Here's the next installment in my Lexington series. This is a series of character vignettes where I'll also be introducing Starbase 31 and its denizens, the Saladin-class destroyer, Scipio and its captain, the fiery and stunning Marietta DeVeers, and the Border Service cutter, Kite with its taciturn captain, Commander Dennis Mitchell. I'd like to thank LoneRedShirt for his inspired addition of the Border Service to Star Trek fanfic lore and giving me the inspiration to incorporate them in both the Lexington nad Sutherland series. Speaking of which, I am hard at work on the next adventure of the Suthy and its crew: Rocks and Shoals.
Without further ado, here's "Downtime." As always, your comments and suggestions are always welcome!
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DOWNTIME
Part 1: Port of Call
As the mushroom shape of Starbase 31 grew larger in the Lexington’s main viewer, Commodore Robert Wesley’s lips turned up in a smile. A frontier outpost, 31, for now at least, was relatively small as starbases go—it was easily dwarfed, for instance, by its larger sister installation, Starbase 11, which, under the command of Commodore Stone, served as the major fleet logistics and coordination center for this entire region of space, but the new starbase was well placed and would, in the not so distant future, become an important base in its own right. But right now, it represented a safe of port of call—a place where he could mend his ship and his crew could stretch their legs for a bit. Addressing his petite auburn haired helmsman, Wesley quipped, ”Ms. Bathory? Can you take us in without a tug?”
“Aye, Sir.” The young pixyish Hungarian pilot acknowledged with a smile, her voice implying, Ask me to do something difficult, as her nimble fingers expertly flew over the console, steering the majestic Constitution class starship smoothly through the cavernous starbase entry and slipping it right to the ship’s assigned berth between the diminutive Kestrel-class border cutter, USS Kite to one side and the sleek, efficient, single nacelle designed Saladin-class destroyer USS Scipio on the other. “Mooring lines secure, Commodore.” Ensign Bathory announced, the thunk sound made by the station’s snakelike conduits securing themselves to the outer hull of the stately Lady Lex confirming the junior officer’s statement.
“Secure all systems.” Commodore Robert Wesley ordered, wincing slightly as his gaze fell on the airlock door that had just recently had a makeshift repair job done on it following the ship’s recent battle with the Klingon battlecruiser K’Mar. “Shoreleave is authorized for all off duty personnel.” Getting up from his chair, Wesley addressed the ship’s navigator, “Mr. Lawford…the bridge is yours.”
“Aye, Sir.” Lieutenant, junior grade, Terrence Lawford replied as he took the center seat.
Entering the turbolift, Wesley gripped the handle, twisting it as he ordered, “Deck Six.” As the elevator smoothly began its descent, the commodore once again attempted to process the events of the last few days: his kidnapping—as well as the Klingon captain’s—along with some of their crew—from the bridges of their own ships by strange and undoubtedly powerful aliens with unknown motives; their subsequent trek through forbidding terrain where both he and his Klingon counterpart lost crew; their encounter with the obelisk and the aliens that created it; the aliens’ experiments on them and on the scientific teams sent by both ships to explore a strange space station that was also created by the aliens; and finally, the sacrifice made by one of his crew as well as one of K’Tan’s in order to acquire the aliens’ database. The elevator cab now shifting from its previous vertical to a horizontal direction, one question forced itself to the fore of the commodore’s mind: was the information found in that database worth the lives of those two young men? The answer to that question would determine whether they had carried out an act of extreme heroism or whether it was simply an example of the foolhardiness of youth. For the sake of Xylvan and Kassan, Wesley hoped for the former, but the commodore was wise enough and experienced enough to know that it in the end it would probably be the latter.
For their sakes…Wesley prayed as the lift doors slid open…I hope it was worth it.
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Entering Sickbay, the commodore went to each of one of the beds occupied by a casualty from the recent battle. Those that were awake and able to talk, he spent a few moments with, joking or talking or simply listening, before leaving them with a word of encouragement and then moving on to the next, all the way down the line until he spotted Dr. Vincent, wearing a short sleeve blue medical tunic, making his rounds. Walking up to the doctor, Wesley inquired apologetically, “Hope I’m not in the way, Doc…”
“Nope, Commodore…Not at all…” Charles replied with a smile as he pressed a hypospray against an ensign’s neck. “Except for Petty Officers Gomez and Phillips, everyone’s coming along nicely. I should have most of these layabouts…” He grinned; receiving in return a chorus of good-natured boos from his patients, “…back to work within a day or two.”
“What’s the problem with Gomez and Phillips?” A concerned Wesley asked as his eyes drifted to the biobeds where those two young men lay, noting at once that most of their monitor readings were on the low end of the scale.
“They were involved in the fight on the saucer section.” The doctor replied in his usual New England twang, “Besides the cellular damage they suffered from the Klingon disruptors, they were exposed to vacuum.”
“What’s their prognosis?”
Glancing down at his data slate, the Dr. Vincent responded cautiously, “Barring something unusual, they should recover in a few weeks. After that, they’ll be looking at a couple of weeks of limited duty. On the whole…” The doctor opined, “…we got off lucky. It could have been a lot worse”
Shaking his head, Wesley responded grimly, “We paid a high enough price as it was, Doctor.” Turning his attention towards his executive officer lying on the farthest biobed, Robert asked, “How’s Alexei?”
