U.S.S. Braveheart: Adventures

[RegisHAzzard]

This story takes place post-Nemesis dealing with galactic tensions following the defeat of the Dominion. This first installment introduces my main characters, who are firmly in the tradition of Trek multiculturalism and acceptance. Here goes.

* * *

The Norway-class USS Braveheart was on an ordinary ole’ patrol along the Cardassian neutral zone on that day That fateful day. Captain Ernesto Emilio Gonzalez Sanchez was captaining the arrowhead-shaped Norway class, which FYI has a shuttle bay in the stern.
He sat contemplating out his quarter’s window’s, sipping ponderously his black tea. Black like space he reflected, piercingly. Cold, lifeless – totaly pointless. The Captain wished he was back on Ourman 8’s sparkling beaches with his wife, Vasquez. Yes, but such is the burden of a Starfleet officer he reminded himself. There was a surging loneliness, stirring, brewing within him whenever he thought of such things. Brewing like his tea recently was – brewing.

Wee-bee-woo-boo.

Sanchez’s door went off.

“Enter,” he shouted softly.

“Here’s the report from our scans, sir” the young, fresh Ensign barked. Sanchez was stuck with an untested ship and an untested crew. Just what he needed, he thought, if they should encounter say, a Cardassian warship – one armed with 2 torpedo launchers and 8 Class-IV disrupters. Frankly he was hoping for an encounter, to push the envelope of his crew and the ship. Purportedly the Norway class was extraordinarily manouverable, agile, and quite rigid.

The fresh sensor scans rezzed up on the padd. A collection of glowy blurbs in the lower left-hand corner of the screen might have meant an approaching fleet attempting to mask it’s warp and weapon signatures with thorium fields. Might have. But thorium was notoriously unstable. Had the Romulans mastered it? Finally? Sanchez didn’t know… But he wondered…

Emerging in Sanchez’s head was the idea that the Ensign was still in the room. “Do you have a question, Ensign?” Sanchez laughed.

The Ensign readjusted his stance and clearly mumbled, “Will we ever see home again, sir?”

Contemplatively rubbing and his beard and taking a long draught and of his tea, Sanchez mussed, “Perhaps, Engisn. Maybe. If we do our jobs. Right. Dismissed.”

END OF PART I

Vice Admiral Hirohito Mikado sat in seiza position, meditating through his porthole. Several scrolls, his very own work, hung from the walls. In one corner of the room was a small Shinto shrine, with several offerings having been put on it earlier that day. Captain Mikado came from a proud Samurai lineage. His ancestors had, among other things, fought with Toyotomi Hideyoshi against the Western barbarians (those white devils!), defended the peace in the Tokugawa Era, and fought the bastard American devils during the so-called World War II of ancient Earth history. Naturally Commodore Mikado was versed in the art of the sword and various martial arts – jujitsu, kendo, aikido, judo,, iaido, bushido, sado, kendo… He wisely got up from seiza position and shuffled meanderingly over to the replicator for some kocha, or black tea. He always drank some kocha before practicing jujitsu with his seitotachi, or students. He was there sensei, or teacher.

The Captain was permitted to wear a kimono during off-duty hours, and occasionally was allowed to emerge onto the bridge with the wakizashi, no matter how dangerous it was too weer katana on the bridge. Yes, The Ciptain though. I am proud of my rich heritage.

END OF PART II

The low light rubbed beautifully across the deep ebony skin of Lieutenant M’Dinga who sat in thoughtful repose, staring out his quarter’s elongated window. His quarters were decorated with various symbols of uniquely African culture – masks used during ritual dances, an actual spear used by the Zulu tribe against the British, a framed jazz album by Thelonious Monk… In one corner was a shrine to Nelson Mandela. Normally M’Dinga would wake up to the sounds of the Sahara – played through his room’s speaker system, eat a hardy breakfast and time permitting, get in a short workout on the holodeck. His huge, towering frame was quite threatening.

“Good day, Lieutenant M’Dinga!” a passing Ensign said in the corridor. M’Dinga simply replied with a piercing, barking gaze.

