Star Trek: Valley Forge (Chapter Thirteen posted July 4!)
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The Aliens
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Star Trek: Valley Forge (Chapter Thirteen posted July 4!)
Alright, and idea for a fanfic I've had, and loudly berated Trek writers for not doing sooner. To that end, I present the very start of "Star Trek: Valley Forge," a bunch of no-hoper starfleet officers tossed onto an aging wreck of a carrier. This is the data and story thread.
Last edited by The Aliens on 2005-07-04 05:17pm, edited 8 times in total.
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The Aliens
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Ship Statistics
Ship Data
Mass: 180,000 tons
Crew: 200
Propulsion: One cochrane warp core feeding two warp nacelles; one subatomic unified energy impulse engines
Armament: 2 x Type VIII Phaser arrays, 2 x Type VI Phaser arrays
No Photon Torpedoes
Defense Systems: Shield system
Standard Duranium/Tritanium single hull.
Standard level Structural Integrity Field
Warp Capabilities: Normal Cruise : Warp Factor 4
Maximum Cruise : Warp Factor 6
Maximum Rated : Warp Factor 7 for twenty four hours
Hull Life: 200 years
Refit Cycle: Minor : 3 months
Standard : 5 years
Major : 10 years
Dimensions: Length : 365 m
Beam : 82 m
Height : 64m
Decks : 9
Shuttle Compliment: One ‘through hull’ flight deck
shuttles: 2 type-6 personal shuttles, one Danube- class Runabout
Fighters: 12 ’Spitfire’ class fighters, 12 ’Avenger’ heavy fighters (Typical loadout, varies with fighter availability)
During the early stages of what was dubbed ‘the Fighter craze’, Starfleet began an ambitious program to create the Kennedy (and later the Nakota) class carriers. To meet an anticipated need for small, fast carriers to accompany the fleet, Starfleet Command purchased several large Olympia- class transports and converted them to light carriers.
Several unanticipated problems arose almost immediately. The modifications to the vessel’s structures to create a ‘through hull’ flight deck necessitated major structural changes, which then cut into the flight deck’s storage area. Unlike the purpose designed carriers, there was virtually no space to store extra fighters, limiting the ship’s complement to a mere 24. Most of the passenger space was eaten up by the new flight deck, so there was very little extra cabin space, limiting their usefulness in transporting large forces of Marines as the big carriers could. Further, the ships proved underpowered, and couldn’t keep up with the faster ships of the fleet. Finally, there was no space to add increased armament, so the ships were limited to the Olympia’s light phaser armament.
As a result, only three ships were actually converted. Two were removed from service after two years and converted to haul toxic waste. The third- Valley Forge- was used for six years as a training ship, then placed into reserve. The ship was due to be scrapped when the Dominion war broke out; Valley Forge was returned to duty for training as the big carriers could not be spared.
With the Klingon crisis brewing, Valley Forge again has been placed into service but her usefulness is in doubt.
Valley Forge Deck Layout
1 Bridge, Astrogation Observatory, Mess hall
2 Observation lounge, junior officer’s quarters, main sensor system., counselor’s office
3 Senior officer’s quarters, crew quarters, transporter room
4 Sick bay, Chief Medical officer’s office, escape pods, officer’s quarters, main computer core
5 Pilot’s quarters, Squadron ready rooms, Wing Commander’s office, auxilliary shield generators
6 Flight deck, impulse engine deuterium storage tanks, fighter photon magazine, main repair shops
7 Phaser Emitters, laboratory, Executive officer’s office, Cargo bays 1-3, Marine quarters, secondary repair shops
8 Impulse engines, warp engines, main deflector, dilithium reaction chamber
9 Brig, Security offices, antimatter storage pods, tractor beam systems.
10 Tractor Beam systems, cargo bays 2-3, shuttlecraft bay (shuttlecraft and Runabout), shield generators
NOTE- This is a very poor deck layout; remember this is a converted transport and things were jammed wherever they would fit.
(Thank you to Christopher Cradock for Valley Forge-class specifications, originlly for Starship Dorne RPG)
Ship Data
Mass: 180,000 tons
Crew: 200
Propulsion: One cochrane warp core feeding two warp nacelles; one subatomic unified energy impulse engines
Armament: 2 x Type VIII Phaser arrays, 2 x Type VI Phaser arrays
No Photon Torpedoes
Defense Systems: Shield system
Standard Duranium/Tritanium single hull.
Standard level Structural Integrity Field
Warp Capabilities: Normal Cruise : Warp Factor 4
Maximum Cruise : Warp Factor 6
Maximum Rated : Warp Factor 7 for twenty four hours
Hull Life: 200 years
Refit Cycle: Minor : 3 months
Standard : 5 years
Major : 10 years
Dimensions: Length : 365 m
Beam : 82 m
Height : 64m
Decks : 9
Shuttle Compliment: One ‘through hull’ flight deck
shuttles: 2 type-6 personal shuttles, one Danube- class Runabout
Fighters: 12 ’Spitfire’ class fighters, 12 ’Avenger’ heavy fighters (Typical loadout, varies with fighter availability)
During the early stages of what was dubbed ‘the Fighter craze’, Starfleet began an ambitious program to create the Kennedy (and later the Nakota) class carriers. To meet an anticipated need for small, fast carriers to accompany the fleet, Starfleet Command purchased several large Olympia- class transports and converted them to light carriers.
Several unanticipated problems arose almost immediately. The modifications to the vessel’s structures to create a ‘through hull’ flight deck necessitated major structural changes, which then cut into the flight deck’s storage area. Unlike the purpose designed carriers, there was virtually no space to store extra fighters, limiting the ship’s complement to a mere 24. Most of the passenger space was eaten up by the new flight deck, so there was very little extra cabin space, limiting their usefulness in transporting large forces of Marines as the big carriers could. Further, the ships proved underpowered, and couldn’t keep up with the faster ships of the fleet. Finally, there was no space to add increased armament, so the ships were limited to the Olympia’s light phaser armament.
As a result, only three ships were actually converted. Two were removed from service after two years and converted to haul toxic waste. The third- Valley Forge- was used for six years as a training ship, then placed into reserve. The ship was due to be scrapped when the Dominion war broke out; Valley Forge was returned to duty for training as the big carriers could not be spared.
With the Klingon crisis brewing, Valley Forge again has been placed into service but her usefulness is in doubt.
Valley Forge Deck Layout
1 Bridge, Astrogation Observatory, Mess hall
2 Observation lounge, junior officer’s quarters, main sensor system., counselor’s office
3 Senior officer’s quarters, crew quarters, transporter room
4 Sick bay, Chief Medical officer’s office, escape pods, officer’s quarters, main computer core
5 Pilot’s quarters, Squadron ready rooms, Wing Commander’s office, auxilliary shield generators
6 Flight deck, impulse engine deuterium storage tanks, fighter photon magazine, main repair shops
7 Phaser Emitters, laboratory, Executive officer’s office, Cargo bays 1-3, Marine quarters, secondary repair shops
8 Impulse engines, warp engines, main deflector, dilithium reaction chamber
9 Brig, Security offices, antimatter storage pods, tractor beam systems.
10 Tractor Beam systems, cargo bays 2-3, shuttlecraft bay (shuttlecraft and Runabout), shield generators
NOTE- This is a very poor deck layout; remember this is a converted transport and things were jammed wherever they would fit.
(Thank you to Christopher Cradock for Valley Forge-class specifications, originlly for Starship Dorne RPG)
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The Aliens
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Fighter Class Specifacations:
Spitfire class fighters:
As part of Starfleet's rebuilding program to counter the Dominion threat, the need for a small, manouverable craft to deal with Jem'Hadar attack ships was obvious. Taking this to an extreme, Starfleet engineering developed the tiny Spitfire.
The craft was created by mating a pilot section, just large enough for a single crewman and rudimentary computer system, with the drive system and warp field generator of a shuttlecraft. To make the vessel capable of multiple missions, it has no generic weapons, but has a reinforced 'tail fin' mounting either a twin photon torpedo launcher, a combination single photon launcher / type V phaser, a heavy type IX pulse phaser, or a type V phaser combined with a sensor pod. A small life support generator system is located just aft of the cockpit, though the pilot will generally wear a spacesuit in combat in case the craft is destroyed.
The Spitfire has no shield generator, relying on small size and nimbleness to avoid being hit. The craft is so small that photon torpedoes will generally not lock on it, and only a skilled phaser operator might hit one. However, a single hit will generally destroy the craft.
Weapon Loadouts:
Type V laser/Torpedo Launcher
2 Type V lasers
2 Torpedo Launchers
Type X heavy Pulse laser
Sensor Pod
Dimensions:
Length: 6 meters
Height: 3 meters
Width: 4 meters
Falcon-class fighters:
Starfleet, while pleased with the success of the Spitfires, was appalled by the high casualty rate of the pilots. To that end, some of Starfleet's finest designers sat down and came up with the Falcon-class, very small, but with stronger shields and weapons, albeit losing maneuverability.
The ship is longer than the Spitfire, around ten metres, and is large enough to be effectively targeted. The ship has moderate shielding and fixed weaponry; two Type-VI phaser arrays and one front launching photon torpedo tube. The vessel is highly modular, meaning that weapons can be easily switched in and out, but in order to keep power going to the shields, more powerful weapons are generally not recommended. Pilots sit in a self-contained c0ckpit, which can be ejected in the case of an emergency. Pilot survival rates are nearly 70% in combat, a marked improvement over the Spitfire.
These ships are the workhorses of the Federation, one in every four active fighters belongs to this class. Most pilots feel this gives them the best balance between speed and weaponry, and thus is very popular with pilots.
Weapon Loadouts:
2 Type VI lasers
1 photon torpedo launcher, 6 torpedoes
Size:
Length: 10m
Height: 4m
Width: 5m
Hawk-class bomber:
The success of the micro-fighter campaign was undisputed, leading Starfleet to re-engineer several fighter craft to much smaller designs. When they took a look at bomber designs, they immediately saw room for improvement, leading to the Hawk-class bomber.
Much larger than the Spitfire (15m in length), this ship carries extremely heavy shielding, meaning it can survive several hits from Capital ship weapons. The Hawk comes with two bomb-launching tubes, mounted ventrally, carrying 24 kilo-ton bombs each. The ship has two phasers, Type VI, mounted forwards, and one backwards, along with one photon torpedo launcher. Occasionally, Hawks will be refitted with a gunner's chair, controlling the vessel's weapons system.
All this weaponry comes at a price, however. The ship is only one third as manoeverable as the Spitfire, and is easy prey for enemy vessels. Usually when destroyed, the payload explodes as well, leading to several Capital ships being severely damaged when a shot hitting the hangar ignited the weapons stores for these vessels. The sensor package is very limited, and the ship usually relies on telemetry from other ships or ground troops.
This class of fighter is also well suited to attacking larger ships, such as enemy capital ships, but only when escorted by another squadron less likely to be blown to pieces by enemy fighters.
Weapon Loadout:
3 Type VI lasers (2 fore and 1 aft), Photon launcher, 24 1 kiloton photon bombs
Length: 16m
Height: 6m
Width: 8m
Avenger-Class Bomber
With the Hawks flying their way to obsolescence, Starfleet Command decided to begin work on a new class of bomber. The same size as the Hawks, it is nonetheless crammed with high technology and many weapons. The ship carries two crewmen, the pilot, who sits fore, and controls the flying of the craft, as well as sensors and communications, and the gunner, who controls the numerous weapons systems.
The ship is useful in both fleet actions against enemy capital ships, and in ground attack runs. It carries 24 1-kiloton bombs, designed for raids on heavily shielded compounds or bombarding ground troops, and 12 meson-class bombs, able to disrupt power by releasing a charge on impact with the ground. The ships also carry eight photon torpedoes split between two launchers, and two type V phaser arrays fore.
The ship is also heavily shielded, with ablative armour and heavy shield generators. This power comes at a price, however, the Avenger has acceptable speed, but horrible maneuverability. A Spitfire armed with a phaser array can shred the larger craft, through sheer speed. Also has highly advanced ECM/ Sensor array, useful for cutting through jamming to get a lock on a target, or jamming enemy fighters out on the hunt. Plagued by frequent technical problems, most crewmen prefer the older Hawks.
Weapons Loadouts:
2 Type-V phaser arrays
24 1-kiloton bombs
1 photon torpedo launcher, 8 torpedoes
12 meson-class bombs
Dimensions:
Length: 16m
Height: 5m
Width: 9m
Typhoon-Class Interceptor
The Typhoon-Class Interceptor is the absolute pinnacle of Starfighter technology. By extensive miniaturization, the Starfleet Corps of Engineers has created a craft that is agile, fast, heavily armed and shielded, once thought to be impossible. The ship owes its incredible maneuverability to its unique, tri-winged design, the craft has a standard fore, and at about 4 metres from the nose, just behind the cockpit, the hull starts curving into three wings, each around four metres long, at 120 degrees apart from each other. The top wing acts like a tail fin on old planes, however, the cockpit is mounted separately from the wing section, allowing it to stay upright while the wings rotate.
The end of each wing carries at type-VI phaser array, having far more punch than the standard type-V, and the two lower wings carry power-dispersal beams. This allows the fighter to disable, without necessarily destroying, enemy fighters, useful when attempting to gather information. The top wing contains a photon-torpedo launcher, with a magazine of six torpedoes. This ship has 1 cm of ablative armour on its aft section, to deflect shots away from the internal equipment, which is close to the surface, while the cockpit is unshielded. A pair of shield generators mounted beneath the cockpit gives it the durability it needs.
Matching a Spitfire for speed, and lagging only just behind in maneuverability, it is more heavily armed than the Falcon-class fighter. These enhancements are not cheap, however, a squadron of Falcons can be built for the same price as one Typhoon. As such, the ship is limited to a smattering of test Flights on various carriers around the Federation, and when destroyed, is not usually replaced. Piloted only by the best to guard against that unhappy possibility, the Typhoon is the high water mark of current technology.
