

“We must quarantine the Cassowary here and open to space. I am setting the runabout to self-destruct if approached or tampered with unless the correct command key is entered.”


Commander Alicia Wyr was standing just in front of the command throne on the bridge of the U.S.S. Citadel. In a way, the comfortable, casual appearance of the Galaxy class ship’s command throne contrasted weirdly with the more elevated and imposing look of their counterparts aboard Star Fleet’s less exalted ships. There was no need to make the captain of a Galaxy class cruiser appear imposing. The size and extravagance of these behemoths reeked of overwhelming power.

“Our scans of the Bluebird indicate your ship is clean, Major,” Wyr continued. “But just to be certain, I want you to set your boat to quarantine protocol and we will move it to a secure location once you’re onboard. Do not debark. We will transport you and your complement directly to de-con and maintain quarantine for at least the next 24 hours. We will arrive in the Aorden system shortly thereafter. Which will put us about 9 hours behind the paladin. Your C.O. and I will debrief you while you’re in quarantine. Report to the bridge as soon as you are cleared.”

“Aye, Commander,” Major Cameron Payne replied from the bridge of the U.S.S. Bluebird.


It was only 10 minutes later that Payne and Lieutenant Christian Singleterry were guiding the Bluebird into one of the Citadel’s four quarantine hangars, each of which was just large enough to isolate a runabout. Commander Wyr did not wait for this process to be complete before taking the Citadel to high warp. The U.S.S. Cassowary remained behind, dark, empty, and open to space. The runabout was programmed to issue quarantine warnings to any ship that approached but otherwise was not about to give away its position to ships without sensors sufficiently advanced to detect its presence in blank and largely untraveled space.


It was another 24 hours before Doctor Rutger Braeburn cleared Payne, Singleterry and their two remaining companions from the Bluebird, Gunnery Sergeant David Clayton Powell, Jr. and Staff Sergeant Jill Samson, from quarantine.

Payne went straight to the bridge from medical, only to be informed that Commander Alicia Wyr was awaiting him in the captain’s ready room. When he entered the ready room, he found Wyr sitting at the captain’s desk, reviewing reports, a very sour expression on her face.

“Reports from the Crow?” Payne asked.

“They had to pull the Skyline probes back from the planet,” Wyr replied. “The holy landers are making certain nothing will ever live there again. By the time they’re finished, Aorden 6 won’t even have an atmosphere.”

“Now we know what the captain meant by things getting extremely unpleasant,” Payne observed.

The young albino first officer looked up at him. Payne had gotten used to the light, pink color of her eyes. Almost no color at all. “I don’t envy Lieutenant Stoneking. Star Fleet Academy puts us through exercises designed to prepare us to witness the death of intelligent species without interfering. But at the end of that training, we walk out of the holosuite, muse over the unfairness of life into a mug of beer or a tumbler of Glenlivit, and show up in the morning for advanced astrophysics. How does Quantico prepare you?”

“Leave no one behind,” Payne responded. “Lance Corporal Samuel John Sessions, Private First Class John Farriday Kerry, Private First Class Aaron Kynes. The captain beamed them into space and moved them into a separate solar orbit. Stoneking will make sure they are unmolested. Once we can confirm they are no longer contaminated, we will need to collect them for the journey home.” He took a long, slow breath. “Other than that, we’re trained that we are responsible for the missions we are given. Watching promising, intelligent species dying, especially watching them being killed by an alien force, I can’t imagine how Ensign Baker is taking it. But the Captain’s orders were very clear. Saving them is not our mission. Our mission is to document the genocide, not to interfere. It’s tough, but it’s the right call and Stoneking knows it. She will make the marines in her command understand. But I don’t know what she can tell Baker. You star fleeters seem to look at things differently.”


Wyr sighed heavily. “When we put on this uniform, we don a history of protecting all life. A history of finding a way when there really isn’t one. A history of bending the rules when there are lives to save. When there is any life to save.”