Chuckling, Charles responded, “The Bear’s coming along nicely. I’ve given him a sedative so he’s out right now, but he should be awake in a few hours—come back then and you can talk to him.”
Taking the doctor’s thinly veiled hint, Commodore Wesley’s lips turned up into a small grin, “Ok, Doc. I’ll let you get back to work now. I’ve got an appointment anyway with the Starbase commander. Tell Alexei when he wakes up I’ll be by to see him later.”
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Entering Commodore Jerrik Kiersted’s office, Robert at once noticed his ship in the center of the large transparent aluminum window behind the station commander’s desk. Already workbees and space suited station workers were clambering about the outer hull of his vessel, inspecting the damage done in the recent fight. Reluctantly taking his eyes off The Lady, Wesley saw that there were two other officers already seated in chairs in front of the starbase commander’s desk. Rising to their feet as he approached, Commodore Kiersted, holding out his hand, spoke first, his wheat-blond hair and thick accent betraying at once his Scandinavian roots, “Welcome aboard, Robert!” Taking his fellow flag officer’s hand in a firm grip, Kiersted gestured at the two other officers standing before his desk, “Captain DeVeers and Commander Mitchell were just leaving. I know you and Captain DeVeers of the Scipio are already acquainted…”
“Captain…” Commodore Wesley smiled as he took the hand of the stunning redheaded skipper, wearing a new issue gold miniskirt with captain’s stripes on the sleeves, “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too, Commodore…” The Scipio’s skipper answered back, her lively green eyes twinkling mischievously.
“And this…” Commodore Kiersted interjected, drawing Wesley’s attention to the other officer, this one still wearing the old issue gold turtleneck with the two solid stripes on his sleeves indicating his position of captain, but not necessarily his rank, “…is Commander Dennis Mitchell, commanding officer of the border cutter Kite.”
“Commander.” Wesley politely greeted as he shook the hand of the stocky grey-haired officer, receiving in return a phlegmatic, but courteous response.
“Have a seat, Robert.” The station commander urged as the pretty raven-haired yeoman who had met him in reception suddenly appeared bearing a tray with a crystal decanter containing a clear liquid and two glasses. Addressing the other two ship commanders in the room, Commodore Kiersted smiled, politely dismissing them, “Marietta…Dennis…we’ll talk again later.”
Turning to leave the room, Captain DeVeers smiled, “We’ll get together later, Robert, and you can fill me in on everything that’s happened since the last time we met. There’s a pretty good bar here...”
“Sounds good, Marietta.” Wesley grinned as he once again shook the South African woman’s hand. “I look forward to it.”
“Commodore.” Commander Mitchell remarked politely as he also again took Wesley’s hand before turning to leave, “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
.
Smoothly setting the tray and its contents on Kiersted’s desk, the yeoman made her exit just as quietly as she had entered. Pouring the contents of the decanter in each of the glasses, Commodore Kiersted offered one to his guest. “Aquavit.” Jerrik said as Wesley sipped the smooth anise flavored liquor, his eyebrows raised as the two other ship captain’s left the office. “From home.” Making himself comfortable in his seat, Kiersted noticed the appraising glance his fellow flag officer was giving the two departing officers, especially the ‘Border Dog’. “Mitchell’s solid, Bob…” Kiersted declared, the slight wavering in his voice immediately drawing the commodore’s attention, “…and the Kite’s a good ship with a fine crew. He’s not the sort of captain who’ll set the galaxy on fire…” Jerrik admitted, “…but he’ll get the job done.
“I don’t doubt it.” Wesley replied, “I’ve worked with some very good Border Service captains and crews…”
“And some very bad ones…” Kiersted completed, “Yeah…I know. The Border Dogs are a mixed bag. But Mitchell and his people are all right. And as for Marietta…” the Danish commodore grinned.
“Oh…I’m very familiar with the ‘Leopard’.” Bob chuckled; using the nickname bestowed upon the fiery captain of the Scipio after the destroyer she had commanded had single-handedly taken down a much larger and better armed Kzinti light cruiser during the recent border incursions.
Joining his fellow commodore in the good natured laughter, Jerrik added, “Her ship’s part of DesRon 20, along with the Foch and Pappenheim, that’ll eventually be based out of here. And Kite’s part of Border Squadron 10 along with a couple of other Kestrels and a buoy tender—the Evergreen.”
Eyebrows raised in astonishment, Wesley exclaimed as he set down the glass of aquavit in his hand, “Isn’t that an old NX?”
“Ja.” Kiersted chuckled, “The old Endeavor. They ripped out most of her armaments and upped her tractor beam and impulse drives. The old girl’s gone through quite the service life: from first line to second line fleet to border cutter to the mothball fleet to buoy tender. Her next stop’s the scrap yard.” Pausing for a moment as he glanced down at the data slate on his desk, the Danish starbase commander’s smile vanished, “I’ve been reading your mission report, Robert. At least we found out about the Voltaire. It’s a shame. Commander Villars was a good man…with a good crew.”
“So I’ve heard.” Robert affirmed, emphasizing, “A lot of good people died in that nebula.”
