Topic: Aftermath

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Six, Pt II

First Officer’s Log, Stardate 3336.6

Starbase 22 reports that the transport ship Sulaco has picked up the Klingons and is now taking aboard the various collections of lifeboats we’ve discovered so far.

The Kusanagi is within an hour of arriving at the last reported position of the USS Crosis, an older Baton Rouge-class cruiser. In this battle, the Crosis engaged a D6-class heavy cruiser and managed to hold her own until caught out by superior Klingon manoeuvrability. The ship had her warp capability destroyed at last report and Starfleet has heard nothing since. Hope remains high that there is a ship to find this time and survivors still alive aboard her because it was a single ship engagement.

Our ship’s condition continues to improve, and with it the morale of both our crew and the Torjal survivors. Only four of the original twelve clinically depressed Torjal crewmembers are still on the watchers lists, the other eight making slow but steady recoveries and been added to the ship’s duty roster. Half of the major machinery and circuits have already been overhauled and their problems corrected, so I’ve switched them to tracking down and eliminating the most frustrating and elusive glitches in our ship’s systems and ‘upholstery’, as it were. This is so that once completed they can go back and finish on the big fixes with more satisfying results.


First Officer’s Personal Log, Stardate 3346.6

My relationship with the captain is at its highest point since our blow up occurred. In public settings she is now civil, if somewhat brusque and cold, and scenes like what happened on the bridge nearly two weeks ago are apparently a thing of the past.

However, in private settings--like briefing sessions with only the two of us present--McCafferty still seems to find cold amusement in finding and assigning the worst possible motives for my actions and laying them out on me. These sudden and slanderous attacks are, unfortunately, very common as we have one-on-one meetings almost every day, so I’d better remind her again that she isn’t even allowed that outlet for her ire.

Let her go to the gym, like I used to have to all the time.

*****

"Approaching mission waypoint, Captain."

"Slow to warp one, Mr. Maknal," she orders. "Mr. Enax, what do you have for me?"

"Nothing yet, Captain. No sensor traces of any kind."

A sigh. "Very well. Mr. Salok, set up your search grid and lay in a course. Mr. Maknal, engage on that course at warp one."

"Acknowledged, Captain."

"Aye sir."

All we can do now--yet again--is wait, I comment silently as I walk over to the navigation databanks on the periphery of the bridge and sit down at the console.

Over the next few hours I watch our progress through this region of space as our course is charted and the findings of our sensors are displayed, until:

"Captain! Sensor contact!"

Urrih’s call easily carries over all the bridge noise, and both the captain and I turn to our science officer for the details.

"Confirmed, sir. Reading another gas cloud, but it’s smaller this time." After working his controls for a few moments the Edoan reports, "At standard atmospheric pressure it would indicate a ship of our size."

"That doesn’t make any sense," I object from the station next to him. "We know that the only ships in this area were both bigger than us."

"Mr. Enax, could it be a partial leak? One that was sealed off in time to be replenished?" the captain asks.

"Yes sir, it is possible. However I don’t think that is the case as the cloud seems to be spherical, indicating simultaneous release in all directions."

"You mean like in an explosion?" I ask.

"Yes sir," he replies. "If it were a hull breach later sealed, the sphere of expanding gases would oblate along the axis of the expelled atmosphere."

"Ah," I comment. The things you can learn from scientists...

"Change course, Mr. Maknal. Head towards this cloud," McCafferty orders.

"Aye sir. Coming to new course bearing 063 mark 34. ETA is seven minutes to cloud boundary."

"Very good, Mr. Maknal. Slow to relative rest when we arrive."

"Aye sir."

"So, Mr. Enax, we apparently have a smaller ship that exploded here. Any other suggestions for what it might be?" the captain asks.

Enax thinks for a few minutes before suddenly looking up in excitement. "It could be part of a ship, sir!"

"Of course!" I exclaim. "The Baton Rouge class has a secondary hull. Maybe they had to do an emergency separation and one hull was destroyed?"

McCafferty looks annoyed, probably because she was about to venture that suggestion herself. That thought is confirmed with her next words.

"Just what I was thinking, Lieutenant."

Heh. Yes, childish, I know. It’s hard to break old habits that are so firmly entrenched.

Enax turns back to his instruments as we drop from warp. "Sensors are now reading small pieces of metallic debris, similar to those we encountered looking for the Danai. The mass of the debris is inconsistent with the total mass of either a D6 or the Crosis, sir."

"Have some beamed aboard for analysis."

"Aye sir."

We wait for him to instruct the transporter rooms and science labs, then the captain asks, "Assuming our theory is right, do you have any readings that could point to the whereabouts of the other section of the ship?"

"All ion propulsion trails have decayed or been swept away by the solar winds, sir. There is no local terrain or phenomena to hide in either. All I can do is suggest initiating another grid search from this point, Captain."

"I see," she says, thinking about it.

"Sir, the last communication from the Crosis told us she’d lost warp capability. I’m betting it was the stardrive section that was destroyed here, but either way the surviving section cannot be far from here with only impulse power."

"Agreed, Mr. Brown, but what if the Klingons captured it, or even just took it under tow? It could be back in the Klingon Empire or have been discarded at some random point within Federation space."

"I don’t think so sir," I counter. "A single Klingon cruiser, and one that took moderate damage at that, would not have wasted the time or resources in capturing half a ship that didn’t even have warp power. They’d have destroyed it or ignored it and proceeded further into our space looking for more targets."

McCafferty mulls that over for some seconds before backhandedly agreeing. "I concur with your conclusion but I find your reasoning flawed, Mr. Brown. It would surely benefit the Klingons to capture the saucer section to gain the data from her computers. That way, the Klingons could have known where further targets of opportunity could be found, rather than searching aimlessly. However, as I said, I agree that Klingons wouldn’t have wasted more time on a defeated enemy than need be, so we’ll proceed on that assumption. If it turns out that this actually is a smaller, unknown ship, we’ll resume our previous search pattern."

I swallow a growl as she returns to her command chair and merely reply, "Very good, sir."

"Ensign Salok, plot another grid search pattern from this point, and try to start in the most probable direction the saucer might have taken.

Salok turns around at that. "Captain, without knowing any of the variables, such a direction would require time spent on detailed analysis--"

McCafferty cuts him off. "Ensign, just assume that they were still under Klingon attack and were trying to evade and head back to the nearest friendly base or planet, okay?"

"Very well, sir," the Vulcan replies in a flat tone. "Calculating now."

Under her breath I hear the captain mutter, "Vulcans! Always wanting the exact details before doing any work..."

I heard it so I have no doubt that Salok heard it too. I flash a quick look in his direction, but as expected he gives no reaction.

If she’s taking her frustrations out on the crew now it’ll bring them even further over to my side, especially if I let her know I’m not going to stand for it, I observe gleefully. She’s slitting her own throat if she keeps that up.

"Course plotted and laid in, Captain," our navigator informs us in his usual tone. If he’s feeling insulted or angry, he’s not giving any sign that I can pick up. Mind you, he is a Vulcan.

It’s kinda silly on my part but even now, after four years of the Academy and seven years of active duty, I still expect to catch a Vulcan emoting. Whether it be smiling, rolling their eyes, or muttering angrily under their breath at the actions of those around them, I’m always thinking I’ll catch them out of the corner of my eye. I really should know better.

"Thank you, Ensign. Mr. Maknal, engage at warp two."

"Aye-aye, sir. Warp speed," Urrih answers, and he eases the ship up to eight times light-speed.

The captain settles back in her chair and regards the main viewscreen for almost a minute before directing a question at me. "Well, Mr. Brown, how long do you think it will take to find our suspect this time?"

"I--"

"Sensor contact!" Urrih calls out. "Range is four light-hours, ten light-minutes, bearing 324 mark 10."

My eyes widen in surprise, and McCafferty swings to Enax again. "Science Officer?"

Enax is already working his controls. "Sensor profile matches that of a Baton Rouge saucer section, Captain. I’m reading massive hull ruptures and most of the superstructure is at absolute zero, but..."

The Edoan plays with his scanner some more before continuing. "Also reading heated sections and a power source!"

"Maknal, alter course to intercept and give me an ETA at present speed. Lathena, try hailing them."

"Intercept course, aye Captain," Urrih replies with alacrity. "ETA at warp two is... 31 minutes 15 seconds."

"Increase speed to warp five," she snaps out. "Put the saucer on the main viewer."

"Aye... revised ETA is two minutes."

"Very good. Mr. Enax, any more details? Do you have life-form readings?"

"Yes sir!" the Edoan reports triumphantly. "Sensors now reading twenty-nine life-forms, but their life-sign readings are weak. Internal heat is currently seven degrees Celsius."

"Lathena, get me Doctor Nebukov," McCafferty snaps out, "and transfer her to my station."

"Aye sir." A few moments’ pause. "I have the doctor, Captain. Transferring now."

"CMO here, Captain," the gravelly voice of Tatiana Nebukov filters through.

"Medical Alert, Doctor. We’re about to have 29 new patients for you, all possibly suffering malnutrition and hypothermia. What resources do you need to treat them?" the captain asks.

It is a bit of a problem. The Medical Department only has nine staff and a grand total of ten beds, including the operating and gynaecology tables, the ICU and convalescent wards. And I somehow don’t think anyone will want treatment in the dentist’s chair, I smile internally, happy again now that we’ve found more survivors.

There is a moment’s silence on the intercom while the Russian doctor considers the problem, then she says, "We’ll have to go over and assess them individually, but the worst cases will obviously stay in Sickbay. The rest should be assigned to nearby quarters, preferably shared staterooms. We’ll need extra personnel assigned to carry antigrav stretchers, and have them on standby in the transporter rooms in the likelihood that some of these survivors are incapacitated."

"Very well, Doctor, stand by." Turning to me, McCafferty orders, "Mr. Brown, see to the arrangement of quarters for these people. Like the doctor suggested, the crew quarters next to Sickbay would be best."

"Aye-aye, Captain," I acknowledge and return to the navigation databanks to bring up the information I need.

"Lathena, any luck raising the Crosis?" she asks next.

"No, sir. I don’t think they’re receiving us," the Andorian replies.

"Approaching the saucer section, Captain," Urrih reports.

"Drop to sublight at ten thousand kilometres and approach at quarter impulse. Slow to relative rest at 500 kilometres from the saucer."

"Aye Captain. Dropping from warp... now."

"Mr. Enax, any more details?"

"We’re close enough to tell that the life-forms are concentrated where the medical section is on a Baton Rouge, and that the crew is stationary, Captain. I’m reading twelve Tellarites, seven Vulcans, six Andorians and four Humans. They are still alive, but they’re not moving."

I take a moment from my duties to look at the image on the main viewer. What was previously and indistinct white blob has resolved itself into a disk roughly the same size as our own ship, but with a far deeper ventral bulge. We’re approaching the remains of the ship from above her port side aft, and we can see one impulse engine glowing feebly. Our image-enhancing routines show us deep gashes in the upper hull surface, including a blackened sore where the bridge used to be and a burned out husk where the port impulse engine was.

"Answering all stop, Captain," Urrih states. "Holding relative rest at 500 kilometres."

"Thank you, Mr. Maknal. Lathena, any response?"

"No Captain, not even on the hand-held communicator frequencies."

Good girl, Lathena! I mentally praise the young Andorian. Trying the communicator frequencies without direct orders shows initiative.

"Very good. Call Lieutenant Shex and tell him to meet me in the transporter room with one of his guards. Tell Doctor Nebukov to assemble there also with Dr. Chinn and a nurse. Inform the Chief in Transporter Room One to outfit these personnel as a Medical Boarding Party."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

I rise from my chair at that and address McCafferty. "Captain--"

She holds up a hand to silence me, then speaks. "I know what you’re going to say, Lieutenant, but there is no danger to me here. If any arises, I’m sure Mr. Shex can take care of it."

I nod my acceptance. "Very well, sir." As she turns to leave, I offer, "Good luck, Captain."

I’m just hoping she brings all the survivors home alive, but she pauses just before entering the turbolift. Giving me a slightly puzzled look, she apparently decides to take it in the spirit it was given.

"Thank you. You have the conn, Mr. Brown," she states, and disappears below decks.

"Aye sir."

A few minutes later and I’ve completed my task at the navigation databanks. To accommodate the crew from the Torjal we’ve had to begin ‘hot bunking’ amongst our own crew. Lieutenant Commander Shesra has been sleeping in my bed during Beta shift, demonstrating to the crew that I’m not asking them to do something I’m not willing to do myself. So, the eight junior officers and 54 crewmembers are doing the same with the lower ranks on board. Currently, eight junior officers quarters and 27 enlisted quarters are hosting two sets of occupants. So far its caused barely a ripple in the ship’s routine, although off-duty areas are a little fuller than before. Until we find out how many officers yet survive on the Crosis--and after all have been given a clean bill of health by Medical--all twenty-nine survivors will now have the fourteen double staterooms closest to Sickbay all to themselves. Once the Crosis’ crew is all healthy, I’ll assign them other quarters that they’ll share with more Alpha shift personnel so that the rooms closest to Sickbay remain available to more incoming wounded or sick.

So, I’ve just informed another thirty of our own enlisted crew to pack their essentials and start sleeping in someone else’s beds. I’m sure they’re thrilled.

My tasks complete, I move over to the command chair and await further updates from the boarding party. They’ve already signalled their safe arrival in the Crosis’ Transporter Room One and their intent to move directly to Sickbay.

"Mr. Enax, plot the position of the boarding party and the survivors on the Crosis and keep a close eye on their life-signs," I order. "I want to know the instant something happens."

"Aye sir," he replies, and brings up a schematic of Deck Six on the crippled saucer section on one of his auxiliary screens. The six blips of our landing party are already entering the Medical section.

One of the blips breaks and runs towards the weak life-signs in the ICU, quickly followed by the others, so I’m expecting a call at any second. Nearly a full minute passes before I get it, though.

"McCafferty to Kusanagi," the speakers crackle.

Lathena opens the channel and gestures to me. "First Officer here, Captain. What do you need?" I ask.

"Man both transporter rooms and Evacuation Transporter One. We need to get some heat into these people now!" she barks. "Beam them and our Medical team over right away. The Security staff and I will be attempting to access their computers. If we can’t do it, I’ll want Mr. Enax and a couple of his technicians over here, so alert them to be ready for my order. Captain, out."

"Lieutenant, have Chief Talbain report to Evac Transporter One along with the rest of the Medical staff," I order. I want our best transporter chief handling the mass beam-out and even though Abukar Talbain isn’t the senior chief, he is the most experienced. "Have Chief Anderson replace him in Transporter Room Two."

"Yes, Lieutenant Brown," she replies, and sets to her task.

I straighten up and walk back to the command chair. We got them! I silently exult with a smile.

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Seven

Two hours later, everything is taken care of and the senior officers are in the briefing room for final updates.

"...and so the seven patients suffering from hypothermic shock are in Sickbay under close observation. The other twenty-two are safely tucked away in their beds on Deck 5 and recovering nicely. I expect the worst of them to be on their feet within four days," Tatiana is telling us. "They are all sleeping naturally and the first of them should be awake and ready to answer questions in a few hours."

"Excellent news, Doctor," McCafferty replies. "You and your staff are to be commended on their actions today."

The normally dour-faced doctor almost beams at this praise, but as usual it is somewhat misplaced in the somber atmosphere of the briefing room.

"Security report," the captain instructs next.

Lieutenant Shex nods solemnly. "We have completed our sweep of the saucer and brought home a total of 77 bodies. They have been stored with their comrades in the cargo bay."

Everyone seems grim after that pronouncement, as it brings home yet again the fact that we’ve ‘rescued’ far more dead bodies than living survivors. Not only that, but the prospects for more survivors were poorer and poorer the longer we took at this mission.

Collecting our fallen comrades still leaves almost half the crew of the Crosis unaccounted for, I note grimly, and even then we’re going to be a morgue ship by the time we reach Starbase 22.

