Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

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Holosuite 3, Deck 6 - USS Gibraltar - Parrises Squares Competition
Score:

Pava’s Pirates – 4
Tark’s Thugs – 2

Lieutenant Pava Lar’agos heaved the ion mallet for all he was worth, contacting the orb with a resounding thud that reverberated off the walls of the playing grid. The playing sphere rocketed away to spin into opposing territory as the scoreboard registered a point for the El-Aurian’s team. Lar’ragos jumped from the descending platform and onto its rising neighbor. He struggled keep his balance as the roving tactiball screamed by and delivered a glancing blow to his left shoulder as he landed atop the moving square.

He was of average height, perhaps a bit on the smallish side, but Lar’ragos was deceptively strong and nimble. His dark, tightly curled hair was cut short, and his brown eyes hinted at an ample intelligence, bolstered by several lifetimes of experience. His current posting was as Chief Security/Tactical officer of the starship Gibraltar, and at the moment he was deeply engrossed in a tactical training scenario.

Across the grid, the leader of the opposing team struggled to meet the incoming orb. Master Chief Tark, a stout Tellarite, charged up his team’s launch ramp. He leaped into the air as he swung the mallet, missing the illuminated sphere by scant centimeters before toppling forward to land hard atop an ascending riser. The impact drove the breath from him, and he fought to rise on wobbling arms as he looked around for the fumbled ion mallet.

“What’s the matter, old man?” asked Petty Officer 1st Class Saihra Dunleavy as she charged past, now in possession of the mallet. “Did you fall down, go boom?”

Tark attempted a snarl that emerged sounding more like a desperate wheeze. Dunleavy sprinted the ramp and jumped from the crest to deliver a solid blow to the orb on its rebound off the back wall. It arced into enemy territory, sending Pava’s Pirates scrambling to intercept it.

Ensign Diamato moved to snare the orb in his under-arm catch net but lost his footing between ascending and descending risers. He fell hard, cracking his shin and leaving him writhing in pain atop a plummeting square. En route to his own rendezvous with the orb, Specialist Sharpe experienced an unfortunate high-velocity encounter with the tactiball. He was knocked backwards and fell onto a square currently radiating a containment field that immobilized him for the required thirty seconds.

Lar’ragos’ only remaining teammate was deep in the well, waiting for the undulating tide of risers to bring him back up and into play. His chest heaving with the effort, Lar’ragos charged forward, stutter-stepping from one square to another in quick succession, while trying to track the orb’s path through the air. His legs burned but kept pumping and sent him upwards to catch the ball as it bounced off his team’s score-pad and registered a point for Tark’s Thugs.

Wielding the ion mallet like Thor’s hammer, he rose to meet the ricocheting orb as he screamed a primal cry of defiance. His victory call was cut short as he completely missed the sphere with the mallet, and made the unwitting decision to strike it squarely with his face instead. He fell like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly severed and collapsed into the now ascending risers making their way back up from the well.

As the pain in his head and side subsided, Lar’ragos became aware of the growing sound of raucous laughter. The rest of the security team stood, sat, or lay on the floor of the now deactivated holosuite, depending on their level of infirmity. A hairy, porcine face peered down at Lar’ragos. Tark‘s meaty hand grasped his and hauled him back to his feet. As he wiped at the blood coursing from his broken nose, Lar’ragos gurgled, “Thank you, Master Chief.”

Lar’ragos cleared his throat and announced, “Folks, this concludes today’s security training exercise. You all did very well. A good game of Parrises squares forces you to maintain your situational awareness in a dynamic environment, just like in a fire fight.” He assessed the group, noting numerous injuries. “Everyone here got banged up, but you all stayed in the fight. That speaks both to your stamina as well as your dedication.” He wiped the sleeve of his blue Parrises jumpsuit across his nose again. “Let’s go get patched up in Sickbay, then meet in the rec lounge for debrief and drinks.”

The group of limping security personnel assisted each other out of the holosuite, grinning and chatting animatedly. Tark noted with a smile the difference between Lar’ragos’ new training regimen and his previous campaign of endless, excruciating drills and holographic scenarios. The security personnel were still learning valuable skills, but without the burn-out and the oppressive psychological toll that grueling earlier schedule had taken on them.