The Engisn nervously withdrew from the Lieutenant, trying to continue about his business as through nothing had happened. Of course, this was normal – the Captain understood M’Dinga’s attitude and that it would never actually lead to violence.

END OF PART III

U.S.S. Braveheart, main engineering

“Get those plasma infusers back on line!” I barked at the Lieutenant. Main engineering was a mess after the attack by the Tholians.

The brown-haired Turillian replied, by indicating with his four-fingered slate-colored hands that it was a no-go. Turrilian blood was gray.

“God damn it…” I muttered under my breath, loudly. It was too easy to get them back on line.

“Sabotage?” the Turillian, name of Xindro Xynne, asked pre-emptively, mirroring my thoughts at that same instant of time.

I stabbed at the control panel by way of retort. The infusers were now shut off. “If something’s wrong with them,” I growled happily, “I want you to find out what, Mr. Xynne.”

“Yes sir,” he barked half-heartedly.

I needed to get to the bridge.

END OF PART IV

 

[Kaziarl]

goody, I get to be commenter #1... which means all your hatred will be directed at me if I give you a bad review right? jk. It's not bad, I was a little uneasy with how the style looked. Don't ask me to explain, I cant pinpoint anything specific. But it kinda felt like one of those stories you tell around a campfire and start by saying "Dude, like this one time..." As for what the story itself was about, well can't really tell yet, but I'll be waiting for more.

 

[RegisHAzzard]

Bumpitty bump bump.

PART V

Ambassador Forestkin lazily poured for himself a glass of slightly pale blue Takret’yan tran-wap, the taste of which he would soon savor in his luxuriant mouth. His porthole, which was situated on deck five of the command hull of an Espresso class fast interceptor (designed a few years after the much larger and roomier Consitution class that people like Admiral Kirk would galavant around the cosmos in and – shudder, thought Forestkinn – disobey direct orders) afforded him a view of the black inky depths of space that were speckled with little shiny white dots, which seemed like little shiny white drops of paint that had been flung onto the canvas of space, so man could write his destiny into the vast, seemingly endless sky.
In actuality each dot was either a Federation or Romulan warship, engaged in a furious clash. Just then, suddenly and unexpectedly, a Romulan warship broke from the desperately chaotic struggle and went after the Ambassador’s ship. The Ambassador could see the warship descending upon his vessel from his porthole, clearly and discernibly intent upon its prey. Discernable to the Ambassador were the warship’s ferocious, talon-like disrupter cannons, almost sexual in their pulsating red glow, ready to burst forth with a burst of raging power. They were Class-9 Mark-VI disintegrator-grade disrupter cannons, produced in the Omaran-sector by the Omarians. One could purchase a couple at a modest price. The Romulan warship, which was a modified Bird of Prey, released a burst of disrupter fire, singeing the hull of the Espresso class fast interceptor. Shaking wildly with the ship, the Ambassador lost his hold on his Takret’yan tran-wap, the glass tumbling to the deck-plating in an über-poetic way as though it were a reflection upon the uncontrollable nature of our own lives, the liquid gushing forth from the glass, spraying on the Ambassador’s immaculate, standard-issue uniform and splattering on the deck-plating, which was soon to be covered in the shattered remains of the fragile glass. The glass then smashed on the deck-plating, pieces flying up into the air and smacking the Admiral on his face. Other pieces rapped against the porthole, making a tinkling sound that was somehow audible amidst the cacophony of the ragingly ferocious battle that was transpiring just beyond the porthole…
As the Ambassador like his fragile glass careened to the floor in reaction to the Romulan pummeling, he reflected introspectively about his life. He remembered his youth spent on Andor V, where his father was the Terran ambassador. He remembered his first ride in a Promellian pneumatic ornithopterix and how he could see the Terellian concussion birds winging among the orange clouds of his father’s next posting, the third moon of Organia XIV in the Beryllium Sector. The Ambassador also remembered the replicated copy of a Matisse watercolor that his wife had given him on their fifth anniversary and how they had promptly made furiously chaotic love on top of it in their borrowed Type VA long-range shuttlecraft, which traded deuterium stores for a looped-xenon regeneration unit for enhanced power consumption. And as the Ambassador was reminiscing poetically on his brief trip to the deck-plating, a Romulan torpedo modeled after the Federation’s newly developed quantum torpedo ripped asunder the Espresso class ship’s shields and pierced deck five, striking a plasma junction just outside the Ambassador’s quarters. A roiling ball of liquid, gaseous flame poured into the room and charbroiled the Ambassador, a look of sad reminiscence etched onto his crisped face.
“Damn!” Said the Captain of the Espresso class ship, pounding his closed fist onto the armrest of his very comfortable captain’s chair, as the bridge erupted in destruction around him. The helm officer was blown across the room in a massive fireball from the EPS system. He was pulverized as his body slammed into the other side of the bridge. “On screen,” the Captain barked to his first officer. The viewscreen shimmered into view, revealing an exchange of throbbing weapon’s fire between Romulan and Federation ships. There were almost too many ships to distinguish, ships dodged in and out of view, weapons fire was frantically exchange between ships, a Bird of Prey erupted into a flaming ball of fire and careened into a hapless Federation battle cruiser of immense size. The battle cruiser lurched and turned to its side, a chunk of the hull having been bitten off by the collision, little people pouring out of the wound, tumbling off into space, never to be seen again. Clearly the emergency force fields had not been put into effect. Sparks flew across the bridge of the Espresso class ship, officers’ faces being crisped. The Captain’s countenance remained cold, hard and unmoving, like an icecube, despite the chaos erupting around him.
“Captain,” chortled the half-burnt First Officer from under a collapsed structural integrity beam. “We have to abandon ship.”
“Agreed, Commander Ramirez. Your time on board the Galaxy class U.S.S. Venture has served you well in making command-level suggestions.” The Captain mentally added to himself, “What a shame one of Starfleet’s finest should die under a collapsed beam.”
The Captain turned in his chair as the panels around him continued to fizzle and explode, the bridge a mess of debris, dying personnel, and spilt coffee. “Computer, this is Captain T’hokpok. Command self-destruct sequence 001, code A1AB. Destruct.”
The First Officer, his ribcage penetrated by the tritanium beam, sputtered that he concurred and then died, a dribble of blood flowing from the corners of his charred mouth.
“Self-destruct sequence initiated,” the Computer announced, beginning its fateful – and fatal – countdown to death. The Captain stood from his chair and made his way toward the turbolift, pushing aside mounds of chunked flesh, still steaming and often pulsating with what little lifeforce remained. As the doors of the turbolift closed, the Captain could hear – but only in his mind’s eye – the pleading whines of the tortured bridge crew. “Save us!” He though.