"Thank you, Mr. Shex," the captain says quietly. "Tell your staff that they all have my personal thanks."

"Aye, Captain," the Andorian replies respectfully.

"Science report," she says next.

"I’m sorry Captain, but we’ve had no success in finding out what happened to the Crosis from her computers. We managed to gain access, but there was nothing there." Enax steeples the fingers of two of his hands while he rubs his bony chin with the third. "I can only assume that the crew wiped their own computer banks to prevent the data falling into Klingon hands. We’ll know more when we can question the Crosis survivors."

"Understood. Very well, thank you ladies and gentlemen. We’ll now proceed to the next mission waypoint and continue our search. Doctor, the moment any of the officers wakes up, let me know. Lieutenant Lathena, compile the ship’s logs for the entirety of our search for the Crosis and transmit them, our findings, and current position to Starbase 22."

"Understood, Captain," the doctor replies.

"Aye sir," Lathena acknowledges.

"That’s all people. Dismissed."

*****

First Officer’s Log, Stardate 3338.1

We are on our way to our next waypoint, although our ETA is another seven days at present speed. The mission proceeds well from an ‘objectives accomplished’ point of view, but the grim nature of it continues to impact on crew morale. My meeting with the department heads informed me that, while crew efficiency is not down appreciably, the atmosphere in the Rec. Room, for example, is almost too cheerful. Doctor Inidria seems to think that the crew is depressed to varying degrees but are putting on a brave face and trying to remain happy for the people we have rescued. Basically, they’re overcompensating and creating a brittle facade of cheerfulness that crumbles all to easily when struck with the hammer of reality.

The crew of the Crosis continues to recover, although we are still awaiting the return to consciousness of any of the crew. Of special interest is the senior officer of the contingent, a Vulcan Lieutenant T`Prada, who is in a very bad way. She has apparently entered a deep healing trance to allow her to survive the constant fridge-like temperature maintained aboard the wreck of the Crosis, their only remaining impulse reactor having been badly damaged in the attack. We have Ensign T`Pala from Sciences on standby to help revive her.

We have ascertained the identities of all crewmembers recovered from the Crosis through the Starfleet Personnel Database, and subsequently found that three officers are among them, two of whom are Ship Operations officers who can tell us what we want to know.

*****

The captain and I arrive in Sickbay at almost the same time, even though we’ve come from different areas of the ship. I follow her through to the ICU ward where Ensign Marn has regained consciousness. The Tellarite had been at the helm in auxiliary control during the Klingon attack and thus should have the answers we seek.

Marn is sitting up in bed and being fed some hot soup. The doctor had previously determined that the survivors had been existing solely on emergency rations collected from the still-habitable areas of the ship since there had been no power to the food slots, and prescribed solid, proper meals for them as soon as they awake.

The ensign immediately looks over at us as we enter, his highly developed olfactory senses detecting us long before his poor eyesight allowed him to see us. Since he is completely unfamiliar with any of the Kusanagi’s crew, he won’t be able to tell who we are until we either get really close, or identify ourselves. We opt for the latter.

"Ensign Marn, I’m Lieutenant Commander McCafferty, captain of this ship, and this is my first officer, Lieutenant Brown," the captain introduces us.

The Tellarite makes an abortive attempt to sit at attention before gruffly stating, "Sir! Ensign Marn, Beta shift helm officer, USS Crosis. Thank you for rescuing us, Captain."

"You’re welcome, Ensign," she replies. "You’re the reason we’re out here."

Marn blinks. "Your mission was to find me, sir?" the Tellarite asks in surprise.

McCafferty looks momentarily amused, then says, "No, Ensign, not exactly. Our mission is to locate and rescue survivors from the war. We didn’t just happen on your ship by random chance, we were out looking for it."

"Understood, sir," he nods, then blurts out, "So, we won the war?"

"Not exactly, Ensign..." McCafferty starts, then launches into the explanation of the end of the war that each of us has given at least ten times. At its conclusion, Marn is staring at her in a way that, on a human, would have been incredibly belligerent and rude, and been inviting a lesson in manners from the recipient. However, on a myopic Tellarite such a look came under the heading of ‘disbelieving’.

He switches his gaze to me and I offer, "This information is available in our databanks, Ensign. You can look it up on your library reader once we’re done here and read for yourself what happened."

"Aye sir," he says doubtfully, probably deciding that saying anything more forceful about his disbelief would land him in trouble.

"We’re glad to see you awake and well, Mr. Marn," I tell him as I discreetly switch on the recording function at the biobed’s library reader. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, sir," he replies shortly.

The silence stretches for a second too long and the thought occurs, Okay, so you forgot--again--that Tellarites aren’t much for small talk.

McCafferty ignores my comment and launches straight into her inquiries. "Ensign Marn, we’ve been aboard your ship and brought home all your shipmates, both living and dead, but we need your help. We tried to access the ship’s computer but found that the memory banks have been completely erased. Can you tell us what happened to your ship after she lost warp capability?"

The Tellarite hesitates and his eyes lose focus as he recalls the events leading to the demise of his ship. We wait patiently for the young officer to begin his story.

"Yes sir," he starts, his growling voice at odds with his off-planet taught English. "The Klingon ship--we identified it as the IKV Soy’Tu’pech--had managed to get behind us and pour a full alpha-strike into our weakest shield. It easily brought the shield down and ripped into our starboard nacelle, completely wrecking it. We started to loose antimatter containment there but couldn’t jettison the nacelle. Captain Ganesh ordered the evacuation of the engineering hull and an emergency saucer separation, all the while still trying to hold off the Klingons.

"The separation was successful and we managed to lure the Klingons in so that the explosion of the warp reactor would damage them, but we also got hit in timing it so close. The D6 took moderate damage, a couple of phasers offline and warp power reduced, but they were still almost fully combat capable. We didn’t get them in close enough.

"They then came after us with a vengeance. We... ran, straight for the nearest system, firing back as much as we could while they chewed holes in our ship." Marn pauses there, the emotion so thick in his voice that even I could hear it despite his growing speech. "The bridge was destroyed after the Klingons basically cut open the upper surface of the saucer. They seemed to be deliberately punching holes in inhabited sections, and with all the secondary hull staff packed into the saucer..."

Marn breaks off, the emotion of the memory too much for him.

"I’ve been reading the reports of battles in this sector, Ensign," I tell the young officer. "The Soy’Tu’pech was intercepted by the destroyers Jenghiz and Saladin on the second day, as it attempted to attack the Davlos system. Our ships blew it apart before it could do any damage there. There were no survivors."

"Good," is all he says. I didn’t offer it as condolences or a consolation prize, just to give him some closure.

"Please, continue," the captain orders gently.

"Yes, sir. After the bridge was destroyed, Second Officer T`Prada took command of the ship. She had us make it look like our impulse engines had blown from running too hard. Killed all power--including life support--and had us tumble the ship. She said it was the most logical thing to do, make the Klingons believe we were dead anyway. Said offering our surrender was illogical, based on the pattern of the Klingon attack which was aiming for the crew rather than our weapons or propulsion. They were just playing with us for their own amusement, she said.

"It worked. The Klingons left to find more targets, but not before putting some disruptor bolts into our impulse engines for good measure." Marn looks back up at us. "Those that remain owe our lives to Lieutenant T`Prada, Captain. She single-handedly coaxed the damaged engine back to life, just as our battery power gave out. Even then, with all our help, she couldn’t get it to produce more than 10% power. We searched the rest of the ship for survival gear and the warmest clothing we could find and made camp in Sickbay. After we’d collected every piece of useful equipment and supplies, we sealed ourselves in the medical section and tried to keep warm and stay active without using up too much air. The Vulcans succumbed to the cold quite quickly and had to enter deep healing trances to stay alive, so I’ve been in command of the others for nineteen days now. If T`Prada hasn’t regained consciousness yet, I suppose I still am."

"And the ship’s memory banks?" McCafferty prodded.

"On her order, sir. We downloaded the impulse control routines and survival guides into our tricorders, then erased all data from the ship’s computers in case any more Klingons showed up. A supply ship could have captured us easily and had all that data to wreak havoc with. The lieutenant said it wasn’t logical to take the risk."

"It seems that Lieutenant T`Prada did a magnificent job in extremely bad circumstances," I put in. "She is to be commended."

"As are you all, Ensign, for surviving long enough to be rescued," McCafferty states with an angry look at me. "The doctor tells me that if we’d arrived even 36 hours later all of you may have died of hypothermia."

"I’m glad you showed up too, Captain," Marn gruffly thanks her. "I’m glad you were even looking at all. I thought we’d all die there, eventually."

"Starfleet looks after it’s own, Ensign," I say softly. "We wouldn’t have just left you for dead without making the attempt to be sure."

This is really starting to get to me. Bloody hell, every group of survivors we’ve come across over the past month has said the same damn thing. Why do they think they’d be left to die? Maybe it’s because they had to wait so long for rescue? Or is it because they thought we’d loose? My thoughts are interrupted as Doctor Nebukov walks into ICU.

"Okay, Captain, that’s enough for today," she states. "The ensign is still quite weak and needs his rest." She very pointedly ignores me.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her pettiness, which is made all the easier when I again remember my behaviour of the last few weeks.

"Very well, Doctor," the captain replies. To Marn she says, "Thank you Ensign, you’ve been very helpful. Now get some rest like the good doctor tells you and you should be back on your feet very soon."

"Yes sir," he replies as he settles back down into his bed.

"Come on, Mr. Brown. Let’s get back to the bridge."

"Aye Captain," I reply as I turn off the recorder, then accompany her out.

*****

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Seven, Pt II

First Officer’s Log, Stardate 3397.1

The next two battle sites we headed for played out exactly the same way as our search for the Danai. Days on end spend getting there, then many hours on a grid search pattern, cumulating in the discovery of a spherical gas cloud and lots of fine metallic debris.

All in all, another twelve days spent chasing ghosts. Literally.

It’s hard to tell what additional effect it’s had on the crew. I think it’s been easier than finding a wreck and bringing on board more dead bodies, but we’re not exactly bringing home our full evacuation capacity either. Maybe that’s why Starfleet sent the smaller frigates and destroyers out to look instead of the more valuable cruisers. They just knew, but had to make the attempt.

We are now on course for our final waypoint and our ETA is five days, nine hours. However long it takes us to find what we find, our mission--our sad duty--is almost over.

But it will be a long voyage back to Starbase 22.

*****

"All hands, this is the Captain," the speakers announce. "We have arrived at the last reported position of the USS Borok. Our search begins now, so Alpha shift stand ready to return to duty if and when we find them. All decks, Standby Alert. Captain out."

"Looks like we’re on for tonight, Shex," I comment to my companion.

The Andorian gazes levelly at me across the chessboard. "We have been, ah, ‘lucky’ so far with regards to the searches," he states in his off-planet taught, ‘proper’ English. "This search might take all night, into the Gamma shift."

"True, true," I concede, "but somehow I don’t think it will. I just have a feeling, that’s all."

"We shall see. It is your move, Andrew."

"Oh yeah. Sorry." I move my remaining bishop into a position protected by my queen and a rook, which places one of his knights in an untenable position.

We are about midway through our second game, our first one having been a ‘free’ teaching game with Shex instructing me on the finer points of offensive strategy. I seem to have picked up the defensive side of things quite well as I’ve proven I can hold off Shex pretty much indefinitely. My scream-and-leap offensives seem to have earned his respect, though he can usually force me into a misstep that then costs me the game.

What my main weak point seems to be is a balancing of offence and defence. I can’t quite grasp the concept of ‘strategic reserve’, or not committing all my forces to the attack, and this is what Shex is trying to teach me. Four weeks and, oh, sixty-odd games later and I’m making progress. Not exactly huge strides, but I’m getting there. Perseverance has its rewards.

This being our ‘for real’ game, Shex makes no comment on my move. He considers his options for just too long though, and I decide to test the waters on another matter.

"So, Shex, I saw you talking to Lathena a couple of nights ago, and it isn’t the first time either. Getting all romantic by the windows, bathed in starlight..."

I trail off uncertainly as the security officer snaps his eyes up from the board and frowns at me for several seconds, before slowly smiling. He leans forward.

"Andrew, are you... what do you humans say... ‘trying to psyche me out’? An attempt to distract my full attention from the game to cause me to make an error?" he asks slyly. "That’s not exactly good sportsmanship, you know."

"All’s fair in love and war, Shex," I reply, although that wasn’t my reason for saying it. "But no, I’m not playing dirty, I was wondering... ah, that is, I was curious..."

I trail off again, feeling slightly foolish. Shex raises an eyebrow in a manoeuvre mainly attributed to the Vulcans and merely waits, apparently enjoying my discomfiture.

"Okay, damnit!" I blurt with a grin. "Are you two going to become a couple?"

The Andorian blinks. "Are you asking me if we’ve mated yet?"

I feel a rush of blood to my face, wondering if he’s deliberately misunderstanding me. "No! No, I don’t mean sexual coupling, you literal blueberry!" I whisper fiercely, then continue in a more normal tone. "I was just wondering if you are considering asking her to be your mate, girlfriend, significant other, or whatever!"

Shex’s face splits open into a huge toothy grin, and I know he’s been playing with me. He also extricates his knight into another dangerous--but better protected--square that also dares me to break a defensive formation to capture it.

"Why Andrew, what’s the sudden interest in my, ah, ‘romantic life’ all about?" he asks playfully, then grins nastily. "Could it be that you’re feeling we should take our relationship to the next level?"

The look on my face must be something, as Shex starts laughing hard, leaning back in his chair and actually gripping his belly as his whole body shakes.

Struggling to push words out past his laughing, he gasps out, "Hoo hoo hoo... the look...on your face...! Hoo hoo hoo! You’re... so easily flustered... on this topic... My poor Human friend... hoo hoo hoo... so provincial!"

I throw myself back into my own chair and exhale explosively. "You’re hilarious, man. A real scream," I tell him. The Andorian is gradually subsiding, but I look around the Rec. Room to see a lot of smirks and grins directed at us. Well, at least he’s lightened the mood in here. That’s something. Even I feel a smile tugging the corners of my mouth up.

Still chuckling slightly, he chides, "Oh Andrew, don’t be such a grouch. Also, it is your turn again."

In both arenas, is my silent addendum to that. I decide to be bold and risk it. I break my defensive position and capture his knight, while asking, "So? Are you and Lathena getting together?"

"No Andrew, we are not. Lathena just needed my help on a personal matter a few weeks ago, and in helping her out we’ve become good friends. I am already married."

"Ah, when you said you had family on Sh’Tarr IV I thought you meant your parents and siblings," I say, pleased to have that cleared up.

"No, I meant my mate and cohabitants," he confirms, then demonstrating that his command of English idiom is more than up to the level of this conversation, he continues with his nasty grin evident again. "Which means I am already spoken for, so you’ll have to look elsewhere for your own mate-to-be!"

I’m expecting it this time, so I manage a quick retort. "I suppose it’s a good job too. I really have to start setting my standards higher."

"Nice try, Pink-skin," Shex grins. "You’re getting better at this."

"Oh, great, compliments from the boyfriend who jilted me. That’s not patronising at all, no sir," I say, deadpan, staring right into his purple eyes.

"Wha...?" Shex mumbles, and begins to look slightly uncomfortable. Searching my face for clues, he offers, "Now, come on, I was only joking..."

He stops as I lean in, expressionless. I point a finger at him and say one word.

"Gotcha."

Shex looks outraged, and this time I start laughing. "Looks like I’m better at this than you thought, hmm?"

Shex shakes his fist at me and accuses, "You--!"

"Your move, Blueberry," I grin at him.

*****

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Seven, Pt III

"Red Alert! Red Alert! All hands, man your battle stations! This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill. Red Alert!"

The whooping of the alert siren blasts me out of a good sleep, but I’m already throwing on my uniform as my mind cycles to full wakefulness. I steal a look at the chronometer on my desk just before heading out the door and to the bridge.

