Re: Tales of the USS Bluefin - 7: "The More Things Change"
Chapter Seven
Stardate 54069.7 (26 January 2377)
By the Yuchan Sea, Klaamet IV
The old man stood on the balcony of his seaside Veranda, savoring the wind coming off the teal waters of the Yuchan Sea. His flowing white hair whipped in the salty breeze and he closed his eyes, basking in the warmth of the orange star, Klaamet. His white linen tunic and trousers rippled in the rush of air. He opened his eyes, grey and piercing they were, and gazed on the pink sands and silver gray rocks below his perch. Several Klaametian sea birds hovered just a few feet away, their forward flight countered by the strong wind. They emitted a khikee, khikee, khikee cry that pleased the old man.
Though he was over 200 years old, the man did not look more than 50, save for his snow white hair. He was human, but not Terran. His longevity and a few other esoteric talents were a gift from a race he once nearly destroyed. His sharp mind was his own, however. Once broken, now healed, it was perhaps the best tactical mind in the galaxy. His name had once been both admired and reviled, celebrated and feared. Now, his name was mostly forgotten. This also pleased the old man.
In his retirement, he had become a collector. To the casual observer, his collection was both eclectic and eccentric - containing arcane items from several worlds and cultures with no apparent rhyme or reason. To the old man, they were both trophies and mementos of his former life. Now, he hoped, he was about to add the final piece to his collection. Obtaining that piece had required an extravagant expenditure of gold-pressed latinum, not just to purchase the piece, but to bribe certain Klingons and pay for a ship and crew to transport the item back.
In truth, this last detail vexed him. But this was not a job he could do himself. His name was too well-known (and despised!) in the Klingon Empire. Even traveling incognito was too risky, not that he feared for himself (for he did not fear death nor harm, a fact that often disquieted him) but he did fear failure. Now, his quest was in the hands of Captain Telestro and his crew.
His sharp ears picked up the sounds of footfalls behind him. With a sigh, he turned from the sea and faced the man who approached him.
The old man's valet/body guard, a Terran, wore a perfectly tailored black suit. His dark features were chiseled, his head smoothly shaved. He wore dark shades that concealed his eyes. The old man often wondered if his body guard was vain or light sensitive. He never asked, it really didn't matter, did it?
"What is it, Wayne?" asked the old man.
Wayne stood with his hands behind his back, at parade rest. Many years as a Federation Marine instilled habits that were hard to break.
"We've lost contact with the Backroad, sir. They failed to transmit at the scheduled communication time."
The old man betrayed no emotion, save for a slight tightening around the mouth. He nodded slightly. "I see." He turned back to face his beloved ocean. He had found a place of peace here. "Is the ship ready?"
"Ready and standing by, sir. The crew is at their stations and awaiting your orders."
The old man nodded again, approvingly. "Good. Very good. Please inform Captain Forassh that I will beam aboard within the hour."
Wayne's expression was unreadable, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice. "Are you certain that's wise, sir? We've discussed the risks . . ."
The old man held up a hand and turned back to his aid. He wore a rueful smile. "I appreciate your concern and your loyalty, Wayne. But the time has come for me to take matters into my own hand.
* * *
Stardate 54069.7 (26 January 2377)
USS Bluefin
En route to the Molari Badlands, warp 9.2
Delta Simms relinguished the command chair with a sense of relief as Captain Akinola came on the bridge. She moved around to greet her CO.
"We're en route to the Molari Badlands and the last known position of the Backroad. Our current speed is warp 9.2 and all systems are functioning normally.
Akinola nodded in approval. "Good. Delta, I want you at the engineering station. We'll be pushing the limits of our shields going through the badlands. I intend to take us in at full impulse."
Delta swallowed and spoke hesitantly. "Yes sir, but you understand that is twice the recommended safe velocity - we might overload the navigational deflectors."
He placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "That's why I want you riding shotgun on them. Let Gralt know we'll need all reserve power available for the deflectors and the shields. He can divert power from non-essential systems if necessary."
"Aye, sir," she hesitated, "May I ask - what's going on?"
"It seems our friends on the Backroad have an item that really doesn't belong to them. Or shouldn't anyway. I have no doubt that the Klingons would cast restraint to the wind to get this item back - consequences be damned."
Delta smirked. "And the Klingon's are not exactly known for restraint."
Akinola smiled ruefully. "You've got the picture, Commander."
* * *
Stardate 54069.7 (26 January 2377)
IKS Jhar'toq
Molari Badlands
The B'rel-class scout shuddered and jerked violently as they pursued the surprisingly agile merchant vessel. The hull of the old Bird of Prey creaked and popped ominously as gravimetric shear and ionic bombardment took their toll on the hull's integrity fields.