Payne nodded. “Not my battle. I signed up to protect Earth. Humanity. The Federation. Not to fix the universe.”

Wyr gave a quick, rather bitter laugh.

“How is the captain?” Payne asked.

“Bad. According to Rutger. But your little purple friend just might give us the key we need to beat this thing. Whatever it is. It seems her immune system was modified to be able to, if not beat the infection, at least really slow it down. That was about all I got out of the doc before he started talking medical talk well beyond my limited understanding of that science.”

“How is Shadow,” Payne asked.

“That is one tough little alien,” Wyr replied. “She should have been completely taken over, given her exposure. When Rutger dug her out of your transporter banks, her immune system had already started to put the infection down. He seems to think she’s going to make it.”

“I’m glad to hear it. She is one courageous, capable little animal. Just spending a few days with her… I really like her. That little ferengi woman too. Pel. Never thought I’d like a ferengi.” Cameron Payne shook his head slowly.


“You never encountered any of their women before. Women are better.”


Payne laughed for the first time in a long time. Then: “I won’t argue with that.”

“I always said you were a smart man, Cam Payne.”

21.10

​

I've been posting at a slower pace to try to keep from overrunning my writing of this series, which has slowed dramatically to no more than one or two scenes every 2 weeks. Sometimes less.

At this point, I'm just starting drafting for Episode 24: Ritual (Nu Sommes Du Soleil.) Serendipitously, I made the random choice of having the newly arrived colonists be French.

 

[Will The Serious]

“You never encountered any of their women before. Women are better.”

-Will

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 21: The Revealing Science of God, Part 2
Scene 11: Cast Round


To follow and show all we feel for and know of
Cast round

21.11
Cast Round​

“The level of vorlo-toxins found in the upper liver of...”


Fleet Admiral Scumuk was giving a presentation at Star Fleet headquarters with Commandant Star Fleet, Star Fleet Chief of Staff, Star Fleet Judge Advocate General, Commandant Star Fleet Academy, four Federation Councilmembers, several andorian ambassadorial staff and the entire tellarite ambassadorial delegation in attendance.


All of these august participants waited in absolute silence as Scumuk paused mid-sentence and seemed to stare into the distance. Scumuk was ancient and with any human of advanced years, or, indeed, any vulcan near his age, such an abrupt pause would usually be seen as senility or some other mental impairment brought on by great age.

No one dared to think such thoughts about the most decorated officer in the history of Star Fleet, a man credited with saving entire civilizations from biological weapons and thousands of lives with his own hand. In addition to his duties as the executive director of Star Fleet Medical, Fleet Admiral Scumuk was the doctor of last resort, called in for the most hopeless cases.

The highest ranking members of Star Fleet found themselves holding their breath as the ancient vulcan stood completely still. His stillness lasted only a few moments.


“Understood,” Scumuk said to no one in particular. He pointed at a member of his staff who was in the front row, whirled and strode from the room with the vigor of a young man. All eyes in the operating theater followed him to the door as the selected staff member took her director’s place in the center of the operating theater, which was currently set up as a lecture hall. She cleared her throat, then launched into her presentation.

“As Doctor Scumuk was saying, the levels of the vorlo-toxins…”



Fleet Admiral Scumuk was nearly 200 years old, an age that corresponded to a human male about 90. The lines on his face were there. His hair was snowy white, which was unusual for aging vulcans. But he didn’t walk like an old man. Running was not a sport vulcans generally followed, but Dr. Scumuk was a runner and he had the whip-thin build and sparking energy of a runner in the prime of his life.

He was only a flight of stairs down from his office. He took the stairs at a run, two at a time. He stepped into his outer office and without breaking stride, walked with great speed toward the closed door of his inner office. The andorian cadet at the assistant desk hit the switch just in time to allow the old vulcan to continue in to his office without pausing for the door.

