Chapter Text
By Way of Deception
Starfleet Command Sol III (Terra)
San Francisco, old state of California
2296
Rear Admiral Hunter watches the numbers increase in the turbolift. There is no one else in the car with her, only people with a need to go see the Prince being allowed in this particular ‘lift.
Especially as his only defense is a Chief Administrative Technician (Command/Intelligence), who probably has more power and skill than most starship defensive systems.
Not to mention their offensive capabilities.
The door opens.
A tall woman, even taller than Chandra, stands there in full service-dress uniform, complete with white command shirt and markings, and the rank pin of a lieutenant commander. Hunter thinks that she is probably her foster-daughter’s age with a short brown bob.
Hunter’s eyes narrow as they fall on the purple streak in the front of her hair. She decides not to make an enemy of the young woman, as she wears the aiguillette of a staff officer on her left shoulder.
Especially when she looks down at the feather braided into her own hair, from the traditions of the colony world she’d been born on and adopted into the society.
The young woman comes to attention. She waits there until Hunter nods, then tentatively extends her hand. “Admiral Hunter. It’s good to meet you. I’m Eleanora Cavendish. I’m Admiral McCall’s flag lieutenant,” she says in an upper crust English accent. Hunter notices that she pronounces her title in the usual way, rather than as ‘leftenant.’ Something that warms Hunter’s military history heart with its preciseness.
Only the Army in England had pronounced it that way. The Royal Navy had pronounced it in the usual way that the rest of Earth had pronounced it for a long time. Not many people know that.
“Lead the way, Flag,” Hunter says.
She notices that the officer is wearing the regulation skirt, rather than the service dress trousers.
Cavendish is also in possession of a pair of very long legs.
She stops at a pair of wood-paneled doors. Hunter narrows her eyes as she sees lettering on the doors that proclaim this the inner sanctum of the DIRECTOR of STARFLEET INTELLIGENCE, UNITED FEDERATION of PLANETS. Hunter grits her teeth. Every other admiral in the fleet bears the title of ‘Commander’, or ‘Chief,’ except for McCall. Just like his father.
A scanning beam comes down and locks on Cavendish’s dark brown left eye.
The doors open.
A woman in her forties sits at a desk. She comes up to stand at attention. Her thick red hair is tamed in a queue; her dark eyes study Hunter. She is clad in the white undershirt with a delta pinned on the left side of her chest, with her rank on display on it. Her trousers show no stripe along the seam, indicating that she is one of the senior technician ranks, rather than an officer. The short ‘bomber’ version of the service dress jacket, with a single, broad white shoulder strap on the right shoulder hangs precisely on the rack.
The delta bears the insignia of a Senior Chief, with a white background on the rank title part.
“I’m the Admiral’s yeoman. You can call me Castellan.”
She sees Cavendish roll her eyes. From Hunter’s own inside knowledge, she knows that the flag lieutenant’s codename is ‘Battleaxe’.
“Hello, Hunter,” comes a dry voice, with the inflection of Texas still in it, after all of these years.
She turns and give the man a warm, but wary smile. She can see that the face has gained a few more wrinkles and crags in it, along with his seventieth birthday. The blue eyes are still just as intense, as when he had been completing a tour as an instructor in history at the Academy and she an overaged retread cadet with five years’ service in the Fleet, on the frontier.
Hunter walks in, with the door closing behind her, or at least behind Cavendish. She crosses over to him just as he advances on her.
She holds herself against his chest for a long moment.
“Congratulations on your new job. I think it suits you much more.” He moves over to a conference table, pointing out the coffee carafe.
“I do too,” she replies.
“At least now I won’t be raked over the coals as much by the OPSPEC chief’s hatchet woman.”
“Yeah, you’re now able to rake me over the coals as just a field commander.” She narrows her eyes. “Which I think that you’re about to do.”
“Not really,” he says. “Just some caution for one of your groups.” He gives a wolfish grin. “I’m especially not going to be raking someone who I’m advocating to be the next Head Dog of the Border Patrol.”
Hunter exhales sharply. She is hopeful that she gives him enough of a baleful glance to discourage him in that endeavor.