Their last assignment had resulted in nearly every member of the ship’s security department having been either killed or seriously injured. Although Tark knew the circumstances of that mission were something that would almost certainly never be repeated, those who had survived the ordeal had gelled and grown stronger for the experience. Those ‘old-timers’ now formed the core of the ship’s newly expanded security detachment.

As Tark helped Lar’ragos through the parting holosuite doors, he asked, “So what do you call that move, sir? Cranial intercept? Full facial volley?”

Lar’ragos chuckled as he winced and held his aching ribs. “Don’t forget, little man. I know where you live.”

*****

Sickbay, USS Gibraltar

The doors parted to allow Lieutenant(j.g.) Issara Taiee and her guest into what had been, until two hours earlier, her Sickbay. Taiee was a career Starfleet officer, and she knew that life was change. That being said, at this moment she was ready to admit that so much change in such a compressed period of time was a bit hard to swallow.

The ship’s medical staff were assembled in formation, an almost unheard of occurrence. Medical technicians and nurses stood at attention in two rows, flanking the main diagnostic exam table on either side. Taiee stepped aside to allow her guest to take center stage. She kept her voice carefully neutral as she announced, “People, I’d like to introduce you to our new Chief Medical Officer, Lt. Commander Murakawa.”

Doctor Denise Murakawa followed Taiee into what she had to admit was an impressive medical center, especially given the size of this ship. Currently classified as an escort, Gibraltar had been briefly refitted as a hospital ship earlier in her service, and after being brought out of mothballs during the Dominion War the engineers overseeing her refit had decided to let the ship keep some of that expanded medical capacity. She now supported forty biobeds and four surgical suites, in addition to a host of dedicated laboratories and even a null-g ward.

The woman Murakawa was replacing, albeit temporarily, was not a doctor but an accomplished nurse practitioner. In the wake of the war’s losses, not every starship could be afforded a full-fledged doctor and surgeon. Smaller ships like Gibraltar made due with nurses, relying more heavily on their Emergency Medical Holograms than did larger, better staffed vessels.

Taiee looked on, feeling both humiliated and unappreciated, but striving to bury both unworthy emotions under a façade of tolerant acceptance. In the past five months aboard this ship she had treated numerous injuries and helped to save the lives of not only the captain but countless crew from theirs and other vessels. During the war, Taiee had served in a front line mobile surgical hospital, often nearer the conflict than many starships. She felt that her record and skills spoke for themselves, as they had certainly been sufficient to warrant her original posting as the CMO. Until now, apparently.

Murakawa was presently the senior medical officer aboard the starship Sutherland, a post she’d held for the last six years. She had been on leave, attending Starfleet’s annual medical symposium, held this year on Bajor as a testament to that planet’s rapid progress in rebuilding its post-occupation medical infrastructure. Her time at the renowned convention had been cut short, however.

On orders from Dr. Beverly Crusher of the Enterprise, Murakawa had been unexpectedly reassigned as CMO of Gibraltar during its participation in the Briar Patch taskforce. The ship’s medical capacity made it a definite asset to the mission, but Crusher had judged that an actual physician needed to be in charge should the ship be asked to assist with a mass casualty or evacuation scenario. Other attendees of the symposium had been likewise assigned to other ships in the flotilla, bolstering their existing medical teams in preparation for coping with the humanitarian disaster that presumably awaited them within the nebula.

Murakawa set her shoulders and met the expectant gazes of her new staff with a faint smile. “I know this change in leadership comes as an unwelcome surprise. I was caught off guard by this suddenness of this as well. I assure all of you that this arraignment is only temporary, and shouldn’t be construed as a lack of confidence in your collective abilities. I’m not here to rock the boat, or to play power games, but to complete a task to the best of my ability.” She turned to look at Taiee, who was doing an admirable job of looking supportive. “Lt. Taiee and I will endeavor to make sure we’re prepared for whatever the Briar Patch has in store for us. Now, let’s get down to business.”

*****

Forward Observation Post B'hala - Aulerg Moon - The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)

Anij awoke to find herself laying atop an uncomfortable metal-frame cot, alone in a darkened room. The air was stale and humid, and Anij was drenched in perspiration. She stared at the ceiling for a few moments while she concentrated on breathing and clearing her head. The last thing she remembered was fleeing through the corridors of the stricken Alshain warship, following Gallatin and their mysterious rescuers.

