Chapter Text
Destruction
Forward Operating Base Merlin
Leelix III
2297
Agon Zhiq’thihq stares at the destruction in his bar. They hadn’t even been able to come in here, until some busybody from the Starfleet Corps of Engineers—a bunch of civil engineers—groundpounders, not true engineers like him, had deemed it ‘safe.’
Safe had been a relative term, as he wasn’t sure how much longer that their living quarters would still be on the upper floor and not down here. He sees Theelia directing some of the bar’s loyal customers, as well as crewmembers from the remaining squadron—no, flotilla—he’d seen the memo from Chandra’s foster-mother outlining some changes. Changes that he knew had been welcomed by the Border Dogs in those three remaining ships.
Lieutenant Commander Felix Marquez, the commander of the torpedo boats that had arrived late to the party, surveys the damage as some more of his crews move into to assist Theelia. His XO, Lieutenant Siraa Sh'sholnat, a tall woman of Agon’s people stares at him with something like loathing.
He ignores her and nods at the senior officer, clad as all of his crew are in the green trousers and the black long-sleeved T-shirts of what had once been the landing-party uniforms, but were now known as field greens.
That had been another change that the new Head Dog had decreed. When on active service in border theaters, Border Patrol crews were not authorized to wear the Service Dress uniforms in any of their incarnations. Even the working blues, which had been developed to give Starfleet crews a less dressier option than the Monster Maroons, as well as one that had less differentiation between officers and crew, were only to be worn on dressier occasions. The working blues were in danger of being abolished, as they hadn’t been popular with crews other than the Border Patrol or the Frontier Rescue Service.
The line crews had preferred to just wear less formal versions of the Monster Maroons.
Agon rolls his eyes at the thoughts of Starfleet bureaucracy. An organization that had abandoned both him and Theelia. All because a Deltan had chosen him as her mate, without either of them informing their chain of command.
“Hey, ChEng,” Marquez says, using the shortened form his former title. Agon doesn’t bother correcting him, as he would have in the past. Not a former assistant Chief Engineer who had stood by him and had left starship duty when Agon had left. “I’ve got as many as I can helping you, but we’re it as far as defense and patrol, until Group gets us more boats back here.”
Agon nods. “I understand, Felix.”
“You going to rebuild?”
“I don’t know. I’m looking at some other irons in the fire.” He looks at his wife, who is laughing at something one of the Border Dogs had said. He knows that her laughter hides her sorrow. This place had been her dream, a place where she could realize her people’s need for contact and rebuild a life for them both.
His eyes widen as he sees another figure stepping into the bar. A very tall south Asian male, his heavily bearded features familiar in the destruction.
“Hello, Francis,” he says.
“Hello, Agon. Have I got a deal for you.”
Agon sees Theelia staring at the two of them. Her eyes roll to the ceiling.
Only the Beginning
Utopia Planitia Dockyards
Sol IV/Mars
En Route to Graving Dock 23-Alpha
Chandra watches as Decker expertly pilots the utility pod through the various drydocks that make up the relatively new Utopia Planitia dockyards above Mars. Her eyes fall on a Shangri-La-class attack/defense cruiser, one of the last classes of true large warships that the Federation possesses, along with the Continent-class assault carriers.
She feels her anticipation growing, but she tamps it down, not knowing how her wayward Threads would manifest that emotion. She shoves an image of the pod on automatic pilot while she and Decker attempted to ‘mitigate’ whatever she projected.
She sees Decker’s lips curl upwards slightly; she doesn’t blush, which is progress. “You do know that you are resistible, Chan, right? ” she says.
Chandra says nothing for a moment. “So how is your selection course going?” she asks, as idly as she can.
Decker grins. “It’s going well. The usual jockeying for the top spot. I’m up there.”
“Who’s your competition?” Chandra asks.
“Couple of admiral’s grandsons. Terry Ramirez and Steve Turner.”
Chandra raises an eyebrow. “Starfleet royalty. Not just admirals, but two members of the Board of Admiralty—Grand Admirals. One who led Starfleet during the Klingon War, the other a legend of exploration. You really do pick your fights, love.”