* * *​

Meanwhile, on board the modified Defiant class vessel the U.S.S. President Theodore Roosevelt whose motto was “We walk loudly and carry a BIG stick,” Lieutenant Luke Pearry had assumed command, since several exploding panels had caught the Captain in the face and back, shredding his body like so much cheese. A fine spray of blood had misted onto the viewscreen and the faces of all those around the mutilated, glass-filled corpse of the headless Captain, the stumps of his arms held up in a futile effort to protect his once beautiful face from the onslaught of shards of burst panel. “You know,” quipped Enginner Nicole Firebrand, a ravishing humanoid from Miri’s planet, “it’s not so much the glass that killed him but the energetic plasma outburst. It actually liquefied and boiled his cerebral cortex in a matter of nanoseconds.”
“At least he wasn’t aware of the glass then,” said the Lieutenant, as he brushed a few errant fingers from the Captain’s chair and took his seat.
Just then Admiral Paracelsus – who had escaped the destruction of the command ship in a lifeboat – came on the viewscreen. “Lieutenant Luke Pearry, this is Admiral Paracelsus. I am hereby giving you the field promotion to Captain of the U.S.S. President Theodore Roosevelt, to take effect immediately. As much as I a bore this battle and the grave consequences it will have on Earth-Romulan relations, I think it necessary to…” and then in a sudden unexpected turn of events, the Admiral’s lifeboat was vaporized by a salvo of Romulan fire.
“Engineer Firebrand,” said field-promoted Captain Pearry, “target the source of that fire and lock all weapons. We’re going in.” His brow locked in a serious gaze.
“Yes, Sir!” said the hot Engineer, as she pressed the appropriate buttons. She thought mentally inward to herself, “If only I could tell Lieutenant, I mean ‘Captain,’ Pearry how I felt for him. Then maybe I could be pressing his buttons.” But she did not let her feelings get too much in the way of her duties.
“Fire!” ordered the Captain. The fusillade of Mark-12 quantum torpedo fire tore the starboard nacelle off the aggressing the Romulan ship and a stream of blue, pulsating plasma flowed from the rupture. Evading the next volley of torpedoes, the Romulan ship turned around to unleash a fatal death-blow upon The U.S.S. President Theodore Roosevelt but Captain Pearry preempted the Romulans. “Ramming speed!” he ordered authoritatively, proud of his new field promotion but still with a reckless, boyish disregard for safety that appealed to Enginerd Visitor greatly. The Romulan ship turned to miss the oncoming Defiant class ship, causing only the nacelle of the Roosevelt to rip a massive throbbing gash into its green, ventral hull. Captain Pearry’s bold, daring move aroused Engineer Firebrand, but she did not allow her romantic interest to cloud her judgment and proceeded to jab at buttons with reckless abandon.