Two in the morning! Can’t we have a red alert at a decent hour? I silently gripe as I run down the corridor to the turboshaft. Ah well. At least I managed three hours’ sleep.

Practically the whole Alpha shift bridge crew is waiting there too, and we all pile into the turbolift together. No questions or speculations are exchanged, as we all know we’ll find out in seconds anyway. We all pile back out of the turbolift two decks up and race to our positions.

As the Gamma shift is relieved and sent down to the Emergency Bridge at the bottom of the saucer, I take in the viewscreen and status readouts on my way to the navigation databanks on the periphery of the bridge. Once there I bring up the logs and sensor data from the past hour.

They show that half way through a sweep the Kusanagi had detected a large power reading--as would come from a warp-powered ship--stationary in space, and moved in to investigate. As the range wound down the initial reading of a single cruiser-sized vessel was discovered to be actually two destroyer-sized vessels--one of which turned out to be an Orion ship. The other one seems to be a derelict, with no warp signature. It does, however, display low power readings and heated compartments, as if on minimal life-support.

I approach the captain, now informed of the immediate situation and ready for action, but before I can speak Lathena reports in.

"All decks acknowledge battle stations, Captain."

"Very good," McCafferty replies, staring intently at the viewscreen.

"Orions, Captain?" I ask. "Do we know what kind of ship it is yet?"

Instead of answering me, she barks at our science officer. "Well, Mr. Enax?"

"It’s a Slaver-class salvage freighter, Captain," the Edoan reports in a disgusted voice. "I’m still not detecting any raised shields, but there is transporter activity between the ships."

McCafferty’s eyes narrow in anger at this news and I exclaim, "A Slaver? The Orions will be stripping that ship to her bones, then cutting those bones up and taking them too!"

"Warp five, Mr. Maknal," the captain orders. "Lathena, hail the Orion ship and tell them to stand down and prepare for boarding and inspection."

The acknowledgements echo back and Enax calls out again. "Sir! We’re now close enough for sensors to pick up the other ship’s silhouette. Databanks show it’s an Federation Ambush-class destroyer!"

I snap an irritated look at Enax for giving an explanation before a report, but I’ll have to speak to him later about it. I mutter to the captain, "If they’ve been here for any length of time, there’ll only be the hull of the ship itself still there!"

McCafferty is angry. I can feel it radiate off of her in waves, and I am picking up that the bridge crew is absorbing it. To my surprise, I find myself taking it in as well, with the thought, Good. We’re going to make these scavengers pay for looting our fallen comrades.

Rationality and the Regs pop up again though. We don’t actually know what’s going on here. The Orions could have a reasonable explanation for being here and aboard our lost ship. Admittedly, rarely have the Orions been found to be lending a helping hand but there was always the chance, and that chance had to be given before aggressive action is initiated. We have to find out what’s actually happening here before we wade in with phasers blasting.

"Transporter activity has ceased. They’re powering their warp engines," Enax calls out.

"Maximum warp speed," the captain snaps out. "Revised ETA?"

"Twenty seconds," Maknal replies.

"Mr. Enax, sensor scan of the destroyer," I order with a pointed look at McCafferty. We’re here to rescue survivors first and foremost, Captain, I mentally chide her.

"Sir, readings aren’t clear yet, getting some interference..." Enax works his board, trying to clear the static. "Now confirming heated sections and an active fusion power source," he finally reports after endless seconds, then adds excitedly, "Sensors are picking up 72 life-forms on the destroyer! We’ll have to be within 10,000 kilometres to determine what races, though."

The unspoken question is clear: Are these 72 people survivors from the Borok’s crew of 100, or are they a scavenger/salvage crew put aboard by the Orion ship? It’s obvious what we are hoping, but it’s just as obvious what the captain is assuming.

Our comm. officer chips in. "Captain! The Orion ship is answering our hail and they’re demanding that we halt out attack run!"

"Put him on screen," McCafferty growls. "I want to speak to them myself."

Lathena nods, talks some more, then the viewscreen changes from a picture of the two ships in space to an image of the Orion bridge. The ship may be Orion-built, but the crew is most definitely not. A motley hodgepodge of various races man the vessel, as I can see a Caitian--or Mira`Kzinti, more likely--a couple of Andorians, some Human-looking crew, and even what looks like a Klingon-Human Fusion. Most notable, though, is the impressive mountain of a man sitting in the command chair, glowering at us.

McCafferty’s eyes narrow angrily as she takes in the arrogant expression on the Imperial Klingon’s face.

"I am Korol. Stand down your attack, Starfleet!"

"You’ll have to give me a very good reason, Klingon," she responds dangerously. "You are illegally salvaging Federation property and have been caught in the act."

" ’e is not illegally salvaging anything, Captain," a new voice states, sounding almost relieved, as a human in a Starfleet uniform steps into view on the Klingon’s bridge. "Is that a good enough reason to call off your impending assault?"

"Dropping to sublight now, Captain. Distance to targets is 10,000 km," Urrih reports sotto voce.

The attitude on the bridge is one of shock and surprise, as we had been roused from bed expecting a battle and we’re now switching back to ‘rescue’ mode. Not only that, but we had been racing in to avenge the dead crew of the Borok on the pillaging pirates invading their ship. Now we have living, breathing evidence that at least one member of her crew was not only alive, but apparently well rested and healthy. This implies that there are going to be more, and that the ‘pillaging pirates’ are, for some reason, the ‘good-guy rescuers’ that we are meant to be.

McCafferty seems to take it in her stride, though. "Bring us to relative rest at 5,000 kilometres, Mr. Maknal. Hold position there until we clear this up." To the man onscreen she directs her next words. "Identify yourself, please."

"I am Commander Pierre Drapeau, captain of the USS Borok," the dark-haired human responds, a wisp of a smile on his face.

"Captain Karen McCafferty of the frigate Kusanagi. We are here to rescue you, Commander," she states dryly. "Would you care to explain your situation here?"

Korol’s face twists in anger at being so cavalierly dismissed from consideration on his own bridge and breaks into the conversation to reassert himself. "This human and I have negotiated a contract for my ship to tow his to the nearest Federation shipyard for a worthy fee. We have no need of your presence here!"

A look of concern flickers across Commander Drapeau’s pale face, but he nods. "That is true, Captain," the Frenchmen confirms, "at least, insofar as the agreement we’ve made with Korol."

Message received loud and clear, Commander. The captain is obviously of the same mind, as she makes her own position perfectly clear.

"That was very generous of you, Korol. You have the thanks of Starfleet and the Federation for your altruistic motives. However, as you can see, your services are no longer needed here. We can take it from here and tow the Borok home ourselves. You are free to go about your business with no hindrance from us, and again, with our thanks."

Apparently, though, the high regard of the Federation and the thanks of Starfleet are not sufficient reward for a Klingon who has to make a living from his ship and a crew to pay.

"We have a deal!" he bellows. "A verbal contract with the Daven Cartel is binding, as well you know, Starfleet! We have a recording of it for just these exact situations, where the authorities we live outside disregard or blatantly violate our ways and means of doing business!"

"Korol, in Federation law a verbal contract is not binding, and well you know that," McCafferty reminds the ‘merchant’ captain with an edge to her voice. "Since we are in Federation space and I am an officer charged with upholding the laws of the Federation, you have no legitimate claim to whatever fee you would have earned. Had my ship not come across this situation, the Federation would have been thrilled to have our missing crew and ship returned to us, and gladly honoured any agreement made regarding payment for your services.

"However, your services are no longer needed, Korol," the captain hammers her message home. "Your verbal contract is no more binding than a ‘gentleman’s agreement’, and since you have not yet provided that service and that it is no longer necessary, you have no recourse."

As an additional incentive for Korol to consider, loud enough for the Klingon to hear I ask McCafferty, "Should we stand down from battle stations, Captain?"

I get a judicious nod from her, almost a ‘thank you’ in and of itself, as she states, "Well, that depends on our Klingon friend, Mr. Brown." Addressing the merchant captain, she asks, "What of it, Korol? Do we part terms amicably, or do you want really want to force this issue?"

Korol is now resembling a cooked lobster, sans pot, as it seems like his skull ridges are about to split apart and start whistling out steam. A small part of me actually feels some sympathy for him, after the way he’s been lectured to by our dear captain.

Smouldering yellow eyes glare furiously at us from under heavy, beetling brows and his jaw works back and forth as he considers his options. His ship is now rigged for towing and it will take precious time to reallocate the power for battle. Not only that but even if he were fully armed and ready to go, his ship is tactically inferior to ours. He could hurt us, yes, and badly if he’s a good captain, but we will triumph unless he is extremely lucky and a good captain doesn’t play solely for the breaks. Independent captain/owners and even cartel-sponsored shipmasters are loathe to enter battle with a warship when it is they who have to repair their ship out of their own pockets or through favours owed by cartel overlords.

His decision is obvious as he really has no choice, but it is a hard admission for him to make, I’m guessing. Independents are renowned for their pride and pirates are likewise known for their bluster and bravado. Whichever category Korol falls into, he finally forces out his answer.

"We will leave, Starfleet, but heed this well: Daven Cartel will remember this insult, that we offered to help the mighty Federation, and had our offer thrown back in our faces, after it was accepted!" the Klingon rages. "We could have just attacked and taken what we wished, but we did not. And this is how the Federation repays us? Broken agreements and armed threats?"

"Korol--" McCafferty tries, but is cut off by the incensed Klingon.

"I will hear no more from you, betrayer!" he roars, eyes aflame. "Take your spineless human from my bridge and be gone!" he growls, then leaves us with a chilling warning.

"If this is how the Federation repays our altruistic motives," he sneers, mocking McCafferty with his choice of words, "perhaps next time we won’t have any. We will remember you. Screen off!"

I notice that McCafferty is looking less than impressed with Korol’s threats, but don’t take the time to comment on it. Instead, I urgently order, "Enax, pinpoint Commander Drapeau’s location on Korol’s bridge and get a lock on his communicator or human life-signs. Forward them to the transporter room. Lathena, tell Transporter Room One to stand ready to beam him aboard, co-ordinates to come from Science."

"Aye sir. Locating..." Enax pauses, then reports. "Lieutenant, I’m detecting a beaming in progress, Orion ship to the Borok. There are no human life-signs on the Orion bridge, nor any Starfleet communicator aboard the ship. Korol dropped his shield facing the Borok while keeping up the one facing us."

"Lathena, try to raise the Borok ship-to-ship, and try the communicator frequencies too," McCafferty orders. "Get confirmation of Drapeau’s safe arrival. Try hailing Korol as well, to see if he did beam the commander back to his ship."

"Aye sir," the Andorian replies crisply, setting to her task.

"Korol’s ship is powering its warp engines again, moving away on impulse power," Enax reports.

"Borok confirms their captain is safely back on board and wants a meeting of our respective senior staffs, in person," Lathena reports back.

McCafferty sits back in her chair and relaxes slightly. "Mr. Maknal, let Korol go and hold position here. Mr. Brown, stand down from battle stations but maintain Yellow Alert until Korol’s ship leaves sensor range. Mr. Enax, track his course and record his ship’s data and signature in our database. Keep an eye on him and let us know instantly if it looks like he’s coming back," she instructs, with final words for our comm. officer. "Lieutenant Lathena, acknowledge Commander Drapeau’s request and inform him we’ll have a meeting in ten minutes aboard the Kusanagi."

I voice my acknowledgement of her orders along with the others and set to my task. I let the tense excitement of the last thirty minutes seep away, and allow myself a jubilant thought.

Seventy-three more!

[Jaeih t`Radaik]

Heh... I've always liked this scene. Keep 'em coming Andy.

[Lieutenant_Q]

Seems to me like the Captain needs a fitrep update, she seems like she's starting to crack under the pressure.  Dismissing out of hand someone who offered to help?  Even if they are Orion...you just don't turn down a helping hand.

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Eight

"Welcome aboard the Kusanagi, Commander Drapeau," McCafferty says warmly, walking forward to meet him as he steps down from the transporter stage. The implication of "Welcome back to civilisation" is obvious but remains unspoken.

"Thank you, Captain," Drapeau replies with a slight French accent as he clasps McCafferty’s hand and shakes it limply. "It is good to be ‘ere," he adds, missing out his H’s as most French speakers are wont to do.

McCafferty turns to face her assembled senior staff, with me at the head of the line. "Commander, this is my first officer, Lieutenant Andrew Brown."

Drapeau nods a greeting to me, which I acknowledge with a respectful, "Commander."

McCafferty moves on down the line introducing in turn Urrih Maknal, Enax, Shex, Lathena, Doctor Nebukov, and Engineer Trey`gar to the visiting ship captain. He in turn introduces his own senior staff as they step down from the transporter pads.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my Chief of Ship Operations and Acting XO, Lieutenant Sophia Mancuso." Sophia is an atypical-looking Italian woman, blonde hair, blue eyes, and rather short at barely five feet. Her full, sensuous lips and sweet voice contrast rather sharply with her no-nonsense attitude.

"My Chief of Security, Lieutenant Commander N`Garr." The huge Caitian marine exudes an air of competence, his black and silver fur complementing his red uniform jumper. He’d get on well with Master Sergeant N`Rowl, and probably give him a run for his credits in hand-to-hand--or claw-to-claw?--combat, I note with brief internal smile.

"My Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Ronk." The short, round Tellarite glares around almost comically, as if daring any of us to make a comment. He reminds me of a yappy purse dog one of my friend’s mothers had when I was eight, snarling at anything bigger than itself to appear brave.

"My CMO, Lieutenant Jesh`ra." The slim, hairless Deltan man nods amiably. He has a friendly face and warm, expressive brown eyes.

"My Communications Officer, Ensign Samak, and my Science Officer, Ensign Zora Tuf`no." These two are like stone-faced bookends, both with black hair, sharp features, and severe expressions. Samak’s excuse is that he’s a Vulcan, but Zora--judging by her name and completely human-looking appearance--is probably Centauran. Maybe she’s just having a bad day.

Introductions over, we all troop towards the conference room one deck up. Once there and settled, Drapeau gets the ball rolling.

"Captain McCafferty, thank you for coming to our rescue. Commander Korol was most insistent that we accept his offer of ‘elp. I am quite sure ‘e would ‘ave ended up capturing my ship on the voyage to Starbase 22, once ‘e had convinced ‘imself we ‘ad began to trust ‘im."

"You are more than welcome, Commander," our captain answers, "but the Orions and independents all know that it is illegal to ‘salvage’ Fleet property. As long as you managed to get out a distress call, he’d be arrested immediately on sight afterwards."

"Yes, but if we’d been able to send a distress call at all, we wouldn’t ‘ave been in that situation in the first place," Drapeau counters.

McCafferty can only nod to that. "Quite true, Commander. Can you explain why Korol was offering assistance instead of just taking what he was after? Klingons or the Daven Cartel are not known for their helpful ways."

"Just so, Captain," he agrees. "We were in no condition to resist him successfully. It would ‘ave been a bloody and costly battle for ‘im, but if ‘e’d been willing to take those losses ‘e would ‘ave taken my ship."

"Ah, that must be it," Shex agrees, earning him an annoyed look from the Frenchman, probably for breaking into a ‘captains-only’ conversation. "The Klingon might have captured your ship, Commander Drapeau, but he would have had to replace easily a quarter if his crew, probably a lot more. That takes time, effort, resources, and favours from the Cartel Overlord."

Various heads nod around the table at that, and I notice Shex getting an almost grateful look from Security Chief N`Garr, but a further annoyed look from Drapeau. I think it’s a safe enough assumption that Pierre had already been informed of this, but decided to dismiss the possibility.

"It is quite likely," Shex continues, "that Korol is not in a position within his cartel to take those risks. Plus, a towing contract would have been honoured and he would have received a hefty sum for doing our job for us. The Federation would want to encourage and reward such actions, even if the motives behind them are not altruistic."

"So that’s why you agreed to a towing contract?" McCafferty asks.

