ST: The Last Starship

[Poohbah]

Mikey. You are the only author- maybe aside from Vonda McIntyre- whose Spock I hear in Nimoy’s voice. I said it three years ago, your work is easily as good if not better than the best published Trek out there.

Agree

Absolutely agree. And your characterization of an older Kirk is spot on, too.

The fleet politics are also realistic.

[MikeKozlowski]

Footsteps came down the hall, and all rose to their feet as two officers strode in, the Major a respectful step or two behind them. Smillie extended his hand with little grace and less sincerity to shake theirs – a massive man, easily a few inches taller than Kirk, seemingly hewn from a single block of mahogany, and a slim, petite woman who carried herself with grace, poise, and purpose. “Everyone,” Smillie announced, “Captain Daniel Dillon and Commander Berenice Marchal of Blue Ridge, skipper and XO respectively.” Hands were shaken all around, and McCoy couldn’t help but notice how everyone seemed to be sizing each other up. Dillon gave polite nods until he got to Scotty, and smiled as he said, “Pleased to meet you, Captain Scott – your reputation precedes you.”

“Pleasantly so, I hope.”

“Very much so. If you’d ever like a change of scenery, let me know and we’ll get you to Blue Ridge. Engineering challenges beyond imagining.”

Scotty grinned knowingly. “Thank ye, Captain, but I prefer the devil I know aboard Enterprise. I’m too old to be learnin’ a new ship.”

“Suit yourself,” Dillon replied, “but we’ve got more engineering work in a day than a cruiser sees in a year.”

“Never been on one of our deployments, have you?” McCoy muttered, only to get a stern look from Kirk, who quickly steered the subject elsewhere. “Captain Dillon, we’ve heard a lot about your ship – something new under the sun.”

Marchal answered, “Something way overdue – Starfleet can’t be tied down to the Starbases and core systems anymore. We’ve got to be able to refuel, rearm, and repair in deep space, away from our traditional supply lines, and that’s what we’re designed to do.”

“There has been a good deal of controversy in strategic thought as to how useful the Deep Space Repair and Replenishment Vessels will actually be, given their cost and the resources needed to build them.” Spock noted. “They are, after all, based on dreadnaught hulls, and as of now Starfleet has planned to construct twenty of them.”

“Actually, Commander, Starfleet has authorized twenty-two of them, plus nine munitions transport variants and seven hospital ship variants. By the time they’re all in service, Starfleet will be able to finally utilize it’s mobility to the utmost –“

“If you people don’t mind,” Smillie said, “we really do need to get started – we’ll be discussing the capabilities of the Conestoga class later. Major?” The marine poked his head in the door, nodded, then stepped aside as two stewards brought in a pair of hovercarts with dinner – roast beef, vegetables, and potatoes, and coffee – the real thing here. The stewards quickly and professionally served the food, and poured the coffee. As they got to Spock, one of the stewards lifted a covered tray from the cart and placed it on the table before Spock, pulling the lid from it with a practiced flourish to reveal a bowl of steaming plomeek soup, a plate beside it bearing three succulent Vulcan mollusks. Spock turned to Smillie and inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, Admiral. It is most gracious of you to serve traditional Vulcan dishes.”

Smillie tucked into his roast beef. “Admiral Nogura laid out the menu. Up to me, we’d have all had sandwiches.” The stewards finished pouring the coffee into heavy, handleless Starfleet mugs, and then moved smoothly out of the room. The Major stepped into the doorway, and Smillie looked up and asked him, “Admiral Nogura ready to come down yet?”

The Major looked slightly embarrassed. “No sir, not yet…” Smillie’s expression was somewhere between exasperation and understanding when he replied, “Understood. Help him down as quickly as you can.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The Major stepped away, closing the door behind him. For just a moment, Kirk could close his eyes, smell the food and the magnificent coffee, and pretend that he was in a friendly staff meeting with friends, planning an adventure like so many before.

But only for a moment. Smillie was unsmiling, Dillon and Marchal were studiously looking at their food, and Spock, Scotty, and McCoy were all clearly wary of what might be coming next. Oh well, Kirk thought. Condemned man, hearty meal, and all that, and he dug into his food.

After a few more bites, Smillie dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then tapped the keyboard in front of his seat. The holo generator in the center of the table hummed gently to life, and Smillie took a swallow of coffee before beginning the brief.