“That’s one of the reasons why we’re quarantining it.” Commodore Kiersted flatly declared. “No unauthorized travel into that entire region until further notice.” Leaning forward in his chair, the Danish commodore’s voice took on a more urgent tone, “We need to know more about these aliens. Who are they? Where are they from? How were they able to just snatch you and your people—not to mention those Klingons—from your ships and transport you to God knows where and then back again to that station of theirs? And most important…” Kiersted paused momentarily as he took another sip from his glass, “…why did they do it? What are their goals and agenda? To study us? That appears obvious from your report, but again, why? Was it simple curiosity? Or do they have something else in mind like colonization—or conquest. There are just too many unanswered questions.”
“I know…” Wesley concurred, “We haven’t had any luck deciphering that database we downloaded either. My science officer and her people haven’t even been able to get through the first lines.”
Sighing, Kiersted remarked glumly, “Brighter minds that we will probably be spending the next several years…if not decades…trying to crack that.” The station commander paused as he took a deep breath, “This is all brand new territory out here, Robert, almost all of it unexplored. Who knows what sort of cultures and civilizations are out there just waiting for us to find them? Added to that, we’ve got the Klingons next door staking a claim to the entire sector and Orion and other pirates, smugglers, con-artists, and anyone else looking to make a quick score or an easy credit.”
“A lot like the Old West…” Robert remarked with a grin, “Admiral Komack told me the same thing when I took command of the Lexington.”
“Welcome to Dodge City.” Kiersted quipped, completing the allusion. “Right now, we’re just a small frontier outpost, but give it a few years and the traffic here will be as busy as at Starbase 11 or any of the other major fleet hubs—and you know, Bob...” Grinning as he saw the look of boyish enthusiasm on the face of the Danish commodore, Wesley finished his drink as the station commander remarked, “…I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” As the yeoman ducked her head in the office, Kiersted nodded his head, sighing, “That’s Elise warning me that I’ve got a meeting with the local contractors’ guild.” Both officers standing up, Jerrik once again shook Wesley’s hand, signaling an end to their meeting, “It’s good seeing you again, Bob—it’s been too long. Tell Virginia I said hello.”
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As he walked down the corridors of the brand new starbase, Wesley nodded his head or muttered a polite “Hello” as officers and crew from the starbase as well as from the various ships docked there passed him by on their various errands and rounds. Entering the small commercial section of the station, the commodore saw mostly empty space with only a few shops and stalls currently open for business, but, he noticed, the shops that were open were bustling with traffic constantly going in and out and lines forming with customers eager to shell out their credits. Walking slowly down the concourse, the commodore took note of the different types of establishments lining it. Chuckling, he saw Ensigns Bathory and Watley already in the clothing shop, the pixie like Aliz laughing merrily as her roommate showed off one outfit after another, until, finally settling on a diaphanous floral print gown, the olive skinned Jennifer ducked into a changing room to try it on.
Acknowledging the shy smile his helmsman gave him, Wesley smiled back, nodding his head in greeting as the high-spirited Jennifer returned, holding the gown out triumphantly in her hands. Laughing at the youthful exuberance of his junior officers, Robert made his way on down the concourse, passing by a restaurant, some small food and curio shops and stalls until coming to what he immediately recognized had to be the local saloon—with what was obviously a casino across the way. Entering the bar, Wesley saw at once that whoever was the proprietor of this establishment knew something about late twentieth century culture as it resembled, more than anything else, the commodore thought, a late 1950’s—early 1960’s lounge. From the wooden bar complete with stools to the cozy booths with wooden tables and upholstered seats, and even the piped in popular music, the place oozed nostalgia.
Spying one of his officers, Lieutenant Cilla Oudekirk, sitting alone at the bar, a pensive look on her face as she nursed a drink, a worried look overtook Wesley’s previously cheerful demeanor. Not a good sign. The commodore noted, his frown deepening. One of my officers drinking alone…Deciding that it would be a good idea for him to get to know his Dutch communications officer a bit better, Robert began to make his way towards her only to be distracted by hearing his name called out.
“Commodore! Over here!” Turning towards the voice, Wesley immediately recognized Marietta DeVeers sitting in a booth opposite Commander Mitchell. “Come join us!” The redheaded captain called out with a wave. Making a mental promise that he would sit down with his communications officer at some point in the very near future, Robert, exhaling and putting on a smile, joined the vivacious captain of the Scipio and her equally taciturn fellow ship captain. “Have a seat, Sir.” Captain DeVeers encouraged as she scooted over to the wall, making room for the commodore.
“Thank you.” Wesley responded with a smile as he joined his fellow ship captains. “I take it this is the local watering hole.”
“Yup. Welcome to the Captain’s Table—at least that’s what we call this booth. The bar’s called the Starlighter.” Marietta quipped as she took a drink from the frosty mug of beer before her. “In case you’re wondering…” she continued, gesturing with her full mug at the stocky man behind the bar, “Radek runs a clean house. Now, the joint across the street…”she warned, her eyes focused in the direction of the casino, “…that’s another matter entirely. It’s owned by Navel Arik, an Orion. Any of your people go in there—tell ‘em to watch their credit chits.”
