Chapter Text
Starbase 371
The two stood in the viewing gallery of the repair gantry which looked out upon the sight of the starship Gibraltar swarmed by work pods, space-suited engineers, and robotic repair drones.
Commander Leslie Nowark, a tall, willowy red head wearing the mustard collar of an SCE senior engineer shook her billowing scarlet curls as she reviewed the results of her engineering team’s initial inspection. “You took a big gamble bringing her here, Donald.”
Sandhurst stood with his arms folded across his chest as he idly watched the teams strip the battered and holed hull plating from the aft third of the engineering hull. Without looking at his old friend, he replied, “As opposed to where, Les? Point Station Delta? DS9? The Fantoma Yards?” He sighed tiredly. “I almost asked to be towed to 375. With everyone busy rebuilding the starbase, I figured nobody would notice.”
Nowark turned to face him. “You and I both know that in the past nine months you’ve put more stress on Gibraltar’s spaceframe and incurred more structural fatigue than in her first ninety years of service. By all rights, she should be retired from duty permanently—“
“Fine,” he replied heatedly as his face darkened. “Yes, that’s precisely why I had her towed here, Les. I knew that you’d at least hear me out.”
She rolled her eyes. “You mean you thought I’d let you talk me into authorizing a structural refit that violates half a dozen logistics and safety protocols. Gibraltar is a full twenty percent over the redline acceptable standards for spaceworthy operations.”
“We’ve had an eventful tour,” Sandhurst offered, his voice subdued.
She gave him a skeptical look and sighed. “Please don’t tell me you’re emotionally attached to this ship. You’re an engineer for heaven’s sake… of all the people who’d ought to know better…”
“She’s my ship, I’m her captain,” Sandhurst said with such quiet conviction that it brought Nowark up short. “Until you’ve sat in the center seat, you can’t understand.”
Nowark scanned the contents of her padd and shook her head again as she took stock of the ship’s recent entanglements. “Orbital combat at Lakesh, gravitational shearing and two ejected nacelles in what’s listed as a classified mission two months later. More combat and serious structural damage during your foray into the Briar Patch… not to mention the pounding you so recently survived at Yashk’lin IV. And now you’ve taken more damage while simultaneously burning out every isoliner circuit in the ship and scorching five-hundred kilometers worth of optic data cable.”
“Thanks for the run-down,” he said acidly. “I was there.”
Nowark reached out a hand to grasp Sandhurst’s shoulder lightly. “Donald, there are other ships, newer ships. SCE’s still on wartime production footing; we’re churning out dozens of starships a month all over the Federation. Finding people to crew them, that’s where we’re coming up short. And with Starfleet Command repealing the stop-loss orders next month, we’ll be even more desperate to find good crews for the new ships.”
“I’m not interested in another ship, Leslie.”
She studied the padd in silence for a few moments as she contemplated pushing the key that would cease repair operations on the Gibraltar and initiate a decommissioning cycle. Nowark glanced up at Sandhurst and reflected on all he had done for her over the years. “You know,” she said, her voice suddenly heavy with emotion, “you’re the finest engineer and supervisor I’ve ever worked for. You were always cheerful, supportive, and endlessly patient with all of us who served under you. You taught me everything you knew and pushed me to strive for even greater achievements as an officer and an engineer. I owe a large part of my position as yard master here to your guidance.”
She touched her other hand to the padd to register her thumbprint and subsequently signed off on a Level-2 structural overhaul for NCC-1859, USS Gibraltar. “I consider us even, Donald.”
He nodded fractionally in reply, his gaze still fixed on the starship. “Thank you, Les. This means more to me than you can know.”
“Did I hear right?” Nowark asked, steering the conversation away from the questionable repair order. “You and Pell are back together?”
He pulled his eyes away from his ship and turned towards Nowark. “Yes, actually.”
She smiled warmly. “Good. The two of you were always a good fit for each other. And you look as though you could use a little happiness in your life.”
He managed a smile, now tinged with relief. “I couldn’t agree more.”
As she looked past him at the old Constitution-class, her interior exposed amidst the frenzied activity of people, pods, and drones, Nowark spoke with conviction. “If you want to keep Gibraltar any longer, you’d best be gentle with her. This is a temporary fix, not a cure by any stretch of the imagination. You go and get beat up on again, and I guarantee you that SCE will scrap her so fast you’ll think she’d been beamed out from under you. Am I clear?”
“As crystal, Commander.”
Nowark embraced him in a brief hug. “Good luck, Captain.” Then she was gone, heading off to oversee repairs to the less badly damaged Bluefin.
Sandhurst was left in silent communion with his first command.
