Chapter Text
Coming Aboard to Join
Lieutenant Jade Salieri stands at attention in front of her new captain. She knows that her Monster Maroon is pin-perfect and the cowlick that has perpetually plagued her short hair has been tamed with a planet’s worth of product.
Saavik’s eyes, which resemble the mineral from earth that had given Jade the first name, moves up from the PADD, which most probably contains all of her past Starfleet sins, listed chronologically and probably sorted by subject.
Kaylin Stone-Hunter stands at parade rest behind Saavik, against the backdrop of Mars in the open drydock. Her eyes are on Jade, Starfleet correct.
Probably hoping that her ‘project’ doesn’t pee on the floor in front of her new captain. Jade tamps down the resentment. Apparently not quickly enough, as she sees Kaylin’s dark eyes narrow at her.
“I see a great deal of good here, Lieutenant. Unbalanced by, as my XO would put it so aptly, ‘a propensity for Fleet-level bullshit’.”
The obscenity, even in a quote, seems to roll off Saavik’s tongue easily. This is a woman, who in spite of her heritage is comfortable in the ‘colorful metaphors’ of various worlds.
Saavik’s lip quirks up. “Stand at ease, Lieutenant. In fact, sit.”
“I’d rather stand, Captain. It will make it easier when you toss my ass off your pretty ship.”
Jade sees Kaylin close her eyes.
Shit, Jade thinks. You’ve blown it again.
“I don’t need you to stand, Mr. Salieri,” Saavik says. “I’m perfectly capable of, as you put it, ‘tossing your ass off of my ship,’ from a seated position.”
Jade sits. She realizes that Saavik has referred to her by name, rather than just her rank, coupled with the familiarity of the ‘Mister.’
“Something I don’t intend to do,” Saavik adds. “I trust Commander Stone-Hunter. I chose her as my XO, over many other more senior candidates. I value candid input, at least until I’ve made a decision. But you will give it to only me and/or with Kaylin in the room if it goes beyond normal discussion in the department heads’ meeting. Not in front of other peers, and most certainly not in front of junior officers or the crew.
She finds herself nodding. “Understood, Captain,” she manages, hoping that the emotion of finally finding someone who would not only give her a second chance, but would be someone she could follow into whatever level of hell that she needed to, doesn’t cause her to burst into tears.
Saavik stands up from the conference table. Jade rises as well. “Thank you, Captain,” she says.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Salieri. Try not to be the patron saint of mediocrity.”
Jade stands there, her mouth agape.
Did she just quote a twentieth-century movie about Mozart, referring to my ancestor?
She sees that Kaylin is grinning broadly.
Bigger Plans
Chandra takes Hunter’s hand as she enters the ready room. Decker follows behind her, then allows Hunter to sit at the conference table before taking a seat along the bulkhead, the very picture of the dutiful junior aide.
There are no other senior aides. Hunter hasn’t found a chief of staff or a flag lieutenant yet. Only Decker and a chief yeoman.
The door snaps open again. Morgan McMurtry, ‘M-cubed’ as Emma Rosewarne had called her, probably in revenge for the ‘Prickly’ sobriquet that she had coined, walks in. Hunter gets up and takes her hand, then pulls her into a deep embrace.
When they break apart, Hunter extends her hand to the newest department head for the ship.
Lieutenant Commander Ava Fonseca, the new Ops Manager as the position was now called, remains standing until Hunter gestures towards one of the seats.
“So we need to discuss what your secret evil plan is for the Yorkie and the Banshees,” Chandra says.
“I’m not sure the current crew of the Yorktown would be thrilled with you referring to them by the nickname of a small, yappy dog,” Hunter says dryly.
“Sorry. Old habits,” Chandra says. “Comes from serving on at least two versions of the flagship of the fleet, the Big E.”
“I think that you’ll need to get over it, Chan,” Hunter says.
Chandra nods. “Though a little bit of arrogance goes a long way.”
“We have two questions that we need answers for. One will be easy. Do you have an idea of organization and distribution of your cutters?” Hunter asks.
“I do, Admiral. I’ve discussed with with Commander Storm, who couldn’t be here today, as she’s actually meeting with the other flotilla commanders.”
“Are they getting your plan?”
“At least part of it. I wanted buy-in and input from them, in addition to yours.”
Decker hands Hunter her PADD. She scans the list for a moment. “I notice you still have Aerfen on here?”
