Chapter Text
The Constitution-class starship Gibraltar had begun her career some ninety years earlier as the USS Hood, a contemporary of James Kirk’s Enterprise-A. Constructed from the keel up as an upgraded variant of the venerable Constitution series ships, she served with distinction for three decades before being decommissioned. Her name and its accumulated prestige were stripped from her and bequeathed to a newer class of vessel, and she was exiled to the Dalashni V Long-term Storage Anchorage.
Encased in a protective sheath of durapolymers, she was set adrift and quietly forgotten. Twenty-five years later, in the aftermath of the Tomed Incident, she was towed out of the bone yards and hastily refit to serve as a hospital ship. Rechristened Gibraltar, she was assigned to humanitarian relief missions along the Romulan Neutral Zone. Fourteen months later, having once again fulfilled her duty, she was returned to the Dalashni system to resume her hibernation.
At the outset of official hostilities with the Dominion, the Federation Starfleet was already desperate for ships. Two Borg incursions in the last decade, coupled with the brief yet punishing war with the Klingon Empire had sapped Starfleet’s material strength. Classified estimates early in the Dominion conflict gauged that at the current rate of attrition, Starfleet would lose approximately forty-four percent of its operational starships in the next eighteen months. Facing those projected losses, Starfleet Command ordered the vessels mothballed at Dalashni and other such facilities to be refit and reactivated, Gibraltar among them.
Thus, the grand old girl had been given a new lease on life. An intensive eight-month refurbishment at Starbase 234 succeeded in replacing or upgrading Gibraltar’s primary systems, though her refit was finally completed three weeks after the end of hostilities. She was faster and better defended in her new 24th century incarnation, but Gibraltar was still no match for more modern ships of the line. She and her resurrected brethren were intended to fill support roles, such as routine patrol, diplomatic missions, and escort duty. In this way, they were to have freed up more battle-worthy vessels for combat duty on the front lines.
*****
Epsilon’s transporter room was a converted office module, one not terribly well suited to the extensive modifications necessary to accommodate the transporter dais and its ancillary systems. Like Sandhurst’s guest cabin, it was cramped, and like his cabin, it afforded a fantastic vista through its view ports. It wasn’t the McAllister Nebula which transfixed the young ensign at the window, however, but the presence of the starship Gibraltar, holding position less than a thousand meters away.
The ensign whistled softly to himself and remarked, “That is something you don’t see every day.”
The quiet swish of the doors marking Sandhurst’s arrival was masked by a series of computer tones from the transporter chief’s console. The chief, clearly amused at the young man’s demeanor, asked, “What’s that, Ensign?”
“A museum piece, Chief. There hasn’t been a Constitution-class ship in service for a half century.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We’re going to pacify the Cardies in that thing?”
The transporter chief looked towards Sandhurst and gave the captain a devious smile as she blatantly provoked the younger man, “Oh? Is that what you’re out here to do then, Ensign?”
Still mesmerized by the graceful yet all-too-vulnerable lines of the starship, the ensign nodded distractedly. “Absolutely, Chief. Those people need to be put in their place. We’ve fought two major wars with them in the last thirty years, and heaven knows how many border skirmishes. We’d be fools to leave them in a position to stab us in the back again.”
As the chief looked at him expectantly, Sandhurst paused before announcing his presence. The captain found himself hard pressed to disagree with the young man. The treachery of the Cardassian government, and that of Gul Dukat in particular, had cost the Federation dearly. Regardless, such thoughts were not worthy of a Starfleet officer, and Sandhurst knew that he could not let such ideas foment among his crew if their upcoming mission was to have any chance of success.
“We’re here to help the Cardassian people, Ensign, not to subjugate them.”
Ensign Brett Lightner laughed coolly. “Yeah, let’s hope they’re capable of discerning the difference.” The sandy haired youth glanced over his shoulder, but his smirk evaporated as he realized the source of the rebuke. He stiffened, pivoted neatly on one heel and came to rigid attention.
“I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t realize…”
Sandhurst cut him off and waved a hand dismissively, “It’s okay, Mister… Lightner, isn’t it?” The captain continued in response to the ensign’s nod. “I can’t tell you how to feel about the Cardassians. God knows there are enough of us with sufficient reason to hate them. Nonetheless, we’re here to help them recover as best we’re able. If we leave them to suffer or try to rub their noses in this defeat, there will be another war with them. Count on it.”