“Rigged games?” Wesley asked as he took a sip of his beer, nodding appreciatively at its taste.
Noticing the commodore’s reaction to the ale, Marietta smiled, “Good, isn’t it? Radek brews it himself. And, to answer your earlier question, no…” She said, shaking her head, her red tresses brushing up against Wesley’s cheek, “…nothing so crude and obvious. That would get Commodore Kiersted on him for sure. He employs shills and sharps at his tables—and the house takes a big cut. It’s all legal…barely…but still within the rules.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Wesley responded as he turned his attention to the quiet officer sitting opposite him, his face, for some odd reason, triggering this feeling in Wesley that he should know him from somewhere, but where, the commodore just couldn’t quite determine. “So, Commander, how long have you been in command of the Kite?”
“Two years, Sir.” Mitchell replied tersely as he sipped his beer.
“And where were you stationed previously?” Wesley gently probed, seeking to draw out the taciturn commander seated before him.
“The Skua, Sir.” The commander answered back, still laconic. Glancing down at his wrist chronometer, Mitchell rose to his feet, “I’m sorry, Commodore…but I have to return to my ship. We’re leaving on patrol in twenty four standard hours.”
“I understand.” Wesley replied as he stood up, offering the commander his hand, “I’m sure we’ll meet again and get better acquainted.” Resuming his seat as the close-mouthed skipper of the Kite left the bar, Robert turned towards the redheaded captain sitting next to him, “So, Marietta…what’s his problem?”
Exhaling deeply, the skipper of the Scipio explained, “You don’t remember, Bob?”
“Remember what?” Wesley asked, his voice taking on an irritated tone. Taking a draught from his beer, the commodore remarked, “I’ll admit, his face seems familiar, but I can’t place it…”
Quickly shaking her head, the South African captain refilled her mug from the pitcher in the center of the table before explaining, “Before serving on the Skua, Mitchell was posted to Space Station J-2.”
“J-2?” Wesley responded with raised eyebrows, “That’s in the old Delphic Expanse. Except for Northstar, the Xindi, and one or two other isolated colonies, there’s nothing there worth mentioning.” Giving his fellow starship captain a probing gaze, the commodore inquired, “What did he do or who did he piss off to get assigned there?”
“He didn’t do anything.” Marietta replied, “He was at the Battle of Beta Cygni back in ’55 during the War…”
“That was a bloody one…” Wesley recollected, “I was still a commander—first officer on the Independence at the time.” Shaking his head, the commodore exhaled, “We took heavy losses. Captain Drake and half the crew were killed and all the rest of us were injured to one extent or another—my arm was broken and I had a concussion. No one got out of that fight unscathed.” Pausing for a moment he asked, “Was Mitchell there?”
“Yeah…” Marietta said softly, “He was on chief engineer on the Capek…”
“The Cowardly Capek…” Wesley growled, his voice dripping with scorn, “The only starship to break and run during that battle. Do you know what happened when that ship turned tail? It left a gap in our left flank that the Klingons drove right through. One of the reasons why we took the losses we did was because ‘Yellow’ Walker panicked and pulled his ship out and not one of his senior officers questioned his order to break off—even after he was repeatedly ordered to turn back to the fight. The only reason we won that battle instead of losing was because we got lucky and Fourth Fleet arrived in the nick of time.”
“Mitchell got caught up in the fallout afterwards.” Captain DeVeers stated softly as a waitress came with a fresh pitcher and two new frosty mugs. Pouring beer into both of the mugs, Marietta continued, “Do remember what happened then?”
“Yeah.” Robert replied as the memories came rushing back into his mind, “Walker and his entire senior staff were court-martialed.” Finally placing the name with the face, Wesley exclaimed, “Now I remember him! It’s been so long and his appearance has changed so much from how I remember him. His hair’s grey and he’s put on weight and…”
“His face shows the effects of him having to live with what happened back then.” Marietta completed. “Well, as I’m sure you know, Walker and his first and second officers were found guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, cashiered from the service and sentenced to Tantalus V for ten years each. They should either be out now or will be out soon. Mitchell was acquitted because testimony at the trial proved that he didn’t know anything about Walker’s actions until well after the fact.”
“Right.” Wesley recalled, “He was in engineering the entire time…”
“But…he got caught in the fallout along with most of the rest of the officers that were on the Capek at the time. He was reassigned to K-2 where he stayed until his transfer to the Border Service in 2260 when he was made executive officer of the Skua. Last year, they gave him the Kite.” Taking another draught from her beer, she pleaded the border cutter commander’s case, “He’s not a bad man, Bob. Granted, he’s not the most imaginative or original of individuals. He’s not big on initiative nor is he the sort of captain I’d trust out on his own in the middle of the big empty, but, as long as he stays within what he knows, he’s a competent enough officer. He also runs a clean ship and crew and you know as well as I do that you can’t say that about every Border Dog skipper.”
His lips turning up into a sad smile as the faces of his long dead comrades flashed before his eyes, Wesley finished his beer, “As far as I’m concerned, Marietta, Commander Mitchell starts off with a clean slate. It’s up to him what he makes of it. Now…” The commodore said as he got up out of his seat, “I’ve got to get back to my ship.”