Chandra avoids Decker’s gaze. “I do. I’m not sure she’ll stand with us though. I’m trying to at least keep her from the breaker’s yard.”
Hunter is quiet for a moment. Chandra can see the raw emotion in her eyes. Finally she looks directly at Chandra. “I see how you’re avoiding eye contact with my junior aide, so that tells me that she is involved in any shenanigans that I shouldn’t know of.”
Chandra says nothing, but sees Decker’s widened eyes. “And the other question, Admiral?” she asks.
“You’re going to be staffing up the Yorktown with officers that have primarily served in the Border Dogs, as well as some crewmembers. How do you expect to mesh the two?”
Chandra is silent for a moment. “Very carefully. All of my senior officers have served with the Border Dogs, that is correct. But with the exception of Decker—if you let her go—they’ve all served on starships and heavier scouts. They know starship crews. I think the biggest adjustment will be for the starship crews. Hopefully that sensitivity will go a long way.
Hunter nods. “And the uniform issue?”
“I may have to ask for a dispensation on that, Admiral. I’m not sure that putting everybody in field greens is the best idea. Hell, even on landing party missions, the crews will probably still wear the turtlenecks under the field tops.”
Chandra sees that Hunter is thoughtful. “Do what you think best on that Chan. Offer them the opportunity, but they probably don’t need to look like a bunch of pirates. Hopefully the Charlies and the Deltas will at least catch on.” She looks down her nose at her foster daughter. “Your little modified Bravo uniform, with your cleavage hanging out in the vest probably won’t go over well.”
“Might raise the morale,” Morgan says with a smirk.
The laughter fades after a moment.
“We’ll need to discuss your first mission, Chan,” Hunter says softly.
Chandra gestures to Ava Fonseca. “Lieutenant Commander Fonseca was on the Starlight before she went down. She has some suggestions for us.”
“I think that we’re going to have to be able to accept a certain amount of fleas,” she says.
Hunter’s eyebrows raise at that. She suddenly nods with realization. She looks at Chandra. “You’re going to be lying down with dogs.”
“Yeah. With a Targsbane to be precise. We have to do what we can to re-establish Croft with the fifth column or whatever the hell it is he was doing some lying down with.”
“So is our ‘diplomatic liaison officer’ going under as well?” Chandra asks.
Ava is thoughtful for a moment. “At least maybe with Ael’s crew. I think it would be safer, especially if we have to insert Croft deep again.”
“I think we’re going to have to do that,” Hunter says. “I’ll talk to that narcissist who is his new boss. I’m sure McCall and C will want to weigh in.”
When she mentions the last name, or initial, she looks straight at Morgan McMurtry.
Deviousness
Decker Sinclair watches her fellow command course students celebrate the ending of the first month of class. She sips her drink, a Horse’s Neck that the Academy bar specializes in.
Brandy and ginger ale. The traditional drink of Royal Navy officers at least since the early twentieth century. She’d developed a taste for it when she had been a first-class cadet and allowed to be served at this establishment.
A shadow passes over her. Terry Ramirez, grandson of Marcus Ramirez, who’d led Starfleet through the cauldron of the first Klingon war, gives her his twenty credit grin. Unlike Steve Turner, his version at least seems halfway sincere.
She wonders if the salespitch is coming next.
“Not bad, Sinclair,” he says.
She raises an eyebrow, then takes another sip of her drink.
“You and Turner are neck-and-neck in the lead. They can’t even measure the difference.”
She sets her glass down. “You’re not doing too bad yourself, Ramirez. Maybe a tenth of a point behind.”
He nods. “Too bad about that circuit delivery to your project that you were responsible for. That may drop you a bit on the next one.”
She manages to keep from narrowing her eyes at the mention of that mysterious glitch in the delivery software that had sent critical systems to another ship.
At Antares. With her ID codes on the shipping order.
She wonders which of these two assholes might’ve had the skill to hack the system, or at least know someone who could accomplish it.
She looks deep into his brown eyes. He spreads his hands a bit, palms outward. She realizes that he really does have a nice smile, at least when he isn’t plotting against her to close that tenth of point’s distance.
“I’ve heard a little bit about a side job. Something you’re working on for extra credit.”
Decker manages to keep her expression even. “Oh? ‘Cause I hadn’t heard about that.” She hopes that she is a good enough actress to pull off the innocent act.
“Come on, Sinclair. I’m not Turner. I’m just trying to stay competitive. I can never compete with you two.”