Lightner nodded curtly. “Yes, sir.”
Sandhurst turned to the transporter chief. “All set, Chief?”
“Aye, Captain. Gibraltar is standing by.”
Sandhurst stepped up onto the dais. “Shall we, Ensign?”
Lightner followed, his face still flushed with embarrassment. Sandhurst glanced out the view port at his new command and quietly savored the sight for the briefest of moments before he uttered, “Energize.”
The two officers vanished in a cascading field of bluish energy.
*****
Lieutenant Pava Lar’ragos came to attention as his commanding officer materialized on the pad. The El-Aurian security chief had joined the Gibraltar at Deep Space Nine, the last stopover before Point-Station Epsilon, and was just settling in himself. His last posting had been to Starfleet’s elite and covert Special Missions Teams and he had spent the majority of the war ‘sneaking about and blowing things up,’ as he liked to describe it. Lar’ragos was enjoying his transition back to shipboard duty and had been looking forward to his impending reunion with Donald Sandhurst, a former academy classmate.
The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the captain’s lips as his eyes settled on Lar’ragos, “Permission to come aboard?”
Lar’ragos’ smile, in contrast, was ebullient, “Granted, sir. Welcome aboard, Captain.” He stepped forward, hand extended, as Sandhurst moved off the pad.
Sandhurst clasped the proffered hand, pumping it vigorously. “Good to see you, Pava. It’s been too long.” He turned and inclined his head towards the still blushing junior officer who’d arrived with him. “Lieutenant Lar’ragos, this is Ensign Brett Lightner. He’ll be driving the ship.”
Lar’ragos nodded to Lightner as the ensign stepped down from the dais. “A pleasure, Ensign.” Lar’ragos appeared to take measure of the younger man and his smile faded slightly. “First tour, Mister Lightner?”
The newly minted officer had regained some of his composure and replied, “Aye, sir.” His eyes quickly swept the unusually configured compartment and finally settled on the transporter operator’s console. The control panel was sequestered behind a transparent aluminum partition, a throwback to the days when transporter systems produced mildly hazardous levels of theta radiation. To Lightner, it symbolized everything that was wrong with this assignment. The ensign’s focus drifted back to Lar’ragos, and he directed a smile at the lieutenant that didn’t seem to reach his eyes. It was a dead giveaway to someone from a race of listeners. “I’m excited to be here, sir. I’ve heard a lot about this ship.”
The captain directed a curious look at Lar’ragos. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you, but I was expecting Commander Ramirez.”
At this, Lar’ragos’ smile vanished completely. “She was unavoidably detained, sir.” The nuances of Lar’ragos’ words were sufficiently subtle that only Sandhurst, with his years of experience with the El-Aurian was able to read into the statement that the ship’s executive officer had been anything but.
Sandhurst nodded; his expression carefully neutral. “I see.” The captain turned back towards Lightner. “Ensign, would you be so kind as to confirm that arrangements have been made to beam our personal effects over from Epsilon?”
“Aye, sir.” Lightner looked relieved to have something to do and the ensign moved towards the transporter control cubicle where he began speaking quietly with the chief manning the console.
Sandhurst and Lar’ragos moved out into the corridor. The captain glanced over his shoulder as the doors hissed closed behind them to confirm that the two were alone. “I take it she’s angry?”
Lar’ragos chuckled. “I see your gift for understatement remains intact, sir.” He gestured to their right, “The turbolift is this way.” As he fell into step beside the captain, Lar’ragos offered, “She’s been the epitome of professionalism, at least since I’ve been aboard. She’s furious, but thankfully she’s keeping it to herself.”
Sandhurst sighed. In many ways his introduction to the ship’s first officer, Lieutenant Commander Liana Ramirez, was going to be the biggest obstacle of the day. “I guess that’s to be expected. I’d hoped she might take this better, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” He scratched absently behind one ear as Lar’ragos led them into a turbolift alcove and pressed the call button.
The narrow corridors here were paneled with burnished gray plating, and carpeted in a bland copper hue that did little to lessen the severity of the decor. Sandhurst reminded himself that this ship was designed decades before Starfleet had adopted policies mandating generous personal space allowances in all common areas, passageways included.