There had been a wild chase through a confusing series of corridors, their escape beset by random firefights between their liberators and the Alshain. That’s where things grew hazy for her, but she supposed some kind of beam-out had occurred. This certainly didn’t resemble the interior of the Alshain cruiser.

She sat up, her nose crinkling at her own unwashed odor. How long since she last bathed? How many days had passed since her entire civilization had been wiped out in a handful of minutes? Anij fought off another wave of fruitless tears, determined to figure out where precisely she was, and how she had come to be here.

*****

Only meters from Anij’s cot, separated by layers of lunar rock and thermal concrete, Vadark Jobrin Adnai stared impassively at the Son’a officer seated across from him in the cramped cement walled room. The Son’a’s face was a tortured mask of stretched flesh that only seemed to underscore for Jobrin the Prophets’ displeasure with the Son’a’s naïve attempts to hold death at bay.

Adhar Wuuten, the latest in a long line of Son’a strongmen, sipped idly at the cup of springwine his Bajoran host had provided. He choked down the sickly, flowery scented liquor, unwilling to upset his hosts’ delicate sensibilities. The Bajora-Tava had very little in the way of creature comforts, and the offer to share drink with an outworlder was a sign of deepest respect. Their culture was so totally geared to martial sensibilities that they seemed to have neither the time nor the desire to actually enjoy their lives. It was a cultural trait, Wuuten knew, the ultimate example of delayed gratification. Paradise would await them in the next life with the Prophets. This life was for making war.

“You and your people are to be congratulated on your bravery and skill, Vadark.” He made certain to address the man by his Bajoran religious title. “The rescue of the prisoners was superbly executed, but I wonder, why did you not destroy the Alshain ship when you had the chance?”

Jobrin set down his empty cup and eyed the foreign leader warily. “We left the ship intact because you asked us to rescue their prisoners, nothing more. As yet, the Alshain are not our enemies. It was gratifying to test our abilities against them, to be sure, but you know very well we have marshaled our strength for the tasks that lay ahead.”

Wuuten inclined his head to concede the point. “Perhaps I should be more detailed in my future requests?”

Jobrin’s countenance darkened. “Do not mistake us for servants like your Tarlac and Ellora, Adhar. We are allies because such a relationship benefits us both. The moment you forget this fact and attempt to command us like chattel, that relationship will be irrevocably severed.”

“I would never attempt to do so, Vadark. We value your help in whatever capacity you select to offer it.” Wuuten hated the obsequious act he was forced to put on for the benefit of these arrogant warrior monks, but as the Son’a were currently being hunted down and killed by the rapacious Alshain, one took allies wherever one could find them.

Jobrin tilted his head, accepting Wuuten’s gesture of humility and appreciation. “Your new mimetic armor served us well, Adhar. Many lives were saved by its use; the Alshain are ferocious fighters, especially when defending their own ship.”

“Fates willing, we will repel their advance into our space and the Son’a will be left in peace.”

Apparently moved by that sentiment, Jobrin poured them both another cup of the cloying liquid. As they raised their glasses, the vadark intoned, “Perhaps someday, the Son’a will stand beside us as we retake Bajor from the clutches of the Cardassians. It is the Prophets’ will.”

Wuuten smiled, his haphazardly placed artificial teeth making the expression more horrific than celebratory. “Death to Cardassia,” he said.

“Death to Cardassia,” Jobrin of the Bajora-Tava repeated, his invocation moving him almost to tears.

*****

Ready Room - USS Gibraltar - En-route to Starbase 12, Warp 6.5

Liana Ramirez stood at parade rest in front of Sandhurst’s desk. The captain had been silent for nearly a minute as he mulled over how severe a dressing down he should or could give to a subordinate who had done nothing more than answered honestly a question posed by a superior.

He finally uttered, “Would you like to tell me what all that was about?”

Ramirez stared over his shoulder through the circular viewport where an airlock door had once stood. The stars fell behind them as streaks of light in the void as Gibraltar and her sister ships made way for Starbase 12 in tight formation.

“He asked me my opinion, and I gave it. Simple as that, sir.”

Sandhurst sighed and leaned back in his chair as he rubbed his chin. “Have we lost that much ground, you and I?” He shook his head regretfully. “Liana, I’ll ask one more time. You can either answer and get it out of your system, or stay quiet and fume about it for the next five weeks. I know you’ll do your duty either way, that’s not the issue. It’s more about your comfort level.”