It was a huge office, actually the largest office for any officer in Star Fleet. The additional size was required for both a contiguous conference room and an examining room. The entire suite was decorated in Star Fleet blue, the official color that represented the Medical Division.

The office also included a transporter pad, onto which two United States Marines were just materializing. Scumuk was already in telepathic communication with them. It was an extremely rare talent for a vulcan, most of whom, if they had any telepathic ability at all, were restricted to touch telepathy. These two young humans had been blocked from experiencing their emotions. Scumuk was only aware of three individuals who had the ability to install such a block: himself, Chief Justice Scrivax of the Federation Tribunal, and their teacher and the former premiere of the Vulcan Science Academy, T’Eln. Scumuk clearly felt T’Eln’s signature in their minds.

Scumuk summoned his assistant with a thought. He might not have felt so free to reach out to a human, but andorians were more comfortable with a low level of telepathy.


“Captain Whitesand, Lance Corporal Spitze, my assistant, Cadet Rab Th’Qithas,” Scumuk said. “Captain, please tell my assistant what you just told me.”

Whitesand’s voice was surprisingly flat. “Approximately 700,000 refugees are being transported into the Pacific Basin. Most of them will be dead on arrival. The dead need to be beamed directly into space. The living need to be beamed directly into quarantine.”

“The B.W.S.V. Vyvya is in Spacedock 1,” said Scumuk. “Have the survivors beamed directly into the main hold and the main hold set to quarantine. Advise Commissioner Qotor and arrange a conference for us as soon as she can be available.”

“Aye, Doctor,” the andorian cadet answered. He turned toward the newly arrived marines. “When will the refugees start arriving?”


Whitesand turned his attention to the young cadet. “Right now.”

Spike addressed Scumuk, her voice equally flat and emotionless. “Doctor Scumuk, the Captain and I need to go to Amarillo, Texas.”


“Stand down, Lance Corporal,” Scumuk ordered. “I will take you to Ensign Sevork’s parents in two hours. You need my help before you go and you will need my help for several hours after we arrive. But first, there are 700,000 refugees that need my help.”

21.11​

 

[Will The Serious]

-Will

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 21: The Revealing Science of God, Part 2
Scene 12: Seekers of the Truth


You seekers of the truth accepting that reasons will re-live and breathe and hope and chase and love for you and you and you …

21.12
Seekers of the Truth​

“Just tonight, Jim. So let’s make the most of it.”


Lance Corporal Petra Spitze almost laughed at the expression on the face of the African American marine captain. He was far from the most handsome man she had ever bedded, but in terms of physical fitness, he was by far the most amazing specimen she had ever shared a bed with. A body that would make a Greek god envious.


“Well, I suppose if I’m going to break regulation, I might as well do it properly,” Captain Jim Whitesand replied.


They had already been at it for hours and it was several hours, including a few brief, fitful attempts at sleep, before they spoke again.

When finally they were far more than sated and had nothing left in them, even in complete exhaustion, they still couldn’t sleep.

The Gonzalez family, Ensign John Sevork’s parents, had given them the guest house for the remainder of their stay on Earth. Dr. Scumuk had arranged for a month’s medical leave for both marines and they both knew they would need it.

Captain Jim Whitesand lay back, fingers laced behind his head, eyes closed. But sleep just wouldn’t come. While he and Spike had been intimate, the terror of their journey, crushed together in utter darkness in a thin shell at the bottom of an ocean, breathing putrid oxygen from the belly of a giant squid, had been held at bay. Both he and Spike had spent hours in the care of Earth’s most famous and revered doctor; the ancient vulcan’s mind deeply enmeshed with theirs. The sex between him and his NCO, an egregious breach of regulation, seemed to both marines as pretty much inevitable.

Spike lay on her side, her head propped on her hand, elbow in the pillow, looking down on her commanding officer. “Okay, maybe not just tonight. But just while we are staying here. We aren’t the first marines to break this regulation, and we won’t be the last.”

“I’ve never broken regs before,” Whitesand said.


“I have. This one.”