“About seven weeks ago, the destroyer Poseidon was on routine patrol at the Mutaara asteroid field.”

Kirk winced inside at the name.

“As you know, we keep a DD or frigate on watch out there constantly – the area is hazardous, and for reasons unclear, people seem to think the damned fountain of youth is out there – no offense, Spock.”

“None taken, Admiral. I would point out however that I was actually reunited with my katra on Vulcan – “

“I know. Everybody who’s read the reports knows. Trouble is, most people aren’t cleared high enough to read the reports, and they believe the tabvids instead. Moving on.”

The holo shimmered, and the outline of a destroyer, labeled NCC2895 POSEIDON appeared at one corner of the field. “With no apparent warning, Poseidon detected a bogey – inside the field.” A small red triangle popped up inside one of the asteroid bands, and the entire holo began to move, showing the relationship between the destroyer, the field, and the bogey. “They were able to get a radiation scan on the bogey…and it turned out to be emitting warp core decay products. As a matter of fact…they were Starfleet warp core decay products.”

Jim Kirk felt his appetite vanish, and suddenly the roast beef didn’t seem at all appetizing. Taking a deep, controlled breath, he put down his fork and sat back, forcing himself to relax. Take it easy, he thought. Can’t be.

Then he looked up to see Scotty sitting almost bolt upright, his jaws clamped tightly together, almost glaring at the holo.

“The local commodore told them to get in as close as they dared to ID it, and do it fast – priority X-Ray. They actually came up with a decent idea that used one of their probes, and took a shot at it.”

A small, animated dot of light moved from the destroyer towards the bogey, and the DD slid out of the holo field as the camera followed the dot towards the steadily enlarging asteroids and the bogey.

“The probe got to the bogey and got some good video right before it got swatted out of space by a rock. That led to a chain-reaction explosive protomatter sequence that damn near killed the Poseidon. She got smacked by what the computers said was a Cat 4 energy wave. Skipper got her out of there, but just barely. They got her back to Echo Five and the engineers got a good look at her – CTL’d.”

“ ‘CTL’d’?” McCoy asked.

“ ‘Constructive Total Loss’, Doctor,” Smillie explained with just a touch of condescension. “It’ll cost more to fix it than it’s worth. We surveyed her right there at the station. Brought the crew back, just cut the decom orders a few days ago. The skipper asked for – and was cheerfully granted – a planetside assignment back here. But anyways –” the dot zoomed in towards the bogey, now shown as a red triangle, then stopped.

“- This is what the probe found.”


For whatever days James Tiberius Kirk would have left in this life, he would always remember how he felt when the red triangle morphed into a shape that was as familiar to him as his mother’s face, as much a home as he’d ever known, and the only lady he had ever truly loved. She was beaten, battered, scarred, missing huge pieces of the primary hull and the lower secondary hull, pylons twisted and structural members poking from her like skeletal fingers, accusing those who sat around the table with him, plates and hatches missing, the bridge…oh, the bridge where he’d spent so much of his life, round and black and empty like Polyphemus’ eye after he encountered Odysseus. No, Kirk thought, his mind just one octave short of a scream, it CAN’T BE –

-And the holo, helpfully making things as awful as they could get, added a label:



NCC1701
Ex-ENTERPRISE


There was utter, total silence for a moment around the table, until Scotty spoke first, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I don’t say ‘impossible’ often…but-“

“Oh, you might want to keep a leash on that word then, Captain Scott,” Smillie answered with a note of sarcasm, “because it’s going to have a lot of chances to get out tonight.”

“Admiral Smillie,” McCoy said quietly, not taking his eyes off the holo, “that can not be…we watched her destroyed–“

“No,” Smillie replied, as if correcting a dim student. “You watched her re-enter the atmosphere, which is pretty reasonable since the primary hull was designed to reenter at acute angles and speeds. You did not watch her come apart, you did not watch her impact, you did not see her destroyed. Had you seen her impact, not one of you would be sitting here right now, because the goddamned planet would have come apart. Warp cores tend to detonate at strengths in the thousand-megaton range, and Genesis was already about as structurally sound as a kid’s balloon. Believe me, had it struck it would have shattered it right then and there and we’d still be trying to figure out just what the hell happened.”

“How, then?” Scotty’s voice was dry and hushed.