"Not only that, Captain, but we were almost happy to see him," Lieutenant Mancuso puts in with an edge to her voice. "Having been out here for forty-five days, we were becoming convinced that Starfleet had written us off," she all but accused.

"We are all very relieved to find that isn’t the case, though," Doctor Jesh`ra quickly adds, presumably attempting to head off any offence his first officer’s words may cause.

Too late. It’s annoyed me. I’m willing to accommodate the fears and frustrations of those cast adrift during the war, and especially those who have waited so long for rescue, but it is still harsh for me to be blamed for things completely out of my control.

"Lieutenant Mancuso, please believe me: If we could have gotten here any sooner we would have. This ship has been searching for survivors throughout this sector for over a month now. I am truly sorry that you and your crew have had to wait so long for rescue, but we got here as quickly as we could. Every search has a start and end point, and being so far out from starbase your vessel was at the end."

Okay, so it isn’t exactly 100% true as we could have cut short previous searches to proceed more quickly to the next possible site. However, that would have left us with lingering doubts as to whether or not we had done all we could for the crew of that particular ship, and whether or not there were still escape pods crawling through space heading for whatever star system was closest. We didn’t want to take that chance, and I’m sure if I was someone who’d managed to get out in a lifeboat from one of those ships, I wouldn’t want us to either.

However, my words have the desired effect and Sophia backs off.

Their respective first officers having duked it out and aired the lingering anger and concerns, the captains get down to business.

"Captain McCafferty, my crew is in desperate need of immediate medical care. My ship’s power systems are ‘eavily damaged and leaking dangerous radiation that is slowly contaminating the engineering spaces, and we are all undernourished and in need of good food and warm beds. I ‘ave brought over my senior staff to co-ordinate with yours so we can secure my ship and transfer my crew to yours."

I catch a flash of anger in McCafferty’s eyes at Drapeau taking control of the meeting, but she quickly suppresses it and nods politely.

"Of course, Commander. If you can give us the specifics of your needs, my staff can see to their respective areas of expertise," she states. He nods and is about to speak again but McCafferty beats him to the punch. "You are telling me, then, that your vessel is still salvageable, possibly repairable, but is not comfortably habitable?"

Unruffled, the Frenchman nods again. "That is correct, Captain. I believe that she can be of further use to the Federation, but our power levels are so low and erratic that life support systems function at a bare minimum of comfort. Our food slots are also running with minimal power, so we--the entire crew--‘as been on a diet of chicken soup and coffee. For forty-five days."

I brutally suppress a smirk at that. It is by no means funny, especially for the crew of the Borok, but the way he delivered that line just pushed one of my buttons. Typically, the one that makes me laugh at inappropriate times.

"Understood, Commander," McCafferty says sympathetically. "Now, we should pair off our respective department heads so we can get your crew comfortably aboard and your ship secured, ready for towing back to Starbase 22."

"Agreed. Let’s get to work."

*****

The adrenaline rush from the red alert nearly four hours ago has long since worn off, the end result being that I don’t so much stride alertly into my quarters as stagger in bleary-eyed. Had I been awakened normally or even just stayed up to--a quick glance at the time--5:45 in the morning I wouldn’t be so tired, but the adrenaline withdrawal I’m now suffering from leaves me feeling wiped.

Since a fair number of my Alpha shift comrades will no doubt be feeling likewise, I arranged for Gamma shift to work a double so that us precious hot-house flowers can get our beauty sleep.

Just before I surrender to the wiles of my unmade bed--which is all but seductively calling my name--I decide to make a log entry to detail tonight’s nocturnal activities while they’re still fresh in my head.

Sitting down heavily in the chair behind my desk, I hit the voice tie-in to the computer and instruct, "Computer, begin recording."

"Working," the mechanical-sounding female voice of Kusanagi’s main computer acknowledges.

"First Officer’s Log, Stardate 3426.2," I begin in the Starfleet-approved manner of recording all initial log entries. I spend the next few minutes detailing our detection of the Orion ship and subsequent discovery of the Borok and Korol’s departure, then move on to the events of the last few hours. "The meeting of the senior staffs from both our ships was productive and a plan of action was quickly drawn up. The main issues were ready to be dealt with so we set up mini-task forces to handle them. It was decided early on to completely evacuate the crippled destroyer and shut down the leaky reactor rather than spend time and effort repairing it," I report as I rub at my gritty eyes then stretch in my chair, trying to work out the kinks in my muscles. Stifling a yawn, I continue with my entry.

"Commander Drapeau’s claim of malnutrition was exaggerated, but not by much. The food synthesisers having to operate on minimum power meant that, to feed the entire crew, the menu was reduced to the most energy-conscious choices possible. Fortunately, that includes lots of cool water and hot beverages, so they weren’t dehydrated. Doctor Nebukov gave the whole crew a fortifying vitamin booster shot and told them to avail themselves of our own fully powered food slots. Subsequently, the Commissary Chief’s request for additional power allocation to his systems was approved. The Environmental Chief is currently crunching the figures for the alterations to the life support and environmental systems, and should be ready for the start of the morning watch.

"Of the 73 crew, 34 of them are ill or wounded, fourteen critically. These wounded were brought aboard first, then the healthy crew, and finally the engineering staff. They were working with ours to ensure the safe shutdown of the damaged fusion reactors and to bolster the structural integrity of the ship to ensure that she’d survive the rigours of a warp-speed towing."

I feel a yawn building, so I order, "Computer, pause recording."

"Affirmative," is the short reply.

Freed of the constraints of official protocol, I let loose a long, drawn-out yawn that almost resounds off the bulkheads despite the sound-absorbing carpet and furnishings of my quarters. Wiping a couple of tears from my eyes, I instruct the computer to resume recording.

"This being the last of our assigned search areas and the end of our rescue mission, our final tally stands at 165 survivors rescued, and 165 bodies recovered..."

I trail off, surprised at how the numbers worked out exactly the same. It must just be one of those coincidences. I’m just glad we found the Borok intact, or the dead would outnumber the living by a considerable margin. Shaking my head, I resume my entry.

"Our engineers managed to finish reprogramming the inertial dampers and the shape of the warp field to take into account the extra mass we’ll be hauling shortly before their engineers left the Borok for the last time. Their senior officers were on the bridge for our easing into warp speed, which went exactly as we expected and without a hitch. We are now on course for Starbase 22 at warp 4.5, our ETA at this speed being seventeen days, five hours."

Which is a bloody long cruise home, I curse, and will get us there two days before Christmas Eve.

"Computer, end recording."

An electronic chirp tells me of its compliance.

I almost decide to make a personal log entry, but I’m being drawn to my bed as if it’s playing one of those old Indian snake charmer’s flutes. I shut down the terminal and strip off my clothes, leaving a trail from the desk to my bed, then all but dive under the covers. I manage to utter, "Computer, lights off," before the Sandman comes to take me away.

*****

[Governor Ronjar]

Heh, even though La'ra and the other Klinks may have already read this, I'm surprised none commented on your characterisation of the Klinks here.

There are all sorts as we know, and I'm sure that while we have altruistic Klingons like La'ra, devious Klingons like Ron'jar, stolid/stoic Klingons like Kadh, there are also nasty Klingons like JOLLYROGERs Dath'mar. The evil (by Fed standards) Klingons here are yet another facet of them.

Any Klink proponents care to forward a theory/rationale for their behaviour here?

Hello all! Been away from this sight for some time working on new stuff and R/L-crap.

As to the above...
Dath'mar is not what I call evil (though, as you say, nasty may be an apt term...). But he is what TOS Trek would have presented as the 'villian'. That was my original idea for the character. He is a Klingon commander, brought up with totally Klingon warrior values. He does what his government orders him to do, and he treats his government's enemies as HIS enemies. He was no remorse for them. He does not understand his enemies...and does not want to. He may learn their ways, but only as a means to better eliminate them. He is a Klingon's Klingon. He values honor of course, but not at the expense of completing his government's missions (usually, he has been known to blow up Rommies every once in a while, against the wishes of said government...). My idea when writing with Dath'mar was to show a Trek story, similar in fashion to what might have been in TOS Trek or Enterprise, and show the story from the 'villian's' POV.

Ron'jar [or Ran'jar, if you prefer]... well, La'ra has written more with my own character than I have. Needless to say, there are differences, and I will probably not write with Ron'jar as the main character in any further stories. But on the whole... yeah...Ron'jar is a dirty bastard.   One of my friends calls him the 'Al Capone of the Galaxy'. Not the best of comparisons in my mind...but it shows what he thinks of Ron'jar.

La'ra is a whole new bag of cookies. He's damned effective, but hardly a typical Klink in solid Trek standards. I think that's why he's so interesting. Enterprise and TNG showed us different fascets of Klingon life, from cave-dwelling outcasts to Klingon lawyers. La'ra is ALMOST a nonwarrior in a warrior's role. Which adds a perspective no Trek ever has. His attitude and style are so different from the traditional dumb-Klink from TOS on. Too many writers try to portray them as 'thu badguy'. Klingon shows up with lame-ass plan to do something bad. Klingon is soundly whipped by good guys. The end. It takes an imaginative writer to make them interesting, and any story is better with imaginative characters, badguys as well as good.

Thems my thoughts, discombobulated though they was...

--thu guv'!

[Scottish Andy]

Hi All,

Sorry about the wait for the next part of this. I'd completely forgotten that I hadn't updated it last week. Oops. My bad. (and where the smeg does that expression come from, anyway?)

So, without further ado, the story continues.

Chapter Eight, Pt II

A few days later and I’m on the bridge with the conn. The captain is below decks in a conference with the other crew contingent commanders about how to handle our arrival at Starbase 22. Specifically, what kind of service and/or ceremony would be appropriate to handing over the dead from our ship to the starbase, who should attend, who should stand where, and other such items of importance. Normally I’d have been there for that meeting too, but McCafferty told me--in coldly professional tones, of course--that this was just a preliminary meeting, the first of several, just to get an idea of what we should be arranging. The actual arranging would come later, she’d said.

Fair enough, I’d said.

So, I’m in the command chair, signing off on yet more requisitions for parts and power allocations to keep our systems balanced with more than double our usual crew complement aboard and hauling something with the same mass as ourselves. It is taking more power than I would have thought, so I’m casually investigating why by reading up on the inner workings of both the life-support and food synthesis systems, and how they interact with the rest of the ship. Not only that, but how different warp field configurations suck up differing amounts of power. Since I’ve actually caught up with my paperwork for the time being, it’s something to expand my horizons and keep me busy at the same time during our now routine run home.

"Lieutenant Brown?"

I swivel the chair round to face Lathena, once again admiring her slender form. Damnit, she’s not a woman, she’s our communications officer! I chide myself again. Yet, ever since I first started to think of her as someone I’d like to get to know, my treacherous mind has been like a little terrier with a bone. It’s not letting go.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" I ask firmly, determined not to embarrass myself by letting on to my mildly inappropriate thoughts.

"Sir, the information you requested from Starfleet has come in," she informs me, leaning over her board with her legs tucked in under her chair. "Do you want to read it now, or shall I send it to your terminal queue for you read later?"

I’m nonplussed for a second, then I remember that I’d left a standing order with her to get the latest casualty reports from the war after our mission had been completed. All other thoughts, appropriate or not, fall by the wayside as an overwhelming one crashes audibly into my head:

Is she alive?

Stiffening in my chair, I get up and move over beside her. "Upload it to this clipboard please, Lathena," I instruct in a controlled tone.

"Aye sir," she replies, a look of understanding in her green eyes. She knows what I asked for and has made the obvious connection that I’m worried about someone.

I’d completely forgotten about this, and these brief weeks of not admitting the truth, pretending and hoping that my missing friends were all okay had deluded me into a false sense of security. Even going so far as to consider dating Lathena while she was missing.

What was I thinking? Was I thinking?

I walk slowly back to the command chair, unsure if I should stay on the bridge or leave for some privacy. Privacy would be hard to find... No. I don’t want to put myself on guard to read this. The briefing rooms should be empty, I’ll go there.

"Mr. Maknal, summon your relief and take the conn," I order our helmsman.

"Aye sir," he responds crisply and signals Lathena to send a call down to his department, but there is a question in his eyes.

"There is a personal matter I must see to. I shouldn’t be gone too long, but I’ll be in one of the briefing rooms if you need to reach me."

"Very well, sir," he replies, looking slightly surprised that I elaborated. The prerogative of command is the right not to explain your every decision, but trust is earned by being open. Besides, Urrih is my friend.

I head down to Deck 4 and approach Briefing Room One. The captain and her companions are in the main conference room on this level so I might run in to them, but hopefully they’ll stay in their room and leave me in peace. With all these extra people on board all our facilities are being well used, however, so there is the possibility that my intended destination has some occupants as well.

Fortunately there is no one here, so I step in and codelock the door behind me. Sitting down at the head of the table, I start going over the updated casualty reports Lathena uploaded to my clipboard, which I read most carefully for familiar names.

My spirits lift when I see both Toni and Zefal on the ‘Rescued’ list, but moments later a soft "Damn!" escapes my lips. The final name makes me literally sag in my chair, almost pouring off it into a gratefully relieved puddle on the floor. Completing my rundown of the list, I return to the name I highlighted in the ‘Deceased’ list. It glows at me darkly from the white, soft-tone screen, wounding me with its existence. The notes beside the name show that the ship he was on has been moved from the ‘Missing, Presumed Lost’ list to the ‘Confirmed Destroyed’ list.

That makes what, twenty now? I ask myself, remembering the names of my other classmates who’ve already been listed as KIA, and adding one more. Seventeen, then, I correct myself, looking at the clipboard again.

Gardiner, Scott, SE 368-2256 T. Lieutenant. Ship-fitting Officer, USS Montooth

I rub my fingers into my eyes. Another person from my classes at the Academy, someone I knew and considered a friend.

"Scotty-boy" Gardiner, a fellow Scot who just loved modifying his own flitter with speciality parts to make it look better and go faster. He always seemed to know just where to go for those hard to get parts, and loved to tinker with things to get better performance out of them. It made him a natural for a Ship-fitting Officer in Engineering. I smile in remembrance of his off-colour nickname, but that’s not how I want to remember him right now.

I return to look at the names of the survivors I know, thankful that they’re still alive and rejoicing at one in particular.

Shilleto, Antonia, SO 497-2256 HH. Lieutenant. Navigator, USS Azrael
Ory`nan, Zefal, SB 409-2256 HC. Lieutenant JG, Security Specialist, USS Zoldar
Nhu, Nâm Quymin, SS 752-2256 HH. Lieutenant Commander. Botanist, USS Captain James Cook

Zefal is a Centauran I got to know as a regular member of the teams we were assigned to for certain tasks and classes. He’s not much for words, but his instincts for the tactical aspects of a mission were almost dead on every time. A good man to have at your back as a protector, but he’s not keen on the offensive side of things.

Antonia--Toni--Shilleto was with me for practically all my classes, wanting to be a navigator too. A stunning, voluptuous brunette from the Amber colony on Tau Ceti IV, I was originally terrified of her because of her popularity with the other cadets--especially the male ones. Her outgoing personality and sweet nature led her to reach out to ‘the quiet one’, and we became fast friends after I got over the very shyness which she helped me overcome. It was Toni who urged me to ask out Nâm once she found out I had a thing for her, and I’m very glad she pushed me into it. When I heard that contact with the Azrael had been lost I got real worried for her. I’m glad she’s safe.

And then there is Nâm herself.

Nâm is a porcelain-skinned, tiny china doll of a girl from Vietnam. A very talented scientist, hence her rapid promotion to Lieutenant Commander, and assigned to a brand new Oberth-class survey vessel earlier this year. We’d kept in irregular touch via subspace since we’d graduated, and more frequently since I’d been injured, but I’d heard nothing from her in the last two months.