“Yah…me too.” Marietta replied as she got up as well. Reaching for her credit chit, Wesley shook his head, providing his to the waitress instead.
“This is on me, Marietta.” He smiled as he pressed his thumb on the data slate containing the bill, “The next one’s yours.”
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Without further ado, here's "Downtime." As always, your comments and suggestions are always welcome!
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DOWNTIME
Part 1: Port of Call
As the mushroom shape of Starbase 31 grew larger in the Lexington’s main viewer, Commodore Robert Wesley’s lips turned up in a smile. A frontier outpost, 31, for now at least, was relatively small as starbases go—it was easily dwarfed, for instance, by its larger sister installation, Starbase 11, which, under the command of Commodore Stone, served as the major fleet logistics and coordination center for this entire region of space, but the new starbase was well placed and would, in the not so distant future, become an important base in its own right. But right now, it represented a safe of port of call—a place where he could mend his ship and his crew could stretch their legs for a bit. Addressing his petite auburn haired helmsman, Wesley quipped, ”Ms. Bathory? Can you take us in without a tug?”
“Aye, Sir.” The young pixyish Hungarian pilot acknowledged with a smile, her voice implying, Ask me to do something difficult, as her nimble fingers expertly flew over the console, steering the majestic Constitution class starship smoothly through the cavernous starbase entry and slipping it right to the ship’s assigned berth between the diminutive Kestrel-class border cutter, USS Kite to one side and the sleek, efficient, single nacelle designed Saladin-class destroyer USS Scipio on the other. “Mooring lines secure, Commodore.” Ensign Bathory announced, the thunk sound made by the station’s snakelike conduits securing themselves to the outer hull of the stately Lady Lex confirming the junior officer’s statement.
“Secure all systems.” Commodore Robert Wesley ordered, wincing slightly as his gaze fell on the airlock door that had just recently had a makeshift repair job done on it following the ship’s recent battle with the Klingon battlecruiser K’Mar. “Shoreleave is authorized for all off duty personnel.” Getting up from his chair, Wesley addressed the ship’s navigator, “Mr. Lawford…the bridge is yours.”
“Aye, Sir.” Lieutenant, junior grade, Terrence Lawford replied as he took the center seat.
Entering the turbolift, Wesley gripped the handle, twisting it as he ordered, “Deck Six.” As the elevator smoothly began its descent, the commodore once again attempted to process the events of the last few days: his kidnapping—as well as the Klingon captain’s—along with some of their crew—from the bridges of their own ships by strange and undoubtedly powerful aliens with unknown motives; their subsequent trek through forbidding terrain where both he and his Klingon counterpart lost crew; their encounter with the obelisk and the aliens that created it; the aliens’ experiments on them and on the scientific teams sent by both ships to explore a strange space station that was also created by the aliens; and finally, the sacrifice made by one of his crew as well as one of K’Tan’s in order to acquire the aliens’ database. The elevator cab now shifting from its previous vertical to a horizontal direction, one question forced itself to the fore of the commodore’s mind: was the information found in that database worth the lives of those two young men? The answer to that question would determine whether they had carried out an act of extreme heroism or whether it was simply an example of the foolhardiness of youth. For the sake of Xylvan and Kassan, Wesley hoped for the former, but the commodore was wise enough and experienced enough to know that it in the end it would probably be the latter.
For their sakes…Wesley prayed as the lift doors slid open…I hope it was worth it.
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Entering Sickbay, the commodore went to each of one of the beds occupied by a casualty from the recent battle. Those that were awake and able to talk, he spent a few moments with, joking or talking or simply listening, before leaving them with a word of encouragement and then moving on to the next, all the way down the line until he spotted Dr. Vincent, wearing a short sleeve blue medical tunic, making his rounds. Walking up to the doctor, Wesley inquired apologetically, “Hope I’m not in the way, Doc…”
“Nope, Commodore…Not at all…” Charles replied with a smile as he pressed a hypospray against an ensign’s neck. “Except for Petty Officers Gomez and Phillips, everyone’s coming along nicely. I should have most of these layabouts…” He grinned; receiving in return a chorus of good-natured boos from his patients, “…back to work within a day or two.”
“What’s the problem with Gomez and Phillips?” A concerned Wesley asked as his eyes drifted to the biobeds where those two young men lay, noting at once that most of their monitor readings were on the low end of the scale.
“They were involved in the fight on the saucer section.” The doctor replied in his usual New England twang, “Besides the cellular damage they suffered from the Klingon disruptors, they were exposed to vacuum.”
“What’s their prognosis?”
Glancing down at his data slate, the Dr. Vincent responded cautiously, “Barring something unusual, they should recover in a few weeks. After that, they’ll be looking at a couple of weeks of limited duty. On the whole…” The doctor opined, “…we got off lucky. It could have been a lot worse”
Shaking his head, Wesley responded grimly, “We paid a high enough price as it was, Doctor.” Turning his attention towards his executive officer lying on the farthest biobed, Robert asked, “How’s Alexei?”
Chuckling, Charles responded, “The Bear’s coming along nicely. I’ve given him a sedative so he’s out right now, but he should be awake in a few hours—come back then and you can talk to him.”