“Oh, that was the first question of many,” Smillie snarled. “It took a week on a Daystrom M44 to figure it out, but once we did, it made perfect damned sense.” Smillie touched a key, and the Genesis Planet – blue, white, and green, appeared again, with a small animation of Enterprise in orbit around it. “The key was the data that Bird of Prey brought back – fortunately, the Klingons record everything.” There was a flash, and the animated Enterprise began to plummet downwards, but as it did, pulsing multicolored bands – green, yellow, red – began to appear and disappear around the planet.

“As Genesis began to break up, it did so at varying rates across its surface, and its core also began to – well, the best word the geo people used was ‘stutter’. The result was that instead of impacting –” the animated starship sailed into one of the red zones and curved smoothly away from the planet– “it sailed into an area where the gravitational pull had decreased considerably. Instead of impacting, the hulk sailed off into an orbit that took her out just far enough to avoid the worst of the planet’s breakup. By the time that happened, the hulk was just another piece of trash.”

There was silence for a moment, before Spock asked, “Admiral, there is of course one obvious question. How did Enterprise survive the self-destruct? It was, and remains, my understanding that whatever remained should not have looked like this.”

Smillie nodded. “Oh, you are most definitely correct there, Captain Spock. I believe your chief engineer can explain that. Right, Captain Scott?”

Kirk’s stomach was in a knot by now, and Scotty was nearly as white as a sheet.

“Right, Captain Scott?”

This time there was a whip in Smillie’s voice, and not even Kirk could hold back any longer. “Scotty...” he said, his voice almost pleading. “What happened?”

It was a moment before Scott found his voice, and when he did it was flat, dry, and unemotional. “Cap’n…Jim…. ye hae’ to remember…I didn’t plan on takin’ us into combat. The decom crews had already started to disconnect the main core, so in order to get enough computing power to run the ship unmanned for a few days, I had to unplug everything – everything.”

“Which,” Smillie helpfully added, “included most of the self-destruct system. When you fired the destruct circuit, the auxiliary power reactor in the primary hull went high order, just the way it’s supposed to. Nothing else – nothing else – did. So, the hulk –“

Kirk’s voice was quiet yet firm. “Enterprise.”

Smillie stopped and looked at him. “Kirk, let me make something clear. That’s not the Enterprise, and it hasn’t been for about six years now, not since you killed it. It’s a hulk – an empty shell, no more, no less. The Enterprise is on her way out to Proxima Centauri, without you. That – “ he pointed at the animated starship still dutifully circling the Genesis planet – “is a hulk. And if it was up to me, we’d leave it there as a reminder to others.”

It took a moment for it to sink in before, McCoy asked, “What do you mean, ‘up to you?’”

Smillie looked at McCoy with an expression that suggested he would be perfectly happy to grab him by the lapels and slam him against the bulkhead, but that only decency and the Starfleet Code of Conduct prevented him from doing so. Instead, he leaned as far forward over the table as he could towards McCoy and quietly said, “Because, Doctor…you people are going out there to bring her back.”









It is well known that there is no devil in Klingon mythology. And after all, as any good Klingon will tell you, they don’t need one.

But they do have dragons. Or more properly, puv lung.

Qo’noS has a wide and terrifying variety of avian life, but long before the first Klingon stood on its soil the dragons took their place in the Home World’s cold gray skies. They don’t usually look as noble as some of their mythological Terran counterparts – to human eyes there’s little beautiful about the leathery, fanged and clawed Klingon breeds. They have always kept to the equatorial rain forests, occasionally venturing out to survey their world – rarely enough, in fact that it is believed a puv lung sighting, no matter how brief, is considered an omen of good luck.

They have inspired Klingons throughout history – the old peD HuD longboats had dragon heads of course, to make them sail as fast as their inspirations. Scales from the larger ones were remarkably tough (not fireproof as legend would have it, but strong enough to defend against edged weapons and arrows) and their patterns are still seen in Klingon armor to this day. The ‘fanged’ soles of Klingon warriors’ boots pay tribute to the dragons that can snatch prey from the ground or sky with ease and terror.

It goes without saying, of course, that in the Fleet, dragons are revered – so much so that centuries ago a rule had to be laid down that only one ship could be called named for them, or any variant thereof, lest the fleet be nothing but. So even today, only one ship carries the appellation and name Imperial Klingon Ship Dragon.