She considered that. “Fine. I disagree with your decision to take part in this mission in the strongest possible terms.”

“Why?”

“This isn’t about the Son’a for Picard, it’s about the Ba’ku. And it isn’t about either of them for you, Captain. It’s about the Cardassians, and all those people we left for dead back there on Lakesh.”

Sandhurst’s face colored, but he held his temper in check. “You don’t feel our helping to intervene in a slaughter of innocents is a worthy assignment?”

“Under different circumstances, certainly. But in this scenario Picard’s going to get us embroiled in a blood feud deep inside of a spatial anomaly that prevents us from calling for backup. The Alshain Starforce may not be what it was three hundred years ago, but it’s certainly more than a match for a dozen starships.”

As he sat forward and placed his elbows on the table, Sandhurst marshaled his patience with his young, headstrong first officer. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Liana. However, this is going to have to be one of those occasions where we agree to disagree. The mission stands.” He forced himself to relax. “I do appreciate your feelings on the matter.”

“Do you, sir?” was her sharp retort.

His head dipped in growing exasperation. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that I think if you’d really cared about my opinion, you’d have asked for it before signing onto this job. After all your talk of our shared responsibility for this crew, you go and volunteer us for something this dangerous without even consulting your executive officer.”

He leaned back in his chair again and examined her thoughtfully. “And how do you know I volunteered?”

She directed an incredulous glare at him. “I got my hands on a copy of Picard’s original mission proposal. It asked for ten ships, and Gibraltar wasn’t on the list.”

“Oh,” was all Sandhurst could think to say.

Ramirez continued, “And with the exception of the hospital ship Bethesda, the other taskforce vessels are all heavy cruisers or explorers that might stand a chance taking on an Alshain warship one-on-one.”

“Your point?” Sandhurst’s patience was beginning to wear thin, due more to Ramirez’s insight than anything else.

“I’d be less worried if the taskforce was staying together once inside the Briar Patch, but we’re going to be scattered on individual assignments. That makes us all vulnerable, and Gibraltar doubly so. With our speed restricted to one-half impulse within the nebula, we certainly can’t outrun trouble. And even with our paltry allotment of six quantum torpedoes in addition to our photons, we’re in no shape to fight our way out of a confrontation.”

“We didn’t have quantums at Lakesh, and we survived that battle,” Sandhurst pointed out, immediately regretting the comment the instant it had left his lips.

Ramirez went rigid, her eyes flaming. “With respect, sir, we did not all survive that engagement.” The burning, listing bridge of Phoenix intruded into her thoughts, and she shook her head as if trying to cast the image out.

“I’m sorry.” Sandhurst closed his eyes briefly. “I wasn’t thinking.” He sought to atone for the gaff by offering an olive branch. “I understand your feelings regarding this mission, and I apologize for not consulting you. That being said, I think we can do some good out there in the Briar Patch.” His eyes sought out hers, trying to convey his deep conviction. “We have to try, Liana. It’s what makes us different, what makes the Federation a beacon of hope for others.”

She nodded. “I hope things go according to plan, too, sir.” Ramirez took a deep breath and grasped the proffered branch. “I appreciate you letting me vent, Captain.”

He smiled slightly, the gesture small but genuine. “Always, Commander. Anything else on your plate?”

She thought about that briefly. “Only one other matter I can think of, sir. We’ve received updated orders from Starfleet. Apparently Admiral Covey wants us to have a diplomatic officer aboard for the duration of the mission.”

“Very well. Make sure we make arrangements for that officer’s billet once we’ve reached Starbase 12.”

Ramirez hesitated fractionally.  “Actually, sir, we’re scheduled to divert from the formation briefly to rendezvous with a runabout bringing her outbound from Pacifica.”

Sandhurst scowled. “Really? That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” Then his eyes widened slightly as he did the math in his head. Covey. Diplomatic officer. He looked physically pained as he asked, “And the nme of this officer?”

“Lt. Commander Pell Ojana, if I remember correctly, sir. She’s Bajoran.”

Sandhurst rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “She certainly is.”

Ramirez studied him curiously, then observed, “I take it you know her.”

“You could say that.”

She quirked an eyebrow and summarized, “This is Monica being a meddlesome wench again, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes indeed, Commander.”

*****