Weapons Loadouts:
3 Type-VI phaser arrays
2 Power dispersal beams
1 photon torpedo launcher, 6 torpedoes
Dimensions:
Length: 10m
Height: 5m
Width: 4m
(Note- all fighters original by Marc Rowley (myself) and Christopher Cradock)
Spitfire class fighters:
As part of Starfleet's rebuilding program to counter the Dominion threat, the need for a small, manouverable craft to deal with Jem'Hadar attack ships was obvious. Taking this to an extreme, Starfleet engineering developed the tiny Spitfire.
The craft was created by mating a pilot section, just large enough for a single crewman and rudimentary computer system, with the drive system and warp field generator of a shuttlecraft. To make the vessel capable of multiple missions, it has no generic weapons, but has a reinforced 'tail fin' mounting either a twin photon torpedo launcher, a combination single photon launcher / type V phaser, a heavy type IX pulse phaser, or a type V phaser combined with a sensor pod. A small life support generator system is located just aft of the cockpit, though the pilot will generally wear a spacesuit in combat in case the craft is destroyed.
The Spitfire has no shield generator, relying on small size and nimbleness to avoid being hit. The craft is so small that photon torpedoes will generally not lock on it, and only a skilled phaser operator might hit one. However, a single hit will generally destroy the craft.
Weapon Loadouts:
Type V laser/Torpedo Launcher
2 Type V lasers
2 Torpedo Launchers
Type X heavy Pulse laser
Sensor Pod
Dimensions:
Length: 6 meters
Height: 3 meters
Width: 4 meters
Falcon-class fighters:
Starfleet, while pleased with the success of the Spitfires, was appalled by the high casualty rate of the pilots. To that end, some of Starfleet's finest designers sat down and came up with the Falcon-class, very small, but with stronger shields and weapons, albeit losing maneuverability.
The ship is longer than the Spitfire, around ten metres, and is large enough to be effectively targeted. The ship has moderate shielding and fixed weaponry; two Type-VI phaser arrays and one front launching photon torpedo tube. The vessel is highly modular, meaning that weapons can be easily switched in and out, but in order to keep power going to the shields, more powerful weapons are generally not recommended. Pilots sit in a self-contained c0ckpit, which can be ejected in the case of an emergency. Pilot survival rates are nearly 70% in combat, a marked improvement over the Spitfire.
These ships are the workhorses of the Federation, one in every four active fighters belongs to this class. Most pilots feel this gives them the best balance between speed and weaponry, and thus is very popular with pilots.
Weapon Loadouts:
2 Type VI lasers
1 photon torpedo launcher, 6 torpedoes
Size:
Length: 10m
Height: 4m
Width: 5m
Hawk-class bomber:
The success of the micro-fighter campaign was undisputed, leading Starfleet to re-engineer several fighter craft to much smaller designs. When they took a look at bomber designs, they immediately saw room for improvement, leading to the Hawk-class bomber.
Much larger than the Spitfire (15m in length), this ship carries extremely heavy shielding, meaning it can survive several hits from Capital ship weapons. The Hawk comes with two bomb-launching tubes, mounted ventrally, carrying 24 kilo-ton bombs each. The ship has two phasers, Type VI, mounted forwards, and one backwards, along with one photon torpedo launcher. Occasionally, Hawks will be refitted with a gunner's chair, controlling the vessel's weapons system.
All this weaponry comes at a price, however. The ship is only one third as manoeverable as the Spitfire, and is easy prey for enemy vessels. Usually when destroyed, the payload explodes as well, leading to several Capital ships being severely damaged when a shot hitting the hangar ignited the weapons stores for these vessels. The sensor package is very limited, and the ship usually relies on telemetry from other ships or ground troops.
This class of fighter is also well suited to attacking larger ships, such as enemy capital ships, but only when escorted by another squadron less likely to be blown to pieces by enemy fighters.
Weapon Loadout:
3 Type VI lasers (2 fore and 1 aft), Photon launcher, 24 1 kiloton photon bombs
Length: 16m
Height: 6m
Width: 8m
Avenger-Class Bomber
With the Hawks flying their way to obsolescence, Starfleet Command decided to begin work on a new class of bomber. The same size as the Hawks, it is nonetheless crammed with high technology and many weapons. The ship carries two crewmen, the pilot, who sits fore, and controls the flying of the craft, as well as sensors and communications, and the gunner, who controls the numerous weapons systems.
The ship is useful in both fleet actions against enemy capital ships, and in ground attack runs. It carries 24 1-kiloton bombs, designed for raids on heavily shielded compounds or bombarding ground troops, and 12 meson-class bombs, able to disrupt power by releasing a charge on impact with the ground. The ships also carry eight photon torpedoes split between two launchers, and two type V phaser arrays fore.
The ship is also heavily shielded, with ablative armour and heavy shield generators. This power comes at a price, however, the Avenger has acceptable speed, but horrible maneuverability. A Spitfire armed with a phaser array can shred the larger craft, through sheer speed. Also has highly advanced ECM/ Sensor array, useful for cutting through jamming to get a lock on a target, or jamming enemy fighters out on the hunt. Plagued by frequent technical problems, most crewmen prefer the older Hawks.
Weapons Loadouts:
2 Type-V phaser arrays
24 1-kiloton bombs
1 photon torpedo launcher, 8 torpedoes
12 meson-class bombs
Dimensions:
Length: 16m
Height: 5m
Width: 9m
Typhoon-Class Interceptor
The Typhoon-Class Interceptor is the absolute pinnacle of Starfighter technology. By extensive miniaturization, the Starfleet Corps of Engineers has created a craft that is agile, fast, heavily armed and shielded, once thought to be impossible. The ship owes its incredible maneuverability to its unique, tri-winged design, the craft has a standard fore, and at about 4 metres from the nose, just behind the cockpit, the hull starts curving into three wings, each around four metres long, at 120 degrees apart from each other. The top wing acts like a tail fin on old planes, however, the cockpit is mounted separately from the wing section, allowing it to stay upright while the wings rotate.
The end of each wing carries at type-VI phaser array, having far more punch than the standard type-V, and the two lower wings carry power-dispersal beams. This allows the fighter to disable, without necessarily destroying, enemy fighters, useful when attempting to gather information. The top wing contains a photon-torpedo launcher, with a magazine of six torpedoes. This ship has 1 cm of ablative armour on its aft section, to deflect shots away from the internal equipment, which is close to the surface, while the cockpit is unshielded. A pair of shield generators mounted beneath the cockpit gives it the durability it needs.
Matching a Spitfire for speed, and lagging only just behind in maneuverability, it is more heavily armed than the Falcon-class fighter. These enhancements are not cheap, however, a squadron of Falcons can be built for the same price as one Typhoon. As such, the ship is limited to a smattering of test Flights on various carriers around the Federation, and when destroyed, is not usually replaced. Piloted only by the best to guard against that unhappy possibility, the Typhoon is the high water mark of current technology.
Weapons Loadouts:
3 Type-VI phaser arrays
2 Power dispersal beams
1 photon torpedo launcher, 6 torpedoes
Dimensions:
Length: 10m
Height: 5m
Width: 4m
(Note- all fighters original by Marc Rowley (myself) and Christopher Cradock)
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The Aliens
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- Posts: 1482
- Joined: 2003-12-29 07:28pm
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Star Trek: Valley Forge
By: Marc Rowley
Prologue:
“Bring us about!” Commander Senior Grade Elliot Scott grabbed for purchase on his swinging chair as the Luxembourg rocked. The ship was on fire in several places, trailing plasma back into the nebula from which they’d came. The bridge was awash with the red glow of emergency beacons and lighting, as well as some small fires, and as another blast rocked the small, diplomatic ship, a console blew behind him.
“K’nos, report,” barked Scott, his long blond hair covered in sweat. He looked at his Vulcan Operations Officer, who was carefully moving his hands over the console. “We have lost main power on all decks. Breaches on Decks 7, 8, 9 and 10. Explosive decompression Deck 8, Section 13, and force fields are beginning to fail in the vicinity. Main Engineering has been evacuated. Warp Core containment also failing, estimate ten minutes to breach. Warp and impulse are both down.”
Helm seconded the Warp report with a loud curse word in Andorian, and then the ship rocked and the console blew. The shrapnel ripped into the man’s arm, and the flame of plasma in the second before the conduit shut itself down burned the man’s face secretly. His white hair caught on fire, and the small antennae curled away from the stimulus. A moment later, Scott caught sight of the man on the floor as he turned to the source of the explosion, and caught sight of the man’s ruined face. His brief medical training took over, and he dispassionately catalogued the man’s injuries, and hit the comm as their full nature became apparent.
“Captain Scott to Sickbay. Doctor Khaaten, I need Ensign zh’Ref beamed straight to sickbay, third degree burns.” He kept his voice as level as possible, drawing on his decades of experience as a Counselor to project calm.
The Caitian woman did not do the same. “Damn you and your pilots! I’m doing all I can to save these people, and instead of telling me that you’re about to bring back main power, you’re giving me more to do! Transporters are down, Elliot, I’ll send a damn triage team.”
“Thanks, Fehsha,” he said, calmly, and turned to Mekler at Tactical. “Status on the Kra’Na ships?” The Luxembourg had been dispatched by Starfleet to attempt to bring some neutral worlds along the Federation frontier into the fold. It was for their own protection, Commodore Mendez had told him, since the Klingon Civil War was growing more unstable by the day, and could soon boil over. It had started with a few houses preying on freighters carrying supplies to their own personal enemies, up to assassinations, and finally several factions splitting away and forming their own nations. The central Klingon Empire did not, of course, recognize these new states, and so he sent vessels in to stop them from ‘poisoning’ the rest of the population. However, their troops still reduced by the Dominion War, the suppression had turned into stalemate, and Starfleet knew that any day the war could boil over the Klingon border and into the Federation’s back yard.
Small worlds and confederacies, much like the Kra’Na, had been chosen to serve as the Federation’s firebreak against Klingon aggression, they could be retooled to create Federation goods quickly, and would be relatively unimportant to protect in the event of a larger war. Of course, when the Luxembourg had encountered the Kra’Na, they had been at war with another species, the Dorra. The two sides had been using a powerful bio-agent to burn through each other’s hulls and soldiers, and as soon as Captain Scott had gotten into the fray, he had been badly damaged and forced to retreat into a nebula. The bio-agent that was being used had eaten through many key systems and infected the sinus passages of many soldiers- some had pulled through, but most died on contact.
Now, with most of their systems off-line, the Luxembourg was desperately fleeing the Kra’Na and their bio-weapons, bearing a report telling the Federation that this sector was best ignored to begin with. Mekler looked at the status board, and up to Captain Scott, plainly deciding how much to share with his Captain. “Weapons and shields are down. The ships are continuing to approach. We’re losing more systems by the minute as the bio-agent chews through the ship. Sir, I think we must abandon ship.”
The acrid smoke now pouring into the bridge from fires faster than enviro-filters could remove it distorted the view, and dampened the sirens. Scott could have had them silenced, but knew that they carried a lot of information and he’d be better off hearing them. Someone finally put out the console zh’Ref had been sitting at, and one alarm quieted, the body had to have been beamed away in spite of Doctor Khaaten’s objection.
Scott considered the options. He could surrender, impossible because of the comm systems being destroyed and not being able to reduce thrust any more, running simply on momentum with all engines offline, he could fight, which would result in death and likely a diplomatic incident, or he could abandon ship and attempt to make it away carrying his information in an escape pod. Only one plan could work.
“Abandon ship,” he said, and the smoke thickened as environmental control finally failed. The red lights through it caused the people to look like pale red ghosts, taken from the flaming heart of hell itself. He managed to crawl away from his chair, breathing in the cleaner air near the ground, and saw the other officers who were capable of it doing the same. Most had large rips through their uniforms, were bleeding, or missing commbadges or pips. His engineer was dragging his arm along with him- it was bleeding heavily and seemed to be severely broken- probably in the escape from main engineering.
They made it into the corridors, and the Captain straightened up, shaking soot out of his hair. His leg was cut, bleeding deep red, but he ignored the pain to look at the officers following him out. He needed to be strong for them. He made it down the corridor, having to dodge one patch where the decking had fallen through and green bio-agent ate through the floor, and plugged himself into an escape pod, two junior officers with him.
“Computer, locate Commander Khaaten.”
“Commander… aat… not... Luxembourg.” The comm dissolved into static.
Scott nodded. If the feline doctor had made it off the ship, all the injured that could move surely had been as well. “Computer, launch escape pod.”
“Unable… comply.” The comm clicked.
“Initiate manual launch.”
“Must… ducted… out… pod.”
Scott shook his head. He got up to go to the back, if someone had to be outside to launch it, then the Captain would be going down with his ship. He hadn’t even liked the Luxembourg, he had had it less than six months, so it wasn’t a concern. Only the Counselor in him was worried about the casualties, but that instinct was quickly buried beneath the Command training. Sacrifice the few for the many, he had been instructed constantly, and he knew that most of the crew that were still alive had made it off in pods.
He made it to the door when a junior officer, a reptilian Sharmnar nearly two and a half metres high and covered in green scales, threw him backwards, and left the hatch.
“Molto, get back in here, that’s an order,” said Scott, addressing the enlisted man, but the Sharmnar just shook his head and gave a reptilian grin. He slammed the hatch shut with a clawed hand, slammed the door shut with a tail, and pulled the manual override switch, firing the escape pod outside. Molto had only moments to wait before a bio-agent blast hit the pod where he was sitting, and sent him to join the gloried ones.
Aboard the pod, Captain Scott simply sat quietly. The young woman at the autopilot sat quietly, not intruding on the Captain’s thoughts. He had lost one man in plain sight of freedom, and while it wasn’t his orders that had killed him, he still felt guilt. If it had been someone other than the Captain here he wouldn’t have given up his seat, it wouldn’t have been honorable for a Sharmnar to die for nothing. His choice of pod had killed an innocent, and it was just another thing the Universe had on its tab against him.