“Oh, they shouldn’t be any trouble. They’re both going for the seduction route.”
“What do you mean?” Chandra asks.
“Oh, they’ve been trying to eliminate the little girl who’s just a commodore’s granddaughter. I’ve gotten some nice dinners out of it.” She looks sideways at Chandra. “And some exercise.”
There is a flash of something through the Link. Chandra widens her eyes. “Don’t forget your great-grandfather,” she says, shoving the image away, again. “He was an admiral, as was your great-grandmother. Not to mention your mother.”
“And a long line of captains before that,” Decker replies.
“You’ll be careful, right?”
Decker nods. “I will. It’s harmless fun. I think they both separately think they’ll distract me from the prize. Or wear me out.” She gives Chandra a sideways glance. “But I’ve learned a few things from the master. I won’t be the one getting worn out.”
“Great. I’ve created a monster,” Chandra says. “I have talked to the proctor of the course. He said that his top three ingrates, which includes you, are among the most talented he’s seen in twenty years of this course. And very close to each other in scores. So enjoy the fun, but keep up the hard work. In the end, the juice might be worth the squeeze—your hard work, not the extracurricular activities. You’ll get those lieutenant j.g.’s bars back, permanently.” She closes her eyes, knowing what is coming next.
“Oh, I’m doing some squeezing alright,” Decker replies, keeping her expression even.
“Brat,” Chandra says. She realizes that Decker is taking her close to the Shangri-La. Her eyes fall on the name and registry number.
USS Titan. NCC-1777.
She breathes out. “That’s Kaylin’s new assignment. Under Saavik,” Chandra remarks quietly.
“Yeah. Thought I’d show her to you. She’s been in refit since Khitomer. Almost four years.”
“The Enterprise-A and the Excelsior weren’t the only ships engaged with Chang’s insurgents,” Chandra says. “Jamie was aboard, as was Saavik. I was on the Enterprise-A.”
Decker nods. “I’m actually doing my thesis project on her, for the command course.” She looks at the ship in awe. “The Giant of the Red Line,” she says, exhaling. “The Battle of Epsilon Ardentis.”
Captain Taggart Took The Field
Epsilon Ardentis
On the Klingon Border
Fourteen parsecs from Khitomer
2293
Lieutenant James Blackthorne watches as the navigator is carried away, electricity arcing from his body and his console towards Jamie. Saavik catches his eye as she works to shut down the console.
He looks over at the tactical console behind the captain’s and first officer’s position. Captain Taggart Ronaine gently lays his first officer on the deck, her eyes fixed and staring at the overhead.
They’d barely had time to learn her name. Today had been her third day on the ship.
Jamie switches his gaze to the viewscreen. He sees the K’t’inga heavy showing her stern as she moves away after the devastating blows she and her fellows had given their ship. He hears Ronaine start to say something, but he anticipates it.
The red, sparkling sphere detaches from the stern tube. He feels the ship lurch to the left and hears his crewmates yell as they fall.
The photon torpedo arcs by, just missing contact with their shields. He looks back over at the tactical station.
Lieutenant Commander Pennington lies dead, the chest of his security armor, as well as the chest it had covered, if not protected, blasted away. Jamie punches a button, then looks down at the screen inset flat into the helm console. He sees the crosshairs line up on the aft part of the Klingon’s nacelle. He punches the trigger, hoping the crews on the weapons deck can and will respond to the new director control.
There is a slight burst of fire where the phaser bolt touches the Klingon. The K’t’inga does some heeling of her own.
“Good shot, Croft,” he hears Saavik from where she stands over him. She uses a nickname that she had learned from their brief time on a training cruise together, almost eight years ago now. One that had turned out as disastrous as this patrol.
“Report, Mr. Saavik,” Ronaine, man of medium height in his mid-fifties, with blue eyes and red-gold hair, says in his soft brogue.
“Shields down to thirty percent. Port nacelle is venting plasma and the mains are down. We have half-impulse power. Photon torpedo tubes are offline, but the Gunner (T) is working on them.”
“Casualties?”
“No report, Captain. The sickbay took a hit in the first attack.”