*****
USS Bluefin
Akinola entered the brig and made his way to the invisible energy barrier that barred the escape of former Starfleet captain Benjamin Maxwell.
Maxwell was sitting on the built-in bunk, reading a data padd, and glanced up as Akinola approached. “Joseph Akinola,” the cutter CO said by way of introduction. Maxwell said nothing in response.
“You know,” Akinola began, “I used to read about your exploits during the Cardassian Wars, and even prior to that. Your first contact with the Kobheerians, your handling of the Capellan dynastic crisis… practically the stuff of legend.”
“Your point?” Maxwell asked dryly.
“My point is that given what happened to your family, I can understand and even forgive what you perpetrated against the Cardassians a decade ago. I think it was a sad and ignoble way to end a stellar career, but you made your choice and accepted the consequences.” Akinola paused to inspect the man, so much smaller and more unremarkable than the infamous living legend he had expected. “What I can’t figure out is why, after having paid your debt to society for your crimes, you’d turn around and take up arms against the Federation.”
Maxwell tossed the padd onto his bunk. "The Federation turned its back on me, just like it turned its back on the original settlers in the DMZ.”
“And what do my crew and Captain Sandhurst’s have to do with that?”
Maxwell looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“One of my men, Petty Officer Jahlwen, is burned over sixty percent of his body, and is now blind in one eye because of you, Maxwell. Ensign Albert Diamato from the Gibraltar was murdered by one of your crew when they beamed over to steal medical supplies. Diamato survived a half-dozen engagements since he graduated the academy less than a year ago. He was the middle child in a family of three, and according to his records, Albert dreamed of becoming a Starfleet officer since he was a child.”
The color drained from Maxwell’s face. “That… that’s not my concern. You just don’t see the big picture.”
“Oh, I see the big picture just fine, Mr. Maxwell. The Cardassians hurt you, so you hurt them back. I understand vengeance quite well. But you failed to realize that when you butchered the Cardassians with the Phoenix that you not only disgraced yourself and your uniform, you also stained the memory of your wife and children.”
Maxwell stood suddenly, advancing on the energy barrier. “You leave them the hell out of this!”
“Do you think this is how they wanted to see you, Benjamin?” Akinola’s expression was one of disdain, tinged with pity. “Reduced from an exalted starship captain to a caged animal? Wherever they are, I have to believe they’re terribly disappointed in you.”
“Shut up! Shut up, damn you!” Maxwell howled as he charged the screen, only to be sent reeling backwards from the powerful contact discharge. He collapsed to the deck and lay gasping as he looked at his captor with pure hatred.
“Benjamin Maxwell, whatever you were before, you’ve now become a small, pathetic man and you will rightfully spend the rest of your life in confinement. I’d blow you out the nearest airlock for the pure enjoyment of it, but I’d be bringing myself down to your level.” Despite his own better judgment, Akinola reached out and deactivated the security field. The specialist manning the monitoring desk stood and drew his phaser. Akinola waved him off. “Dismissed, crewman.” The man turned smartly and walked out without hesitation.
Akinola stepped into the cell and snarled, “C’mon, Maxwell. Let’s see what you’ve got. Show me some of that righteous Maquis fire, you cowardly little shit.”
Maxwell clambered slowly to his feet as he took measure of the officer facing him. Akinola held himself in a casual seeming posture, a dead giveaway that he knew how to handle himself. The former Starfleet captain predicted a high probability that if he charged Akinola, the man would wipe the floor with him and cherish every second of the experience. He gathered what little pride he could, turned and returned to the bunk.
“Yeah,” Akinola breathed, his voice dripping with contempt. “That’s what I thought.” He stepped out of the cell, reactivated the field, and walked towards the exit. He paused on the threshold and turned back. “And on those cold nights in whatever hole they stick you for the rest of your days, I hope the fact that you were beaten by a seventy-year old cutter commanded by a former enlisted man keeps you warm at night.”
*****
Starbase 371
Surface Complex, Galleria Commercial Zone
Bons Temps De Café
Pell found her sitting at an outdoor table at the café, a nibbled-on croissant and half-empty cup of coffee in front of her along with an array of padds that littered the table top.
She approached Ramirez’s table. "You up for company, Liana?”
Ramirez pulled her attention from one of the padds and looked up with a smile. “Of course, Ojana. Please, have a seat.”
A waiter approached, and Pell asked for a cup of raktajino, eliciting a disapproving frown from a haughty Tiburonian waiter whom Pell mused must have come from his planet’s own version of France.
Pell inclined her head towards the assortment of padds cluttering the table. “You look like you’re cramming for an academy final.”
Her smile widened and Ramirez shook her head lightly. “It almost feels like that, but no.” She held up one of the padds, which displayed a rotating view of a Norway-class starship.