However, he calmed himself quickly- he had served as a Counselor aboard several ships for more than two decades, and knew how to drain the anger and frustration. Slowly, he drifted into a trance-like meditation state, and felt the anger redirect itself against the Kra’Na, who were the ones firing weapons. He opened his eyes long enough to see another bio-shot hit the Luxembourg in the Engineering section, and shielded his eyes from the blast of light that signaled a Warp Core breach. Two of the Kra’Na ships detonated as the blast way hit them, and the rest peeled off, leaving the escape pods to flee out of the nebula and towards Starbase 425, more than three weeks away at the limited pace escape pods could travel. Scott sent out encrypted orders to the other pilots of the escape craft, no more than twelve, and the small vessel jumped to Warp.
By: Marc Rowley
Prologue:
“Bring us about!” Commander Senior Grade Elliot Scott grabbed for purchase on his swinging chair as the Luxembourg rocked. The ship was on fire in several places, trailing plasma back into the nebula from which they’d came. The bridge was awash with the red glow of emergency beacons and lighting, as well as some small fires, and as another blast rocked the small, diplomatic ship, a console blew behind him.
“K’nos, report,” barked Scott, his long blond hair covered in sweat. He looked at his Vulcan Operations Officer, who was carefully moving his hands over the console. “We have lost main power on all decks. Breaches on Decks 7, 8, 9 and 10. Explosive decompression Deck 8, Section 13, and force fields are beginning to fail in the vicinity. Main Engineering has been evacuated. Warp Core containment also failing, estimate ten minutes to breach. Warp and impulse are both down.”
Helm seconded the Warp report with a loud curse word in Andorian, and then the ship rocked and the console blew. The shrapnel ripped into the man’s arm, and the flame of plasma in the second before the conduit shut itself down burned the man’s face secretly. His white hair caught on fire, and the small antennae curled away from the stimulus. A moment later, Scott caught sight of the man on the floor as he turned to the source of the explosion, and caught sight of the man’s ruined face. His brief medical training took over, and he dispassionately catalogued the man’s injuries, and hit the comm as their full nature became apparent.
“Captain Scott to Sickbay. Doctor Khaaten, I need Ensign zh’Ref beamed straight to sickbay, third degree burns.” He kept his voice as level as possible, drawing on his decades of experience as a Counselor to project calm.
The Caitian woman did not do the same. “Damn you and your pilots! I’m doing all I can to save these people, and instead of telling me that you’re about to bring back main power, you’re giving me more to do! Transporters are down, Elliot, I’ll send a damn triage team.”
“Thanks, Fehsha,” he said, calmly, and turned to Mekler at Tactical. “Status on the Kra’Na ships?” The Luxembourg had been dispatched by Starfleet to attempt to bring some neutral worlds along the Federation frontier into the fold. It was for their own protection, Commodore Mendez had told him, since the Klingon Civil War was growing more unstable by the day, and could soon boil over. It had started with a few houses preying on freighters carrying supplies to their own personal enemies, up to assassinations, and finally several factions splitting away and forming their own nations. The central Klingon Empire did not, of course, recognize these new states, and so he sent vessels in to stop them from ‘poisoning’ the rest of the population. However, their troops still reduced by the Dominion War, the suppression had turned into stalemate, and Starfleet knew that any day the war could boil over the Klingon border and into the Federation’s back yard.
Small worlds and confederacies, much like the Kra’Na, had been chosen to serve as the Federation’s firebreak against Klingon aggression, they could be retooled to create Federation goods quickly, and would be relatively unimportant to protect in the event of a larger war. Of course, when the Luxembourg had encountered the Kra’Na, they had been at war with another species, the Dorra. The two sides had been using a powerful bio-agent to burn through each other’s hulls and soldiers, and as soon as Captain Scott had gotten into the fray, he had been badly damaged and forced to retreat into a nebula. The bio-agent that was being used had eaten through many key systems and infected the sinus passages of many soldiers- some had pulled through, but most died on contact.
Now, with most of their systems off-line, the Luxembourg was desperately fleeing the Kra’Na and their bio-weapons, bearing a report telling the Federation that this sector was best ignored to begin with. Mekler looked at the status board, and up to Captain Scott, plainly deciding how much to share with his Captain. “Weapons and shields are down. The ships are continuing to approach. We’re losing more systems by the minute as the bio-agent chews through the ship. Sir, I think we must abandon ship.”
The acrid smoke now pouring into the bridge from fires faster than enviro-filters could remove it distorted the view, and dampened the sirens. Scott could have had them silenced, but knew that they carried a lot of information and he’d be better off hearing them. Someone finally put out the console zh’Ref had been sitting at, and one alarm quieted, the body had to have been beamed away in spite of Doctor Khaaten’s objection.
Scott considered the options. He could surrender, impossible because of the comm systems being destroyed and not being able to reduce thrust any more, running simply on momentum with all engines offline, he could fight, which would result in death and likely a diplomatic incident, or he could abandon ship and attempt to make it away carrying his information in an escape pod. Only one plan could work.
“Abandon ship,” he said, and the smoke thickened as environmental control finally failed. The red lights through it caused the people to look like pale red ghosts, taken from the flaming heart of hell itself. He managed to crawl away from his chair, breathing in the cleaner air near the ground, and saw the other officers who were capable of it doing the same. Most had large rips through their uniforms, were bleeding, or missing commbadges or pips. His engineer was dragging his arm along with him- it was bleeding heavily and seemed to be severely broken- probably in the escape from main engineering.
They made it into the corridors, and the Captain straightened up, shaking soot out of his hair. His leg was cut, bleeding deep red, but he ignored the pain to look at the officers following him out. He needed to be strong for them. He made it down the corridor, having to dodge one patch where the decking had fallen through and green bio-agent ate through the floor, and plugged himself into an escape pod, two junior officers with him.
“Computer, locate Commander Khaaten.”
“Commander… aat… not... Luxembourg.” The comm dissolved into static.
Scott nodded. If the feline doctor had made it off the ship, all the injured that could move surely had been as well. “Computer, launch escape pod.”
“Unable… comply.” The comm clicked.
“Initiate manual launch.”
“Must… ducted… out… pod.”
Scott shook his head. He got up to go to the back, if someone had to be outside to launch it, then the Captain would be going down with his ship. He hadn’t even liked the Luxembourg, he had had it less than six months, so it wasn’t a concern. Only the Counselor in him was worried about the casualties, but that instinct was quickly buried beneath the Command training. Sacrifice the few for the many, he had been instructed constantly, and he knew that most of the crew that were still alive had made it off in pods.
He made it to the door when a junior officer, a reptilian Sharmnar nearly two and a half metres high and covered in green scales, threw him backwards, and left the hatch.
“Molto, get back in here, that’s an order,” said Scott, addressing the enlisted man, but the Sharmnar just shook his head and gave a reptilian grin. He slammed the hatch shut with a clawed hand, slammed the door shut with a tail, and pulled the manual override switch, firing the escape pod outside. Molto had only moments to wait before a bio-agent blast hit the pod where he was sitting, and sent him to join the gloried ones.
Aboard the pod, Captain Scott simply sat quietly. The young woman at the autopilot sat quietly, not intruding on the Captain’s thoughts. He had lost one man in plain sight of freedom, and while it wasn’t his orders that had killed him, he still felt guilt. If it had been someone other than the Captain here he wouldn’t have given up his seat, it wouldn’t have been honorable for a Sharmnar to die for nothing. His choice of pod had killed an innocent, and it was just another thing the Universe had on its tab against him.
However, he calmed himself quickly- he had served as a Counselor aboard several ships for more than two decades, and knew how to drain the anger and frustration. Slowly, he drifted into a trance-like meditation state, and felt the anger redirect itself against the Kra’Na, who were the ones firing weapons. He opened his eyes long enough to see another bio-shot hit the Luxembourg in the Engineering section, and shielded his eyes from the blast of light that signaled a Warp Core breach. Two of the Kra’Na ships detonated as the blast way hit them, and the rest peeled off, leaving the escape pods to flee out of the nebula and towards Starbase 425, more than three weeks away at the limited pace escape pods could travel. Scott sent out encrypted orders to the other pilots of the escape craft, no more than twelve, and the small vessel jumped to Warp.
Last edited by The Aliens on 2005-06-25 07:32pm, edited 1 time in total.
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darthdavid
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Col. Crackpot
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intersting story so far, but there is one little continuity glitch. There was an Excelsior class starship (Ent-B subtype) called the Valley Forge in service at the time of the Dominion war. It was destroyed during the invasion of Cardassia.
"This business will get out of control. It will get out of control and we’ll be lucky to live through it.” -Tom Clancy
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HappyTarget
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Crazedwraith
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Quite you. Get typing more Unity you stop abrubtly half way through a battle you bastard!. *cracks whip* Besides Ulys using the ISS Neburcanezer at the moment isn't HT.HappyTarget wrote:Good story so far, and the ship has the right name(Valley Forge). But then I'm a bit biased as that's the main ship in my fan fic.
Slightly more on topic, the story looks v good, i'll have to keep an eye on it.
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The Aliens
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This is set about 20 years after the Dominion War, with a 'new' Klingon schizm happening. That sort of thing happens pretty often, apparently...Col. Crackpot wrote:intersting story so far, but there is one little continuity glitch. There was an Excelsior class starship (Ent-B subtype) called the Valley Forge in service at the time of the Dominion war. It was destroyed during the invasion of Cardassia.
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The Aliens
- Keeper of the Lore
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Chapter 1
“Senior Commander Elliot Scott.” The voice speaking was quiet, but clearly infuriated. It was a tone that Scott had heard many times before, from all sorts of Starfleet Instructors, Commanding Officers, and even patients. He was, by trade, a Counselor, and despite having taken Starfleet’s Command Course at the Academy before being given the Luxembourg seven months ago, he analyzed people before he had a chance to properly meet them. He had a reputation in Starfleet for being loud, expressive, flamboyant, and most of all talented, but that had not endeared him to many of the more conservative older brass.
“I don’t know what idiot decided you should get a Command, but I’ll make sure they’re summarily dealt with.” The woman speaking, who sounded as if she’d eaten ice for breakfast, was Fleet Captain Maull Inor, an old Bajoran woman who had ascended to the position by no-one knew quite what methods. She was obviously angry, saw Elliot, from her tone and body language, but not necessarily at him. Probably at work, some other decision made concerning him, but not only him personally.
He had a much less useful form of telepathy than Betazoids- he was fluent in reading body language. Studies dating back as early as four centuries ago had showed that most communication was non-verbal, and with degrees in all sorts of body language and non-verbal cue studies, Elliot could literally read people like books.
“Not too severely, I hope,” he said, in a tone he accurately judged to be irritating. By presenting what he knew about body language over his own appearance, he could convincingly project many moods, a helpful talent in a negotiator and Counselor.
“Shut up, Commander. You have been in an escape pod for nearly three weeks,”
“Yes, Ma’am, I know. I was there, after all,” he said, masking his shame at the incident in sarcasm.
“You are accused of precipitating an intergalactic war between the Kra’Na and the Federation, and you are, in my opinion, guilty of 128 counts of manslaughter- the people that died when the Luxembourg blew. You could have easily called for back up, left the nebula, or negotiated territorial concessions, to allow yourself out, and you chose to fight, destroying a valuable ship in the process.”
This really did irritate Scott, but he did not let any emotion show. He clamped down, and forced his tone to remain polite, despite feeling his voice trying to crack. “You weren’t there, and I was. I think I have more authority on you about what happened. We asked them to put aside the bio-weapons in their war against the Dorrans, they refused. We told them that in order to join the Federation, they would have to meet certain standards, lack of bio-weapons is one of the criteria. We followed your orders to the letter, ma’am, tried to stop them from destroying each other. We failed, in spite of having some of the best diplomats in the Federation on our side. What happened was a tragedy, and one I feel responsibility for, but not one for which I’m criminally responsible.”
Inor looked at him coldly, and turned to the PADD on her desk. “Luckily for you, Starfleet command agrees with you, and not me. What a shame. You’re being transferred immedietly to the USS Valley Forge, a carrier from before the Dominion War. You’re being given a Bolian, Lieutenant Commander Traab, as your First Officer. He’s already aboard, and will fill you in on the rest of the crew. Now get out of my office, and get your ship out of my Starbase as soon as it’s space-worthy.”
She turned away from him, the meeting plainly over, and Scott was struck by her ominous words. ”As soon as it’s space-worthy,” she had said, and it was not a typical choice of words for a Federation Flag officer. Keeping his face impassive, he left the office, and then collapsed heavily onto one of the padded seats outside of her office. A large map hung on one wall, showing Starbase 425’s location near the Klingon border. The lines inside the map corresponded to breakaway provinces in the Klingon Empire, and Scott knew that being in command of a warship meant he would soon be on high alert for any change in those borders.
“She’s still got it, eh,” asked a deep voice nearby. He looked up, and stared at a mammoth chest hidden under a bulging uniform. He continued looking up, far past the level where a normal man’s head would be, and finally saw a bald, blue head with a thin ridge running along it, and horizontal bands of darker blue across the top of his head. He was a Bolian, and far from the usual plumpness of Bolians, this one was stocky, muscular, and very tall.
“Dressed me down like a first-year Cadet. I’m Elliot Scott. You would be-“
“Lieutenant Commander Traab, your first officer on the Little Boat That Couldn’t, the Valley Forge. Nice to be suffering with you.”
“You’ve inspected it,” asked Scott, getting to his feet. The Bolian was clearly acting much happier than he felt, and seemed to be carrying some kind of guilt or sadness on his broad shoulders.
“I stepped on board, and then stepped off. The air scrubbers were broken and the whole place smelt terribly stale. I’ve got a very refined sense of smell, you know. Helps when cooking.” He looked off into the distance down the corridor, made a sharp right and walked slowly enough to allow Commander Scott to also change course.
“You were a cook?” Scott looked upwards at his companion, who he know judged to be two and a half metres tall, and tried to judge the man’s thoughts from his stance. He was clearly a fighter- well-trained and talented, but he seemed to also be sniffing the air as he walked, and tasting it with the tip of his tongue.