That had me worried, and though I had lived in a self-imposed state of "ignorance is bliss", I’m relieved beyond words that my fears have finally been banished. Nâm, with her coal-black eyes, shoulder-length raven-wing hair, rosy lips, and pale skin, really had looked like a porcelain doll on that first day we met, and far too fragile for the rigours of Starfleet training. She had definitely surprised many of us with her inner strength and quiet dignity.

We’d become a couple in our second year at the Academy and it had lasted until we received our separate postings upon graduation. We’d both known it’d be virtually impossible to continue our relationship after that, so we’d agreed to say goodbye but promised to keep in touch. It was only my then-growing closeness with Karen that I’d begun to let go of her for real. Then we had our blow-up and there’d been no room for the nicer feelings in my heart, until a few weeks ago I had started to look to Lathena to combat my private loneliness.

But Nâm...we were close. Going into our third month as a couple I knew I was starting to fall in love with her instead of us just having fun together. My first serious relationship...

...thank the Gods she’s alive.

I shiver with relief and feel the knot of worry in my stomach finally begin to loosen, for good this time. I feel almost light-headed with euphoria, and a sudden desire to speak to the four survivors, to make sure for myself that they still live, grips me.

I hit the ‘com panel for a channel to the bridge. "Lathena, send a signal to the Starbase 22 Personnel department requesting the current whereabouts and/or contact details for the names I’ll read off for you. I’ll be back up on the bridge shortly."

"Aye, sir. I’m listening," she replies crisply.

I begin my list of serial numbers and the names they belong to, feeling better than I have in almost two months.


Date: 15th December 2267
Stardate: 3479.27
Location: Briefing Room One, USS Kusanagi

Ten days after the rescue of the Borok and the crew has pretty much settled back into the routine of the last month. Now that the mission is over bar the homecoming, crew morale has risen abruptly--mine included--no doubt due to the knowledge that we’ll be pulling no more dead bodies out of wrecked starships. Not only that, but our mission ended on a high point with both chasing off the pirate ship and rescuing 73 people--and another twelve corpses, but that sad point was more than outweighed by the number of living rescued.

With these new survivors the Kusanagi now has just over double her usual complement, so the entire crew is double bunking. Actually, with the 17 double staterooms next to Sickbay still occupied full time by the recovering members of the Borok’s crew, and the large number of officers rescued, most of Kusanagi’s officers--including me but not the captain--and several enlisted crew are triple bunking.

As I said, with morale being high, a convivial atmosphere is prevalent on the ship with the Rec. Room, gymnasium, crew lounge, observation lounges, and mess hall always well populated. Our non-denominational chapel also seems to be in regular, if not constant, use. Doctor Inidria, our Deltan psychologist/recreation officer, informs me that it’s from people either thanking their personal/racial deity that they’re still alive, asking He/She/It/Them what it was all for, or the eternal question of "Why?"

The ship’s condition is fully operational and as close to factory new as she ever has been since leaving the shipyards almost 40 years ago. We officially recognised the diligent efforts of the crew of the Torjal and latecomers from the Crosis and Borok for their work in getting the Kusanagi ship-shape and in Bristol fashion once more. In a small ceremony presided over by the captain and I, and broadcast over the ship’s visual data feeds, they were thanked personally and sincerely. After all, my dented bulkhead had been repaired and repainted too.

That night I finally got to talk to one of my rescued friends, the one I needed to talk to: Nâm. Her and Yoshi were assigned to the same sector so he must either not want to talk to me or still be in intensive care and unavailable. Lathena still hasn’t been able to track down Zefal or Toni either, so the same must be applying to them. I’ll see what Lathena can find out about them for me.

I was almost speechless with joy at seeing Nâm and mentally cursed a blue streak that I couldn’t reach into the screen and wrap her up in a bear hug. She’s become closer to me than my own sisters and I love her dearly. The sappy stuff I said to her that night still makes me blush to even think about it, but I’m glad I said it to her. Glad that I could say it to her and have her respond to it, rather than murmuring them to a gravestone.

However, with those events having occurred three days ago I’m beginning to think about the future again in the passage of days since. First and foremost in my mind is the exceedingly ugly possibility of my not having a future anymore, at least in Starfleet. The issue of Commodore Tandara’s--and thus Starfleet Command’s--final judgement on our performance of late is causing me a fair degree of concern. With our journey home now uneventful and routine once more, this matter is pressing in on my mind when there is nothing else occupying my attention.

Fortunately, that isn’t too often as my duties keep me busy and my social calendar is fairly full, now that I’ve actually become a part of this crew instead of remaining an outsider. Not only that, but I’m sharing my cabin with Lieutenant Commander Shesra of the Torjal and Commander Drapeau of the Borok--more leading by example--so my alone time is few and far between.

However, I was thinking of the way the final review will proceed and I’m sure that the senior officers and chiefs who work regularly with us will be quizzed and their logs, both public and personal, will be examined.

So, here I am in Briefing Room Two during the Beta shift--as Drapeau is right now asleep in my quarters--reviewing my personal logs from the day we set foot aboard this little frigate.

A quick glance at the chrono tells me it’s 2030 hours. I’ve been in here for close on three hours reviewing these damn things so my concentration isn’t what it was, but an unusual detail is still teasing the back of my mind, not quite showing itself. I’ve had the feeling for close on two hours now so it’s definitely something to do with these logs, but I just can’t pin it down.

I sit back in the chair and sigh, stretching my arms up and behind my head to ease the tension in my shoulders, thinking that I really need to take a break. Urrih will be appearing in the Rec. Room within the hour. After all this nonsense filling my head, his cabaret show will be just what I need to clear it. I pause my rising spirits with an apprehensive thought. I wonder if she’ll be there tonight?

All the evenings I’ve been hanging out with Urrih & Co. in the Rec. Room and I’ve still managed to avoid a sit-down chat with the three of us, even with the captain there. It has been on occasion both intentional and not--on my side, anyway--but I’m still not looking forward to it, if and when it finally does happen.

I can still hear Urrih’s voice chiding me in my quarters from all those nights ago. "Is your feud with Karen more--"

KAREN!

The name jumps out at me as my brain tease resolves itself. My immediate reaction is to dismiss it as irrelevant and unimportant, but I know it isn’t. With a fatalistic certainty of the results, I test my hunch anyway.

"Computer, scan all my personal log entries from," I pause for a quick search of my memory, "stardate 3150 for any occurrences of the name ‘Karen’ and give stardate of the last such entry."

"Working." Seconds later it replies, "There are 57 occurrences of the name ‘Karen’ within specified limits. Last such log entry was on stardate 3199.5."

I sigh and nod even though there is no one else in the room, my hunch confirmed. I’ve not thought of her as "Karen" since the night I stopped us from attacking that lone Klingon ship. I still want to dismiss it, but this little revelation indicates a fundamental shift in my thinking so I know I have to confront it.

Actually, no I don’t, I realise after pondering it for a few moments. Make no mistake, there has been a fundamental shift in my thinking but it is now more than two months past and I’m well aware of it. The fact of the missing name merely illustrates that point. It’s painfully obvious in my logs and prevalent in my thoughts of the past two months, I realise on reflection, and it’s just as obvious why I’ve subconsciously done so.

Karen was my friend and comrade, and up until The Incident, someone I was beginning to fall for. Since her inexplicable--to me at least--change on that night, my friend has been replaced in that body by someone else making full use of Karen’s memories to shred me at every opportunity.

It’s obviously a mental defence mechanism, separating them into two people, probably to protect the memories I have of better times with Karen, which--if Urrih is right--will come again. I’ll have to be able to relate to her like a normal person then. Yes, I know that’s intellectually dishonest, but to my mind that’s exactly what happened. It was that sudden, that abrupt. At the end of an evening where I bared my innermost feelings and most painful memories, some evil spirit took over Karen’s body and either banished my friend to a distant corner of her mind or pushed her out of her own head. She was replaced by someone who suddenly hated everything I stood for or believed in.

Someone called McCafferty.

I’m glad I noticed this matter, as Tandara is bound to ask about it. This’ll give me time to prepare a polished answer that will satisfy both of us. I look at the chrono again. 2045, it tells me. Just not tonight, I decide, thinking that I’ve been at this long enough. I’ve managed to identify several points that are second nature to me now but which will need explaining to an outsider, so I’ll work on those explanations tomorrow.

Right now, all I want to do is splash some water on my face and grab a bite to eat, then find a seat in the Rec. Room and have Urrih make me laugh and forget my impending doom for another few hours.

Suiting actions to thoughts, I set out to do just that.

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Nine

Date: 22nd December 2267
Time: 0845 hours.
Stardate: 3511.83
Location: En-route to Starbase 22

Our communications officer suddenly speaking into the quiet of the bridge draws my mind from the paperwork I’m dealing with. "Captain, incoming challenge from the starbase. IFF responding normally."

"Very good," McCafferty replies. "Send the base duty officer my compliments and request confirmation that the arrangements we’ll need on assuming orbit will be in place."

The arrangements we’ll be needing is an empty dry-dock to take care of the Borok, priority use of the base’s transporter rooms, and a reception area for the mass beaming down of the survivors we’ve picked up. We sent the request--our requirements in truth, but it doesn’t hurt to be polite--in upon the completion of our mission over two weeks ago, so there should be no reason they’ve not been taken care of. The captain is just making sure that no emergency has arisen that demands the use of what we need at the time of our arrival, necessitating the bumping of our schedule.

Lathena does as instructed and after a few minutes has an answer. "Captain, Commander Ky’thitan id-Noruk returns your compliments and confirms that all will be ready for our arrival."

With a name like that I’d guess the commander is a felinoid, though it doesn’t fit the usual pattern for a Caitian. I idly consider looking them up in the database to pass the time, but decide not to.

"Excellent," McCafferty nods, sounding satisfied. "Now give me all-call."

"You’re on, Captain."

"All hands, this is the Captain. We will be arriving at Starbase 22 within three hours, so anything that isn’t squared away as stated in the regulations had better be taken care of before we get there. This will be your last warning, so make damned sure the starbase staffers don’t have anything to find fault with. That is all." She thumbs off her intercom connection and addresses the bridge at large. "That goes for you people too. Make sure your departments are running like the proverbial Swiss watch. Although if they aren’t already with all the free time and extra help we’ve had on the run home, you deserve anything you get," she adds pointedly.

Heads bob in acknowledgement and a few wry grins are in evidence at that.

I know that the ship and crew are in top form, far better than when we first stepped aboard her over two months ago. However, because of my oft-cursed second-guessing nature, I have to do a quick mental rundown of all the problem areas we’ve had, and that all areas of responsibility are up to speed.

Yup, they are. Just like they were the last time I did this, ten hours ago. My expression at this thought isn’t so much a wry smile as an annoyed grimace.

The next few hours pass by peacefully, with practically all of the bridge crew keeping surreptitious watch on the distance/time countdown, until Lathena speaks up again.

"Incoming hail from the starbase, Captain."

"On speakers, Lieutenant," McCafferty instructs.

"Frigate Kusanagi, this is Starbase 22 Traffic Control, we have you on our screens," the disembodied voice states, sounding quite bored. "Please drop from warp at the outer system markers, then proceed in-system at full impulse along the standard orbital approach vector. Be advised that an in-system mining convoy is due in orbit at 1500 hours Federation Base Time, but no other interstellar ships are expected today. The threat boards are blank and long-range sensor sweeps are empty, so this facility is at condition green. You are cleared to begin your approach."

The captain orders, "Mr. Maknal, alter course to align with outer system markers. Ensign Salok, plot a standard orbital approach to the starbase at full impulse and transfer to Helm."

"Acknowledged, Captain."

"Aye sir. Dropping from warp in two minutes."

Signalling Lathena to open a return channel, McCafferty speaks up. "Received and understood, Traffic Control. Beginning approach now."

"Acknowledged. Lock on to outer marker two on subspace frequency K for guidance beam and to synchronise with FBT," the voice instructs, before adding in a warmer tone, "Welcome back, Kusanagi."

I catch a look of annoyance at that, or maybe it’s trepidation. It probably matches my own. She can’t quite force out the traditional "It’s good to be back", so she settles on a neutral phrase.

Forcing some warmth of her own, she says, "Kusanagi acknowledges," before instructing Lathena, "Close the channel, Lieutenant, then tie in to the outer marker and synchronise our chronometers."

"Aye Captain," the comm. officer replies.

"Dropping from warp now, engaging impulse drive, Captain," Urrih speaks up. "ETA to starbase is 27 minutes at full impulse."

Lathena gives a final update a moment later. "Chronometers synchronised, Captain. We had lost only 3.2 seconds. Subspace guidance beacon coming in strong and clear."

"Very good," McCafferty acknowledges, settling back in her chair and gazing at the viewscreen.

I take my now familiar position at the navigation databanks to watch our progress in to the base. Starbase 22 is a planetary installation rather than a space-borne station, a point of minor annoyance for the crews of older ships like ours as we have to drop from warp outside the system. Newer ships like the Constitutions, Saladins, and now the brand-new Oberth-class survey ships can warp directly in to and out of planetary orbit due to their more advanced engine hardware and control routines. We could just as easily get the new control routines but the control equipment in our forty-year-old engines just isn’t up to the task of regulating the warpfield precisely enough to prevent a wormhole from forming due to gravity-induced imbalances.

We can still warp right up to deep space stations, but until and unless Starfleet decides that it’s cost-effective enough to upgrade its force of 60 older frigates and nearly 100 older cruisers, we’ll always be half an hour later for an planetary party than everyone else.

The trip in-system is rather boring, scenery-wise, as the outer system markers are aligned with the quickest route in to and out from the base. This means that there are no planets in nearby orbit or asteroid belts in the way. We can already see our destination on the screen and it grows steadily larger as we close in.

Starbase 22 was built in 2220 on the sixth planet of the Gamma 231 system, an uninhabited, barely Class-M planet several light-years from the recently encountered Klingon border. Its primary mission was and still is border patrol and the defence of the Federation colony on Davlos and the member world of Cygnet XIV, as well as numerous other subsequent Federation interests in this area. All the main base facilities are on the planet’s surface, including the administration, science, and medical sections, guest housing and staff barracks, and long-term cargo storage. The only off-planet facilities are in fact the dozen or so dry-docks and repair bays, and a massive cargo transfer station.

As we enter the terminal phase of our approach, these orbital structures become visible on the viewscreen, as do several interplanetary cargo and transport ships, flitting around the cargo station like so many flies around a horse’s head.

As the base developed and skirmishes with the Klingons became a regular thing, it was deemed wise to have local resources rather than shipped-in supplies, so several mining colonies were set up on the planets of the system. At present there are mineral extraction sites on the second, third, fourth, and sixth planets, the two asteroid belts, and gas collection facilities in low orbit of the three gas giants, planets eight, nine, and eleven. With all these mining projects on the go the space around Gamma 231-VI can become quite crowded. There is almost always at least one ship on- or offloading from the transfer station around the clock, and with dozens of other ships transiting the length and breadth of the system, traffic control is a must.

Our path in is clear as promised by the base and Urrih deftly manoeuvres our little frigate up to one of the smaller dry-docks and holds position while the wounded Borok is transferred from our tractor beams to those of the dock. The seventy-year-old destroyer is gently pulled into the waiting arms of its final resting-place as Urrih performs a flawless orbital insertion to Gamma 231-VI.

"Geosynchronous orbit over Starbase 22 ground facilities achieved, Captain," he states formally.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Maknal," the captain responds in kind. Turning to face Lathena, she instructs, "Give me all-call, Lieutenant."

"Intercraft address, aye," the Andorian replies, flipping some toggles.

"Attention all hands, this is the Captain. We have arrived at Starbase 22, but we have one final duty to perform before this mission is over. You have performed well under difficult circumstances, and I am proud of the professionalism and compassion you have shown so far."

As McCafferty says this, she sweeps her gaze over the bridge crew, praising each one of us with her eyes. I do notice a certain lack of pride or praise in the look she directs at me, however. For some reason, I find myself fighting a grin.