Cavendish sits against the wall, near the view of San Francisco Bay. She watches both of them from where she sits, a PADD in her lap. The stylus in her right hand. Hunter gives her a quick smirk, which is returned.
She knows that in spite of the Flag’s lawyerly demeanor and her upper crust accent and family connections, she is quite capable of putting that stylus into an attacker or a target’s eye.
To protect those who she serves, or those who she loves.
Hunter knows that includes a few of her Academy classmates. Including her foster-daughter and Chandra’s once and hopefully future love.
She comes back to herself. Jameson McCall is watching her carefully.
“What is it?”
“It seems like the 17th might be stepping into an op that my people on the Romulan border are running. I could use your discretion in telling Chandra to back off.”
Hunter feels her left eyebrow climb. “That depends. It better be a good reason for me to interfere in a field unit’s operations. Plus, it depends on what the hell your people are stepping into as well. It could get mine killed.”
The sharp blue eyes narrow at her. Finally he nods. “Then I’ll read you in. At least some of it. And a lot of it can’t be read in to your people on the ground.”
“Well, if I know some of your Clandestine folks, my crews’ll figure it out when there is a brass fucking band marching through the op.”
The blue eyes don’t just narrow, but flash. Hunter feels a warning look from Cavendish to her.
To her boss, Cavendish says, “Director, Admiral Hunter’s folks know what they’re doing. Probably more so than any of the other Border Dogs out there. Especially after what that group went through and what they managed to pull off while going through it.”
Her eyes harden at her boss. He looks at her with that predator’s look, but she doesn’t seem to quake in her boots.
Finally he shakes his head. “Yes, your Grace,” he says. There is no hint of sarcasm—any more than the usual—in what he says.
Hunter feels her eyebrows knit together at the honorific.
McCall says, “You’re sitting in the room with the 27th Duchess of Devonshire. When they finally made it where the oldest inherited a title of nobility, not just royalty, no matter what gender, they maybe thinned out the dumbassery of the English nobility a bit.” He looks at Cavendish with what is probably the closest thing she’ll see to fondness. “Especially with this one.”
Cavendish smirks at him. “They probably did that when the Honorable Robert McCall left England for Texas.”
Hunter laughs out loud at the mention of Jameson McCall’s father. The first ‘Director’ of Starfleet Intelligence.
Their laughter, which Jameson shares in, subsides after a moment as they come back to the subject at hand.
Hunter stares out the window at the Bay. She knows that those particular windows have a distortion built in them, so that anyone trying to snipe the Admiral or anyone within would be off target.
If their shot could get through the window’s reactive shielding. And if a certain Yeoman’s own rifle doesn’t mark them a moment later.
“How big is this op?” Hunter asks finally. “Are your assets in harm’s way?”
McCall looks at Cavendish. After a moment, she nods quickly.
“Big,” he starts. He nods to himself. “It could destabilize the Romulan government. Or at least one portion of it.”
“Haven’t we tried that before? With Ael’s folks?” She looks down. “Her movement?”
“Yes. And we’ve succeeded only in having a small government-in-exile. One that bears the S’harien blade from the Empty Chair in the Senate.” He closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens the blue windows he looks into Cavendish’s dark brown ones. “Nell?” he asks.
The young woman narrows her eyes at him—Hunter knows that name is reserved for only a few. Perhaps only three or four from an Academy class. Including her foster-daughter. After a moment, she gives that briefest of nods and replies, “Go ahead.” She pauses. “Jimmy.”
Speaking of forbidden names, Hunter thinks.
He tears his eyes away from Cavendish, which Hunter knows she prefers. His look says, I’ll deal with you later.
The look is returned.
“We have someone high up in the government. A former Admiral-Superlative, then Senator, then higher.”
She marks what he doesn’t say in the litany of positions. “Probability of this going ass-end-upwards?” she asks.
“High. Almost certain. Except for the elements on the ground. Or ‘grounds’ I should say.”
Hunter says nothing, but listens. She waits on him to say the name of one of those elements.
He exhales, then nods. “Croft is part of it.”
