The story continues! I hope it is enjoyed! McDougal led his party within the guards, ever searching, ever looking, for his ship or shuttle. It was a more or less pointless endeavor, neither would be seen from the surface, but he kept looking anyway. He knew that they’d most likely have to distract the guards as soon as the beam out began; and he kept looking for an opportunity as the guards’ shuttle grew closer.
The craft’s entry door opened as they approached, emitting an unnatural blue-green light from within. The guards in front of and next to McDougal moved faster towards the craft, leaving six guards for the six prisoners to handle. Sensing an opportunity, McDougal “tripped”, falling flat to the ground. He guessed that the four phaser shots that he heard before he could retrieve and fire his own concealed type one were from his two security guards. He didn’t have time to think more about it, nor fire his own shot, as the familiar tingle of the transporter consumed his body.
“
Four aboard!” came the frantic cry from the transporter room. “
Captain and XO are unaccounted for! Readings indicate that the beam was redirected, but I can’t find them anywhere!”
McCloud quietly acknowledged the call. “T’Sala? Anything?” she asked softly.
“No readings from the planet or of the shuttle,” the Vulcan replied.
“We’ll have to withdraw for now,” McCloud said solemnly. “Helm, take us out of system, best speed, any course.” The command chair felt unusually unfriendly to her, cold and callous.
“Engaging warp drive, heading three two three mark two one one,” Michaels replied. “Entering warp nine point eight six.”
“Helm, all stop once the system is at the edge of our sensors.”
“All stop, helm, aye.”
Cerberus cruised through space, putting distance between her and Trellious. Seconds passed like hours, but eventually she stopped and turned around, keeping a watchful eye on Trellious. Her pursuers stopped the chase, unable to make the faster than light speeds of this advanced vessel.
It was cold in his quarters. Deep chills ran through his body, and pain followed each shiver, pain deep in his joints. He was tired, though. Too tired to adjust the temperature of the room, to tired to simply put on more clothes or add another blanket. Each shiver pushed him further from the sweet release of slumber, pushed him closer to finally giving in and…
Whatever chance of slumber shattered with the warbling squawk of the alarming chronometer; the one reason he forced himself to endure the torturous cold. It had been a surprisingly long ten minutes.
In the sonic shower, he washed his body; feeling the scars left from encounters in the recent past. Each old wound was followed by a memory, a Klingon bar fight he’d started and won, shrapnel wounds left by a lucky Starfleet torpedo that almost took him and his ship with it, claw marks from an angry Lyran female, and so many others, he didn’t have time to explore them all. He watched the dirt and grime of the night wash off his slender, well toned body. The scars, however, stayed.
They never come off.
Following his shower, he dressed himself in his finest uniform. It wasn’t anywhere near the same style as those he’d worn in Starfleet, the reds, golds, blues…. Even the stupid looking red jacket/black trouser combo that someone thought was a great idea would have felt more familiar to him. He let the thoughts pass through his mind as he dressed, one leg then the other into the black slacks; fasten then zip, always it was fasten then zip. Green tunic with a gold leafy pattern followed over the white undershirt. Admiral’s stars found his collar, brilliantly reflecting the room’s dimmed lights.
He paused to look in the mirror, looking back into his own rugged face, gazing deeply into his own eyes. He hated who he saw, hated the salt and pepper hair and goatee, hated the nasty scar that traced downward on his cheek; had the dagger been a centimeter higher, it would have claimed his right eye. He hated who he’d become, who they had forced him to become. He could have led a fleet during Unity if they hadn’t pushed him away.
But he was raised to push on, pull through, keep going. No matter what life threw at you, you had to push forward and make the best of it. He’d lost his wife, his sons and his career because of the choices of others. He had been a Starfleet Admiral, Commander of the Third Fleet, but they took that from him. One mission forced him into piracy, earned him a name among the various cartels. It was, after all, Starfleet’s idea.
How would it look to rehire a deserter?” one of the admirals had asked him once the praise of success dried up. They were right, of course, even though they had devised the entire desertion story as a guise. At the time, retirement wasn’t an option.
He played their game, stole his own ship away from the fleet; a handful of his officers had joined him, many more than he’d thought reasonable. Loyalty, it turned out, was more valuable than even the most precious metal.
He’d decided to be a pirate hunter; like a modern day Robin Hood, he’d raid pirate convoys, or break up pirate attacks on the weak or helpless. Unlike Mister Hood, he kept the loot for himself and crew, steadily building a stockpile of munitions and supplies.
There had been a Federation starship that caught his eye once; its capture forever erasing the good deeds he’d done, but laid the foundation for his new fleet. Over the last two years, his fleet grew. Federation, Klingon and Kzinti ships were present, if few in numbers, alongside the standard pirate ships of the line. Despite all of his success, he hated every minute. He could never return to who he once was.