The turbolift arrived, and they stepped aboard. Lar’ragos deferred the choice of destination to his captain. Sandhurst looked pensive for a moment, before trying to submerge his unease beneath a calm, studied command persona. Lar’ragos wondered whether Sandhurst’s apprehension would be as apparent to the average human crew member as it was to him.
“Bridge.” Sandhurst resisted the urge to slouch casually against the wall, despite his fatigue, and stifled a yawn as the turbolift began its ascent. “Your impressions of the crew?”
Lar’ragos shrugged with his hands, which were clasped in front of him. “About what you’d expect. Aside from a gaggle of newly commissioned ensigns, we’ve become the dumping ground for some of the Fleet’s problem children. We’ve also got more than our share of activated reservists and career dead-enders just waiting for Starfleet to rescind the stop-loss orders.” The deceptively youthful looking El-Aurian shook his head slightly. “I’m more worried about our green junior officers. Most of them are products of the academy’s accelerated war-time curricula. Many have only three years of academy training, some even less.”
Due to the appalling personnel losses suffered during the war, Starfleet Command had been forced to call up the service’s reserve units for the first time in more than a century. In addition, Command had elected to reactivate the commissions of tens of thousands of retired veterans. People who hadn’t worn a Starfleet uniform in decades found themselves involuntarily returned to service. Active-duty personnel who had been on the cusp of retirement just prior to the war were barred from departure or resignation by a Federation Council mandated stop-loss order that had yet to be repealed.
Sandhurst mock winced. “That good, eh?”
Lar’ragos attempted an apologetic smile. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. I don’t mean to paint the entire crew with the same brush. There are some standouts, mostly among the senior staff and higher NCO ranks.”
The El-Aurian glanced at the turbolift’s control panel as the car shifted from vertical to horizontal travel briefly, then resumed its climb. “The rest of them will do their duty. Most just feel they’ve done their part and are ready to go home.” For career officers like themselves in an organization that prided itself on being a meritocracy of the willing, the idea of serving with discontented or unmotivated people was almost unthinkable.
A subdued chime announced their arrival on Deck 1. Sandhurst straightened and gave an unconscious tug at his uniform top before the doors slid open to reveal Gibraltar’s command center. The captain had to admit to being a bit surprised. He had almost expected the parting doors to open onto an unmodified 23rd century starship bridge, with subdued lighting and pre-LCARS control consoles studded with buttons and switches. This bridge, however, was every bit as modern as he could have hoped.
Laid out in the more traditional circular pattern that was seen with less frequency in more recent Starfleet designs, the main bridge was detailed in soft whites and muted grays. Amber highlights in the carpet matched the hue of doors and hatches. The color scheme gave the impression of a larger compartment than was actually present. The lower well area of the bridge housed a single semi-circular console bank which supported multiple workstations, broken only by two sets of stairs forward to the upper ring. The Operations and Helm posts were side-by-side in a single console bank facing forward towards the main view screen. Flanking them on either side of the pit were stations for the Executive Officer and a mission specialist, respectively.
Ringing the upper level of the bridge were the Engineering, Science, and Security/Tactical stations, as well as two auxiliary consoles which could be configured for a variety of functions. At the aft-most section of the bridge was a small, recessed entrance to the captain’s ready room, next to a large master situation monitor which displayed a cutaway silhouette of Gibraltar and her major systems. A small stand-alone Tactical console stood immediately behind the captain’s chair, which was currently occupied by a petite, raven-haired, olive-skinned human woman who seemed engrossed in the contents of the data padd she held in her hand.
As Sandhurst stepped from the turbolift with Lar’ragos in tow, Lt. Commander Liana Ramirez glanced up from her padd. She stood from the command chair in a smooth, deliberate motion as she announced, “Captain on the bridge!”
Standing just a fraction over five feet, Ramirez was not the most imposing specimen of humanity ever to don a Starfleet uniform. However, despite her diminutive size, she projected an aura of confident authority that left little doubt that she was not one to be trifled with.
In response to the executive officer’s announcement, all activity on the bridge ceased simultaneously as crew members turned to get their first look at their new commanding officer. Sandhurst responded with a slight smile, designed to convey an easy self-assurance that he most certainly did not feel. “As you were.” He turned to Ramirez, who remained standing as ramrod straight as a cadet on review, her eyes locked on some indeterminate point on the far bulkhead. Sandhurst sighed inwardly, So this is how it’s going to be, then.
“Computer, log the following exchange as an official transfer.”