Hunter pounces. “So his former bondmate—maybe even still, I don’t know—believes that he ran away after Vostus?”
“As far as Starfleet is concerned, he did run. It needs to be that way. So if you’re asked, you’ll salute and tell Chandra he is.”
“Oh, no, hell I won’t,” she says emphatically.
He stands up. She follows suit, moving into his personal space. Hunter wonders if she’ll get the stylus through her eye in defense of Cavendish’s master.
Instead, Cavendish remains seated. He looks at her, then back at Hunter. He gestures at his aide. “Just so you know, she agrees with you.”
Hunter says nothing. At least until something hits her. “Chandra can be a part of this. Even if she doesn’t know about him.”
He doesn’t immediately rebut her. “Go on,” he says after a moment.
“The 17th is rated as Special Operations Capable. Which means that they can be trusted to support intelligence operations—even behind enemy lines, or in hostile territory.”
She sees Cavendish sit up. A slow smile quirks one side of mouth. It disappears just as quickly when McCall looks over at her.
“We could use more support. But we do have to keep it compartmentalized.”
“Within reason,” Hunter says. “The Captain of the Light Forces SOC group should be read in.”
“That’ll be up to the senior asset and operator.”
She and Cavendish exchange looks, but keep the expressions even.
He looks at Hunter. “And I think that it’s also up to the Control officer.”
“And who would that be?”
He points at Cavendish, without even looking.
Hunter says nothing for a moment, then shoves forward. “As you know, the 17th’s numbers have been depleted by the division commander using them as a ‘reserve’ group, rather than what they were created and trained for. They’ve managed to be reinforced by a torpedo squadron, but they’re short on Lancers.”
She tries to keep any sort of calculation from her tone.
From his look, she doesn’t succeed as well as she’d thought she would.
Finally, he looks at Cavendish. “See to it. Use our squadron if you need to.” He looks back at Hunter. “It looks like this whole thing started with your daughter trying to con a Free Vessel into joining them. I think I’ll let that continue for longer than the initial contract. For my own amusement if nothing else.
“Dismissed,” he says.
Hunter rises, snaps to, then turns to leave.
In the outer office, Cavendish turns to her. “That was well-played, Admiral.”
“Thanks, Cav,” she says. “You’ll handle informing Chandra, or at least your asset?”
She nods. She looks at her chronometer. “The sun’s almost over the yardarm. Castellan and I are through for the day. Fancy dinner and a drink? We can catch up on what Chandra’s up to, as well as that brat of a daughter of yours.”
“Sounds good.” She looks at the yeoman. “As long as I can learn what Castellan’s real name is.”
“That’s only for pillow talk, Admiral,” Castellan says.
As she raises her drink to the two women, both of whom are no longer in regulation Starfleet service dress uniform, but in garments that could be classified as ‘little black things,’ she wonders how the 17th are doing.
She smiles, thinking that they could use some good news about now.
The Backdoor
Siobhan grits her teeth and switches her phaser to her left hand. She holds her right arm down by her side. She pokes her head to side of the large stanchion that has somehow been keeping her from being disintegrated from the inside out. She nearly starts that disintegration at her head for her troubles.
She isn’t sure how much the duranium knock-off would hold.
“If you value that part of you, little girl, you might want to keep it behind cover,” says the Romulan woman.
Siobhan wonders what the Romulan word for ‘asshole’ is.
“‘De’atrix,’ is a good substitute,” Kaylin says from the stanchion she shares with ‘the Captain.’
The Romulan woman, D’Shaya stares at her, then fires to her right, without even switching her gaze to the target. Siobhan hears the scream of a Klingon warrior as she is hit in her chest.
The disentegration takes much more time than it should, given where the bolt strikes the armor.
“We need to get to the ship,” D’Shaya says. “We can fire up the antipersonnel cannons then. Make mincemeat out of these targ-humpers.”
Siobhan looks over at the ramp. It might as well be a light year, as both groups seem to have that area zeroed. Freetown seems to have demonstrated that as he had received a scorch mark on his ass when he had come the closest.
Fortunately the reaction of the disruptor hadn’t taken hold with the glancing blow.
“We’re going to need a distraction,” Kaylin says.