Taking the doctor’s thinly veiled hint, Commodore Wesley’s lips turned up into a small grin, “Ok, Doc. I’ll let you get back to work now. I’ve got an appointment anyway with the Starbase commander. Tell Alexei when he wakes up I’ll be by to see him later.”
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Entering Commodore Jerrik Kiersted’s office, Robert at once noticed his ship in the center of the large transparent aluminum window behind the station commander’s desk. Already workbees and space suited station workers were clambering about the outer hull of his vessel, inspecting the damage done in the recent fight. Reluctantly taking his eyes off The Lady, Wesley saw that there were two other officers already seated in chairs in front of the starbase commander’s desk. Rising to their feet as he approached, Commodore Kiersted, holding out his hand, spoke first, his wheat-blond hair and thick accent betraying at once his Scandinavian roots, “Welcome aboard, Robert!” Taking his fellow flag officer’s hand in a firm grip, Kiersted gestured at the two other officers standing before his desk, “Captain DeVeers and Commander Mitchell were just leaving. I know you and Captain DeVeers of the Scipio are already acquainted…”
“Captain…” Commodore Wesley smiled as he took the hand of the stunning redheaded skipper, wearing a new issue gold miniskirt with captain’s stripes on the sleeves, “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too, Commodore…” The Scipio’s skipper answered back, her lively green eyes twinkling mischievously.
“And this…” Commodore Kiersted interjected, drawing Wesley’s attention to the other officer, this one still wearing the old issue gold turtleneck with the two solid stripes on his sleeves indicating his position of captain, but not necessarily his rank, “…is Commander Dennis Mitchell, commanding officer of the border cutter Kite.”
“Commander.” Wesley politely greeted as he shook the hand of the stocky grey-haired officer, receiving in return a phlegmatic, but courteous response.
“Have a seat, Robert.” The station commander urged as the pretty raven-haired yeoman who had met him in reception suddenly appeared bearing a tray with a crystal decanter containing a clear liquid and two glasses. Addressing the other two ship commanders in the room, Commodore Kiersted smiled, politely dismissing them, “Marietta…Dennis…we’ll talk again later.”
Turning to leave the room, Captain DeVeers smiled, “We’ll get together later, Robert, and you can fill me in on everything that’s happened since the last time we met. There’s a pretty good bar here...”
“Sounds good, Marietta.” Wesley grinned as he once again shook the South African woman’s hand. “I look forward to it.”
“Commodore.” Commander Mitchell remarked politely as he also again took Wesley’s hand before turning to leave, “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
.
Smoothly setting the tray and its contents on Kiersted’s desk, the yeoman made her exit just as quietly as she had entered. Pouring the contents of the decanter in each of the glasses, Commodore Kiersted offered one to his guest. “Aquavit.” Jerrik said as Wesley sipped the smooth anise flavored liquor, his eyebrows raised as the two other ship captain’s left the office. “From home.” Making himself comfortable in his seat, Kiersted noticed the appraising glance his fellow flag officer was giving the two departing officers, especially the ‘Border Dog’. “Mitchell’s solid, Bob…” Kiersted declared, the slight wavering in his voice immediately drawing the commodore’s attention, “…and the Kite’s a good ship with a fine crew. He’s not the sort of captain who’ll set the galaxy on fire…” Jerrik admitted, “…but he’ll get the job done.
“I don’t doubt it.” Wesley replied, “I’ve worked with some very good Border Service captains and crews…”
“And some very bad ones…” Kiersted completed, “Yeah…I know. The Border Dogs are a mixed bag. But Mitchell and his people are all right. And as for Marietta…” the Danish commodore grinned.
“Oh…I’m very familiar with the ‘Leopard’.” Bob chuckled; using the nickname bestowed upon the fiery captain of the Scipio after the destroyer she had commanded had single-handedly taken down a much larger and better armed Kzinti light cruiser during the recent border incursions.
Joining his fellow commodore in the good natured laughter, Jerrik added, “Her ship’s part of DesRon 20, along with the Foch and Pappenheim, that’ll eventually be based out of here. And Kite’s part of Border Squadron 10 along with a couple of other Kestrels and a buoy tender—the Evergreen.”
Eyebrows raised in astonishment, Wesley exclaimed as he set down the glass of aquavit in his hand, “Isn’t that an old NX?”
“Ja.” Kiersted chuckled, “The old Endeavor. They ripped out most of her armaments and upped her tractor beam and impulse drives. The old girl’s gone through quite the service life: from first line to second line fleet to border cutter to the mothball fleet to buoy tender. Her next stop’s the scrap yard.” Pausing for a moment as he glanced down at the data slate on his desk, the Danish starbase commander’s smile vanished, “I’ve been reading your mission report, Robert. At least we found out about the Voltaire. It’s a shame. Commander Villars was a good man…with a good crew.”
“So I’ve heard.” Robert affirmed, emphasizing, “A lot of good people died in that nebula.”