A pirate shipyard ended up being a fabulous prize, on the Federation’s side of the Klingon-Federation-Kzinti borders. He’d set up shop there, outfitting and redesigning old vessels while pushing forth high quality new designs for the highest bidder. This part he did enjoy, if only marginally. There was nothing quite like taking one of his designs for a shakedown cruise. He’d also done the impossible, upgrading many ‘un-upgradeable’ ships to the experimental technology that was sweeping the galaxy. He did, of course, maintain close ties with friends in high places.
Last night was the first decent sleep he’d taken time to enjoy in weeks. Chasing down the right convoys for plundering had taken its toll on him. Despite the scars and whitening hair, he hid it well. He finally refocused himself, combed his hair, and left for the bridge.
He surveyed his bridge the instant the lift doors parted. He never found the design of the ‘Old Man’ cumbersome or awkward, rather, majestic and spacious, efficient and warm. He’d long ago replaced the center commander’s gunnery chair with a more simplistic Starfleet pair of command chairs, one for him and one for his First. Hauser, Howerton, Ramirez… They had all served him well during his former career. He continued his gaze forward of the blue grey command chairs, starboard and forward was the combined helm and navigations console. Lieutenant Biklis manned this panel, and to her left was the oft unmanned operations console. Most of the functioning control panels had been rerouted through the tactical and helm stations, and were the only two required to be manned every minute of every day. It wasn’t like the old days he remembered, where the port side science and communications panels were always manned; their Federation design a sharp contrast to the Klingon designed engineering panel, directly across the bridge. This starboard side station, too, was unmanned.
Resources in his fleet were thin.
He was met by the one other person on the bridge as he passed the aft bridge stations: Tactical to port, Auxiliary One and Two to starboard. He noticed she had been using the Federation designed but Romulan influenced aux panels to run system diagnostics and the cloaking device. It was a feature that was not present in the ship’s original design, but was put to good use on her new duties.
“Sir,” K’Tal reported as he strode through the lift’s parted doors, “we are on schedule to arrive in Trellious; the system is on long range sensors.”
“Very good, First K’Tal,” he replied to her. She took her customary seat at the aft tactical station, possibly the greatest use of this Vulcan’s skills. She made an excellent first officer, she had been promoted to the rank of Fleet Captain, and yet no one had ever surpassed her masterful skills at tactical. “Helm, take us out of warp as soon as we reach the rendezvous point.”
“Aye, sir,” the young Kzinti replied. Her solid coat of blue-grey fur ruffled slightly with her movements.
“Sir,” K’Tal relayed from her panel, “Picking up Starfleet vessel, unknown configuration.”
“Helm, intercept course; K’Tal maintain the cloak and begin powering weapons!”
Crew for the fleet and a new ship to put them on. He smiled a very wicked smile.
“They are attempting to leave the system,” K’Tal said.
“Course adjustments complete, entering speed changes for intercept… Sir! They’ve gone past our top speed!”
“Very well,” he replied to her, sounding extremely disappointed. “Resume operations for scheduled pick up. Be ready if they come back, I will not tolerate failure again!”
McDougal woke on
Cerberus’s bridge, alone, again. This time, there was no one to greet him, just a very familiar and unwelcome voice, “Things are not as they appear, you can’t fix everything.”
“Would you stay out of my head? Please, this is not the time!”
“There is more at work here than what meets your eyes.”
“Seriously, this is not the time!” McDougal paced around the empty bridge, searching for the source of the voice that echoed into quiet around him.
“When you discover the truth, you should leave as quickly as you can.”
McDougal gave up his search and took his seat in the center of the small bridge. “Suppose I don’t?”
“Then there won’t be anyone to take the information back to your Starfleet.”
“I’ll play the cards as they’re dealt, Par. I don’t need you influencing my decisions!”
“I think you’ll find out that I am worth listening too,” the voce began to fade, “commander, commander, commander…”
“Commander! Commander! Shawn, damn it wake up!” Jones was frantically shaking her passed out CO. She straddled his limp form, and slapped his face, hard.
“I’m not a Vulcan,” he said groggily. “You don’t have to hit me.” He lifted himself to rest on his elbows, and surveyed the area. Jones sat back on his legs, waiting for him to continue waking up. It was rocky nearby, with small patches of snow and stray fronds of vegetation trying to live in the harsh climate. He shivered in the cold; his head ached. The soft dirt below him was surprisingly warm. “How’d we wind up here?”
“Not sure,” she replied to him. “Nearest I can tell our transporter beam was redirected.”
McDougal kept looking around, searching for something that might indicate where they were. All he could surmise was that they were in the mountains, far from where they started. They stood up together, Jones helping her CO off the ground. “This could be a while,” he said softly. “Let’s see about some shelter and food.”
Czar "Another surprise!" Mohab, who seeks not redemption, but hopes its there anyway.
P.S. Somehow things lined up where I would have the time to finish this part and post it. 
Topic: Second Chances III: The Trellious Incident (Read 19200 times)