Whitesand opened his eyes.

“I have a rule,” Spike continued. “No entanglements. Usually no more than a weekend. And I tell no tales. Other than Cetris Rye, and that because he’s the father of my babies.” She took a deep breath. “Been a while for you, hasn’t it.”

Whitesand grunted. “What gave me away?”

“Felt like you were making up for lost time.” Spike caressed Whitesand’s perfectly sculpted chest, washboard abs. “I’ve been lucky when it comes to men. Not a single dull thud. Really marvelous lovers, all. But you… Yeah, I’d like to hit that again. Not tonight,” she added in response to the young officer rolling his eyes. “Need some time to recover. So are you going to stay in the marines? You’re thinking about giving it up. I can tell.”

“After what we’ve been through…” He stopped, then started again. “I signed up to do something noble. A lot of it has been like living through a horror movie. Most of it, really. And being swallowed and shit out whole by a giant squid, carried to the bottom of one ocean and walking through some impossible door into the bottom of another ocean…” He closed his eyes. Shook his head slowly. “I was just realizing that as horrible as that was, it wasn’t the worst of it.”


“It’s the people you lost.”


Whitesand shook his head slowly. “I can’t tell you how many. Well over a hundred. Maybe 200. I can’t remember all the names. I can’t see their faces. But when we stepped through that door at the bottom of the ocean…”

“You saw them all,” Spike concluded. “Me too. Not just the ones who died under my command. The ones I killed, too. There were a lot more of those. Now you know why I never let them promote me beyond Lance Corporal. You lost hundreds. Between the two wars, I lost eight. And I lost them knowing I had given them the best chance any marine had to survive those wars. Intense training, one-on-one.”

“Lone Wolf told me you were wise,” Whitesand said. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

“Then you shouldn’t. Tell them. You’ve served your time in hell. They’ll let you ride a desk until your commission is up. Recruiting.” Spike caressed the captain’s forehead. “That’s where they put marines who have seen too much. Look young people in the eye and know whether or not they are doing the right thing. We need marines. But not everyone is cut out to do this. To live through... this.”

“I don’t know. I just… I just need some time.”


“Well, we have a month. And we need to talk with John Sevork’s parents tomorrow. Tell them about their son. Tell them about their grandchildren.” Spike lay her head on Whitesand’s chest. She could feel how exhausted he was. Emotionally exhausted. Completely drained.

“Sleep now, Jim. I’ll stay awake and watch over you. Then you can do the same for me. That’s why we can’t sleep. You don’t know if you’ll ever stop seeing what we saw. If you slide into a nightmare, I’ll be awake. I’ll know. I’ll bring you out of it.”

The Revealing Science of God​

Notes:

This is the final episode for Episode 21.
The adventure will continue with Episode 22 - The Remembering: High the Memory, to be posted in this thread.

 

[Will The Serious]

Ah! Sleep eludes the anxious and the fearful, because you can't know what will happen when you're asleep, or you know exactly.

-Will

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

Ah! Sleep eludes the anxious and the fearful, because you can't know what will happen when you're asleep, or you know exactly.

-Will

It was a fun way to bookend this Episode with pillow talk: Gan and Raanda in the opening scene; Spike and Whitesand for the close.

Thanks!! rbs

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

Continued from Episode 21...

Throughout this episode, snippets of lyrics are quoted. These are from the song “The Remembering: High the Memory" by Alan White, Chris Squire, Steve Howe, Rick Wakeman, and Jon Anderson. The song first appeared as track 2 on Tales From Topographic Oceans, the sixth studio album by the progressive rock band, YES, 1973, Atlantic Records.