"Shields at 70%," announced the helmsman. "Plasma manifold temperature is increasing to a dangerous level."
"Maintain course and speed," growled Choq. "Do not give them quarter, helm. Largon! Can you not get a fix on that ship?"
Largon held on as their ship seemed to skitter through a magnetic eddie of energy. "Only a general heading. They are making random moves that are difficult to anticipate. Not to mention the ionic interference."
Choq's lips peeled back in a rictus of disgust. "I'm not interested in your excuses, Largon! Find that ship, or I'll replace you!"
With a roar of rage, Largon pulled his blade from his belt and turned on the Commander. He stopped abruptly as he saw the barrel of Choq's disruptor pointed squarely at his face.
"Stand down, Lieutenant," said Choq in a quiet, dangerous voice, "and sit at your station. Now is not the time for you to challenge me." He lowered the disruptor, eyes glittering. "When our mission is done . . . then, I await you."
* * *
Stardate 54069.7 (26 January 2377)
SS Backroad
The Molari Badlands
Sweat glistened on Carmine's forehead as he wrestled with the helm controls. He stole a glance at Shonda. Her normally serene features were tight, her eyes wide with terror. The ship lurched sharply and Telestro tapped the nose thruster controls to prevent the ship from yawing dangerously to port.
"Are they still following us?" Telestro asked.
Shonda forced her gaze to the sensor panel. She nodded rapidly. "Still there . . . but we're maintaining our distance." Her voice was tight but under control.
Carmine grimaced. Mixed news at best. Certainly, it was good the Klingon ship had not closed on them, but neither had he been able to shake them. And now, they were rapidly moving deeper into the heart of the Badlands where it was only a matter of time until they encountered a full-blown ion storm.
"We've got to keep moving," he said through clenched teeth. "If they catch us, we're toast!"
Shonda's attention was caught by something on their forward sensors. She turned to him sharply. "We may be toast either way!" She jabbed a finger at the sensor panel. "We're heading straight into an ion storm!"
* * *
Stardate 54069.8 (26 January 2377)
SS Janus
Klaamet IV
The old man materialized on the dais of the Janus' transporter room. He was met by Captain Forassh, the Andorian who normally commanded his ship. This time, however, Forassh would serve in a secondary role. For the first time in many years, the old man intended to take command of a mission.
He stepped off the platform and shook the hand of the blue-skinned Captain. "Forassh, I trust you've been well."
The Andorian smiled. "Very well. It's good to see you again, Commodore, and an honor, too."
The old man waved aside the compliment. "Are we ready to depart orbit?"
Forassh nodded. "Yes sir. And I've taken the liberty of preparing your cabin."
The old man gently but firmly grasped the Andorian's arm. "Forassh - I'm not coming as a passenger this time. For this trip, I'm in command."
The Andorian looked momentarily surprised, but his smile returned quickly enough. "I would assume, then, that this is more than a pleasure cruise, Commodore."
"You assume correctly, old friend. I hope you understand."
Forassh drew himself up. "It has always been an honor to serve with you sir, both when we were in Starfleet, and now."
The old man relinquished his grip on the Captain's arm and patted his shoulder. "The honor is mine, Forassh. Now, have weapons been loaded?"
"We have a full complement of photon torpedoes and four quantum torpedoes," Forassh said with a smile of pride.
The old man's eyebrows rose in surprise and appreciation. "You still find ways to amaze me, Forassh. Now, let's get to the bridge - we have many miles to go."
The two men took a turbo-lift up several levels until they came to the bridge of the old, but lovingly restored Avenger-class starship. Once, it had been part of the old man's fleet in a long-ago war. Now, it was his personal ship under Klaametian registry. The old man stopped for a moment as he stepped onto the bridge, old memories of time spent on other ships - the Hyperion, the Valley Forge and the Yorktown washed over him. He took a moment to savor the memories, both good and bad, then moved to the command chair and took his seat. Captain Forassh stood at his side.
"Would you care to give the order, Commodore?"
The old man smiled. "Yes, Captain." He leaned forward slightly in his seat. "Navigator, plot a course for the Molari Badlands. Helm, take us out - when we clear the gravity well, go to warp 6."
"Aye sir," chorused the navigator and helmsman.
And with that, Garth of Izar once again entered the breech.
(Just think--that lucky stiff gets to go home to Terry Farrell every night. (IIRC those two are married))
So, so very wrong! 
Thanks for the kind words!