“That’s one of the reasons why we’re quarantining it.” Commodore Kiersted flatly declared. “No unauthorized travel into that entire region until further notice.” Leaning forward in his chair, the Danish commodore’s voice took on a more urgent tone, “We need to know more about these aliens. Who are they? Where are they from? How were they able to just snatch you and your people—not to mention those Klingons—from your ships and transport you to God knows where and then back again to that station of theirs? And most important…” Kiersted paused momentarily as he took another sip from his glass, “…why did they do it? What are their goals and agenda? To study us? That appears obvious from your report, but again, why? Was it simple curiosity? Or do they have something else in mind like colonization—or conquest. There are just too many unanswered questions.”
“I know…” Wesley concurred, “We haven’t had any luck deciphering that database we downloaded either. My science officer and her people haven’t even been able to get through the first lines.”
Sighing, Kiersted remarked glumly, “Brighter minds that we will probably be spending the next several years…if not decades…trying to crack that.” The station commander paused as he took a deep breath, “This is all brand new territory out here, Robert, almost all of it unexplored. Who knows what sort of cultures and civilizations are out there just waiting for us to find them? Added to that, we’ve got the Klingons next door staking a claim to the entire sector and Orion and other pirates, smugglers, con-artists, and anyone else looking to make a quick score or an easy credit.”
“A lot like the Old West…” Robert remarked with a grin, “Admiral Komack told me the same thing when I took command of the Lexington.”
“Welcome to Dodge City.” Kiersted quipped, completing the allusion. “Right now, we’re just a small frontier outpost, but give it a few years and the traffic here will be as busy as at Starbase 11 or any of the other major fleet hubs—and you know, Bob...” Grinning as he saw the look of boyish enthusiasm on the face of the Danish commodore, Wesley finished his drink as the station commander remarked, “…I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” As the yeoman ducked her head in the office, Kiersted nodded his head, sighing, “That’s Elise warning me that I’ve got a meeting with the local contractors’ guild.” Both officers standing up, Jerrik once again shook Wesley’s hand, signaling an end to their meeting, “It’s good seeing you again, Bob—it’s been too long. Tell Virginia I said hello.”
************************************************************************
As he walked down the corridors of the brand new starbase, Wesley nodded his head or muttered a polite “Hello” as officers and crew from the starbase as well as from the various ships docked there passed him by on their various errands and rounds. Entering the small commercial section of the station, the commodore saw mostly empty space with only a few shops and stalls currently open for business, but, he noticed, the shops that were open were bustling with traffic constantly going in and out and lines forming with customers eager to shell out their credits. Walking slowly down the concourse, the commodore took note of the different types of establishments lining it. Chuckling, he saw Ensigns Bathory and Watley already in the clothing shop, the pixie like Aliz laughing merrily as her roommate showed off one outfit after another, until, finally settling on a diaphanous floral print gown, the olive skinned Jennifer ducked into a changing room to try it on.
Acknowledging the shy smile his helmsman gave him, Wesley smiled back, nodding his head in greeting as the high-spirited Jennifer returned, holding the gown out triumphantly in her hands. Laughing at the youthful exuberance of his junior officers, Robert made his way on down the concourse, passing by a restaurant, some small food and curio shops and stalls until coming to what he immediately recognized had to be the local saloon—with what was obviously a casino across the way. Entering the bar, Wesley saw at once that whoever was the proprietor of this establishment knew something about late twentieth century culture as it resembled, more than anything else, the commodore thought, a late 1950’s—early 1960’s lounge. From the wooden bar complete with stools to the cozy booths with wooden tables and upholstered seats, and even the piped in popular music, the place oozed nostalgia.
Spying one of his officers, Lieutenant Cilla Oudekirk, sitting alone at the bar, a pensive look on her face as she nursed a drink, a worried look overtook Wesley’s previously cheerful demeanor. Not a good sign. The commodore noted, his frown deepening. One of my officers drinking alone…Deciding that it would be a good idea for him to get to know his Dutch communications officer a bit better, Robert began to make his way towards her only to be distracted by hearing his name called out.
“Commodore! Over here!” Turning towards the voice, Wesley immediately recognized Marietta DeVeers sitting in a booth opposite Commander Mitchell. “Come join us!” The redheaded captain called out with a wave. Making a mental promise that he would sit down with his communications officer at some point in the very near future, Robert, exhaling and putting on a smile, joined the vivacious captain of the Scipio and her equally taciturn fellow ship captain. “Have a seat, Sir.” Captain DeVeers encouraged as she scooted over to the wall, making room for the commodore.
“Thank you.” Wesley responded with a smile as he joined his fellow ship captains. “I take it this is the local watering hole.”
“Yup. Welcome to the Captain’s Table—at least that’s what we call this booth. The bar’s called the Starlighter.” Marietta quipped as she took a drink from the frosty mug of beer before her. “In case you’re wondering…” she continued, gesturing with her full mug at the stocky man behind the bar, “Radek runs a clean house. Now, the joint across the street…”she warned, her eyes focused in the direction of the casino, “…that’s another matter entirely. It’s owned by Navel Arik, an Orion. Any of your people go in there—tell ‘em to watch their credit chits.”
“Rigged games?” Wesley asked as he took a sip of his beer, nodding appreciatively at its taste.