“You’re pretty damned close, Terry,” Decker says.
“I can help you,” he says. “Especially if it’s working on a ship. A certain type.” He leans down and whispers into her ear. “I’ve got a line on some vintage fluidic circuitry,” he adds, whispering.
Decker keeps her expression even. She doesn’t focus on him. She watches out of the corner of her eye as Turner stares at the two of them talking to one another.
She finishes her drink. “I think that we need to go somewhere else. Too many prying eyes.”
He nods and finishes his beer. “My place?”
She shrugs. “Why not?”
It doesn’t take them long to get to his quarters in the graduate-level dorms. Her eyes take in the room, trying to find something of his personality here, where he is living.
She hadn’t really found anything of Stevenson Bailey Turner, when he had borne her down to his bed in similar quarters.
There was a lot here. Family photos and the like, a few trinkets from the few worlds he had visited in his brief career.
Terry reaches down and brings his lips down to hers. She closes her eyes as he gently opens the kiss up.
Unlike Turner, he seems to be actually interested in letting her get some pleasure out of the act.
Terry moves his hands to the hem of her shirt, drawing it over her head. As she rests her forehead against his broad chest, she asks herself in her head, what her motivations are for doing this.
She think that it might be different than the motivation for when she had started down this road with Turner.
At the very least, she thinks that the fallout from this might distract both of them. As she closes her eyes to the feel of his mouth on her breasts, she senses something from the file in her brain marked ‘Chandra’s Link.’
Her captain gazes at her in the remnants of that Link. A slow eyeroll shows in the gray eyes.
No, she thinks. A tie is as good as a win when you’re at the top of your game.
Oh hell no it isn’t, comes another voice in her conscience. It’s nowhere near as good, the voice says in something close to a cockney accent.
She shoves everyone out of her head as she flips him over and starts to kiss her way down his torso.
Switching Over
Joelle Grayson curses as the connector slips from her hand in the Jeffries tube. It bounces down to the deck and out of the tube to the passageway. She curses again for good measure as she bangs her head on the overhead of the tube.
“Goddamned Cohort system,” she add for good measure. “What the hell is it doing on a Constitution?”
“A good question,” says a quiet voice. A light green hand, attached to a massive, muscular forearm clad in tactical dark green, holds up the connector. The device looks microscopic in his massive hand.
“You’re the tactical and security officer,” she says. “Grasp.”
“Guilty,” he says in a surprisingly quiet voice for one so large. She transfers the tool to her other hand and holds the other one out.
“Joelle Grayson. Chief Engineer.”
“I recognized you. Even though we haven’t had time for a proper sit down of all of the officers.”
She gestures towards the open panel. “I’m working on it. My propulsion assistant is working on it in Main Control. Getting it tied in and everything.”
“And I’m sure the captain appreciates it,” he says.
“You don’t, Commander?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
“Call me Jaig. Or just Grasp. There’s a lot of commanders of one type or another around here. Getting hard to tell’em all apart. I’m not a big fan. It might be great for smaller ships, corvettes and cutters. But I’m not sure a heavy needs to be part of the network.”
Joelle shrugs as she takes up the two microconnections again. “You’re not wrong. But I think our Captain wants to know what’s going on.”
“She is hands-on,” he says, a dry tone in his voice.
She starts as she realizes something. “You’re that Grasp. The one that… She stops as she realizes what she is about to say.
His expression is somewhat guarded, but finally he grins. “I had a little help blowing out the crew.”
“Is that something normal under a Deltan’s command?”
“It might be under hers. You looking to try to have a private briefing?”
Joelle says nothing. “This isn’t the Border Dogs,” she says. It sounds lame even to her.
He grins. “Well, technically we are.” He looks down at her hands. Her eyes follow his.
She realizes that she has made the connection she’d been trying to make for the last hour-and-a-half.
“See,” he says. “It might do you some good.”
Joelle looks into his blue eyes.
Reporting as Ordered
Commodore Sandiyi Prandi checks her dress blue uniform for any sign that it isn’t absolutely inspection ready. A Starfleet security operator eyes her, his own armor polished to a high sheen.
The door swings open. She walks through, checking herself out in the mirror one more time. The new, broad gold stripe, a remnant of the old style of rank insignia, on her sleeve gleams in the light of the marble entryway, along with a new Bronze Cluster with jewel, the indicator that the medal had been awarded in combat.