“Yeah. I know. You volunteering, Commander Sweetcheeks?” D’Shaya asks.
“Sweetcheeks, this,” Siobhan whispers. Kaylin hears it, as well as sees the gesture accompanying it.
She is sure that D’Shaya heard it as well, with keener-than-human-hearing.
“Guys, I just need to get to the ramp. Got something right there that I think will even the odds,” Freetown says.
“What’s that?” Siobhan asks. As she looks directly at him, she sees D’Shaya clearly out of her peripheral vision. The woman shakes her head and rolls her eyes simultaneously.
“I call it my…odds-evener.”
Siobhan meets D’Shaya’s eyes, then Kaylin’s.
“Looks like we’re going to have to save our own asses, Shiv,” Kaylin says.
D’Shaya’s face twists with anger. “Don’t lump me in with that dumbass,” she spits.
“Never doubted it, Kay,” Shiv replies, ignoring the Romulan. The familiarity is born out of membership in the Border Patrol, as well as nearly being slaughtered by some of these Klingon’s kinfolk or clanfolk.
“These two asshats are what you were looking for to join the squadron?”
“To be the crew of the squadron leader, to be exact,” Kaylin says.
“We’re crouching right here,” D’Shaya says.
“We know,” Shiv and Kaylin reply in unison.
“Maybe we don’t want to be a part of your little club,” Freetown says.
“Oh, yeah, and what would you do if you weren’t? Ain’t exactly seen you burning up hyperspace in the last few weeks. Deuterium don’t grown on trees,” Siobhan says. She winces as she hears her grammar and syntax loosening up while her accent sharpens.
“And what are you going to do, little girl?”
Siobhan is about to retort, but realizes that she might be engaging in a battle of wits with an unarmed man. She gives Kaylin only a little heads up, then jumps up and runs for a stanchion over a bit farther away, firing her phaser as she does.
“Goddamnit, Shiv,” Kaylin screams.
She can see the puffs of dirt and flame as she jinks right and left.
More and more erupt as all of the Klingons focus on her. She manages to make it to cover, but she realizes this one is smaller than the others.
“Come on Francis,” she hears D’Shaya exclaim. “Get your finger out. Little girl’s done something stupid.”
She glances back and sees Freetown, or Francis, back at the ramp. He reaches up and pulls a long rifle that looks like it has a long, single-edged cleaver for a bayonet in front of the foregrip, from the ramp housing.
He laughs in triumph. “Odds-evener,” he yells. He pulls the trigger.
Nothing but a few sparks come out of the muzzle. He tries again, with the same result.
He shakes the rifle.
“Fucking Francis,” D’Shaya and Kaylin spit at the same time.
“It’s not my fault,” he says in a whiny voice. “It’s not my fault.”
Siobhan feels the heat of the disruptors starting to melt the stanchion.
A word in Romulan cuts through her hearing. She turns in time to see D’Shaya pull a duplicate disruptor from the back of her belt with her left hand, stand up, and charge.
Opening fire with both of them. Each bolt taking out a House of Klinzhai soldier.
Just as a dozen more start to run into the docking bay.
D’Shaya slides to a stop, parallel to Siobhan’s position. She dives to the ground.
Just as a roaring sound permeates the air above the open docking bay. The ground starts to tremble, then outright shake.
The Comstock blots out the sky as she slowly, majestically moves over the bay.
Beams start to strike the ground, as well as the Klingons. Siobhan sees the ventral ramp lowering. A crew member runs out, a safety line attached to his harness. He is holding a large phaser, which he mounts to the extending column of the ramp.
At least two of the single mounts are firing from the open conning platform above and slightly behind the bridge.
She is conscious of Kaylin yelling and screaming, with some whooping involved, as well. Shiv is just able to make out what is being said.
“That’ll teach you to screw with the Banshees!”
It is the figure behind the gunner on the ramp that draws Shiv’s attention.
Chandra stands there, her holstered, nonstandard assault phaser on her hip. Her arms are crossed in her sleeveless vest, ignoring the cold.
Her eyes are burning hot azure as they stare at Kaylin and Siobhan.