* * *​

The turbolift doors to the shuttlebay shot open. Kthunk!!! Captain T’hokpok stumbled into the shuttlebay as the ship lurched. The forcefield in the shuttlebay was flipping on and off, letting air out in short bursts, forcing T’hokpok to hold his breath in a valiant effort to reach the shuttle, which seemed at least three Vulcanian spurjball fields away. T’hokpok tensed his muscles like a Burjhphanian tiger-bat and pressed on. The shuttle was now in sight, and T’hokpok’s fears were temporarily allayed. The shuttle was made of a glimmering, coruscating metal called Duramniufortisteel, an alloy of Duramniamite and Fortisteelium, 59% of the former, 42% of the latter. It was an old, Type IIC medium-range shuttle capable of planetfall or, with the addition of a warpsled, interstellar flight. The accommodations were somewhat cramped, and the replicator had a limited menu, but at this point T’hokpok didn’t really care. He initialized the thruster system of the shuttle, skipping the systems check of EPS, phaser, life-support, and impulse systems. It wasn’t procedure, but his life was on the line. Suddenly, in an unexpected turn of events, a bulkhead above the hangar door exploded and came crashing down in front of the magnetic-lock field. He was traped! In a courageous move, in the space of a few seconds, he calculated the energy output of the EPS conduit that he knew ran behind the right wall of the hanger, determined that it was sufficient to blast the debris out of the way if he could create a radionized pocket of plasma by firing the phasers on the shuttle for 2.518 seconds in a continuous burst. He fired phasrers! The pocket was created and the debris cleared. Just as his shuttle burst forth from the hangar bay, a fireball exploded forth from the hangar, charring the surrounding hall and initiating a chain of events that would lead to a chain reaction that would destroy the ship. Explosions rippled across the hall of his ship, enveloping all the remaining crew members who remained aboard. In a guilty stupor for not having gone down with the ship and for allowing his crew to be crisped like bacon by the rupturing EPS conduits that surely would have exploded throughout the ship and then die in searing hot pain, T’hokpok atomized his head with a personal phaser, type III, on the highest setting. His shuttle then careened out of control into the navigational deflector of the U.S.S. President Theodore Roosevelt, severely crippling that ship’s capabilities.