“Twenty-seven years aboard a small freighter, making regular runs to Bolius XI from Vulcan. Loved it. Then one day some Orion pirates took over the ship, I happened to be in the galley where they beamed in, and I killed three with kitchen utensils before Security made it in. They gave me a medal for bravery, promoted me into Security, and I worked as a bodyguard for eight years, getting up to full Commander.” Traab looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and offered no information about why he only wore Lieutenant Commander pips. Scott ignored it, figuring he would be able to find the full story on the man’s file, and nodded.
“Why’d you get transferred to Command?” Scott thought it would be an easy, light question, something about life goals.
“Same reason you did, probably. I screwed up my last assignment, badly, and they wanted me somewhere out of the way, so they demoted me and tossed me onto a derelict old carrier. Look, I’ve got to talk to the station XO about some personnel assignments, I’ll get you in to go over them with you and the Chief Medical Officer in the morning. Also, I recommend sleeping on the station, grab some executive quarters, because the Forge does not smell too healthy.” At the next intersection, the large Bolian disappeared round a bend, and Scott did not bother to persue, not wanting to endanger the already fragile Captain-First Officer relationship. At least the crew reports would be some entertaining reading, if Traab were any barometer.
*****
Doctor Fehsha Kaaten was furious. She had been ordered off the dying Luxembourg, of course, more than three weeks ago. She had taken a brief inventory of Sickbay, saw who could be saved and who could not, and dispassionately moved those who would have hope in an escape pod to the exits. Cool, calm, collected, as was her stock in trade. Of course, she had internally railed against the Captain’s orders with every part of soul in her feline heart, and had carried that bitter resentment through the isolation of the escape from the ship.
She had arrived at the Starbase in bad shape- claws overgrown, fur starting to grow on her chin, and ready to bite through someone’s neck with her powerful teeth, and had immedietly insisted on looking after her patients in the better venue of the Starbase’s Infirmary. She had been sedated after fifteen minutes of inflicting a bad scratch on a junior officer who had tried to keep her down on an operating table for a check-up, and had woken up now to find that her patients had been discharged and were in perfect health- without her intervention.
Of course, she had returned to her quarters to sprawl out and have a good, solid, replicated meal but had had an urgent message waiting for her from Starfleet Command, and so she opened it. The contents put food well out of her mind.
To: Commander Fehsha Kaaten, Starfleet Medical
From: Starfleet Command, Bajor
Re: ORDERS
Doctor Fehsha Kaaten, as of immediately you are assigned Chief Medical Officer on the USS Valley Forge. You are to report to Senior Commander Elliot Scott on the USS Valley Forge before Stardate 73421.3. Failure to comply will result in punishment under Federation Article 543 section (b), paragraph 3.
Well, she had assumed she would be re-assigned, and with her quarters being a rapidly expanding cloud of hydrogen millions of kilometers away moving didn’t bother her. What did was being placed under the command of Elliot Scott for the seventh time in twenty-one years. It was as if the Starfleet brass was attempting to stick her career onto the coat tails of Scott, and she would not have it. She got up out of her quarters, threw on a lab-coat, and started walking for the middle, commercial area of the station where she knew Scott would be.
It was a brief walk- several turbolifts made direct connections to the middle, and so it was only five minutes before she picked out Scott’s shaggy blonde head among the population of the Commercial Centre. She sat down heavily, startling him, who seemed to be playing children’s games on a pink PADD, and dropped her orders on his table.
“Something to drink,” asked the Ferengi waiter, who looked as if he knew he could be doing better, more profitable, things.
She merely turned quickly and bared her fangs at him, and he stumbled backwards, out of the way.
“You realize it’s going to be impossible to get away without tipping him now, right,” asked Elliot, surreptitiously sliding the PADD with the games into his front pocket. He also wore a red overcoat, a flagrantly non-uniform thing that many younger Command Officers had started wearing over the standard black, grey-shouldered uniform.
“You realize I’ve been assigned to you again,” she snapped, looking at him seriously. Her tail loudly brushed the ground.
Elliot shrugged. “That’s good, I think I’m going to be needing a competent Doctor.”
“This is the seventh time, since you were Chief Counselor and I was your Assistant back on the Zephyr. I’m sick of you outranking me,” she said, her expression softening. She liked Elliot, most people did, but it was frustrating to be given to him again, like a tricorder or a phaser.
“Oh come on,” he said, reading her body language, “I don’t think you’re a present off Command. I think you’re-“
What he thought she was, she didn’t find out, as two men, one with very dark eyes and the goldenrod engineering collar and the other a Vulcan scientist, piled into him from the rear. He spun around, but without a firm foothold, he was helplessly knocked sideways with Fehsha. She curled up into a ball, and landed on two legs and one arm, the other being kept to her right for balance. The Engineer swung a side kick at the Vulcan, who deftly dodged, and countered with a solid punch. It connected with the man’s face before he ducked out of the way, firing a second kick at the Vulcan’s knee, catching him and knocking him to the side.
The bartender called for order and waved a phaser, in a broad change from most Ferengi, who would be taking bets or hiding, and two shots rang out into the ceiling. Alarms, reacting to a phaser firing, cut through the ambient noise in the bar- much of which was taking about the fight, and Fehsha clawed at the Vulcan’s face, dropping him, and kneeing the Engineer in the stomach. He too fell, and Fehsha shrugged out of the way as Security arrived.
“Good shot,” said Elliot, nodding at her, but she merely went to another table and sat down. She folded her tail underneath her, picked up a padd with the day’s selections on, and drummed her claws against the table.
“I am now ready to order,” Elliot heard her say, through the loud tumult in the bar.
“Senior Commander Elliot Scott.” The voice speaking was quiet, but clearly infuriated. It was a tone that Scott had heard many times before, from all sorts of Starfleet Instructors, Commanding Officers, and even patients. He was, by trade, a Counselor, and despite having taken Starfleet’s Command Course at the Academy before being given the Luxembourg seven months ago, he analyzed people before he had a chance to properly meet them. He had a reputation in Starfleet for being loud, expressive, flamboyant, and most of all talented, but that had not endeared him to many of the more conservative older brass.
“I don’t know what idiot decided you should get a Command, but I’ll make sure they’re summarily dealt with.” The woman speaking, who sounded as if she’d eaten ice for breakfast, was Fleet Captain Maull Inor, an old Bajoran woman who had ascended to the position by no-one knew quite what methods. She was obviously angry, saw Elliot, from her tone and body language, but not necessarily at him. Probably at work, some other decision made concerning him, but not only him personally.
He had a much less useful form of telepathy than Betazoids- he was fluent in reading body language. Studies dating back as early as four centuries ago had showed that most communication was non-verbal, and with degrees in all sorts of body language and non-verbal cue studies, Elliot could literally read people like books.
“Not too severely, I hope,” he said, in a tone he accurately judged to be irritating. By presenting what he knew about body language over his own appearance, he could convincingly project many moods, a helpful talent in a negotiator and Counselor.
“Shut up, Commander. You have been in an escape pod for nearly three weeks,”
“Yes, Ma’am, I know. I was there, after all,” he said, masking his shame at the incident in sarcasm.
“You are accused of precipitating an intergalactic war between the Kra’Na and the Federation, and you are, in my opinion, guilty of 128 counts of manslaughter- the people that died when the Luxembourg blew. You could have easily called for back up, left the nebula, or negotiated territorial concessions, to allow yourself out, and you chose to fight, destroying a valuable ship in the process.”
This really did irritate Scott, but he did not let any emotion show. He clamped down, and forced his tone to remain polite, despite feeling his voice trying to crack. “You weren’t there, and I was. I think I have more authority on you about what happened. We asked them to put aside the bio-weapons in their war against the Dorrans, they refused. We told them that in order to join the Federation, they would have to meet certain standards, lack of bio-weapons is one of the criteria. We followed your orders to the letter, ma’am, tried to stop them from destroying each other. We failed, in spite of having some of the best diplomats in the Federation on our side. What happened was a tragedy, and one I feel responsibility for, but not one for which I’m criminally responsible.”
Inor looked at him coldly, and turned to the PADD on her desk. “Luckily for you, Starfleet command agrees with you, and not me. What a shame. You’re being transferred immedietly to the USS Valley Forge, a carrier from before the Dominion War. You’re being given a Bolian, Lieutenant Commander Traab, as your First Officer. He’s already aboard, and will fill you in on the rest of the crew. Now get out of my office, and get your ship out of my Starbase as soon as it’s space-worthy.”
She turned away from him, the meeting plainly over, and Scott was struck by her ominous words. ”As soon as it’s space-worthy,” she had said, and it was not a typical choice of words for a Federation Flag officer. Keeping his face impassive, he left the office, and then collapsed heavily onto one of the padded seats outside of her office. A large map hung on one wall, showing Starbase 425’s location near the Klingon border. The lines inside the map corresponded to breakaway provinces in the Klingon Empire, and Scott knew that being in command of a warship meant he would soon be on high alert for any change in those borders.
“She’s still got it, eh,” asked a deep voice nearby. He looked up, and stared at a mammoth chest hidden under a bulging uniform. He continued looking up, far past the level where a normal man’s head would be, and finally saw a bald, blue head with a thin ridge running along it, and horizontal bands of darker blue across the top of his head. He was a Bolian, and far from the usual plumpness of Bolians, this one was stocky, muscular, and very tall.
“Dressed me down like a first-year Cadet. I’m Elliot Scott. You would be-“
“Lieutenant Commander Traab, your first officer on the Little Boat That Couldn’t, the Valley Forge. Nice to be suffering with you.”
“You’ve inspected it,” asked Scott, getting to his feet. The Bolian was clearly acting much happier than he felt, and seemed to be carrying some kind of guilt or sadness on his broad shoulders.
“I stepped on board, and then stepped off. The air scrubbers were broken and the whole place smelt terribly stale. I’ve got a very refined sense of smell, you know. Helps when cooking.” He looked off into the distance down the corridor, made a sharp right and walked slowly enough to allow Commander Scott to also change course.
“You were a cook?” Scott looked upwards at his companion, who he know judged to be two and a half metres tall, and tried to judge the man’s thoughts from his stance. He was clearly a fighter- well-trained and talented, but he seemed to also be sniffing the air as he walked, and tasting it with the tip of his tongue.
“Twenty-seven years aboard a small freighter, making regular runs to Bolius XI from Vulcan. Loved it. Then one day some Orion pirates took over the ship, I happened to be in the galley where they beamed in, and I killed three with kitchen utensils before Security made it in. They gave me a medal for bravery, promoted me into Security, and I worked as a bodyguard for eight years, getting up to full Commander.” Traab looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and offered no information about why he only wore Lieutenant Commander pips. Scott ignored it, figuring he would be able to find the full story on the man’s file, and nodded.
“Why’d you get transferred to Command?” Scott thought it would be an easy, light question, something about life goals.
“Same reason you did, probably. I screwed up my last assignment, badly, and they wanted me somewhere out of the way, so they demoted me and tossed me onto a derelict old carrier. Look, I’ve got to talk to the station XO about some personnel assignments, I’ll get you in to go over them with you and the Chief Medical Officer in the morning. Also, I recommend sleeping on the station, grab some executive quarters, because the Forge does not smell too healthy.” At the next intersection, the large Bolian disappeared round a bend, and Scott did not bother to persue, not wanting to endanger the already fragile Captain-First Officer relationship. At least the crew reports would be some entertaining reading, if Traab were any barometer.
*****
Doctor Fehsha Kaaten was furious. She had been ordered off the dying Luxembourg, of course, more than three weeks ago. She had taken a brief inventory of Sickbay, saw who could be saved and who could not, and dispassionately moved those who would have hope in an escape pod to the exits. Cool, calm, collected, as was her stock in trade. Of course, she had internally railed against the Captain’s orders with every part of soul in her feline heart, and had carried that bitter resentment through the isolation of the escape from the ship.
She had arrived at the Starbase in bad shape- claws overgrown, fur starting to grow on her chin, and ready to bite through someone’s neck with her powerful teeth, and had immedietly insisted on looking after her patients in the better venue of the Starbase’s Infirmary. She had been sedated after fifteen minutes of inflicting a bad scratch on a junior officer who had tried to keep her down on an operating table for a check-up, and had woken up now to find that her patients had been discharged and were in perfect health- without her intervention.
Of course, she had returned to her quarters to sprawl out and have a good, solid, replicated meal but had had an urgent message waiting for her from Starfleet Command, and so she opened it. The contents put food well out of her mind.
To: Commander Fehsha Kaaten, Starfleet Medical
From: Starfleet Command, Bajor
Re: ORDERS
Doctor Fehsha Kaaten, as of immediately you are assigned Chief Medical Officer on the USS Valley Forge. You are to report to Senior Commander Elliot Scott on the USS Valley Forge before Stardate 73421.3. Failure to comply will result in punishment under Federation Article 543 section (b), paragraph 3.
Well, she had assumed she would be re-assigned, and with her quarters being a rapidly expanding cloud of hydrogen millions of kilometers away moving didn’t bother her. What did was being placed under the command of Elliot Scott for the seventh time in twenty-one years. It was as if the Starfleet brass was attempting to stick her career onto the coat tails of Scott, and she would not have it. She got up out of her quarters, threw on a lab-coat, and started walking for the middle, commercial area of the station where she knew Scott would be.
It was a brief walk- several turbolifts made direct connections to the middle, and so it was only five minutes before she picked out Scott’s shaggy blonde head among the population of the Commercial Centre. She sat down heavily, startling him, who seemed to be playing children’s games on a pink PADD, and dropped her orders on his table.
“Something to drink,” asked the Ferengi waiter, who looked as if he knew he could be doing better, more profitable, things.
She merely turned quickly and bared her fangs at him, and he stumbled backwards, out of the way.
“You realize it’s going to be impossible to get away without tipping him now, right,” asked Elliot, surreptitiously sliding the PADD with the games into his front pocket. He also wore a red overcoat, a flagrantly non-uniform thing that many younger Command Officers had started wearing over the standard black, grey-shouldered uniform.