The first combat decoration she had received in twenty years.
She isn’t sure that she had actually deserved it. She didn’t think she had even accomplished her mission for Section 31.
An elderly officer in Service Dress Alphas, a commander, motions to her. She follows the ancient mariner through the marble passageways of the Board of Admiralty.
Finally, he manages to make it to a door. Before he can knock, a clear voice says, “Come in.”
The door swings open. A woman wearing the rare insignia of a Grand Admiral—basically a Fleet Admiral’s insignia with an extra wreath rises from a comfortable chair. She looks at Sam with narrowed blue eyes.
Sam waits for a sign. She knows the woman’s actual age, but she looks much younger. The eyes are as clear as the voice and there is still gold in the long hair, flowing loosely around the shoulders. She feels her eyes widen as she realizes that the old woman wears her black delta openly on the breast of the bomber version of the Alpha jacket.
Finally, she holds out her hand. Sam crosses over and takes it. She feels the strength there, even knowing that age.
“So, Starfleet gave you a promotion,” Charity Brannigan says. “What exactly did you do to deserve it?”
“Besides making sure that your ancient ass isn’t sitting in a jail cell at a penal colony, rather than this temple to Starfleet’s past? Not much.”
She does notice that the right side of the woman’s lips quirk briefly.
“And we’re still in the shadows, Sam, dear. Still in hiding.”
“But we’re still in existence. Starfleet Intelligence, in the guise of McCall’s lackey Cavendish is looking heavily into a connection with the Romulans, via both the Romulan agent, Reese, and whatever the hell Stivek was doing.”
“Have we established a connection to Cartwright and Stivek? To Nanclus or Chang?”
“There are several possible leads.”
“Goddamn Lance Cartwright. I hope he rots in hell, for what he caused Section 31,” Brannigan spits, with unexpected vehemence.
“Who else has Intelligence and Special Ops roped into this?”
“Chandra and her squadron. Plus close ties to a Federation Free Agent. A new one.”
The old woman exhales. “Let me guess. Blackthorne’s whelp.”
“I’m not privy to that,” Sam says.
“Then get privy. And see what you can do to find out more about what Chandra and her people are doing. I want to know what the connection is with the Roms. I don’t want us to be connected with foreign powers anymore.”
“I’ll do my best,” Sam says. “I am just a starship commander, still.”
“And that is where Section 31 needs you.” Her eyes gleam with interest. “I think we need our own ship again. Start transferring our people to your crew.”
“We aren’t that many. It could put us in trouble if we lose the ship.”
“Then don’t lose the fucking ship,” she says.
Sam stares at her, then turns away without acknowledging the old woman.
The Hunter
The operative rests against the bulkhead of the old freighter. One of the crew walks right next to him without noticing him, as he blends into the gray of the metal and the paint. He manages to not say anything when the crewmember steps on his foot.
He grits his teeth, wanting nothing more than to lash out and snap the Tellarite’s neck. He eases his anger by thinking about his former partner, who had caused him to be captured and arrested.
His former mate, Usura.
He can’t feel anger at her.
Silik, and the shadowy leaders of whatever faction he had sold his loyalty were the ones that he was angry at.
For stranding them in this time period with no support and no way to get home.
No other enhancements than the ones that they had come here with.
It had only been his contact with yet another shadowy organization that had ensured their survival. He had only had to agree to carry out certain assignments for them.
Assignments that both of them had been uniquely qualified for.
Until Usura had turned on him on a mission. He’d managed to stab her after she’d shot him; he’d thought that she was dead when she had fallen from the cliff.
The target, a young child had escaped with his nanny, as the hunter hadn’t been able to go after them.
He’d mourned Usura; he’d truly loved her at one time. He had seen a change in her, almost from the time they had been tasked with those assignments by the new shadows. A group known by a number, ostensibly in the background of the descendent organization of Archer’s Starfleet.
He hadn’t been sure if he was working for Section 31, or just one member, a Vulcan officer.
It had been on another job when he had found out she had been alive.
She’d shot him again, foiling the job of killing.
Then she had vanished into the mists of this time
Now his contact with Section 31 was dead. Killed by his hand under new orders. He had found Usura, but he knew she was untouchable, as she seemed to be working for one of the numerous factions of Klingons.
He closes his eyes. Remembering a time before, when he had purpose—even if it wasn’t one he had chosen.
Now he was adrift.