* * *​

Aboard the U.S.S. President Theodore Roosevelt, Captain Luke Pearry and Engineer Firebrand were tossed about like rag dolls as the shuttle collided with their navigational deflector.
Daringly, getting up from the floor-plating to which he had been thrown, the Captain said, “Quick, Engineer, we haven’t much time. We have one shot at destroying the enemy before we explode. Any ideas?”
“I know, we can use an inverse tetryo-gravitic field to collapse the quantum singularity energy-drive matrix of the surrounding Romulan ships. To do so, I’ll first have to cross-connect the ODN with the EPS manifold. It’s a risky move, but I know a man…(a sexy man, she thought inside herself to her brain) such as yourself can do it.”
“Yes, you are right, I have balls…I can do this.” The Captain preceeded to create the inverse tetryo-gravitic field that would collapse the quantum singularity energy-drive matrix of the surrounding Romulan ships.
“All right, now that that’s taken care of, let’s escape before the warp core breaches. Come on, you can come with me…Engineer,” the Captain said in a husky, deep tone that implied his deep, hidden, secret desires that dwelled within him ever since he laid his luscious eyes upon the Engineer.
They were the only two crewmembers left alive on board the Roosevelt, which was already being ripped asunder around them as they raced through the debris-filled corridors, dodging gas jets and bursting EPS manifolds. Fortunately there would be a plasma-burn treatment kit in the lifeboat, along with some ham sandwiches and some airline style sleeping masks.
Enginneer Visitor thrust out her arm and slammed the door-open button with her closed fist, breaking the emergency glass and smacking the button in one daring blow. To say the least, the Captian was impressed, and perhaps a little enticed. The door flew open as the ship rocked, registering the simultaneous destruction of all surrounding Romulan ships. The plan had worked, but the Roosevelt was about to go herself. The ship was tossed like a rag doll as container after container of highly unstable warp plasma exploded, melting the surrounding superstructure.
“In you get!” said the Captain, pushing the Engineer in, which afforded him a rare opportunity to brush his hand across her derrniere. Something he would soon be doing again in another context, and soon.
Both of them now safely inside the lifeboat, the emergency bolts blow and the small, cube-shaped vessel is thrown clear of her exploding mothership, the Defiant class U.S.S. President Theodore Roosevelt. “We’ll remember her,” the Engineer thinks to herself, letting a single tear flow down her sensuous cheek.
The battle had been won. The few remaining Fed ships were patching there wounds and withdrawing as best they could to the nearest starbase. But the Engineers’ thoughts could only turn to other matters. Of a more personel nature. “Captain?” She sheepily asked. “Would it be a breach of protocol for me to engage your thruster?”

The End of Part I

OR BE IT????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11!! HA HAAHAHAHAQ!!1!!???!

 

[RevdKathy]

Looking at where this is heading, keep it clean please. Within the pg13 rule.

 

[RegisHAzzard]

No prob, revdkathy.

And now for the contenuation:

Gazing as the stars flew past his observation lounge window, Commander Elias Sanchez, pensively looking as he once looked pensively at a dying Klingon who had just assaulted his family on Tereeza Prime some years past, stared out the porthole at the streaming white dots – probably type 3 white dwarves – such as those in the Terkeelian Expanse where the Commander had spent his second training cruise as a second year cadet.

The devilishly attractive Australian science officer, Lieutenant Commander M’Resh Logran, a half-Tyneelian of advanced though still highly attractive to human eyes years. Entered the room.

“Sir, the fleet is assembled.” Jested the chiseled-faced M’Resh, who had just last year had been put in a situation that had put all his abilities to the test, his abilities that had until this incident lacked the sense of being second-nature to him, due to a lack of experience, a situation where the Captain of his ship had been killed by an exploding panel in a row with a K’Tinga class attack-cruiser, armed with fore and aft torp launchers and two disrupter cannons, where due to his Captain’s death he was forced to take command and destroy the aggressing ship, using all the abilities available to his aged Connie training cruiser, crewed almost entirely by green cadets.

The fleet, which had assembled for a hit ‘n’ fade attack on the Romulan Shipyards in the Mo’ldon sector, the shipyards which had been putting out ships at a rate far abover any other known Romulan shipyards and thus qualified as a primary targert, consisted of a wide array of ship classes, but primarily was made up of Akira-class torpedo cruisers with 12 duranium-polyethylmodisulfide class VIII torpedo bays, 2 starboard and port and 4 each fore and aft, recently refitted Sovvy-class [Nemesis style, ya’ll! w00t], Spectre-class destroyers outfitted with 1000 Megawatt shields – quite capable of withstanding a barrage from a ship the likes of the Akira-class, and 3 wings – that’s 12 ships per wing – of Sabre-class scout craft, the purpose of which would be to engage any gaurding ships the shipyards, thus allowing the destroyers, torpedo ships, and Sovvy’s to blast apart the shipyards with impunity, destroying the ships.