“You realize I’ve been assigned to you again,” she snapped, looking at him seriously. Her tail loudly brushed the ground.
Elliot shrugged. “That’s good, I think I’m going to be needing a competent Doctor.”
“This is the seventh time, since you were Chief Counselor and I was your Assistant back on the Zephyr. I’m sick of you outranking me,” she said, her expression softening. She liked Elliot, most people did, but it was frustrating to be given to him again, like a tricorder or a phaser.
“Oh come on,” he said, reading her body language, “I don’t think you’re a present off Command. I think you’re-“
What he thought she was, she didn’t find out, as two men, one with very dark eyes and the goldenrod engineering collar and the other a Vulcan scientist, piled into him from the rear. He spun around, but without a firm foothold, he was helplessly knocked sideways with Fehsha. She curled up into a ball, and landed on two legs and one arm, the other being kept to her right for balance. The Engineer swung a side kick at the Vulcan, who deftly dodged, and countered with a solid punch. It connected with the man’s face before he ducked out of the way, firing a second kick at the Vulcan’s knee, catching him and knocking him to the side.
The bartender called for order and waved a phaser, in a broad change from most Ferengi, who would be taking bets or hiding, and two shots rang out into the ceiling. Alarms, reacting to a phaser firing, cut through the ambient noise in the bar- much of which was taking about the fight, and Fehsha clawed at the Vulcan’s face, dropping him, and kneeing the Engineer in the stomach. He too fell, and Fehsha shrugged out of the way as Security arrived.
“Good shot,” said Elliot, nodding at her, but she merely went to another table and sat down. She folded her tail underneath her, picked up a padd with the day’s selections on, and drummed her claws against the table.
“I am now ready to order,” Elliot heard her say, through the loud tumult in the bar.
Last edited by The Aliens on 2005-06-25 07:39pm, edited 4 times in total.
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The Aliens
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darthdavid
- Pathetic Attention Whore
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The Aliens
- Keeper of the Lore
- Posts: 1482
- Joined: 2003-12-29 07:28pm
- Location: hovering high up above, making home movies for the folks back home.
- Contact:
Chapter 2
“You’re joking me, right?” The speaker was Senior Commander Elliot Scott, looking carefully around the room as if to spot some hidden man behind a table ready to jump out yelling ‘Surprise!’
“No, sir, I’m not.” Fehsha Khaaten’s voice was a low purr, addressed to her Captain.
“So I have both these idiots aboard my ship.” Scott looked at Traab, as if hoping the large Bolian would dispel the illusion.
“Yes, sir. Although I don’t think they’re idiots- they were caught fighting, once, in public place. I’ve done that plenty of times, all over the Federation. I’m actually banned from Risa.” Traab said it as if it was a true mark of pride.
“Alright. The suspects,” said Scott, pulling up the file of the Engineer. “Lieutenant Junior Grade Jahn Davits, Chief Engineer, USS Valley Forge. He’s a Betazoid- full telepath. Several documented anger problems, recorded for being an excellent Engineer, but abrasive to those under his command. Just what we need. Well, I’d like to call him in for an appointment.”
“Appointment, Elliot?” Fehsha purred out his first name, and Elliot did not bother to tell her to call him ‘sir’. “Are you trying to take over my job?”
“And risk having my face clawed off? No. I’m a counselor, perhaps I can get some insight into what he’s doing.” Elliot started walking around the small conference room. The three officers, Scott, Traab, and Khaaten were performing the standard analysis of a new ship’s crew on the ship itself- out the window hung the insides of Starbase 425, small worker-bee pods and EV-suited crewmen flitting around the outside of the ships under repair.
And the Valley Forge was in a constant state of repair. It had started life as a pleasure yacht, and when it had become too old to ferry passengers it was downgraded to a cargo hauler. It had spent years in undistinguished service hauling roots and fungi between worlds along the Vulcan Trade Spine, before Starfleet had picked it up. They made extensive modifications, making a through-hull flight deck fit for two squadrons of fighters- 24 vessels, increased power to the weapons and shields and optimistically dubbed it a ‘light carrier’. In reality, the power systems were a frail mess, the computer was outdated, and the ship’s crew was hardly Starfleet’s finest.
“Why he’s abrasive doesn’t matter,” purred Khaaten, “making him stop does.”
Scott shook his head. “Both matter. If he’s going to be expected to work with…”
“Ensign T’Sav, Vulcan, Chief of Science,” said Traab, answering Scott’s unspoken question. “She’s going to be disappointed- our science facilities are worse than our weapons- and the phasers on this tub wouldn’t fry an egg. Before you ask, nothing wrong with her except good old Vulcan arrogance, so there’s not really anything we can do about her. She’s fresh from the Academy, on her first cruise- probably hasn’t been around too many non-Vulcans, she did her training on Vulcan proper.”
“How is it that we end up with an Ensign as Science?” Scott ran his hand through his hair, sighing in vexation.
“Take these,” said Fehsha, looking at him clutching his head, and handed two small, green tablets to him. “They are good for pain, they taste minty, which I’ve heard humans say is a pleasant taste.”
“Never cared for it myself- masks too many flavours,” said Traab, leaning back on his chair, which was making a groan of complaint as it dealt with his large weight. “The Ensign is because we’re pretty low on the list for crewmen- you’re here because you’ve lost a ship, Fehsha is here because she’s attached to you, I’m here… well, I’m here with a new Ensign and a psychotic Engineer… not good at all. Helm is going to be done on a rotating shift between four Ensigns, three with flying experience and one with combat, Tactical and Operations still haven’t come aboard, and our Fighter Wing Commander is supposed to be some crusty old fossil that Starfleet Command dug out of retirement.”
“How are the fighters themselves?” Scott popped the pills and smiled as they took effect, fuzzing the pain in his head.
“Also not yet aboard. I’ve got to hit the Mess Hall before seven, I’m going to teach some children how to make gra’shath, replicators don’t do it right. I’ll schedule Davits in for an appointment first thing tomorrow. Captain, Doctor,” he said, as he eased his large frame out the door.
It slid shut, and Scott could see Khaaten’s stance slacken.
“You don’t like him,” he asked, jutting his head in the direction of the door Traab had left through.
“I don’t trust him,” she said, after a moment. “I have known you for two decades, Janson on the Luxembourg for about that much time- I need to feel comfortable with an Executive Officer, not wondering how long it will take for him to be in my Sickbay. He does not eat any replicated food, and he is forcing officers to cook with actual meat, hacked off dead animals. I know I will not be in the Mess…”
“You’ll be in Sickbay, caring for people with stomach infections, I know.” Elliot offered up a small shrug. “As soon as people get sick, I’ll pull him out of the Mess, but it can’t hurt to let him try.”
“You would think that,” she purred, “but I’ve seen what organic food can do to people. As always, it is your choice, Captain.” She shifted to the formal tense, and sat backwards, and Elliot knew a part of her had just retreated from the conversation.
*****
“The first thing you’ve got to learn when cooking,” said Traab, over the bustle of the crowds in the Mess Hall and the clattering of pans in the kitchen where they stood, “is that there are no rules. Put something together, see what you get. If it’s bad, don’t do it again. If it’s good, then write it down so someone else can do it. Ever since the first Bolian wrapped a soft-peat grub in a Ba’ka leaf and invented Shru’goth, that’s how recipes have been created.”
The people in the room stared at him, puzzled at his obscure choice of analogy, and there was the loud hum of a replicator. With what most in the room would judge to be deadly force, Traab slung the PADD in his hand at the man near the replicator, who dropped the tray, startled. The PADD shattered into pieces, spilling plastic and perspex over the floor, and bouncing over the NCO, who didn’t move.
Traab crossed the room in one step, pulled off the panel beneath the machine and put his hand into the wires. He ripped several out, there was a loud spark, and the lights dimmed, before the power came back on.
“Ops to Kitchen.”
“Go ahead, Ops,” said Traab, looking impatiently at the ceiling.
“I’m showing some power circuit breaks in your replicators. Know anything about that?”
“I ripped out the wires.”
“With what?”
Traab smiled. “My hands.”
There was a pause as the Operations Officer doubtlessly checked what he was hearing. “Your hands?”
“That’s correct, Ops.”
“I’m sending a medical team. That should have killed you.”
“Negative on that, Ops. Order that no-one is to repair the replicators, by authority of the Executive Officer. I’m fine- I didn’t pull out any of the physical wires, just the plugs. I didn’t get any shock.”
“Confirmed, sir. If you ever do that again, let us know so we can send down some pliers?”
“I’ll try, Ops. Traab out.” He looked at the assorted crewmen, wearing their floppy chef hats and stunned expressions. “Now, who knows how to make a chicken pot pie?”
*****
“Alright, Mr. Davits,” said Scott, leaning over the table. “Why should I take you on to the Valley Forge, with your record of fighting.” Scott and Davits say in Scott’s ready room, a dilapidated room with one small window, a large packing crate as a desk, and old fighter ejector seats as the only furniture. A field replicator stood on another thin packing crate in the middle of the room, a thick wire connecting it to the wall. Elliot sat with his feet up, leaning back, looking at some of the art that was strewn haphazardly on the walls. Books also lay about the room, piled up on their PADDs on crates, and several small plants sat in pots in different levels about the room.
“Because you don’t have any choice, do you? Look, sir, I can read your mind, don’t forget. I’m a Betazoid, so don’t pull any crap on me. You need me on this ship to keep it from falling apart, I need to be on here so I don’t go to prison.”
“You were in prison?” Scott was stalling, looking for ways to open up the man’s psyche.
“Assault, against an Orion Operations Officer. Never trusted him. He’s like humans, Vulcans, Klingons, Cardassians, Bajorans- can’t trust any of them. Never know if they’re trying to lie to you. That bastard was lying to me, I know. He didn’t do that again.”
Scott shrugged, looking at the man’s record. “No, he didn’t, because you were shipped to the Delphus V penitentiary. They let you out as long as you agreed to contribute to Federation society, you said as an Engineer. Well, Lieutenant, you know you're going to have to smarten up. There are plenty of people on this ship that can do your job-“
“Sure, if my job is to make sure the ship explodes. Hell, half these kids can’t tell an ODN relay from a J-325 patch cord.”
“Then you’ll have to bloody well train them, won’t you.” Scott now dropped his calm demeanor, as he saw it was not getting him through the man’s defenses. He would have to play hardball.
“Yeah, sure. As long as you want me on your ship and can stand to have them showing up at your office crying. I promise to keep the physical violence to a minimum, as long as no-one starts anything with me. But there ain’t no force strong enough to keep me from verbal abuse.”
“A phaser would,” said Scott, looking directly at him. He saw a brief flicker of fear in the man’s posture before he straightened up.
“You’re bluffing,” he said, standing. “can I go, I have kids to baby-sit.”
“Dismissed,” said Scott, and turned away. A moment later the door hissed, and he heard the soft padding of Khaaten’s feet on the floor.
“How is he?” she took a seat in the chair, and looked at him calmly. He could tell she only needed his professional input, but she had a remarkable ability to draw him in and make him feel comfortable around her. She was a steady presence, a constant on a ship that was field with more and more variables.
“I don’t like him. Do you think we can count on Traab to keep him in line?”
“No. Traab is emotionally six years old- I almost had to haul him out of the kitchen after he stuck his hands in live wires. That man has no idea what he is doing.” She looked disgusted, and sat with her hands in her lap. “I wish you would let me declare him medically unfit.”
“Out of the two of us, I would know if he was insane first.”
She hissed at him. “there is no need to rub in the fact you have been my superior for the last two decades!”
He looked frankly at her. “I’m not rubbing in anything. I’m telling you that he’s fine for duty. Look, Fehsha, I’ve known you long enough for you to know I’m not going to play power games. But you’re going to need to accept you’re under my command, and not running around doing what you want.”
The fur on her face, which looked somewhat like a beard running around her chin and onto her nose, leaving her cheeks and forehead hairless, rippled, and she quieted. “Fine. Are you bringing in T’Sav?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Look, I’m going to go to bed, we have a briefing tomorrow, and I really need some rest. Good night, Fehsha.” He stood up, and began to round his desk.
“Good night, Elliot.” She left ahead of him and took a seat on the bridge. It was a haphazard place, consoles having simply being bolted down at random when it had been commissioned as a warship by Starfleet, and Scott’s eyes stayed on it for only a moment, and he swept into the turbolift, which promptly jammed.
He rolled his eyes. “Captain to Ops.”
*****
“Captain to Ops.” The voice rung through the Ops centre, and Petty Officer First Class Melan Arys rolled his eyes. He was a Bajoran, on loan to Starfleet from the Militia, and was very busy. “Will someone get that,” he said, and the people in the Ops centre continued on their tasks. Melan was a Bajoran, but unlike most Bajorans, he had been raised on Ferenginar. His mind had accepted the tenets of Profit, as opposed to the Prophets, when he was young, and as such, was considered to be somewhat of an oddball. He had family on both Bajor and Ferenginar, and never missed a chance to make a quick few credits. On top of this, he was extremely religious, praying often to the Blessed Exchequer, in the hopes He would deliver him from destiution.
It was a room two stories tall, looking much like main Engineering. There was a massive display of the ship on one wall, two decks high, showing every access port and computer junction on the ship. Many of them were marked in yellow or red, ‘in need of repair’ or ‘damaged beyond repair’, respectively, but there were enough blue to show the ship could take off if needed. There were computer terminals everywhere on the outside wall over the two decks, and a catwalk running from the stairs right around the room, effectively making it open in the middle, but with two functional levels.
“Captain to Ops, respond.”
Melan was almost finished what he had to do. He was attempting to bring the port side computer online to run it with the bridge computer- the two were from about twenty years apart, and as such, were totally incompatible. As the ship’s computer specialist, Melan was responsible for coding a module that would ensure full compatibility, and this was what he was doing now.
Teraquads of data were flitting through the Ops network now, as more and more stations came online and the officers were forced to make sure the computers were doing what they had to. They ran diagnostics, dispatched tams to fix logic gate errors or stream code to make sure the ship ran smoothly- they were responsible for all the software aboard the ship. What Ops couldn’t fix, couldn’t be fixed without a hydro-spanner and sonic hammer.