Resuming her speech, McCafferty continues, "It is now time to deliver our fallen comrades home. To the crews of the Torjal, Crosis, and Borok, please assemble in the evacuation transporter rooms for beam-down to the starbase. Once this honour guard is in place, we will begin beaming down the deceased from each ship we encountered. Beam downs to commence in five minutes. That is all."

*****

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Nine, Pt II

I stride into my quarters feeling somewhat drained, despite the fact that it’s still only halfway through my shift. Maybe it’s that I’ve not eaten in over five hours, but I’m betting it’s that and the ceremony I was just a part of--and that I’ve just had a time set for my interview with the base CO.

Pushing that thought out of my mind, I activate my desk terminal to make a log entry. "First Officer’s log, Stardate 3512.7. Our mission to bring home the survivors and our honoured dead from the short war with the Klingons is finally over, with the delivery--"

I stop there, reconsidering that word. "Computer, erase word ‘delivery’ and resume recording."

"Affirmative. Recording," it replies, taking longer to tell me than to actually do it.

"--transfer of our personnel to Starbase 22," I continue, getting up to pace as I know it’ll help my elocution by organising my thoughts. "In a ceremony that lasted twenty minutes, the assembled crews of the Torjal, Crosis, Borok, and many of the Kusanagi’s own crew gave silent tribute to the Starfleet members who gave their lives in defence of their homes and the freedoms and rights we enjoy as citizens of the Federation."

I try not to wander too far from the desk terminal or talk away from the voice pickup while striding around. My anthropomorphizing of almost every piece of equipment I use has me not wanting to annoy the computer with the added hardships of deciphering what I just said while talking down my sleeve, as it were.

"Once our fallen comrades had been temporarily interned before being taken back to their own families later this week for proper funeral rites, Captain McCafferty gave a short service in their honour. Although adroitly avoiding any faith-specific religious overtones, it was clear to all that this was a very emotional moment for her, with her personal feelings blazing forth sincerely.

"Although they may not have been the most politic of things to be said at a funeral, I admire her for unashamedly expressing them and find myself in total agreement with her sentiments. I also think that the people she was praising and promising never to forget would have appreciated them too."

I pause there, remembering her almost "fiery rhetoric" style of address and looking around to see uncomfortable and/or disapproving looks on the faces of some attending base staffers. However, on the faces of people who’d lost friends and loved ones, people who’d actually "seen the elephant" as it used to be called, were looks of proud remembrance, approval, and agreement with her hard line.

McCafferty herself had let tears roll unashamedly down her face as she paid grand tribute to those who had died for what they believed in, knowing that it was the right thing to do. On seeing the disapproving faces she had railed on the pacifists who believed that this war could have been avoided with diplomacy, or said that the militaristic nature of the Star Fleet had provoked the Klingons when they’d never laid eyes on a Klingon themselves, let alone met one face-to-face.

My own views had clouded this issue somewhat, as I had believed that war should be avoided at all costs. However, my deciding to serve has let me in on a secret that the stay-at-homes never find out or accept: That no matter all your good intentions or how far you bent over backwards to demonstrate your peaceful and accommodating nature, sometimes other peoples just didn’t believe or trust you. Or simply just didn’t care what you wanted and merely seek to impose their will on you regardless.

Over these last two months I’ve found out just what "at all costs" actually means in terms of avoiding war with the Klingons. It has become firmly entrenched in my mind that paying the cost of standing up for yourself is far preferable--and ultimately less costly to your society--than paying the cost of constant appeasement. For once an opponent knows they extort something from you, they are never satisfied with what they get until they have all that was once yours.

Mind you, even with this revelation I still know that a balance must be maintained. It has further impressed on me the importance of staying as McCafferty’s XO, as even though I agree with her sentiments--on this wide-ranging matter at least--I fear she swings too far the other way into being a war hawk. One who desires to teach a lesson first and foremost rather then as a last resort.

If a borderline pacifist such as myself can learn that that last resort must come and not just be bandied about as an empty threat, maybe a driven patriot like McCafferty can learn that compromise must be tried first.
As with all things, people and their viewpoints are at opposing ends and reality--the way things have to be in the real worlds--is somewhere in between.

Shaking my head to clear it of these unrelated thoughts--maybe I’ll put them into a personal log later--I notice that my long pause has shut off the computer. "Resume recording," I instruct it, and continue with my current entry.

"Our most important task completed, the crew of the Kusanagi went back to more mundane matters. Re-provisioning of the ship, dealing with transfer requests, and drafting the roster for three days’ shore leave were all dealt with fairly quickly, and the ship is now running with a skeleton crew on orbital shutdown status. The warp engines are in the process of being completely shut down for the only maintenance there still is to do--that of going over every millimetre of conduit and the reactor systems for cracks and micro-fractures. For obvious reasons, this cannot be done while the warp engines are supplying power so the ship is running off the impulse reactors."

"My meeting with Commodore Tandara has been scheduled for 1400 hours on the 27th, with the captain’s at 1600 hours that same day. We’ve both been informed that over the next couple of days select but unspecified members of our crew will be interviewed in regards to our conduct and such testimony as offered will be factored into our final interviews. This might cast a pall over our Christmas, especially as we have no one to spend it with except for our own friends--the same ones who might decide it in favour of the ‘other side’. Although, if we can get past that, we can all attend the party on the starbase to try and loose our woes in the feeling of seasonal spirit and festive cheer."

I sigh, thinking that this part of the entry should really be part of the personal logs, but decide to let it stand.

"We can only hope. ‘Tis the season’, after all. Computer, end log entry."

An electronic chirp acknowledges my order, along with an audible grumble from my stomach.

I really must keep myself fed while on duty. If anyone else hears this kind of racket I’ll never live it down. It’s embarrassing!

I take an electronic clipboard and load it up with all the datafiles of the latest news and Fleet updates Federation-wide and for the local sector, then head to the mess hall for some lunch.

*****

On the almost deserted mess deck--most of the crew is already "ashore"--no one is sitting by the viewports so I grab a table there and gaze out at the planet, seemingly stationary 24,000 km below us. I eagerly devour one of my favourite lunchtime meals, a massively thick tuna and mayonnaise sandwich accompanied by a coffee with cream, while taking in the somewhat drab appearance of Gamma 231-VI.

Being "barely" Class-M, this very old planet has exhausted it’s bright vegetation colours and is now just various shades of yellow and brown. The wispy white cloud formations covering a quarter of the planet offer some relief from this beige monotony, but none of the small seas this planet has are visible from our orbital position, adding to the feeling of uninspired uniformity.

Even so, it’s nice to have some scenery to look at out there.

My sandwich seems to have vanished into thin air but I’m feeling considerably better and less tired now. Sipping on the rest of my coffee, I return to the other items on my clipboard. Federation-wide, a few items of major interest occurred, including the inauguration of a new president in the Altair system after the ending of a long interplanetary war there, and the deliberate incursion by one of our starships into the Romulan Neutral Zone on a mission of mercy. The most recent incident draws not only my undivided attention but my personal ire: some unsuccessful Klingon interference in the negotiations on Capella IV for mining rights.

Bloody Klingons! I rage silently. We’ve only just finished collecting the bodies from the last war and already they’re trying to start another!

Fortunately, though, our sector of the Klingon border is quiet for a change. No skirmishes, incursions, or even alerts so far this month.

The data that relates to our own mission is more interesting. One of the starbase’s Ptolemy-class tugs is on her way back to base after having secured the wreck of the USS Crosis, though it is quite likely the shredded saucer section will just be decommissioned and scrapped. The transport ship Sulaco is still out there collecting the discarded lifeboats we’d pinpointed, although curiously no mention is made of the Klingon prisoners presumably still aboard her. Possibly has something to do with operational security. We don’t want those damn butchers being rescued by their own side, now do we? I ask myself vengefully.

After letting my temper cool again, I read through the remainder of the news. A few field promotions that have been confirmed, but nobody I know. Some notices of resignation and retirees from the Fleet, but again, no one I know.

And that’s it. Back to business as normal, as if the war never took place.

How do people do it? I ask myself, still feeling the stab of my own painful memories. How do people just decide to get over things?

Probably everyone in Starfleet knew someone who was killed or injured during the war. Hell, I knew 17 who’d died out of my class of 1,000 and the two ships I’d served on already. How do people decide--no, manage--to move on, forget the horrors and just go back to their normal routines? Or maybe it’s just the illusion of normalcy, the thought strikes me. That by believing that things are normal, clinging to what passes for normal in your life, you have an anchor to reel yourself back to friendly waters and safe ground.

The idea makes sense, to me at least, so until proven otherwise that’s what I’ll believe to keep myself grounded and functional.

I suppose that’s all any of us can do.

*****

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Nine, Pt III

To get away from the morose feelings that are dogging me, I take my leave of the ship and beam down to the starbase to search for my friends. Despite never having been to a planetary starbase before, Starfleet reassures its members by using standardised layouts whenever possible, and here is no exception. Designated as Omicron-class--presumably for the Terran obsession with the Ancient Greeks, and for no other reason than a capital omicron symbol could be a representation of a planet--this is a cookie-cutter-style base that looks the same no matter what planet it’s on. Only the colour of the sky and surrounding scenery changes from planet to planet.

Memorising the locations of the base’s highlights relative to one another, I fix my orientation in my head and move out to explore the place. Its corridors are full of Starfleet personnel and miners, and as I get closer to the social areas of the place I see people in civilian garb too. They’re possibly the crews of the independent traders and scouts in orbit, or maybe the families of the base personnel. Either way, their non-regulation clothes add a splash of unstructured colour to the denizens of the base. It’s not like a civilian station or a more centrally located starbase, which would be practically heaving with non-Fleet personnel, but it’s still pretty bustling in it’s own way.

Especially with all the Christmas decorations festooning the place, I note with a smile. I’m mildly surprised at this, what with the base CO being non-Human, but I suppose he’s a believer in this whole cultural diversity thing even when we may not understand it’s origins. Admittedly, Tandara might have a riot on his hands from the human personnel if he’d cancelled Christmas, I grin to myself.

Making my way to the social centre of the base, I find that the main concourse hosts a huge, beautifully decorated Christmas tree. That thing must be thirty feet high! I wonder if it’s real? I gaze at it in awe. It certainly looks like a pine tree, but I don’t know what the local forests are made of. Or if there still are forests on this sandy rock.

Window-shopping my way through various tinsel-strewn boutiques and stores, I find my way to the bar that Urrih told me he’d be relaxing in with "the usual suspects." I have a feeling Chief Price is still contributing to the Centauran’s vocabulary.

"O`Reilly’s Tavern," it proclaims proudly over main entrance. Of course, is my amused assessment. No matter how far out Humans reach into space, there’ll always be an Irishman two steps behind with a keg of Guinness and a plank to serve it from.

I shake my head again and grin, definitely glad I took Urrih up on his offer of R&R. Just being around other people has made me feel better, and the rising of my own spirits coincided with every new corner turned and decoration sighted.

My morose mood is falling away from me and my tentative new festive cheer is given a boost as I stand on the threshold of O`Reilly’s. Inside is darkly lit, with the upholstery in dark colours of deep brown oak and rich green pseudo-leather, and the whole place is decorated almost--almost--to the point of overwhelming.

I catch a waving arm out of the corner of my eye and turn to see Urrih beckoning me over. As I walk over to their booth, I take note of the occupants of this wooden cavern, flickeringly lit from what could be real candles in the centre of each table and strategically placed holders along the walls.

The place is slightly over half-full and someone laughing aloud occasionally swamps the buzz of happy voices. The people themselves are mostly human-looking, but I do notice some aliens too. Popular place, then. I wonder who from our crew discovered it?

I can see at the booth I’m approaching that Urrih is sitting with Shex, Lathena, and Salok from the Alpha shift, and Teresa Price, Olaf Petersen, Achmed Al-Mahaid, Setik, and Gloriana Demeter from the Beta shift. I greet them all as Lathena makes everyone else move around so that I can join them on the horseshoe-shaped couch. The table is piled high with various oddly shaped glasses containing beverages from across the Federation. The two Andorians seem to be joining the four Humans and single Centauran in sampling some festive spirits. Even Setik, our Vulcan Beta shift helm officer, seems to be experimenting. Ensign Salok is the sole holdout, apparently content with his glass of Altair water.

Jumping straight in at the deep end, I order a Long Island Iced Tea in an attempt to catch up to them in one go. I acquired a taste for these superb concoctions while in my third year at the Academy in San Francisco and I’m hoping O`Reilly’s can do one justice here. Since this base is host to a couple of hundred miners at any one time I’m expecting the alcohol to be real. Waiting on the cute blonde returning with my drink, I catch up on what I’ve been missing.

"...now, ladies and gentlebeings, if you’ll sample this one, you’ll notice the fine, smoky taste that allows it to go down smooth, and the... ah, warm, fuzzy feeling it gives in the pit of your belly afterwards," Engineer Petersen is saying. I grin as I watch all of them take experimental sips. I don’t know the Swede very well, but judging by the way that this afternoon is going to go, I’m sure I’ll know him like a brother by tomorrow.

If I can remember anything at all, that is.

Again trying to get a jump on the activities, I dredge up what can remember from each of their personnel files. Despite the number of humans here, only three of us are actually from Earth.

Gloriana--"Glory" for short, but only to her friends--is from the Vega Colony and is the daughter of an Amazon matriarch. The Amazons moved to Vega from Earth to take advantage of Vega’s looser constitution, which allows the Amazons to practice their own society in it’s original form with no restrictions. Princess Gloriana here apparently pissed of her mother royally by leaving their idyllic island paradise on Vega to join Starfleet, but Glory herself is unrepentant.

As for my own relations with her, I’ve only recently gained her respect as before she seemed to regard me with nothing but contempt. I realise that I seemed to get that a lot from strong female personalities, and I think I know why. Of course, I only know now because I’ve changed a lot over the past few months but at the time I was completely clueless. It was something to do with my own lack of a backbone. Since I’ve recently re-grown one I’ve been getting more respect from most of the crew, with the notable exception of Doctor Nebukov. I’m still clueless what I’ve done to annoy her, but I may learn in time.

Recently though, my harder line of command and my daily sparring routines with her--in which she energetically thrashes me in an attempt to improve my hand-to-hand skills--seems to have given us a point of commonality from which we started to become friends. It’s a good thing I’m still so easy-going most of the time, as the amount of abuse I take at her hands is a good starting point for a grudge match. Especially when you consider that Ensign Demeter’s private tutoring means I’ve been seeing a lot more of Doctor Nebukov, though fortunately in an official capacity.

Teresa Price--"Tess" for short--is from Benecia, a standard Earth colony established in 2162 and one of the first under the auspices of the newly formed Federation. Tess herself is study in contrasts to the six-foot, sleekly muscled, sun-bronzed Amazon warrior she sits opposite. Of pale skin and small build, Teresa is a plain looking woman in her mid-thirties, with short mousy brown hair and a horsy face combining to form a totally nondescript appearance. This is, however, completely offset by the sheer likeablity of the woman, which usually renders her as the centre of attention at any gathering. She is fun, engaging, well informed about a surprising number of topics, and generally a pleasant companion to spend any length of time with.

She is also terribly good at her job. She has risen through the enlisted ranks like a comet, five grades in ten years and making her the youngest Chief Petty Officer on the Kusanagi, and in the Gariman Sector. I for one am glad she’s in our crew.

As for us Terrans, Achmed is a Saudi from a large family in Duba, who run a deep sea diving business in the Red Sea, taking sightseers to visit the religious relics on the sea bed. I think that’s where he got his sense of adventure from, as the young Arab is always eager to see new things and unlock mysteries. Shame that he got a frigate instead of an exploratory posting, but he is just at the beginning of his career. His coarse, jet-black hair, hawk-like nose, and piercing black eyes make him look very aristocratic, even though he has no royal blood or connections--quite a feat in Saudi Arabia, or so I’m told.