Noticing the commodore’s reaction to the ale, Marietta smiled, “Good, isn’t it? Radek brews it himself. And, to answer your earlier question, no…” She said, shaking her head, her red tresses brushing up against Wesley’s cheek, “…nothing so crude and obvious. That would get Commodore Kiersted on him for sure. He employs shills and sharps at his tables—and the house takes a big cut. It’s all legal…barely…but still within the rules.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Wesley responded as he turned his attention to the quiet officer sitting opposite him, his face, for some odd reason, triggering this feeling in Wesley that he should know him from somewhere, but where, the commodore just couldn’t quite determine. “So, Commander, how long have you been in command of the Kite?”
“Two years, Sir.” Mitchell replied tersely as he sipped his beer.
“And where were you stationed previously?” Wesley gently probed, seeking to draw out the taciturn commander seated before him.
“The Skua, Sir.” The commander answered back, still laconic. Glancing down at his wrist chronometer, Mitchell rose to his feet, “I’m sorry, Commodore…but I have to return to my ship. We’re leaving on patrol in twenty four standard hours.”
“I understand.” Wesley replied as he stood up, offering the commander his hand, “I’m sure we’ll meet again and get better acquainted.” Resuming his seat as the close-mouthed skipper of the Kite left the bar, Robert turned towards the redheaded captain sitting next to him, “So, Marietta…what’s his problem?”
Exhaling deeply, the skipper of the Scipio explained, “You don’t remember, Bob?”
“Remember what?” Wesley asked, his voice taking on an irritated tone. Taking a draught from his beer, the commodore remarked, “I’ll admit, his face seems familiar, but I can’t place it…”
Quickly shaking her head, the South African captain refilled her mug from the pitcher in the center of the table before explaining, “Before serving on the Skua, Mitchell was posted to Space Station J-2.”
“J-2?” Wesley responded with raised eyebrows, “That’s in the old Delphic Expanse. Except for Northstar, the Xindi, and one or two other isolated colonies, there’s nothing there worth mentioning.” Giving his fellow starship captain a probing gaze, the commodore inquired, “What did he do or who did he piss off to get assigned there?”
“He didn’t do anything.” Marietta replied, “He was at the Battle of Beta Cygni back in ’55 during the War…”
“That was a bloody one…” Wesley recollected, “I was still a commander—first officer on the Independence at the time.” Shaking his head, the commodore exhaled, “We took heavy losses. Captain Drake and half the crew were killed and all the rest of us were injured to one extent or another—my arm was broken and I had a concussion. No one got out of that fight unscathed.” Pausing for a moment he asked, “Was Mitchell there?”
“Yeah…” Marietta said softly, “He was on chief engineer on the Capek…”
“The Cowardly Capek…” Wesley growled, his voice dripping with scorn, “The only starship to break and run during that battle. Do you know what happened when that ship turned tail? It left a gap in our left flank that the Klingons drove right through. One of the reasons why we took the losses we did was because ‘Yellow’ Walker panicked and pulled his ship out and not one of his senior officers questioned his order to break off—even after he was repeatedly ordered to turn back to the fight. The only reason we won that battle instead of losing was because we got lucky and Fourth Fleet arrived in the nick of time.”
“Mitchell got caught up in the fallout afterwards.” Captain DeVeers stated softly as a waitress came with a fresh pitcher and two new frosty mugs. Pouring beer into both of the mugs, Marietta continued, “Do remember what happened then?”
“Yeah.” Robert replied as the memories came rushing back into his mind, “Walker and his entire senior staff were court-martialed.” Finally placing the name with the face, Wesley exclaimed, “Now I remember him! It’s been so long and his appearance has changed so much from how I remember him. His hair’s grey and he’s put on weight and…”
“His face shows the effects of him having to live with what happened back then.” Marietta completed. “Well, as I’m sure you know, Walker and his first and second officers were found guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, cashiered from the service and sentenced to Tantalus V for ten years each. They should either be out now or will be out soon. Mitchell was acquitted because testimony at the trial proved that he didn’t know anything about Walker’s actions until well after the fact.”
“Right.” Wesley recalled, “He was in engineering the entire time…”
“But…he got caught in the fallout along with most of the rest of the officers that were on the Capek at the time. He was reassigned to K-2 where he stayed until his transfer to the Border Service in 2260 when he was made executive officer of the Skua. Last year, they gave him the Kite.” Taking another draught from her beer, she pleaded the border cutter commander’s case, “He’s not a bad man, Bob. Granted, he’s not the most imaginative or original of individuals. He’s not big on initiative nor is he the sort of captain I’d trust out on his own in the middle of the big empty, but, as long as he stays within what he knows, he’s a competent enough officer. He also runs a clean ship and crew and you know as well as I do that you can’t say that about every Border Dog skipper.”
His lips turning up into a sad smile as the faces of his long dead comrades flashed before his eyes, Wesley finished his beer, “As far as I’m concerned, Marietta, Commander Mitchell starts off with a clean slate. It’s up to him what he makes of it. Now…” The commodore said as he got up out of his seat, “I’ve got to get back to my ship.”
“Yah…me too.” Marietta replied as she got up as well. Reaching for her credit chit, Wesley shook his head, providing his to the waitress instead.
“This is on me, Marietta.” He smiled as he pressed his thumb on the data slate containing the bill, “The next one’s yours.”
************************************************************
Now, the casino is another matter entirely!