“Officer Melan, that means you,” said Scott thrugh the comm, and Melan sent his module to a station upstairs for code optimization. He flicked a switch on his chair, which was in the centre of the Ops room and surrounded by screens and computers, and a chirp of a comm came from upstairs.
“Yes, sir,” answered the officer.
“Guyal, I’ve just finished the module, it’s sitting on server 8 on drive R. Check it over?”
“Sure thing, boss.” The comm channel ended, and Melan opened the other line.
“Go ahead, Captain.”
“Officer Melan, you are in charge of Ops. When the Captain calls you, that is your number one priority. There are many people upset I’ve put a non-commissioned officer as Chief of Ops, and one on loan from the Bajoran Militia at that. I don’t want to be disappointed.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I had to get a module written. What’s the problem?”
“My turbolift is stuck.”
Melan rolled his eyes. He had much more important things to do that shepherd a lost Captain.
“I’m going to beam you in some food, shortly. You’re on my repair list.” He closed the comm channel and ignored the beeping, as he began to work on coding new replicator patterns for the starfighters.
“You’re joking me, right?” The speaker was Senior Commander Elliot Scott, looking carefully around the room as if to spot some hidden man behind a table ready to jump out yelling ‘Surprise!’
“No, sir, I’m not.” Fehsha Khaaten’s voice was a low purr, addressed to her Captain.
“So I have both these idiots aboard my ship.” Scott looked at Traab, as if hoping the large Bolian would dispel the illusion.
“Yes, sir. Although I don’t think they’re idiots- they were caught fighting, once, in public place. I’ve done that plenty of times, all over the Federation. I’m actually banned from Risa.” Traab said it as if it was a true mark of pride.
“Alright. The suspects,” said Scott, pulling up the file of the Engineer. “Lieutenant Junior Grade Jahn Davits, Chief Engineer, USS Valley Forge. He’s a Betazoid- full telepath. Several documented anger problems, recorded for being an excellent Engineer, but abrasive to those under his command. Just what we need. Well, I’d like to call him in for an appointment.”
“Appointment, Elliot?” Fehsha purred out his first name, and Elliot did not bother to tell her to call him ‘sir’. “Are you trying to take over my job?”
“And risk having my face clawed off? No. I’m a counselor, perhaps I can get some insight into what he’s doing.” Elliot started walking around the small conference room. The three officers, Scott, Traab, and Khaaten were performing the standard analysis of a new ship’s crew on the ship itself- out the window hung the insides of Starbase 425, small worker-bee pods and EV-suited crewmen flitting around the outside of the ships under repair.
And the Valley Forge was in a constant state of repair. It had started life as a pleasure yacht, and when it had become too old to ferry passengers it was downgraded to a cargo hauler. It had spent years in undistinguished service hauling roots and fungi between worlds along the Vulcan Trade Spine, before Starfleet had picked it up. They made extensive modifications, making a through-hull flight deck fit for two squadrons of fighters- 24 vessels, increased power to the weapons and shields and optimistically dubbed it a ‘light carrier’. In reality, the power systems were a frail mess, the computer was outdated, and the ship’s crew was hardly Starfleet’s finest.
“Why he’s abrasive doesn’t matter,” purred Khaaten, “making him stop does.”
Scott shook his head. “Both matter. If he’s going to be expected to work with…”
“Ensign T’Sav, Vulcan, Chief of Science,” said Traab, answering Scott’s unspoken question. “She’s going to be disappointed- our science facilities are worse than our weapons- and the phasers on this tub wouldn’t fry an egg. Before you ask, nothing wrong with her except good old Vulcan arrogance, so there’s not really anything we can do about her. She’s fresh from the Academy, on her first cruise- probably hasn’t been around too many non-Vulcans, she did her training on Vulcan proper.”
“How is it that we end up with an Ensign as Science?” Scott ran his hand through his hair, sighing in vexation.
“Take these,” said Fehsha, looking at him clutching his head, and handed two small, green tablets to him. “They are good for pain, they taste minty, which I’ve heard humans say is a pleasant taste.”
“Never cared for it myself- masks too many flavours,” said Traab, leaning back on his chair, which was making a groan of complaint as it dealt with his large weight. “The Ensign is because we’re pretty low on the list for crewmen- you’re here because you’ve lost a ship, Fehsha is here because she’s attached to you, I’m here… well, I’m here with a new Ensign and a psychotic Engineer… not good at all. Helm is going to be done on a rotating shift between four Ensigns, three with flying experience and one with combat, Tactical and Operations still haven’t come aboard, and our Fighter Wing Commander is supposed to be some crusty old fossil that Starfleet Command dug out of retirement.”
“How are the fighters themselves?” Scott popped the pills and smiled as they took effect, fuzzing the pain in his head.
“Also not yet aboard. I’ve got to hit the Mess Hall before seven, I’m going to teach some children how to make gra’shath, replicators don’t do it right. I’ll schedule Davits in for an appointment first thing tomorrow. Captain, Doctor,” he said, as he eased his large frame out the door.
It slid shut, and Scott could see Khaaten’s stance slacken.
“You don’t like him,” he asked, jutting his head in the direction of the door Traab had left through.
“I don’t trust him,” she said, after a moment. “I have known you for two decades, Janson on the Luxembourg for about that much time- I need to feel comfortable with an Executive Officer, not wondering how long it will take for him to be in my Sickbay. He does not eat any replicated food, and he is forcing officers to cook with actual meat, hacked off dead animals. I know I will not be in the Mess…”
“You’ll be in Sickbay, caring for people with stomach infections, I know.” Elliot offered up a small shrug. “As soon as people get sick, I’ll pull him out of the Mess, but it can’t hurt to let him try.”
“You would think that,” she purred, “but I’ve seen what organic food can do to people. As always, it is your choice, Captain.” She shifted to the formal tense, and sat backwards, and Elliot knew a part of her had just retreated from the conversation.
*****
“The first thing you’ve got to learn when cooking,” said Traab, over the bustle of the crowds in the Mess Hall and the clattering of pans in the kitchen where they stood, “is that there are no rules. Put something together, see what you get. If it’s bad, don’t do it again. If it’s good, then write it down so someone else can do it. Ever since the first Bolian wrapped a soft-peat grub in a Ba’ka leaf and invented Shru’goth, that’s how recipes have been created.”
The people in the room stared at him, puzzled at his obscure choice of analogy, and there was the loud hum of a replicator. With what most in the room would judge to be deadly force, Traab slung the PADD in his hand at the man near the replicator, who dropped the tray, startled. The PADD shattered into pieces, spilling plastic and perspex over the floor, and bouncing over the NCO, who didn’t move.
Traab crossed the room in one step, pulled off the panel beneath the machine and put his hand into the wires. He ripped several out, there was a loud spark, and the lights dimmed, before the power came back on.
“Ops to Kitchen.”
“Go ahead, Ops,” said Traab, looking impatiently at the ceiling.
“I’m showing some power circuit breaks in your replicators. Know anything about that?”
“I ripped out the wires.”
“With what?”
Traab smiled. “My hands.”
There was a pause as the Operations Officer doubtlessly checked what he was hearing. “Your hands?”
“That’s correct, Ops.”
“I’m sending a medical team. That should have killed you.”
“Negative on that, Ops. Order that no-one is to repair the replicators, by authority of the Executive Officer. I’m fine- I didn’t pull out any of the physical wires, just the plugs. I didn’t get any shock.”
“Confirmed, sir. If you ever do that again, let us know so we can send down some pliers?”
“I’ll try, Ops. Traab out.” He looked at the assorted crewmen, wearing their floppy chef hats and stunned expressions. “Now, who knows how to make a chicken pot pie?”
*****
“Alright, Mr. Davits,” said Scott, leaning over the table. “Why should I take you on to the Valley Forge, with your record of fighting.” Scott and Davits say in Scott’s ready room, a dilapidated room with one small window, a large packing crate as a desk, and old fighter ejector seats as the only furniture. A field replicator stood on another thin packing crate in the middle of the room, a thick wire connecting it to the wall. Elliot sat with his feet up, leaning back, looking at some of the art that was strewn haphazardly on the walls. Books also lay about the room, piled up on their PADDs on crates, and several small plants sat in pots in different levels about the room.
“Because you don’t have any choice, do you? Look, sir, I can read your mind, don’t forget. I’m a Betazoid, so don’t pull any crap on me. You need me on this ship to keep it from falling apart, I need to be on here so I don’t go to prison.”
“You were in prison?” Scott was stalling, looking for ways to open up the man’s psyche.
“Assault, against an Orion Operations Officer. Never trusted him. He’s like humans, Vulcans, Klingons, Cardassians, Bajorans- can’t trust any of them. Never know if they’re trying to lie to you. That bastard was lying to me, I know. He didn’t do that again.”
Scott shrugged, looking at the man’s record. “No, he didn’t, because you were shipped to the Delphus V penitentiary. They let you out as long as you agreed to contribute to Federation society, you said as an Engineer. Well, Lieutenant, you know you're going to have to smarten up. There are plenty of people on this ship that can do your job-“
“Sure, if my job is to make sure the ship explodes. Hell, half these kids can’t tell an ODN relay from a J-325 patch cord.”
“Then you’ll have to bloody well train them, won’t you.” Scott now dropped his calm demeanor, as he saw it was not getting him through the man’s defenses. He would have to play hardball.
“Yeah, sure. As long as you want me on your ship and can stand to have them showing up at your office crying. I promise to keep the physical violence to a minimum, as long as no-one starts anything with me. But there ain’t no force strong enough to keep me from verbal abuse.”
“A phaser would,” said Scott, looking directly at him. He saw a brief flicker of fear in the man’s posture before he straightened up.
“You’re bluffing,” he said, standing. “can I go, I have kids to baby-sit.”
“Dismissed,” said Scott, and turned away. A moment later the door hissed, and he heard the soft padding of Khaaten’s feet on the floor.
“How is he?” she took a seat in the chair, and looked at him calmly. He could tell she only needed his professional input, but she had a remarkable ability to draw him in and make him feel comfortable around her. She was a steady presence, a constant on a ship that was field with more and more variables.
“I don’t like him. Do you think we can count on Traab to keep him in line?”
“No. Traab is emotionally six years old- I almost had to haul him out of the kitchen after he stuck his hands in live wires. That man has no idea what he is doing.” She looked disgusted, and sat with her hands in her lap. “I wish you would let me declare him medically unfit.”
“Out of the two of us, I would know if he was insane first.”
She hissed at him. “there is no need to rub in the fact you have been my superior for the last two decades!”
He looked frankly at her. “I’m not rubbing in anything. I’m telling you that he’s fine for duty. Look, Fehsha, I’ve known you long enough for you to know I’m not going to play power games. But you’re going to need to accept you’re under my command, and not running around doing what you want.”
The fur on her face, which looked somewhat like a beard running around her chin and onto her nose, leaving her cheeks and forehead hairless, rippled, and she quieted. “Fine. Are you bringing in T’Sav?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Look, I’m going to go to bed, we have a briefing tomorrow, and I really need some rest. Good night, Fehsha.” He stood up, and began to round his desk.
“Good night, Elliot.” She left ahead of him and took a seat on the bridge. It was a haphazard place, consoles having simply being bolted down at random when it had been commissioned as a warship by Starfleet, and Scott’s eyes stayed on it for only a moment, and he swept into the turbolift, which promptly jammed.
He rolled his eyes. “Captain to Ops.”
*****
“Captain to Ops.” The voice rung through the Ops centre, and Petty Officer First Class Melan Arys rolled his eyes. He was a Bajoran, on loan to Starfleet from the Militia, and was very busy. “Will someone get that,” he said, and the people in the Ops centre continued on their tasks. Melan was a Bajoran, but unlike most Bajorans, he had been raised on Ferenginar. His mind had accepted the tenets of Profit, as opposed to the Prophets, when he was young, and as such, was considered to be somewhat of an oddball. He had family on both Bajor and Ferenginar, and never missed a chance to make a quick few credits. On top of this, he was extremely religious, praying often to the Blessed Exchequer, in the hopes He would deliver him from destiution.
It was a room two stories tall, looking much like main Engineering. There was a massive display of the ship on one wall, two decks high, showing every access port and computer junction on the ship. Many of them were marked in yellow or red, ‘in need of repair’ or ‘damaged beyond repair’, respectively, but there were enough blue to show the ship could take off if needed. There were computer terminals everywhere on the outside wall over the two decks, and a catwalk running from the stairs right around the room, effectively making it open in the middle, but with two functional levels.
“Captain to Ops, respond.”
Melan was almost finished what he had to do. He was attempting to bring the port side computer online to run it with the bridge computer- the two were from about twenty years apart, and as such, were totally incompatible. As the ship’s computer specialist, Melan was responsible for coding a module that would ensure full compatibility, and this was what he was doing now.
Teraquads of data were flitting through the Ops network now, as more and more stations came online and the officers were forced to make sure the computers were doing what they had to. They ran diagnostics, dispatched tams to fix logic gate errors or stream code to make sure the ship ran smoothly- they were responsible for all the software aboard the ship. What Ops couldn’t fix, couldn’t be fixed without a hydro-spanner and sonic hammer.
“Officer Melan, that means you,” said Scott thrugh the comm, and Melan sent his module to a station upstairs for code optimization. He flicked a switch on his chair, which was in the centre of the Ops room and surrounded by screens and computers, and a chirp of a comm came from upstairs.
“Yes, sir,” answered the officer.
“Guyal, I’ve just finished the module, it’s sitting on server 8 on drive R. Check it over?”
“Sure thing, boss.” The comm channel ended, and Melan opened the other line.
“Go ahead, Captain.”
“Officer Melan, you are in charge of Ops. When the Captain calls you, that is your number one priority. There are many people upset I’ve put a non-commissioned officer as Chief of Ops, and one on loan from the Bajoran Militia at that. I don’t want to be disappointed.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I had to get a module written. What’s the problem?”