Olaf is from the town of Storuman in northern Sweden, but he’d lived in Ullapool in Scotland for a few years during his teens, which I suppose explains his knowledge of expensive whiskies. The engineer is a typical Scandinavian with a hulking six-foot-plus frame, broad shoulders, forearms the size of my thighs, short, flaxen blonde hair, and ice-blue eyes. He always has a ready smile for his friends, but sometimes becomes so involved in what he’s doing that it takes a photorp to derail his single-mindedness.

Getting back into the conversation, I ask, "What’ve you got these people drinking, Olaf?"

"It’s a fine scotch called ‘Glenlivet’, sir," he answers.

I roll my eyes. "No ranks here, please. We’re all off duty, after all. Or at least, we’d better be," I remark, grinning and gesturing at the horde of empty glasses on the table. To the whole group I say, "Call me Andrew."

I see Urrih grin behind his glass as the waitress arrives with mine. Thanking her with a smile and a nod, I turn back to the group and raise my glass to offer a toast. "Everyone, to your health. And Merry Christmas!"

Everyone dutifully parrots it back to me and we all take a swallow of our drinks.

Mine almost ends up all over their faces as the volatile liquid hits the back of my throat, but I force it down and start choking, tears in my eyes. I feel a thump on my back that almost introduces my spine to my breastbone, but it has the--mostly--desired effect and I regain my breath. I glance around to see concerned looks on all but one face, and it’s not one of the Vulcans.

"Urrih, you little weasel!" I yell in mock anger. "You spiked my drink, didn’t you? You set me up!"

His imperfectly concealed smirk erupts into a wide grin and he bobs his head, laughing at me.

"Are you okay now, s--Andrew?" Lathena asks. I realise from our positions that it must have been her who unclogged my pipes so effectively. As if reminded of the fact, my back gives a reflexive wince of pain.

"Yes, thank you, Lathena. I take it that was you...?"

She nods, and returns the smile I give her.

"What do you mean by ‘spiked’, sir?" Salok asks me, formal to the end.

Glory answers him with a smirk directed at Maknal. "Andrew means that our chief helmsman here increased the potency of his drink without our XO knowing of it. Double shots, was it, Urrih?" she asks.

The Centauran nods, still grinning at me. Double shots? I silently exclaim. I’m surprised my head didn’t blow off!

"Double shots?" Teresa exclaims. "You nutter! Double shots of tequila, vodka, rum, and Triple Sec?" Addressing me, she adds, "So much for your health, Andrew!"

"Exactly what I was thinking, Tess," I smile back at her.

"I wish to query that also," Setik speaks up. "Why do you offer a blessing of good health while ingesting substances which are quite clearly unhealthy, especially to the mind?"

"Well..." begin Olaf, Glory, and Urrih all at once, who then look at each other and laugh. "Go ahead, Olaf," Glory prompts with a grin. "You are our resident expert in noxious concoctions."

Nodding a smiling acknowledgement to the Amazon, Olaf launches into his explanation to the two Vulcans.

I sit back to listen, as Achmed, Shex, and Tess confer over who has the better drink, and Glory, Urrih, and Lathena start scanning the cocktail lists for what they want to try next, arguing the merits of their own selections.

I smile to myself and take another, more cautious sip of my drink. This is going to be a good Christmas.

[Governor Ronjar]

This is a pertty good lengthed story. And it doesn't get bogged down like many I've read (not that I've read 'them' here, mind all of you...). That's a very important to me when I'm reading a story. There can be aby lack of action in a story (again, making reference to nothing here...), but if there's a good, flowing pace, it's readable.

For now, I don't like the main characters, and hope they meet a bad end in the future, or else get redeemed (in my eyes if in no one else's). I'm not totally done reading what's up already, but I'm working on it (this I add in the case said characters have already met said bad end and I haven't come across it yet...).

Write on!

[CaptJosh]

Nicely done. Glad he's loosening up. I thought he was going to be a permanent hard case.

[Scottish Andy]

Thanks guys, I really appreciate the comments, so keep 'em coming.

I'm surprised by just how much people don't like the two main characters. I had wanted them to be acting like arses, but not to such an extent that you actively disliked them. Oh well, looks like i overdid it.

Keep reading. The main event is around the next chapter.

[Jaeih t`Radaik]

More Moral Support (TM) for Andy! You know I like this, but if you feel the need, I can do a version of "Larry's Big Ass Review (TM)" for you telling everyone else why. *grin*

Let me know if you want me too.

[Scottish Andy]

Hi all, just back from a second interview for a job I really want. Wish me luck, I'll hear the decision on Tues/Wednesday. Anyway, here's the Beginning of the End... of the story. 

Let me know what you think, comments very welcome.

Chapter Ten

That feeling lasted all the way up to the night before my interrogation--sorry, interview with Tandara. During that time I was actually able to forget all my fears for the future and even my hostility with the captain was put on hold. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between us, and we even managed to attend social gatherings together and not spoil anyone else’s fun.

That was probably it, though. Our issues were by no means resolved, but we were both able to bury them for the sake of our mutual friends. It was still "Mr. Brown" and "Captain" as we couldn’t unbend that far, but since we both managed to smile and laugh in the same room as each other, the festivities went smoothly.

Christmas Dinner on the base turned out to be a huge buffet affair, which was only logical, really. People came and went almost all day with their friends in tow--and if they were lucky, their families too--wandering in and out of various parties held by various starbase and ship departments. Those with families were mostly base personnel, but we didn’t see too many of them wherever we went, presumably because they were "at home" spending Christmas with each other.

The traditional fixtures were in there in huge amounts--lots of turkey dinners--but you could get almost anything else you asked for if you didn’t mind waiting while they made it specially. That was what was so good about this dinner. It was real food prepared and cooked by real chefs in real kitchens, not some rearrangement of CHON delivered to you out of a food slot. Despite all our technology--and maybe because of it--the human touch is still necessary, and even though some of the chefs weren’t even human the principle holds. Mindless food supplied by mindless machines has no soul.

I spent Christmas with my friends from various departments and shifts, and their friends as well. I listened to them talk about themselves, their families, upbringings, planets, societies, hopes and dreams. I responded in kind, and we actually got to know one another a little bit better.

I found Christmas to be completely relaxing, as putting aside my anger was surprisingly easy. On further reflection, I only really exhibited it around McCafferty, almost as if I’m summoning my own anger as a defence against hers.

I seems like I’ve gotten over whatever McCafferty did to me, and it also seems like she’s putting her own issues to bed too. It’s exhausting fighting and being angry all the time and we have so many other things to focus our energies on. We are no longer friends, but I think the Christmas spirit got to us, as it seems like we are no longer enemies either, actively trying to get one over on the other.

Because Christmas was such and all-over-the-place affair, with various people appearing and disappearing all the time anyway, I didn’t really notice when our crewmates were called in for their own interviews to help decide my fate. However, now that my own one is looming, the more unpleasant thoughts are keeping me awake tonight. Reflecting on the enjoyment we’ve all shared in over the last few days has led me to look ahead to my future. Our interviews tomorrow, in which we are going to have to go over all our past actions and explain them, may bring it all back--the why of the fighting--and with it a renewal of hostilities.

If we both manage to keep our jobs, that is.

I really don’t want all the healing we’ve just done to be for nothing, but with all these old wounds being reopened--hell, practically ripped open--the outlook is not promising.

I have no doubt that tomorrow is going to be a nightmare of epic proportions. What remains to be seen is if we’ll both wake up from it and move into the new year with mended attitudes and hearts, or whether we’ll stay immersed within the nightmare and continue onto the new year as we spent the last few months--at each other’s throats with poisoned hearts.

It is still the season. I can only hope.

*****

Date: 27th December 2267
Time: 1330 hours.
Location: Bridge, USS Kusanagi

After looking at the chronometer for the sixth time this minute, I decide that I cannot stand it any longer. Getting up from the command chair, I order, "Mr. Maknal, you have the conn. I have a few things I need to take care of before beaming down."

"Aye sir," he replies. He looks like he wants to add something else, but refrains. The bridge crew is looking tense, knowing what is about to happen.

I was surprised to learn that the crew is so involved in this, that they have a personal stake in it. Of course, our friends are concerned for us and wishing us both well, not to mention hoping that both of us will patch up our differences. What surprised me was how people we didn’t know were regarding us. Apparently, both McCafferty and I are liked by the crew--the captain more so, although her unprofessional attacks against me have cost her some popularity points. But apart from the way we treat each other, the crew seems to appreciate the way we do things.

Scuttlebutt from the lower decks has it that if McCafferty had been in command of our first engagement with the Klingons we’d have done far better than we had. The crew likes having a captain that thinks and feels like they do.

My own standing with the crew apparently dramatically improved after the incident on the bridge when I stopped us from attacking the lone F5, quite contrary to my own assumptions about the incident. That’s when I stood up for what I believed in, and in doing so, finally earned the respect of the crew for myself rather than merely my position. Apparently, since then I’ve shown myself to be worthy of being followed.

On hearing all this from various sources--Shex, Urrih, Lathena--I felt a pride in myself that I hadn’t felt in months, not since before the Jugurtha Betrayal. I also feel warmth for this crew, for the people who think that way, and have become even more determined to do right by them.

So, all this boils down to the fact that the crew doesn’t want to see either of us go. Any more, that is. That surprised me even more as I didn’t think they’d be bothered one way or the other. Mind you, I’ve had the good fortune to serve under two good people for commanders. From what I’ve heard of the Kusanagi’s previous commander he was a good captain, but not a well-liked one.

It now remains to be seen if we can convince Starfleet that we’ve gotten over it, and to let us keep our jobs.

These are my thoughts as I make my way off the ship, down to the planet, and through the corridors of Starbase 22 to Commodore Tandara’s offices. I take my time getting there but still manage to arrive almost ten minutes early, upon which Tandara’s adjutant informs the commodore via intercom that I’m here. To my surprise I hear him say, "Send him right in." The powerfully built Vulcan with a lieutenant’s braid on the cuff of his red uniform gestures to the door into Tandara’s inner office, which slides open as I approach. I walk in, towards my impending doom.

"Ah, Lieutenant Brown, take a seat, please."

"Yes sir," I reply, sitting down in the chair opposite him as the door to his office slides shut and presumably locks behind me, cutting off my escape route. The commodore is dividing his attention between his desk terminal and an electronic clipboard he’s holding, making notes on the latter from the former, then sets it down to appraise me.

"Now Lieutenant, before we start," he begins in his pleasant baritone, "I must tell you that this is not a court martial or official inquiry, and no charges against you have been filed at this time. This is, however, a formal meeting and your final hearing in the last stage of my preliminary investigation. As before, you are under the same obligations placed on witnesses within a legal trial, and anything you say will be taken into the official record. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," I reply confidently, suddenly at ease now that the moment is at hand.

"Very well. Now, I’ve spoken to several crewmembers from your ship over the past few days and believe I’ve built up a good picture of the ship’s general routine and your part in it," the Deltan begins. "What I want from you firstly is your explanation for your own lack of professional conduct in this matter."

Well, that’s easy enough. "Commodore, I simply got tired of turning the other cheek. There came a point after about... two weeks, I think, of constant harassment that I decided that being the better person was taking too much of a toll on my personal equilibrium and I started responding in kind to Commander McCafferty."

Tandara merely nods to acknowledge my answer, no expression crossing his face. "Did you not think that instead of doing so, you should have filed a formal complaint at that time? Starfleet would definitely have come down on your side there and then, if Commander McCafferty had been acting in the manner you described in your previous testimony," the Deltan points out reasonably.

Entirely too reasonably, as that is exactly what I should have done. This is where it gets embarrassing... "Sir, with hindsight I do agree that that was the correct course of action to take, but at the time I had just been assigned as first officer of the ship. I had thought that running back to Starfleet with my problems would speak to a weak character and label me as someone who couldn’t handle or solve his own personal problems."

"I see," Tandara replies, his tone indicating he might not have been expecting that answer. "Starfleet does look for resourcefulness and resilience in its officers, but doesn’t want them to have to endure a daily regime of abuse, especially at the hands of a fellow officer."

Again, the neutral, toneless voice. He’s holding onto that fence like it’s his lifeline, is what pops into my head. He’s sticking to the Starfleet approved line of "obey the regulations", and not confirming that my statements of McCafferty’s behaviour are true. He’s not denying them either, though, as that would put me on the defensive. Is he trying to trip me up? Give me enough rope to hang myself? Or is this just Deltan objectivity?

My analytical thoughts are disrupted by the commodore asking his next question. "So, given the situation to do over again, you would...?"

"Sir, I would definitely file a complaint. At that point I was unsure of my own position and of how it would affect my own career to do so. I admit that I did make the wrong choice, through uninformed assumption on my part."

Tandara nods again, making a quick note on his clipboard. I’m hoping that it’s something like, "Honest, admits mistake, has learned his lesson."

That hope goes up in smoke at his next question. "So, why didn’t you?"

I blink. "Sir?"

"Lieutenant, according to your own official and personal logs, this situation continued aboard the Kusanagi for over a month, from when you had your argument with the commander on stardate 3170 until stardate 3320, a tenday after I contacted you personally." Tandara looks back up at me from his clipboard. "Why, during all that time, didn’t you file a complaint? Or even threaten to, if only to halt further harassment from McCafferty?"

"I..." I’m nonplussed, that’s what I am. Why didn’t I? Scrambling for an answer I push out, "Sir, I was already engaged in this battle of wills with the captain. I wanted to make her realise that what she was doing was wrong by showing her how if felt to be treated that way."

"You wanted to hurt her back."

"Yes!" A moment later I realise my mistake. Damn, he got me...

"That does not reflect well on your intentions or your character, Lieutenant," he tells me, still in that aggravating neutral tone.

"I know, sir," I respond quietly. "I’m not particularly proud of it, even at the time I was doing it. Well," I reconsider, "not at the exact time, but usually when later reflecting on it."

"For example when making a log entry?" he inquires, but I see this one coming.

"Yes sir, I usually made my log entries after I had time to cool my temper down. It allowed me to make a rational, objective, and honest entry."

"So it wasn’t merely that afterwards you had time to think about how bad it would make you look to any eventual board on inquiry should you show no regrets or feelings of shame?"

I feel a flash of intense anger and indignation, made all the more so by his blank face and bland tone. I try to cover it, but I’m sure he saw it anyway. Clearing the haze from my mind, I strive for the same level tone he’s using and give my answer.

"No, sir," I refute him, my voice still slightly thicker than normal despite my striving. "I admit that I was starting to keep those logs in case Starfleet became aware of the situation, but the feelings and observations expressed within are genuine."

"Very well," the commodore says, not indicating to me whether or not he believes my answer. "Now, in the time since my conversation with both of you in your quarters, on stardate 3282.4, how has Commander McCafferty behaved towards you?"

A loaded question, certainly, but I decide to miss out in my answer her initial reaction to our reprimand. "As you will no doubt have read in my personal logs, sir, all the public displays of animosity ceased immediately. It was clear to the crew that we hadn’t resolved our issues and still weren’t friends, but from then on, her demeanour towards me varied between coolly and coldly professional. No insinuations, veiled comments, or detectable double meanings."

"What of her conduct in private settings?" Tandara asks pointedly. "I notice you make no mention of that in your answer."

I sigh. "Sir, it took the captain almost a week further to stop her comments while we were in private. I finally had to remind her that your... orders... also applied to all active duty moments, not just when in public. After this, her relations with me have been entirely proper in all respects, if not always cordial."

"That is reassuring to hear, Lieutenant. What of your behaviour towards her?"

"As I’ve previously said, sir, my... lack of courtesy towards the commander was a means of showing her I wasn’t going to take her... harassment lying down, and to vent my own anger and frustrations," I explain, just so that he knows exactly where I’m coming from. In situations like these it doesn’t do to assume your motives are as obvious to others as they are to you. "After your orders on this matter, I mended my attitude and behaved as Starfleet expected of me. Even though it took a few days for Commander McCafferty to make her peace with the situation while we were in private, I held my peace and only refuted or ignored her words. I made sure not to respond in kind."