Jamie takes a deep breath. He and Saavik, who apparently is now the first officer, lock eyes. He nods. He realizes that Josiah, a junior helm officer stands behind him. A navigational technician moves to take over as quartermaster’s mate to his right. He notices her wide eyes at the blood on the console.
“Jamie, lad, take over at weps. You’ll be able to fight the ship a lot better from the main console,” Ronaine says. He looks at Josiah as he rises. “You’re the driver, Bas,” he says. “Don’t dent my ship.”
“More than Croft and the Klingons have already?” Josiah replies dryly.
Croft moves behind the captain to the tactical station.
Clarifying the Position
Sol III/Terra
Malibu, CA
2297
Jamie Blackthorne walks up the driveway towards the small house at the mouth of the canyon, facing the ocean. He stops and takes in the scene.
His eyes survey the stilted, glass-enclosed structure. It appears to be one complete room, save a water closet and some storage rooms—the open concept that hadn’t lost its popularity in the three hundred years since this house had been built, though taken to the extreme.
He moves under the house and climbs the stairs. There is no doorbell, but he is sure that he is under surveillance. Given the person who had given him the instruction to be here.
Jason Richard George opens the door. He is clad in the remnants of his business suit, an open-collared white shirt and suit trousers. Jamie feels his eyebrows raise as he glances down and sees that George is barefoot. He moves into the house. He sees the three figures in the living area, staring out at the windows that extend the width of the house overlooking the Pacific Ocean and stretch of beach.
One, the oldest, is known to most people only by a letter and controls the Federation’s civilian intelligence apparatus. She turns and gazes at him, her eyes falling on the captain’s insignia on his shoulder.
The young woman standing next to her, leaning back on the balcony’s rail, her thin face turned up to the morning sun, looks at him over a pair of sunglasses, pulled down on her upturned nose. Both women are clad in parts of business suits.
A muscular Andorian woman comes out of the full kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She surveys him with dark blue eyes. She places her bare arms over her chest, looking at him with skepticism. She snorts and turns away. “Free Agent, my ass.”
“Is dinner ready?” he asks, ignoring the sally.
“As soon as I spit in your omelette.”
“You certainly have a way with people,” the young woman standing next to C says in the light accent of her home, a small village just outside Brussels.
“I took lessons from all of the borderline personalities in this room,” he says. “Present company excepted, of course, Chantelle,” he adds hastily.
Chantelle DeBruges gives a light laugh. “Hers may be the most borderline,” C says.
Jamie looks at George, his apparent new boss. “Is there anyone else going to jump out of the clown car?” he asks. He points to the cook. “If C and her minion are here, her well-armed shen’ar can’t be far.”
Shryri zh'Raohrar sticks her tongue out at him. She turns back to plating the food.
“Zhenia will probably be along,” C says. “I figured I was safe with the newest, high-speed Federation Free Agent here and didn’t need my bodyguard.”
He says nothing. Neither, thankfully, does anyone else, until they are seated, tucking into the food that Shryri had prepared.
She had apparently put extra fheri-peppers in his omelette. He makes sure that he doesn’t show any discomfort; she appears to be judging his resilience
When they are finished, George pushes back from the table. “I guess we need to discuss your first assignment,” he says.
“Then how come the Prince isn’t here?”
George looks at C, who gives him a look that says something like, ‘this is your hole to dig yourself out of.’
“The Prince will no longer be involved in your handling.”
Jamie stares at him for a moment. Finally he gets up, wiping his mouth and dropping his napkin on the table. “Then I’m out. When I finally gave in to your dubious charm and agreed to join your little boy-band, it was with the understanding that Starfleet Intelligence would be a part of what I was doing. Nell Cavendish and those from my Academy class—along with a couple of others that are growing on me—are the only ones I actually trust to have my back.”
He turns and starts to walk out. “Sit down,” George says, a hint of menace creeping into his voice.
He stops and turns, but doesn’t sit down. “Name one good reason why?”
“Because those shiny little captain’s bars are only on your shoulder strap because of what you’re doing. Do you think Starfleet would ever entrust you with a starship?”