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 22: The Remembering: High the Memory
Scene 1: The Velvet Sailors Course


As the silence of seasons on we relive abridge sails afloat
As to call light the soul shall sing of the velvet sailors course on
Of the velvet sailors course on
Shine or moons send me memories trail over days of forgotten tales
Course the compass to offer into a time that we’ve all seen on
Into a time that we’ve all seen on

22.1
The Velvet Sailors Course​

The Bolian Web Service Vessel Vyvya was a joint project of United Earth Governments with the Bolian Web. Most of it had been constructed in the Bolarus system, including the propulsion system, the first ship designed and built by the bolians that could reach warp 6.

The Vyvya had been designed as a planet saver, able to quickly remove refugees from disaster and carry them by the million to a safe place for resettlement. It was, among other things, an enormous, spacebound hospital. It had been flown to Earth to receive a number of systems offered by Earth for this project. There were some components that the bolians were just not ready to construct. Among these were the advanced bulk transporter systems. 4,133 of them. And they were getting broken in with a massive project.

All of them.

The emergency beaming protocol had been designed by Dr. Scumuk well over 150 years ago, when he had captained a hospital ship. Irritated bolian astronauts were standing by each terminal as well-trained Star Fleet cadets (and a few officers) operated the different transporter controls, following the Scumuk emergency medical transport protocol.

The bolians were irritated because the executive director of Star Fleet Medical had commandeered their new ship, appropriated nearly every Star Fleet cadet, along with several hundred Star Fleet ROTC students from universities all over Earth and Mars, and transported nearly 10,000 of these, technicians, engineers, logistics specialists, medical students and their professors to the Vyvya.

Not that the bolians didn’t have anything to do. They were constantly re-balancing the ship’s power systems to keep these thousands of transporters from suddenly failing. The cadets working the transporters were operating like a well oiled machine. They could only do so because the engineers were working at a breakneck pace, keeping just ahead of one potential failure after another, disaster narrowly avoided, only to be forgotten immediately as more power systems failed and had to be re-balanced and re-routed to ensure that survivors being beamed in from the Pacific Basin were not killed in the process.

Thousands of other transporter systems scattered around Earth and aboard starships in orbit had also been commandeered to beam the far larger number of refugees who were dead on arrival directly into a very high Earth orbit, there to be corralled into more commandeered transport containers.


And Fleet Admiral Scumuk had organized the entire operation over the space of less than 90 minutes, with the first refugees being beamed out of the Pacific Basin within 30 minutes of the start of the operation.


This logistical miracle was only possible because the ancient vulcan had established the emergency evacuation policy and procedure more than 100 years ago, advocated for the necessary laws and regulations to be enacted and gradually streamlined, and had rigorously trained his executive staff. He was not needed for any of the logistics and organization of the operation. His staff were trained to handle that and, because they had been selected and trained by him, were doing just fine without him.

What Dr. Scumuk was needed for was his name recognition. Commandeering nearly a thousand starships, more than half of which were privately owned or owned by other governments, requisitioning thousands of personnel and resources from universities all over Earth and Mars, and taking command of all traffic in Earth orbit took a lot of personal calls. And no one refused a call from one of the most famous and powerful men on Earth.


From the outset of the emergency, Fleet Admiral Scumuk had become not only the highest ranking officer in Star Fleet, outranking Star Fleet Commandant for the duration of the emergency, he had also become the highest-ranking government officer within United Earth Governments and the United Federation of Planets, outranking all except elected officials. Not that anyone would have refused or even delayed a call from him under normal circumstances.

Tens of thousands of lawyers and judges throughout the solar system had to lay aside their current casework to review all the relevant regulations and advise elected officials, private clients, local boards of directors and even local school boards regarding their responsibilities under the emergency order. The emergency did not require a declaration (although both United Earth Governments and the Federation were in process of supplying such a declaration.) It was automatically activated by the sudden, largely unexplained arrival of hundreds of thousands of refugees at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.


And in the middle of all of that, Scumuk found time to mind meld with two traumatized United States Marines to begin the gradual process of re-integrating them with their emotions. Then his assistant, Cadet Rab th’Qithas, beamed him and the two marines directly into the reception foyer at the Gonzalez farm in Amarillo, Texas.