“My turbolift is stuck.”
Melan rolled his eyes. He had much more important things to do that shepherd a lost Captain.
“I’m going to beam you in some food, shortly. You’re on my repair list.” He closed the comm channel and ignored the beeping, as he began to work on coding new replicator patterns for the starfighters.
Last edited by The Aliens on 2005-06-25 07:40pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Crazedwraith
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HappyTarget
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That's just funny as hell to me! -
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SpecWar826
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Sabastian Tombs
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Well, you can beam food in at a molecular level of resolution. To beam someone out requires quantum level resolution or you end up with a corpse. Quantum level resolution of course requires a lot more energy and computer power. The Valley Forge seems a little short on computer power at the moment.darthdavid wrote:Then how can he beam food in einstien?
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Crazedwraith
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darthdavid
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*KLaxon* [computerized voice] Technobable Alert, Technobable Alert[/computerized voice] *Klaxon*Sabastian Tombs wrote:Well, you can beam food in at a molecular level of resolution. To beam someone out requires quantum level resolution or you end up with a corpse. Quantum level resolution of course requires a lot more energy and computer power. The Valley Forge seems a little short on computer power at the moment.darthdavid wrote:Then how can he beam food in einstien?
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The Aliens
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In World explanation: It's much easier to beam something simple in (like a plate of food) than it is to beam a person out (which will be a pile of carbon, oxygen and nitrogen if not done properly). Melan in Ops knows that the transporter operator is a very junior officer, and the chance of the Captain being pulped is fairly high, so he won't take the chance.
Out of World explanation: Plot device. Need to create conflict between Senior Officers in some exusable way, get people not to trust each other. Just didn't think about it.
I'll post another chapter sometime this weekend.
Out of World explanation: Plot device. Need to create conflict between Senior Officers in some exusable way, get people not to trust each other. Just didn't think about it.
I'll post another chapter sometime this weekend.
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The Aliens
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Chapter 3
The conference room aboard the Valley Forge was originally a small executive officer’s galley. It had large windows, open to space, a large table in the middle, and dark patches on the carpet where old foods had been spilled. The table itself was a group of old consoles from an even more decrepit ship placed together, welded, and then given a transparent plastic sheet over the top to make a flat surface. There was a model of the original Valley Forge, before her extensive modifications, cut into one side of the gently sloping wall, and a middle-sized flatscreen was placed at the wall above the head of the table, currently displaying the Starfleet Insignia.
“What I don’t understand is why you couldn’t just beam me out of the damn turbolift,” said Senior Commander Elliot Scott, at the head of the table. Most of the senior staff were present, Scott having called a staff meeting fifteen minutes before, and the atmosphere in the room was distrustful.
“I take it you weren’t an engineer, then,” asked Melan, not looking up from the PADD at which he was working. He slumped back in the chair, keeping the PADD near his lap and craning his neck to see it, and displayed all the military discipline of an Orion.
“A counselor, for a long time. You’re resentful of being transferred from the militia to Starfleet, stressed about the poor state of computers on the ship, and nervous I’m going to throw you out of an airlock for having the audacity to beam me in food and leave me for five hours in a turbolift.” Scott glared phasers at the Bajoran Ops officer.
“Alright, let’s put it into medical terms. What’s more complicated, a plate of rice or a person?”
“The person, in most respects.” Scott suppressed rolling his eyes, he was getting his answer and didn’t want to put Melan’s back up against the wall.
“Alright. So since the human is so much more complex, it would be harder to transport out than it would be to beam in some field rations, right?” Now the Ops officer looked up from his work to return the Captain’s glare.
“Fair enough. But people beam out all the time, why not here?”
Melan shrugged. “The transporters aboard the Valley Forge are thirty-seven years old, going by their recorded installation date. The person manning the transporters on Alpha Shift is twenty-two, enlisted, and on her first cruise. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to use equipment fifteen years older than you, but it’s not easy. I plan to let her have some time to adjust before making her beam anything sensitive out.” He returned to his PADD, having delivered his riposte, and Scott stared blankly for a moment.
“What about replacing the transporters,” asked Scott, half-heartedly.
The Engineer, Lieutenant Junior Grade John Davits, laughed. “I knew you were going to say that,” he said, tapping his forehead. Davits was a telepath, and found briefings to be ridiculous wastes of time. “and you’re lucky we have toilets on this can. We are, frankly, so far down the requisitions list that if the Warp Drive broke down tomorrow, we’d be told to get out and push. It’s the big carriers that are getting the replacement parts- Merrimac, Coral Sea, even the Zephyr are getting spare fighters and parts as soon as they’re made.”
“Speaking of fighters,” said another voice, with an extremely heavy British accent, “we really could do with some.” The man entered the room, about fifty years old with flaming red hair, only starting to go lighter at the roots. He had the characteristic spots down his neck of a Trill, and Scott briefly wondered if he was joined- before seeing the characteristic body language of an unjoined Trill. Pity, he thought, it would have been interesting to have one aboard. “Flight Major Evan Crespin, reporting for duty. I’m in charge of the tin pots you lot here call fighters.” He sat down in a chair near the bottom of the table, and nodded to Scott.
“Well, it looks like we’re all here then,” said the Captain, irritated at having been upstaged by this man who steadfastly refused to look even slightly abashed for arriving twenty minutes late to the briefing. He looked around the room at Crespin, sitting in the back with his navy blue collar and pilot’s insignia, Melan on his PADD, Davits sitting with his eyes closed, reading the thoughts of everyone present, T’Sav, the Vulcan Science officer looking serenely at Davits, apparently trying to read his thoughts, Khaaten looking impatient as usual, and Traab who was staring off into space smiling like an idiot. “Let’s have a station report.”
“Alright,” said Crespin, throwing his PADD into the middle of the ramshackle table. “I have twenty-four space-worthy fighters. Ten of these are Thunderbolts, ancient craft with only two, shuttle-class, phasers, no shields, and moderate engine power, along with a simple reticule painted on the canopy for targeting. I’ve also got eight Falcons, which are somewhat sturdier, being equipped with moderate shielding, six miniature photon torpedoes, but slightly less speed than the Thunderbolts. Mercifully, they have a targeting computer.
Lastly, six Avengers, which are the slowest craft I have ever flown in, loaded with technical problems but also a fairly heavy weapons loadout, useful for taking out small capital ships. Of course, none of the fighters are Warp-capable, and we have three pilots with combat kills out of twenty-four. I hope you won’t need these fighters for anything other than show, because without a lot of training and repairs, they’re not going anywhere.
“Other complaints include my officer being roughly the size of a broom closet, with a tipped over cabinet for a desk and old replicator housings for seats, insufficient mechanics, and no proper training facilities, such as a holodeck.” Crespin crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chest, his mouth a thin line.
“Similar story in Engineering,” said Davits, opening his eyes and shaking his head as if to remove spectres of thoughts floating around. “We’ve got Warp online, but I wouldn’t push Warp Four, since the plasma manifold is twenty years out of date and matched with incompatible antimatter injectors. We’ve put patches on, but no idea how well they’ll hold up in an emergency. The Engineers are by and large enlisted officers, so they have basic training, but I wouldn’t consider them capable of any mathematical calculations, I’ll be running the show with five trained engineers, optimistically.”
“Ops is worse than anything I encountered with the Militia. We’ve got about eight different operating systems running different things on the ship, only three of which are remotely compatible. I’m trying to standardize everything, but I have about half my staff on it and we’re thinking it’ll be another week or so before we get it up to an acceptable level, and lots of work on maintenance. I know a few contacts around this area that will bring new computers on board, and I’d be willing to put you in touch with someone for new replicators, for a small fee.” He smiled broadly, and Scott immedietly saw the influence being raised on Ferenginar had on the man.
Traab snorted loudly. “Replicators! That’s one thing that we don’t need. I’ve brought on enough provisions from the Starbase to last us about six months- actual grains, meats, spices and fruits from all over this part of the Alpha Quadrant, loaded up in Cargo Bay Two.”
“Is that cleared with the Quartermaster?” asked Scott.
“I am the Quartermaster,” responded Traab, shrugging.
“And is it safe,” continued the Captain, when Khaaten jumped in.
“People used to eat natural food on Earth, when their life expectancy was below 100 years. I wouldn’t recommend it, but if we can devote resources from replicators to other areas, I can probably fend off the stomach diseases about to be caused by Mr. Traab’s cooking.”
Traab turned a deep shade of purple, and glared at the Caitian doctor. “Don’t you ever insinuate that my cooking will cause disease ever again! I’m one of the best chefs in this Sector, and I will not have-“
“Traab, shut up,” said Scott, rolling his eyes. The Bolian was simply faking his anger to get a laugh, but with the reports Scott was hearing about the Forge, it was not a laughing matter. “Who’s doing Tactical?”
Traab raised his hand. “I was a Tactical Officer for eight years, and specialized in small-unit tactics. In the absence of a Tactical Officer designated by Starfleet, I’ll be doing it, as well as my Executive Officer and Head Cook jobs. As far as Tactical goes, you’ve heard it all before- the phasers are under powered, our shield grid fluctuates after continuous use, and we haven’t been issued any torpedoes. The Tactical staff on this ship comprises twelve men, and I am the only one who has combat experience. The rest are midshipmen and enlisted men, straight from basic training. Thank you, Starfleet.”
“Contrary to all these horror stories,” purred Khaaten, clearly taking delight in Traab’s frustration, “sickbay is well stocked. We have several expereinced Doctors off the Starbase, as well as modern equipment and a well-stocked pharmacy. We’re running a modern replicator-“
“How much did that cost, and whatever it was I’ll undercut it by 10% to get you a new one,” chimed in Melan, who now clearly had a replicator to sell to someone by the time the Valley Forge shipped out.
“We have a modern replicator,” continued Khaaten, after giving Melan a dark look, “and should be in good hands for the foreseeable future.”
T’Sav nodded serenely. “This ship is not optimized for science, however the main deflector has been well taken care of, and despite having somewhat aged equipment, the laboratories should be sufficient for most scientific inquiries on this mission. And, if I may ask, what will this mission entail?” The Vulcan raised one eyebrow, and masked her impatience with the room’s casual tone not deeply enough to conceal it from Scott or Davits.
“Well, I got a communiqué from Starfleet during my happy time in the turbolift today.” He glared at Melan, who stared back, slack-jawed, not interested in the least. “I’m sure none of you have heard of the Dorra.”
Melan snapped to attention, and spat out a word not to be found in most Ferengi, or Bajoran, dictionaries. Crespin laughed, inexplicably, and Melan continued on. “We, or rather, the Ferengi, engaged in trade negotiations with them for tritium, which is in abundance on the eighth world of their home system. They have absolutely no honour in negotiating- they didn’t abide by the rules of acquisition, and worded their contract so that they were legally entitled to take our ships after they’d loaded up on the tritium.”
“Shrewd negotiators, they’re notorious for playing hardball in trading and being notoriously unscrupulous, especially during the Dominion War, when Starfleet tried to procure ship-building facilities off them on loan. They’re said to have even fewer redeeming qualities than the Ferengi.” Davits chimed in, looking smugly at Scott.
“Alright, I know how Melan would know about them- he might be the only Ferengi-raised Bajoran in Starfleet, but how did you know about them,” asked Scott, puzzled by the Betazoid engineer’s burst of insight.
“You have the PADD infront of you, and you’re reading it- I simply read your mind.” Davits shrugged non-commitically.
“I thought Betazoids weren’t supposed to read people’s minds without permission,” asked Khaaten, looking untrustingly at Davits.
Crespin leaned into the table and addressed the Caitian. “Most aren’t. There are some, however, that choose to ignore the ancient laws dealing with telepathy, and live a free lifestyle. They are generally not welcome on Betazoid, but some think it’s worth it to have such an advantage.”
“You’re Betazoid as well,” said Davits, looking amazed at the old pilot.
“Half. My Dad was Betazoid, my mother was a Trill- unjoined, of course. I’m empathic- I can feel emotions and vague thoughts, nothing specific- except with Betazoids, full telepathy there. And no, Lieutenant Davits, I don’t think Doctor Khaaten would look better in a trimmer uniform, as you’ve been thinking throughout the briefing.” Crespin’s comment took a moment to sink in, due to his thick accent, before Khaaten contracted inwards in shock and horror, and Davits looked around angrily.
Perjuring bastard, thought Davits, at Crespin.
Right, kiddo, that’s a lesson you need to learn. If you don’t use your telepathy responsibly, I’ll be broadcasting your thoughts to see how you like it. The older pilot smiled at Davits, who turned away.
“Back on topic,” said Traab, seeing the awkwardness, and clumsily trying to keep the crew somewhat united.
“Back on topic,” echoed Scott, giving a warning glare to Davits and Crespin. “The Dorra control about twelve systems near the Klingon border- space that’s disputed between the two powers. With the schism in the Klingon Empire, several houses going rogue and declaring independence, this area is going to get even hotter. Since it’s only a few light-years from Federation outposts, we’re being sent to take a look.” Scott let the comment sink in, then stood up and pressed some buttons on the large screen behind his head. A green space vehicle, Klingon-looking in design, appeared.
“This is a Grek’Nar-class vessel. It’s roughly twice the size of the Valley Forge, and six times more powerful in terms of weapons and shields. Last year, the Klingon government contracted out the Dorra Prime Spacedocks, construction bay 9, to build this cruiser. Section 31 believes that this is likely because the Klingon shipyards have been hit with contracts for even more vessels to keep the peace, and there wasn’t enough time to expand domestic yards.
“However, in typical Dorra style, the cruiser has been offered for sale to the House of Voth, a small House that has declared independence from the Empire three weeks ago. It borders on Federation and Dorran territory, and comprises four systems with five planets. It has not been annexed by the Klingon Empire yet simply because it is not important enough- it has a population of less than two million and produces nothing of any value. However, if the House of Voth is able to procure the Grek’Nar, it would have the power to annex other systems, and possibly even pose a threat to the Federation.”
“How can the Klingons attack the Federation without starting a full-scale war,” asked Melan, looking at the main screen.