Pell examined it curiously. “USS Yassim… is that named after Vedek Yassim?”
“In fact it is. A brave woman, that. Did you know that Colonel Kira credits Yassim’s suicide on DS9’s promenade with sparking her resistance cell?”
“Yes, actually. Yassim’s a bit of a celebrity on Bajor right now, but I’m pleased a Bajoran martyr is receiving that kind of recognition by the Federation.” Pell accepted her Klingon coffee from the waiter, who carried the drink as if it were radioactive. “Who’s the Yassim belong to?”
“She’s finishing her final phase of construction at Utopia Planitia right now, and after she finishes trials in two months, she’ll belong to me.”
Her eyes widened with surprise and Pell laughed. “Liana, that’s wonderful. Congratulations!”
Ramirez beamed proudly and accepted the padd back from Pell. “It’s not official yet, but I have it on good authority that both the Yassim commission and my promotion to captain are a done deal.” She eyed the Bajoran officer meaningfully. “Of course, this means the captain will have to find another XO.”
Pell dipped her head, suddenly finding the tabletop endlessly fascinating. "That's not for me, Liana. I’ve been first officer before, more out of obligation and friendship than anything else. It wasn’t for me.”
Ramirez scrutinized her. “Is this about the Maquis crippling the ship? I’ve read the logs, Ojana, you did everything you could. You were up against Ben Maxwell. There’s no shame in losing to someone of that caliber. Gibraltar’s still here battered but intact, and Maxwell’s in custody, so everything worked out.”
Pell, never one to fret obsessively about something, nodded reluctantly. “I suppose, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t want the job. I’m fine serving as second officer in addition to my diplomatic duties. Besides, Donald and I being involved would make my being exec very complicated.”
Ramirez agreed and conceded the point. “That’s true enough. I suppose he’ll have to start burning the midnight oil and find himself some other ambitious young officer.”
Pell grinned. “You mean one he doesn’t have to shanghai into the job against her will?”
Ramirez blushed. “I’ll admit, I was angry as hell when I was posted to Gibraltar. In the end, though, it’s been a master’s level education in command. It beats doing scheduling for an admiral and making sure her coffee is the right temperature.”
As she raised her cup of raktajino, Pell smirked. “You’d better believe it. Monica’s very finicky about her coffee.”
*****
USS Bluefin
“I’m not sure how much pull I’ll have with regular Fleet Ops, Joseph, but I’m willing to give it a shot.” Admiral Morgan Bateson inspected his old friend carefully over the comlink. “Can I ask why this is so important to you?”
Seated in his ready room, Akinola had an unobstructed view of Gibraltar, which shared the cavernous interior docking bay with Bluefin and a half dozen other ships of various classes. “They’re a good crew, Morgan, and they’re damn close to reaching the breaking point. I thought we’d been in some hot situations since the end of the war, but these people have been raked over the coals repeatedly. There’s no such thing as routine escort duties anywhere near occupied Cardassian territory. Insurgents, pirates, raiders, everybody’s shown up to the party out here.”
Bateson referenced a secondary data terminal. “There are dozens of ships assigned to those duties along the old DMZ, Joseph. Some Border Service, many regular Fleet. What makes this crew so special?”
He paused to gather his thoughts and Akinola finally replied, “They remind me a lot of my own people. They’re brave, dedicated, and constantly in it up to their necks. I’d just like to see them get a break, even if just for a few weeks.”
Bateson looked unsure. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises though.”
Akinola smiled wearily. “Good enough for me, sir.”
Bateson changed tacks and called up a split screen, his image on one half, and an abbreviated tactical chart of the former DMZ region. “Owing to the increased activity out there, the Border Service has been asked to step up and relieve some of the pressure on the regular Fleet. Apparently, the Talarians are taking the opportunity to start saber rattling again, and Starfleet’s sending additional resources to patrol our border with the Little Cousins.” It was an old deprecating nickname for the Talarian people, who had been so named a generation ago by Starfleet during the border skirmishes with their military. Due to their cranial ridges and warlike nature, people had likened them to ‘Little Cousins’ of the Klingons.
“After you’ve completed repairs, I’m tasking you to report to Point Station Gamma inside occupied Cardassian territory. I hear the place makes Star Station Echo look like an engineering marvel.”
Akinola bobbed his head in assent and said, “How long will we be out here, Morgan? This place is making me homesick for the Molari Badlands.”
“Tough to say. I promise I’ll try to get you back here as soon as possible, but if the situation keeps deteriorating, there’s no telling.”
A knowing smile on his lips, Joseph Akinola sighed. “The life of a cutter crew. We’ll get the job done, sir.”
“You always do, Captain.”
*****