In between sessions with his young patients, Dr. Scumuk remained in contact with his assistant and whichever of his staff and other officials Cadet th’Qithas decided needed to actually communicate with the Executive Director of Star Fleet Medical, the cadet taking most of the calls himself and directing them to other members of Scumuk’s staff. Very few cadets were ever given such broad authority and responsibility. For those assigned directly to Dr. Scumuk, that was a critical part of the job.

Once Captain Jim Whitesand and Lance Corporal Petra Spitze had been stabilized and ensconced in the Gonzalez’s guest house, Scumuk accepted the offer of a shared meal with Juan and T’Ress Gonzalez.


“Potato plomeek soup,” Dr. Scumuk commented. “Very innovative. Am I tasting actual plomes and levets?”

“Sourced from Death Valley Farms, just west of Pahrump, Nevada,” T’Ress confirmed. “Vulcan plants flourish there.”

“I am familiar with the owners,” Scumuk replied. “I have sourced a number of medicinal herbs from them, both vulcan and terrestrial. They are very skilled horticulturalists. Mostly hybrids.”

“I was born there. Juan was one of their top botanists. We were able to obtain a farm in Lubbock. We moved to this ranch shortly after our son joined Star Fleet.”

“I was born there too,” Juan added. He found himself amazed to be providing lunch to a living legend. Especially with a medical emergency swirling around him. Fleet Admiral Scumuk seemed relaxed and confident. He consumed his food slowly and deliberately. Vulcans were hard for most humans to read, but having been married to one for most of his life, Juan had developed some skill at it. Dr. Scumuk seemed to be entirely focused on enjoying his meal.

“I have experienced various attempts at vegan pizza but never found any of them to be palatable.” He took a bite of a slice of pizza that seemed more like a collection of vegetables, with the focus on mushrooms on flatbread. “Until today. This is quite good.”

“We are still associated with Death Valley Farms,” T’Ress said. “The secret to the pizza is to not attempt to imitate the flavors of animal products such as cheeses or meats. A combination of creamed avacado and porcini mushrooms create a topping that replaces cheese without imitating the flavor. Earth has a large number of vegans and keeping them fed while supporting a population of 14 billion people is quite the challenge. There is no natural way to feed that many humans without using animal products. Over reliance on replicated products made largely from reconstituted bean curd can cause digestive problems over time. As helpful as replicated food is, for long term dietary needs it is no substitute for natural.”

“I would greatly appreciate your recipes and sourcing guide,” Scumuk said.

“We update our cookbook and sourcing guide on a weekly basis,” Juan said. “I can forward that to you.”

“My assistant, Rab th’Qithis, will contact you.” Scumuk looked up. “This was a much needed repast. Thank you. You have my condolences for the passing of your son. It seems he has left very interesting progeny in his wake. I understand they greatly desire to meet you. Your guests have messages from them that they will bring to you tomorrow.”


Juan Gonzalez could not hide the grief on his face. “He should have outlived me by a century. Of course we will visit his children. We have only heard report of them and seen images of them. Why are they called godchildren?”


Fleet Admiral Scumuk almost smiled. “I will leave that question for your guests. You will enjoy the tale more from them and I will not spoil it for you. I have not been in their presence. I understand it is a very moving experience.” The ancient vulcan doctor stood up. “Alas, I must excuse myself from your table. I am required elsewhere. Although I will return as your young guests will need my help. I very much hope we will have another opportunity to share a meal, unhurried, I hope, by any medical crisis. Thank you again for your hospitality.”


“I will converse with your assistant to make arrangements for another meal,” T’Ress said. “You are, of course, welcome at any time.” She guided the executive director of Star Fleet Medical to the arrival lobby, with no outward hint of emotion.

Juan followed, still quite awestruck by their visitor.

Scumuk raised his hand with a traditional salute. “Peace, and long life.”

Both Juan and T’Ress Gonzalez mirrored the salute: “Live long, and prosper.”