“The House of Voth is not part of the Klingon Empire any more, and is not recognized by the Federation. These people amount to pirates, and they would be able to greatly tip the balance of power in the region, forcing us to call ships away from other sectors to protect our interests in the region,” said Scott.
“Therefore, our mission. We are to prevent the sale of the Grek’Nar, by keeping it from the Klingons, we force the Dorrans or the Empire to get it, keeping it in a place where it won’t cause havoc. Neither the Dorrans nor the Empire can use it against us without starting a war, something Starfleet Command is confident they won’t do. We are to use political and economic tactics to stop this sale.”
“And if we can’t,” asked Crespin.
“Then we’ll have no choice but to stop the ship in some other way- one that doesn’t let the Dorrans know that the Federation is behind it. Stability, not glory, is our goal.” Scott looked around the room, meeting the gaze of each person, before switching off the screen and sitting back down. “Dismissed.”
The conference room aboard the Valley Forge was originally a small executive officer’s galley. It had large windows, open to space, a large table in the middle, and dark patches on the carpet where old foods had been spilled. The table itself was a group of old consoles from an even more decrepit ship placed together, welded, and then given a transparent plastic sheet over the top to make a flat surface. There was a model of the original Valley Forge, before her extensive modifications, cut into one side of the gently sloping wall, and a middle-sized flatscreen was placed at the wall above the head of the table, currently displaying the Starfleet Insignia.
“What I don’t understand is why you couldn’t just beam me out of the damn turbolift,” said Senior Commander Elliot Scott, at the head of the table. Most of the senior staff were present, Scott having called a staff meeting fifteen minutes before, and the atmosphere in the room was distrustful.
“I take it you weren’t an engineer, then,” asked Melan, not looking up from the PADD at which he was working. He slumped back in the chair, keeping the PADD near his lap and craning his neck to see it, and displayed all the military discipline of an Orion.
“A counselor, for a long time. You’re resentful of being transferred from the militia to Starfleet, stressed about the poor state of computers on the ship, and nervous I’m going to throw you out of an airlock for having the audacity to beam me in food and leave me for five hours in a turbolift.” Scott glared phasers at the Bajoran Ops officer.
“Alright, let’s put it into medical terms. What’s more complicated, a plate of rice or a person?”
“The person, in most respects.” Scott suppressed rolling his eyes, he was getting his answer and didn’t want to put Melan’s back up against the wall.
“Alright. So since the human is so much more complex, it would be harder to transport out than it would be to beam in some field rations, right?” Now the Ops officer looked up from his work to return the Captain’s glare.
“Fair enough. But people beam out all the time, why not here?”
Melan shrugged. “The transporters aboard the Valley Forge are thirty-seven years old, going by their recorded installation date. The person manning the transporters on Alpha Shift is twenty-two, enlisted, and on her first cruise. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to use equipment fifteen years older than you, but it’s not easy. I plan to let her have some time to adjust before making her beam anything sensitive out.” He returned to his PADD, having delivered his riposte, and Scott stared blankly for a moment.
“What about replacing the transporters,” asked Scott, half-heartedly.
The Engineer, Lieutenant Junior Grade John Davits, laughed. “I knew you were going to say that,” he said, tapping his forehead. Davits was a telepath, and found briefings to be ridiculous wastes of time. “and you’re lucky we have toilets on this can. We are, frankly, so far down the requisitions list that if the Warp Drive broke down tomorrow, we’d be told to get out and push. It’s the big carriers that are getting the replacement parts- Merrimac, Coral Sea, even the Zephyr are getting spare fighters and parts as soon as they’re made.”
“Speaking of fighters,” said another voice, with an extremely heavy British accent, “we really could do with some.” The man entered the room, about fifty years old with flaming red hair, only starting to go lighter at the roots. He had the characteristic spots down his neck of a Trill, and Scott briefly wondered if he was joined- before seeing the characteristic body language of an unjoined Trill. Pity, he thought, it would have been interesting to have one aboard. “Flight Major Evan Crespin, reporting for duty. I’m in charge of the tin pots you lot here call fighters.” He sat down in a chair near the bottom of the table, and nodded to Scott.
“Well, it looks like we’re all here then,” said the Captain, irritated at having been upstaged by this man who steadfastly refused to look even slightly abashed for arriving twenty minutes late to the briefing. He looked around the room at Crespin, sitting in the back with his navy blue collar and pilot’s insignia, Melan on his PADD, Davits sitting with his eyes closed, reading the thoughts of everyone present, T’Sav, the Vulcan Science officer looking serenely at Davits, apparently trying to read his thoughts, Khaaten looking impatient as usual, and Traab who was staring off into space smiling like an idiot. “Let’s have a station report.”
“Alright,” said Crespin, throwing his PADD into the middle of the ramshackle table. “I have twenty-four space-worthy fighters. Ten of these are Thunderbolts, ancient craft with only two, shuttle-class, phasers, no shields, and moderate engine power, along with a simple reticule painted on the canopy for targeting. I’ve also got eight Falcons, which are somewhat sturdier, being equipped with moderate shielding, six miniature photon torpedoes, but slightly less speed than the Thunderbolts. Mercifully, they have a targeting computer.
Lastly, six Avengers, which are the slowest craft I have ever flown in, loaded with technical problems but also a fairly heavy weapons loadout, useful for taking out small capital ships. Of course, none of the fighters are Warp-capable, and we have three pilots with combat kills out of twenty-four. I hope you won’t need these fighters for anything other than show, because without a lot of training and repairs, they’re not going anywhere.
“Other complaints include my officer being roughly the size of a broom closet, with a tipped over cabinet for a desk and old replicator housings for seats, insufficient mechanics, and no proper training facilities, such as a holodeck.” Crespin crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chest, his mouth a thin line.
“Similar story in Engineering,” said Davits, opening his eyes and shaking his head as if to remove spectres of thoughts floating around. “We’ve got Warp online, but I wouldn’t push Warp Four, since the plasma manifold is twenty years out of date and matched with incompatible antimatter injectors. We’ve put patches on, but no idea how well they’ll hold up in an emergency. The Engineers are by and large enlisted officers, so they have basic training, but I wouldn’t consider them capable of any mathematical calculations, I’ll be running the show with five trained engineers, optimistically.”
“Ops is worse than anything I encountered with the Militia. We’ve got about eight different operating systems running different things on the ship, only three of which are remotely compatible. I’m trying to standardize everything, but I have about half my staff on it and we’re thinking it’ll be another week or so before we get it up to an acceptable level, and lots of work on maintenance. I know a few contacts around this area that will bring new computers on board, and I’d be willing to put you in touch with someone for new replicators, for a small fee.” He smiled broadly, and Scott immedietly saw the influence being raised on Ferenginar had on the man.
Traab snorted loudly. “Replicators! That’s one thing that we don’t need. I’ve brought on enough provisions from the Starbase to last us about six months- actual grains, meats, spices and fruits from all over this part of the Alpha Quadrant, loaded up in Cargo Bay Two.”
“Is that cleared with the Quartermaster?” asked Scott.
“I am the Quartermaster,” responded Traab, shrugging.
“And is it safe,” continued the Captain, when Khaaten jumped in.
“People used to eat natural food on Earth, when their life expectancy was below 100 years. I wouldn’t recommend it, but if we can devote resources from replicators to other areas, I can probably fend off the stomach diseases about to be caused by Mr. Traab’s cooking.”
Traab turned a deep shade of purple, and glared at the Caitian doctor. “Don’t you ever insinuate that my cooking will cause disease ever again! I’m one of the best chefs in this Sector, and I will not have-“
“Traab, shut up,” said Scott, rolling his eyes. The Bolian was simply faking his anger to get a laugh, but with the reports Scott was hearing about the Forge, it was not a laughing matter. “Who’s doing Tactical?”
Traab raised his hand. “I was a Tactical Officer for eight years, and specialized in small-unit tactics. In the absence of a Tactical Officer designated by Starfleet, I’ll be doing it, as well as my Executive Officer and Head Cook jobs. As far as Tactical goes, you’ve heard it all before- the phasers are under powered, our shield grid fluctuates after continuous use, and we haven’t been issued any torpedoes. The Tactical staff on this ship comprises twelve men, and I am the only one who has combat experience. The rest are midshipmen and enlisted men, straight from basic training. Thank you, Starfleet.”
“Contrary to all these horror stories,” purred Khaaten, clearly taking delight in Traab’s frustration, “sickbay is well stocked. We have several expereinced Doctors off the Starbase, as well as modern equipment and a well-stocked pharmacy. We’re running a modern replicator-“
“How much did that cost, and whatever it was I’ll undercut it by 10% to get you a new one,” chimed in Melan, who now clearly had a replicator to sell to someone by the time the Valley Forge shipped out.
“We have a modern replicator,” continued Khaaten, after giving Melan a dark look, “and should be in good hands for the foreseeable future.”
T’Sav nodded serenely. “This ship is not optimized for science, however the main deflector has been well taken care of, and despite having somewhat aged equipment, the laboratories should be sufficient for most scientific inquiries on this mission. And, if I may ask, what will this mission entail?” The Vulcan raised one eyebrow, and masked her impatience with the room’s casual tone not deeply enough to conceal it from Scott or Davits.
“Well, I got a communiqué from Starfleet during my happy time in the turbolift today.” He glared at Melan, who stared back, slack-jawed, not interested in the least. “I’m sure none of you have heard of the Dorra.”
Melan snapped to attention, and spat out a word not to be found in most Ferengi, or Bajoran, dictionaries. Crespin laughed, inexplicably, and Melan continued on. “We, or rather, the Ferengi, engaged in trade negotiations with them for tritium, which is in abundance on the eighth world of their home system. They have absolutely no honour in negotiating- they didn’t abide by the rules of acquisition, and worded their contract so that they were legally entitled to take our ships after they’d loaded up on the tritium.”
“Shrewd negotiators, they’re notorious for playing hardball in trading and being notoriously unscrupulous, especially during the Dominion War, when Starfleet tried to procure ship-building facilities off them on loan. They’re said to have even fewer redeeming qualities than the Ferengi.” Davits chimed in, looking smugly at Scott.
“Alright, I know how Melan would know about them- he might be the only Ferengi-raised Bajoran in Starfleet, but how did you know about them,” asked Scott, puzzled by the Betazoid engineer’s burst of insight.
“You have the PADD infront of you, and you’re reading it- I simply read your mind.” Davits shrugged non-commitically.
“I thought Betazoids weren’t supposed to read people’s minds without permission,” asked Khaaten, looking untrustingly at Davits.
Crespin leaned into the table and addressed the Caitian. “Most aren’t. There are some, however, that choose to ignore the ancient laws dealing with telepathy, and live a free lifestyle. They are generally not welcome on Betazoid, but some think it’s worth it to have such an advantage.”
“You’re Betazoid as well,” said Davits, looking amazed at the old pilot.
“Half. My Dad was Betazoid, my mother was a Trill- unjoined, of course. I’m empathic- I can feel emotions and vague thoughts, nothing specific- except with Betazoids, full telepathy there. And no, Lieutenant Davits, I don’t think Doctor Khaaten would look better in a trimmer uniform, as you’ve been thinking throughout the briefing.” Crespin’s comment took a moment to sink in, due to his thick accent, before Khaaten contracted inwards in shock and horror, and Davits looked around angrily.
Perjuring bastard, thought Davits, at Crespin.
Right, kiddo, that’s a lesson you need to learn. If you don’t use your telepathy responsibly, I’ll be broadcasting your thoughts to see how you like it. The older pilot smiled at Davits, who turned away.
“Back on topic,” said Traab, seeing the awkwardness, and clumsily trying to keep the crew somewhat united.
“Back on topic,” echoed Scott, giving a warning glare to Davits and Crespin. “The Dorra control about twelve systems near the Klingon border- space that’s disputed between the two powers. With the schism in the Klingon Empire, several houses going rogue and declaring independence, this area is going to get even hotter. Since it’s only a few light-years from Federation outposts, we’re being sent to take a look.” Scott let the comment sink in, then stood up and pressed some buttons on the large screen behind his head. A green space vehicle, Klingon-looking in design, appeared.
“This is a Grek’Nar-class vessel. It’s roughly twice the size of the Valley Forge, and six times more powerful in terms of weapons and shields. Last year, the Klingon government contracted out the Dorra Prime Spacedocks, construction bay 9, to build this cruiser. Section 31 believes that this is likely because the Klingon shipyards have been hit with contracts for even more vessels to keep the peace, and there wasn’t enough time to expand domestic yards.
“However, in typical Dorra style, the cruiser has been offered for sale to the House of Voth, a small House that has declared independence from the Empire three weeks ago. It borders on Federation and Dorran territory, and comprises four systems with five planets. It has not been annexed by the Klingon Empire yet simply because it is not important enough- it has a population of less than two million and produces nothing of any value. However, if the House of Voth is able to procure the Grek’Nar, it would have the power to annex other systems, and possibly even pose a threat to the Federation.”
“How can the Klingons attack the Federation without starting a full-scale war,” asked Melan, looking at the main screen.
“The House of Voth is not part of the Klingon Empire any more, and is not recognized by the Federation. These people amount to pirates, and they would be able to greatly tip the balance of power in the region, forcing us to call ships away from other sectors to protect our interests in the region,” said Scott.
“Therefore, our mission. We are to prevent the sale of the Grek’Nar, by keeping it from the Klingons, we force the Dorrans or the Empire to get it, keeping it in a place where it won’t cause havoc. Neither the Dorrans nor the Empire can use it against us without starting a war, something Starfleet Command is confident they won’t do. We are to use political and economic tactics to stop this sale.”
“And if we can’t,” asked Crespin.
“Then we’ll have no choice but to stop the ship in some other way- one that doesn’t let the Dorrans know that the Federation is behind it. Stability, not glory, is our goal.” Scott looked around the room, meeting the gaze of each person, before switching off the screen and sitting back down. “Dismissed.”
Last edited by The Aliens on 2005-06-25 07:42pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Crazedwraith
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The Aliens
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