Without a word, he lifts his hands to the strap and quickly removes the pin. He drops it on the glass table. It is followed by the one from his sleeve. “I’m happy being someone’s XO or navigator, or tactical officer. Or even a major of marines.”
C gets up and walks over to him. “You’re right. You have a right at your level to have your own people in place. The days of Sola Thane traveling around the galaxy by herself and commandeering whatever support she needed are gone. Especially since there are only two of you, now, rather than five or more, as in the past.” She places her hand on his chest. “Come on, Croft. I know JR can be an asshole. But we need you to continue what you’re doing over the Gold Line. Especially since we have that other one embedded so much deeper in there.”
He finally nods. He stares at George, who stares back at him. Clearly, the Free Agent-King is not on board with the warm and fuzzies.
Croft walks over and sits. He makes no move to pick up the rank insignia.
“So what’s the plan?” George asks. “Since clearly I can’t fucking control you.”
“It’s pretty simple,” Croft replies. “I’m going to put my ass on the line, along with Athena and hopefully kill the Praetor-Prime’s ambitions, putting someone concerned with the Romulan people rather than her own ambitions in charge.”
The room is silent. “You don’t want much, do you?” Chantelle says quietly.
“Yeah,” George says. “You’re probably going against the entirety of the Romulan character these days.”
“Ael seems to be onboard with it. So does Megara, the other Praetor.”
“So how are you going to do all that?” C asks. “Are you concentrating on Operation Vandal, now?”
“Always have been. I’ve just gotten roped in to your little campaign against Section 31. And a few little Klingon diversions.” He looks around the table. “Oh, and one other thing. Chandra gets read in on everything that I am. If she’s going to risk everything, including the lives of her crews, she’ll know what I know.”
He can see that his words have all the popularity with at least two of his dinner companions as a photon grenade dropped in the middle of the table.
“I’m assuming she’s finding out what ship she’ll have, as we speak,” he adds.
Now Boarding
Chandra watches as the pod moves around the Titan, headed for yet another freestanding drydock. “So we’re headed to what seems to be your command project?” she asks.
Decker says nothing for a moment. “Yeah. Hunter has assigned me to it. She’s meeting us onboard.”
“So how much work is your little project?” she asks.
“Not too much. They’d completed the decommissioning process, so all the systems are having to be replaced. Should only take a couple of months. I hope the new captain might see it in her heart to give me a spot on there.”
“She might consider it,” Chandra says, “if you tell her which ship she’s headed to.”
Decker grins. “Can’t really do that, Captain. On pain of keelhauling by Admiral Hunter and Commodore Rosen. The expression turns softer. “You got to see her for yourself, Chan,” she says.
She falls quiet for a moment as the pod moves through the endless night. Chandra can tell something is on the young officer’s mind.
“I’ve got a little bit of a side project, Captain,” she says finally.
Chandra feels her eyebrow raise. “Oh yeah?” She smiles, suddenly realizing. “The Aerfen,” she says.
Decker nods.
“I didn’t realize that anyone was allocated to her refit,” Chandra says.
“They’re not,” Decker replies. She focuses on the controls.
Chandra nods, not pressing any further. She turns back to look out the port. Her eyes focus on another thin shape, with a larger shape inside. She exhales sharply as she sees the two upraised nacelles over the secondary hull.
The saucer of the primary hull starts to gleam in the light of the drydock.
“How do you feel about commanding a cruiser?” Decker asks suddenly. “A starship?”
Chandra stares at the approaching ship. “It’s what I’ve always wanted,” she admits.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Decker raise her eyebrows. “I didn’t know. I thought you’d always wanted to be a Border Dog.”
“I came to it late, sweetie,” she says, turning to face her. “After Vostus. No. I’ve always wanted to command a starship. But I don’t know if this is the right time or not. I still got things to do with the Border Dogs.”
She sees Decker expertly bring the pod in from the port of the ship. She is sure that her ensign had intentionally kept her from seeing the name of the ship.
She can’t help but see it now as the pod comes in to dock at the portside torpedo airlock. She exhales. She can feel Decker’s wide grin, without even seeing it, as her eyes are fixed on the standard Starfleet font of the lettering.
USS YORKTOWN
NCC-1712.