The ancient admiral touched his communicator pin: “Energize.” And with a swirl of lights and a slight whining noise, he was whisked away.

22.1​

 

[Will The Serious]

The secret to the pizza is to not attempt to imitate the flavors of animal products such as cheeses or meats

Yes, I feel the same way. It's partly a mental mechanism. Treat it like it's unique; don't call it something it's not, and expectations won't be disappointed.

-Will

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

Yes, I feel the same way. It's partly a mental mechanism. Treat it like it's unique; don't call it something it's not, and expectations won't be disappointed.

-Will

It's only logical...

Some writing advice I absorbed long ago: Taste and smell are dramatically underutilized in writing and can really enhance your storytelling. I try to include at least one instance of each in every episode.

Thanks!! rbs

 

[Robert Bruce Scott]

The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 22: The Remembering: High the Memory
Scene 2: Sail Away Your Dreams


High the memory carry on
While the moments start to linger
Sail away your dreams
The strength regains us in between our time
The strength regains us in between our time
And we shall speak to differ also the ends the river’s son
So the ends meet the river’s son

22.2
Sail Away Your Dreams​

“The last thing I expected from a vulcan’s kitchen would be…”


Lance Corporal Petra Spitze almost floated into the kitchen, riding a delicious aroma that should never come from a vulcan kitchen.

T’Ress Gonzalez was not open with her emotions, but the slightest hint of an amused smile crossed her features. “I am only basting. It appears you are eating for three, so I made extra. But you will have to wait another hour.”


Spike had to leave the house so she wouldn’t spend that hour drooling at the table. She decided to treat herself to another quick run around the inner gardens and buildings of the Gonzalez farm in the 90-degree morning heat of Amarillo, followed by another shower and a fresh change of clothing before returning, even hungrier, to the table.

When she arrived, Captain Jim Whitesand was already deep into his plate, but it did not take Spike long to catch up, to the amusement of their hosts. She had to remind herself to slow down and enjoy this meal, one of the best meals of her life. Strike that. Far and away the best meal of her life. Whitesand had evidently come to a similar conclusion. Aside from a variety of appreciative, largely involuntary, and vaguely sexual noises, both were silent until they had cleared their plates.

Spike uttered a heavy, satisfied sigh. “I can count on one hand the times I have eaten actual chicken. This…” She indicated her empty plate. “This is amazing.”

T’Ress displayed only the faintest of smiles as she replaced their large breakfast plates with small dessert plates, each containing a large wafer, topped with a rather gritty-looking green icing. “Wait several minutes before you try those. They will probably taste very strange to you, with an unusual texture. But I suspect you will like them. It may take a few moments.”

“What is it?” Captain Whitesand asked.

“Savory,” responded Juan Gonzalez. “A tiny bit sweet, aggressively tart, and very good for you.”

John Sevork’s father was clearly of Mexican descent, with dark skin and a thick mop of dark hair flecked with gray. But his accent was pure West Texas. His face and hands were aged by the sun, but it was impossible to guess his age from looking at him. His wife looked much younger, but considering she was vulcan, it was equally impossible to guess her age.

“I don’t intend to open a philosophical discussion in the wake of an astounding meal,” said Spike. “But how is it… I mean… a chicken… an actual chicken… I mean, I thought vulcans were strictly vegan.”

“More for digestive reasons than for ethical reasons,” T’Ress replied. “In this part of Earth, food is produced in so much abundance that many Americans who choose to be vegan can source sufficient plant-based proteins to maintain a healthy diet. Although there are many who cannot, due to their in-born digestive needs. In other parts of your world, providing adequate nutrition for large human populations is not possible without animal proteins. Humans are descended from omnivores, and many cannot tolerate a balanced vegan diet.”