"So, what is your opinion of the situation as it stands now?" Tandara asks, probably only to have it on record in my own words, as it must be obvious from my testimony so far as to what I think.

"Sir, I believe the situation to be resolved. It is clear that Commander McCafferty and I still need to resolve our own problems with each other, but we are both now fully aware of our duties and responsibilities to Starfleet and the people we serve with." I say it almost formally, trying not to be too obvious in my hopes that he should now leave us be, but blow it by making myself crystal clear. "I firmly believe that a repeat of this incident will never happen, sir."

"Indeed," he replies, a fine eyebrow going up. "I’m glad someone does," he adds pointedly. I deflate rapidly at that, as was no doubt his intent, but I had to try.

"Overall, Lieutenant, why do you think Commander McCafferty behaved in this manner in the first place?"

I sit back in my chair and raise my hands in bewilderment. "Commodore, if I knew that, this whole situation could have been neatly avoided. I know she is angry with me at the way I was dealing with my injuries from the Jugurtha Betrayal, but I believe her own reactions--and the perceptions that drove them--are wrong. However, I also believe that those perceptions alone couldn’t have been enough to fuel that level of animosity for so long. I feel that there is a deeper issue that I’m unaware of behind all this, but I am no longer in a position to find out what that may be."

I give it some more thought, pondering her motives for pursuing the course of action she had, and opined, "As for her actions... I think she was just trying to get me off her ship because of her issues with me. It may be that simple. Having decided that she suddenly couldn’t stand me, but being unable to order me off, she might have done this to force me off, to make me want to leave, after which she’d have happily endorsed my transfer."

Tandara looks at me critically and asks, "You can think of no other reason?"

I repress a shudder and look away from him, uncomfortable with my next response. "The only other alternative I can think of is that I really am worthy of such despisement, and I really don’t want to consider that possibility."

Making no comment on that--in itself a supremely irritating and unnerving move, giving credence to the thought by not refuting it outright--Tandara further inquires, "From your logs it seems that both of you were confiding in Lieutenant Maknal. If it would help you to resolve your personal issues with Commander McCafferty, would you try to find out from him if she had confided that secret?"

"No sir." The words are out of my mouth almost before I’ve finished thinking them. The flare of anger and indignation that follows as his question fully registers are welcome, as it seems that I won’t stoop that low.

"You seem very sure of that, Lieutenant. Why not?"

I stare at him disbelieving for some seconds, wondering if this is a test of my reactions or an honest question. I give him an honest answer regardless. "Sir, it would put Lieutenant Maknal in an awkward position, in which he should refuse. If the positions were reversed I would not want him to reveal something I’d told him in confidence, regardless of the good motives and honourable intentions evidenced by the other party. If Commander McCafferty wants me to know, I’ll be told either by her or someone she trusts, but I will not ask." I pause there for a moment, to reflect on my relations with McCafferty. "It does pain me to say that, sir. The commander and I were good friends before this happened, and I do wish I could fix it. Forcing the issue will just make it harder, though."

"I understand, Lieutenant," the Deltan responds, before apparently changing gears. "Now that I have a general overview of your situation as you see it, I want to go over your log entries with you. There are certain points I wish to discuss, and to ascertain your state of mind while you were making them..."

Oh great. This is where it gets deadly personal. This is where it could all go horribly wrong. The commodore continues, bringing up the first such log entry, and I steel myself for the assault of raw emotion that the details of our feud are bound to bring. I just hope that re-opening these not-so-old wounds doesn’t poison my heart and mind again. What’s more, when it’s McCafferty’s turn to do this, I hope it doesn’t poison her again, either.

*****

[Jaeih t`Radaik]

Ooooh, now we're getting to it! The fur'll fly now... *grin*

And good luck on getting your new job, Andy!

[Scottish Andy]

Chapter Ten, Pt II

Nearly two hours later and my head is spinning, crammed full of the litany of charges, motivations and assumptions behind each, and the dull, throbbing anger I feel as a result of it all. Through the pounding in my head, I can only think that this was a bad idea. I want to go tear a strip off the captain, give her an earful for all the crap she dumped on me that first month. I tried to be dispassionate about it, clinical and without emotion, but going over only the bad points and examining each in what amounted to excruciating detail finally drove that mantra from my head.

The thought strikes that it was too much detail but at this point I cannot think clearly enough to follow it up.

"Very well, Lieutenant, I believe I’m satisfied with your answers," Tandara tells me, breaking my reverie. I nod stiffly and he continues, "You will be informed of my decision at around 2000 hours tonight."

Again, I nod stiffly and force out a "Yes, sir."

"Thank you for your co-operation, Lieutenant," he tells me with a nod. "You’re dismissed."

I smartly turn on my heel and exit his office, my emotions held tightly in check--until I’m stopped short a step outside his door.

In the adjacent room, waiting to be seen next, is Lieutenant Commander Karen McCafferty.

Let her have it!! My mind shrieks at me as we make eye contact. There is no way she can miss the fact that I’m angry and she starts to react to it. Remember Christmas! Remember what’s happened in the last three days! the rational part of my brain shouts at me. What you’re feeling now is just echoes of the past!

Barely a second has passed since we saw each other. I manage a civil, if stiff, nod of acknowledgement to my captain and resume walking towards the corridor. Before I depart, though, I catch McCafferty’s look of puzzlement at my actions.

Getting into the nearest turbolift, I grate out, "Transporter Room Six." I need time and space to think, to consider my reactions, but I won’t get that anywhere nearby on the base. Arriving at the transporter I order, "Contact the Kusanagi and have me beamed aboard."

The operator looks startled, but does as he’s told. "Ready, sir", he tells me in clipped tones.

I didn’t want to be rude, but my anger makes me short with people. It’s hard to be nice to others when you’re ticked off. "Thanks, Chief," I offer by way of apology. "Energise."

He nods, his features relaxing, and works his controls. Seconds later I’m aboard the ship, looking at Jerry Anderson. He nods a greeting and I tell him, "Inform the bridge I’m back on board, but I’m heading to my quarters. I’ll be on the bridge soon, but unless it’s urgent I don’t want to be disturbed."

"Aye sir," he replies as I leave the room and begins speaking down the intercom in his odd Boston accent.

A minute later and I’m in my quarters, locking the door behind me. I’ve been managing to let go my anger bit by bit on the journey here so I no longer feel the need to scream my rage out, but I do need some release. My eyes rove all over my quarters for something replaceable to break or shred, and they fall upon my stiff, functional, Starfleet-issue pillow lying on my bed, just asking for it.

I stride over to my bed, pick it up and heave it with all my strength across the room. I feel a little better as it makes a satisfying crash, knocking over a pile of data tapes containing various reports and books, so I pick it up and heave it again, this time into my living quarters. The noise isn’t as satisfying though, just a muffled thud off the bulkhead, so I grab it and give it a thorough punching. This process is repeated over the next five minutes, with me alternately throwing it around and beating the fluff out of it if it doesn’t make a destructive enough noise.

The only reason I stop after five minutes is that I suddenly get an image of how this must look to an outsider. Bent over, hands on my knees, breathing heavily, and my face no doubt red with dissipating anger and slight exertion, I glance at the poor pillow lying dejectedly and misshapen on the floor.

I must look completely ridiculous doing this, I note with a snort of laughter. The snort becomes a chuckle the more I think about it, which in turn develops into a real laugh. Before I know it, I’m sitting on the floor myself, back propped against the bulkhead with an arm around my belly and my other hand slapping the floor as I roar with laughter.

Subsiding a little after a few minutes, I open my teary eyes and catch my breath, only to see the pillow again.

It still looks dejected.

I start laughing again, and this time I don’t stop until I’m exhausted.

*****

A short while later I’ve composed myself once more and I’m pondering the whole interview situation. The emotions engendered by it having been washed away--however temporarily--I can now think clearly about how Tandara conducted the interview. Something was already bugging me about it as I left, but I couldn’t focus on it then.

I can now.

Thinking it over, with the general inquiries first, questions with obvious answers, then the specific incidents and extreme detail Tandara wanted...

It was all a test, I realise. Not only was he getting his answers, even the way he was asking questions was a test of my reactions, my emotions, how I felt about my answers and his questions. The first part was to get a baseline to work from for the second part, to learn how to read me properly for the main inquisition. The detail he went into later on was a test of my patience and emotional restraint, not just of my honesty and objectivity. Hell, seeing McCafferty afterwards was probably also a test, observed by his adjutant to be reported and graded by Tandara. I shake my head in awe. It wasn’t just an interview, it was a complete psychological evaluation!

This realisation rocks me back on my heels. It was beautifully done, too, as I’m only realising it after the fact, now that it’s too late to do anything about it.

Not that there was anything I could have done, really. Except to try and modify my reactions to what I thought he wanted to see, and that could have backfired horribly. Just as well I didn’t realise it then, I conclude, then wonder:

How did I do? And how will the captain do?

*****

Two hours later and she’s back on board, apparently in much the same way I returned--looking pissed and going straight to her quarters. Those two hours passed by slowly and tensely enough as it was, but I’m betting it’s going to be nothing compared to the next two, upon which both our fates now rest.

Both the captain and I are scheduled to be off duty right now, but I’m in no mood for any of my usual off duty activities, and I’m sure McCafferty feels likewise. So, here I am, just stewing in my own juices, alone in my quarters as I have been for the last three hours. I had been up to the bridge as promised, just to check in, but there was nothing requiring my attention. I returned to my quarters and alternately sat, paced, stared at the walls--and yes, managed an occasional smile whenever my eyes fell on my pillow.

I know that I had decided, months ago, that I’d let the chips fall where they may and that if I had to leave the Service I’d accept it as a just resolution. However, wandering around my quarters actually waiting for that call, I realise that I don’t want to go. No, more than that; I want to stay.

Over the last few months I’ve been treating this as a job. Just somewhere to spend my time, earn my pay. There is something terribly wrong with that.

I remember when I got into Starfleet Academy. I was so damn proud of myself, as was everyone else in my family, and rightly so. For every available spot at the Academy, Starfleet receives twelve thousand applications. Just to get in proved that you were special, and to graduate meant that the faith placed in you was justified.

Serving in Starfleet isn’t just a job, it’s a privilege! One of the highest honours that can be bestowed upon a Federation citizen, to become an ambassador for your culture, race, and society within the Federation, and as an ambassador for the Federation itself in its dealings with alien races.

And I had forgotten all that, acting like a spoiled child! I really do deserve to be kicked out in disgrace. The image is cringe-worthy.

It makes me thoroughly ashamed that it took until this moment to realise it, mere minutes before the final decision. If I am allowed to remain, in whatever capacity, I’m going to dedicate my life to upholding the traditions, ideals, and spirit of the Star Fleet.

I know. It sounds cheesy, trite, and desperate even to my own ears, but I’m vowing that it’s true. However, my New Year’s Resolution-making is interrupted by the door chime.

I sigh. I don’t really want visitors right now, but neither do I want to be rude. Everyone on board knows what’s happening tonight, what’s at stake for us, so they wouldn’t come calling for nothing. "Come," I call out.

The door unlocks and slides open to reveal Karen McCafferty.

"Captain!" I exclaim, jumping up from my bed. To say I’m surprised is a bit of an understatement. She hasn’t been here since our falling out over two months ago. The memory of that plus what Tandara just put me through lodges a bubble of anger in my throat. I swallow it back down and force out a polite, "Come in, please."

"Thank you," she says shortly, stepping inside and letting the door close behind her. She looks around for a few moments, as if re-familiarising herself with what it looks like in here. Standing there in her gold command uniform with its incredibly short skirt, her black boots, and her so-dark-brown-its-almost-black hair all piled up on her head, I can almost pretend things are back to the way they were.

Even when she finally turns to face me, the illusion is not quite dispelled as her face is missing its now usual expression of hostility or coldness. Instead she wears a confusing mix of emotions, each warring with the other. Although we’re just two people standing in a room together, it’s a totally surreal moment for me.

"Mr. Brown..." she begins, but falters. Trying again, she says, "Andrew."

I feel the need to sit down lest I fall down. The thought comes to me in a flash of hope that she’s here to tell all and let us fix what went wrong between us, and that Tandara’s inquisition forced her to re-evaluate herself. Oh, please let it be so! My hopes rise further when she finally manages to speak into this awkward silence.

"Andrew, I wanted to... to say this to you before we find out from Tandara what’s going to happen to us." She stops again and starts pacing, but I don’t press her. I can see what she’s trying to say is hard for her and I don’t want to make it any harder if she’s going to say the words I want to hear.

"After my... meeting... with him, it put certain... things... into harsh perspective for me." She swings round to me suddenly, looking directly into my eyes, exclaiming, "He didn’t order me to do this, though!"

I swallow to lubricate my throat and say, "I understand."

She nods and resumes her pacing. "The meeting showed me... I came to realise that... my treatment of you was..." She again turns to look me in the eye. "It was wrong."

I’ve never really been overly emotional, but I find myself welling up at this. She’s about to do it! She’s come to her senses! I exult.

My imminent tears of joy dry up at her next words.

"No matter what I think of you as a person, you do perform your duties well."

She looks set to continue that statement, but apparently decides against it. I can hear an undertone of anger now, but I’m unsure who it’s directed at. My own anger and hurt are threatening to make a comeback now that it seems she’s not going to allow us to be friends again, but I brutally quash it to hear her out.

"No matter how badly--how angry you made me," she continues--though for a moment I was sure she was going to say "how badly you hurt me", which makes no sense--"my treatment of you was unworthy of me. So, I... apologise to you. Andrew."

Looking away again to begin pacing, she adds, "I just wanted you to know that, before..."

"Yes," I utter, feeling bewildered. She’s still angry with me for whatever she thinks I did, I realise. The voice of sanity within my head urgently points out, At least she’s admitting that driving you insane was wrong! She’s apologising to you, for Pity’s sake. That means she’s coming around!

"Thank you," I blurt out, before the silence stretches too long. I add, "It means a great deal to me to hear you say that."

Nodding stiffly, she turns to go.

"Wait!" I call, taking a couple of steps toward her. "Karen, please." It is a day of surprises. I never thought I’d call her that again. She half turns, so I plunge on. A famous captain once said, "Push. Push ‘til it explodes in your face."

So, I push. "Tell me."

She turns further, a question on her face.

"We can fix it!" I all but plead. "Tell me!"

Her face contorts with anger, but she whispers, "I’m not ready."

I step closer again, reaching to her. "Karen--"

"I said, I’m not ready, Gods’-damnit!" she thunders, eyes full of anger and grief, then storms out of my quarters.

Damn, damn, DAMN! I curse. I was so close! We were so close...!

Just then, the intercom pages me. Trying to settle my emotions, I answer it.

"Lieutenant Brown, Commodore Tandara requests your presence, along with the captain’s, in his office in ten minutes," Achmed tells me.

"Understood," I reply, voice quavering. "Page the captain again, she should be back in her quarters now."

"Aye sir. Bridge out."

The butterflies in my stomach return with a vengeance. Feels more like a squadron of heavy cruisers on manoeuvres, actually. I do a few quick stretches to relieve some of my nervous tension, then head down to the transporter room.

The captain is already there, looking calm and in control as always. I nod respectfully to her--something else I haven’t done in a while--and step up beside her. "Energise," she commands, and seconds later we are on the starbase.

Another minute and the turbolift deposits us on Tandara’s office level. Walking in perfect step we enter the adjutant’s office, who announces us to Tandara.

Getting a quiet response that I cannot make out, the still-nameless Vulcan states, "The Commodore will see you now."

[Governor Ronjar]

I am forever behind youir pace on reading this post!!!

I would catch up on it tonight, but my eyeballs just imploded...

As to your surprise that so many "actively dislike the main characters"...that's not necessarily a bad thing. You write assholes quite well. Use this fact to your advantage.

I, myself, being an asshole, love it!
Write on!

--thu guv'!!