The computer accepted the command with a three-tone chime, and Sandhurst continued. “By order of Starfleet, I hereby assume command of this vessel.”
Ramirez responded formally, “As of this time, seventeen-thirty-seven hours, I stand relieved. Computer, transfer priority-one command authorization codes to Captain Donald Sandhurst, authorization Ramirez tango-sierra-charlie one-oh-six-four.” The computer verbally acknowledged the transfer of command authority, and Ramirez stepped aside as she swept her arm dramatically over the captain’s chair like a game-show host presenting a contestant with a prize. “She’s all yours, sir.”
Sandhurst nodded approvingly but made no move towards the center seat. “Commander, please join me in the ready room.” He looked to Lar’ragos and intoned, “Lieutenant, you have the conn.” Sandhurst moved to the small hatch leading to his new office and triggered the door to slide open. He stepped back and motioned for Ramirez to enter, and then followed her inside.
The compartment that now served as ready room was, on the old Hood, an airlock situated behind the bridge. Though small, it easily accommodated a medium-sized work desk opposed by two sitting chairs, a couch, and a replicator station recessed into one wall. Where the airlock hatch had once stood was a circular transparent aluminum view port, just behind the desk.
He strode into the room behind Ramirez and walked past her, then turned around and leaned against the front of the desk, arms folded across his chest. Before she could speak, he launched a preemptive, “Permission to speak candidly granted, Commander.”
Caught momentarily off guard, Ramirez blinked, and took a moment to consider her next statement. Finally, she asked, “Respectfully, Captain, what am I doing here?”
Sandhurst frowned, “I’m going to need you to be a bit more vague.”
Ramirez ran one hand through her hair in a gesture of exasperation. “I’ve put in my Fleet time, sir. Fourteen months as exec on the Tempest, a wartime posting. I worked damned hard for Captain Berkhalter’s recommendation, and my assignment as Admiral Covey’s adjutant was going to be my ticket to a first line ship, maybe even my own command!”
Sandhurst contemplated taking a conciliatory tack with her, but only for an instant. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep affecting his judgment, but he’d been primed for a confrontation with his new XO since he stepped aboard. Best to have it out here and now, he decided, to clear the air.
“I’m terribly sorry if your being posted here has inconvenienced you, Commander, but I requested your transfer because I need you here. You’ve spent a good portion of your career assigned to ships along the Cardassian border, serving under CO’s like Jellico and T’Surn.” He paused but refused to look away from Ramirez’s piercing gaze. “You’ve faced the Cardassians on the battlefield as well as over the negotiating table. You understand them in ways that I don’t, and to be perfectly blunt, I desperately need that insight.”
Ramirez broke eye contact first and looked away angrily as she bit back a reply that she was sure would constitute insubordination.
Sandhurst felt himself building momentum and continued, “You know perfectly well what we’re up against here. Starfleet’s attempting to render aid on a multi-planetary scale despite inadequate resources and too few people to do the job. We’re going to meet with resistance, if not outright hostility. I want to have someone by my side who understands their culture, their mindset, how they’re likely to react in a given situation.”
Still refusing to back down, Ramirez seethed, “Don’t think I’m unaware that you and Admiral Covey have a history together. I object to being traded between the two of you like a commodity. My career isn’t someone’s marker.”
Sandhurst smiled humorlessly. “If this post doesn’t jibe with your career plan, that’s too bad. I require you to do your duty, Commander. You can either be an asset to this crew, or a hindrance. I’d much prefer to have your cooperation. Either way, you’re staying until our mission is accomplished.”
He walked around the desk and took a seat. “Following the successful completion of this assignment, I might be willing to entertain the option of returning you to Admiral Covey’s staff, based on my assessment of your performance as XO on this ship.”
Ramirez seemed to deflate somewhat at this potential olive branch. She looked at least partially mollified as she inquired, “Will that be all, sir?”
Sandhurst activated his desktop computer terminal and deliberately turned his attention to the screen. “Oversee our immediate departure as soon as all remaining crew and supplies are aboard. Inform the senior staff we’ll be having a mission briefing at oh-seven-hundred hours tomorrow. You are dismissed.”
"Aye, sir.” Ramirez spun smartly on one heel and marched out.
As he called up the ship’s personnel roster, Sandhurst picked up where he had left off aboard Epsilon station. To no one in particular he remarked, “Yeah… that could have gone better.”
*****