“My wife is a food scientist,” Juan explained. “As far as the ethical concern most people associate with veganism, the chicken you just ate hatched and had a life that it would never have had if it had not been part of a flock kept for food purposes. When large numbers of humans began relying on food replication to replace meat, animal populations dropped dramatically, and some varieties disappeared entirely. Which had unanticipated environmental results, many beneficial, many others, surprisingly not so. Now that the human ecological balance is being restored, animal husbandry has had a much needed reset to focus much more on animal welfare.”

“Sounds like you were primed to answer such questions,” Jim Whitesand remarked.

Juan laughed, the smile causing his features to crinkle. “It was my master’s thesis and featured prominently in T’Ress’s doctoral dissertation.” He made an amused noise. “We have a hard time not inflicting it on strangers. Especially when they ask.”

It was Jim’s turn to laugh. Spike took the moment to pick up the large cracker from her dessert plate and try a bite. It had a soft, strange texture, the cracker almost creamy and the icing almost crisp. And it assaulted her senses with an overpowering whang of mint.

“Uhhh,” she said in surprise and mild dismay and nearly dropped it back onto her plate.

Whitesand looked at the veteran NCO.


“Wait for it,” T’Ress said quietly.


A slow smile of appreciation crossed Spike’s features. She picked up the cracker again.


“Slowly,” Juan advised. “Small bites.”

Spike took another bite, and her features puckered again and she put the cracker down again. Then slowly smiled as she chewed. “Weird,” she said around the cracker. “But surprisingly good.”

Jim Whitesand tried his cracker, only to have exactly the same reaction. “Oooh!!” he said and shook his head quickly. His features made it clear he was barely tolerating keeping the bite in his mouth. Then a slow expression of wonder crossed his features.

“Morel mushroom cracker topped with an icing made of crushed mint, tine, mreeks, and a dash each of salt and sugar,” T’Ress explained.

Spike looked at the dark-skinned vulcan woman in wonder. Then at her husband, then back again. “She looks like you. She looks like both of you. Key, your granddaughter. The oldest, John Junior, looks somewhat like his father, and I can see where he got his looks. But Key looks more like you.”

“Key is the spiral face?” T’Ress asked.

In response, Jim Whitesand brought out his tricorder and projected images of the godchildren just above the table. Gradually, he zoomed in on Key and let the other images fade. “She sounds like you, too,” he observed. “A lot like you. She was in my mind. Very gentle and sweet, that’s how she felt.”

“But gigantic,” Spike added. “The Runt is the only one who is small. She’s about the size of a Maine Coon. Maybe a little bigger. The rest of the godchildren are somewhere between 15 and 20 feet high... Tall... They’re so different from one another. Not just in appearance, but in personality. Terrifyingly intelligent. But kind.”


“We must make arrangements to travel to meet them. Why do you call them godchildren?” Juan asked.


Spike shook her head slightly. “We didn’t really have a better name for them. Captain Rhonda Carter adopted them after they were born because all three of their parents had died. She took responsibility for them. Kept them alive. Raised them. Taught them. We started calling them Rhonda’s godchildren and the name just kind of stuck. It seems oddly appropriate now. Their intelligence and abilities are sufficiently godlike.” She took a breath. “They have become our protectors, and we have become their… pets, I guess.”

Spike looked down again. “Jim has messages for you from each of them in his tricorder. We uploaded them to your communication system yesterday.”

“We haven’t viewed them,” Whitesand added. “The messages are not for us. They’re for you.” He looked at the small remaining amount of his mint-mushroom cracker in surprise. It hadn’t registered with him that he had gradually been eating it while Spike had been speaking.

“They have a mild euphoric effect,” Juan advised. “So, what would you like to do now?”

Whitesand waited until he had consumed the last of his cracker to respond. “Doctor Scumuk has offered me a place among his honor guard. I think I will remain on Earth. I have reached out to my commanding officer for her approval. It will probably be a few days before her reply can reach me.”


“SkipRock is waiting just off San Francisco to take me back home,” said Spike. “When Doctor Scumuk arrives, I will ask him to reinstall the emotional block so I can return.”

22.2​