The crews are considered an elite.

Its commanders are without exception brutal, terrifying men.


Or worse.



veng wa'Dich, Qo’noS
(The First City, Kronos)


It was just a few minutes past midday as the Commander strode purposefully towards fleet headquarters, the low cloud deck roiling as it always did. The cloud cover was solid, as it usually was, and that pleased the Commander, inasmuch as he could be pleased by anything: more clouds, less light. Less light, more concealment.

More concealment, better chance of success.

One could make the argument – and often did – that light or darkness made no real difference in a time where electronic sensors removed those distinctions, where light itself could be made to vanish.

If he answered – he did not always – he would reply that all concealment is an advantage, and all advantages point to victory. And victory, others would point out, was something he knew. That usually stopped the foolish questions.

The massive, low-lying bulk of Fleet Headquarters was before him now, all obsidian and onyx, with the famous statue of a victorious warrior towering ten meters above his head in the plaza. There were no fountains or gardens or other such soft nonsense here – this was a military headquarters, and it would look like one. There was nothing welcoming or approachable here, not like those idiot Federations who wanted their military to be loved.

You fear a military first, then you respect it. But love? Chatlh, nonsense.

The doors hissed open and he entered the Great Hall, with the Imperial Forces seal inlaid into the floor thirty meters across and surrounded by flags, banners, and trophies from a thousand suns, some still bearing the pinkish bloodstains of the warriors who had captured them or gone down holding them. It was all very noble, and quite inspiring perhaps to new cadets, but it was different when you held command. You served the Council and the Fleet, and did What You Had To Do. With honor, of course – what would be the point otherwise? – but that was all there was to it. In his case, he added the caveat that he would also be the absolute finest in his field, the ne plus ultra of Command.

That he was went without saying. That was why he commanded Dragon.

His ship, the finest, fastest, and most proficient in the fleet, waited for him five hundred and seventeen kellikams above his head, in geosynchronus orbit over Kronos. He wasn’t the fleet flagship - that honor went to the Invincible, a malignant looking battleship-class monster that had taken decades to build and even then rarely ventured past the Home Worlds. But Dragon was still special beyond words.

The only special thing in his life.

Maroon-armored Marine guards snapped to attention as he strode through an entryway, not even acknowledging their attention. They were Marines. They guarded, and they knew he was not a threat. Recognition for that seemed pointless at best, ridiculous at worst.

He could have – did have, in fact – riches beyond the dreams of most Klingons. He could live a life of ease, luxury, and power, but he never wanted the first two, despite having been raised with them.

The third…negotiable.

The office – that’s what we would call it; Klingons do not quite have a word like it, theirs translates to ‘private working space’ – was ahead. A Marine sat at a security station beside the hatch, and for all his disdain the Commander straightened as he presented his ID badge. The Marine was a big man, almost as much as he was – or at least would have been if his left arm wasn’t missing, along with a significant portion of his face, corrected with what the Commander assumed to be a sincere, if unsuccessful, attempt at plastic surgery. This was a warrior you could respect, he thought. He deserved honor. For his part, the Marine said nothing as he scanned the badge, then motioned for him to proceed. The door opened with a low hiss, and the Commander entered, heels snapping against the stone floor.

The room was dark – just enough light to make out the hulking form of Vice Admiral Ardak Kumerian behind his desk, face illuminated from below by a sickly green monitor’s glow. Kumerian didn’t even bother to look up, or much less even acknowledge the Commander’s presence until the Commander came to attention and gave the Klingon salute – right fist to his heart, a solid thump of leather glove against armor, hard enough to hurt just a little. After all, what is respect unless one feels it?

For his part, Kumerian still didn’t look up, just giving a low growl as he bared his canines then said quietly, “Give me one – just one – reason you should not be in chains right now.”

“I can think of several,” the Commander replied equitably. “I am the finest captain in the Fleet. I have provided the Fleet and the Council with information vital to the survival of the Empire.

“Oh, and I am a Head of House, and my name is Kruge.”

Now Kumerian looked up, and he was…unhappy. “Do not remind me,” Kumerian snarled. “I have known you since we were children, I know your House quite well. That should not protect you from the consequences of your actions! Right now Chang and his lapdogs are not at all sure whether or not to promote you, court-martial you, or simply bypass all the ceremonies and have you airlocked!!”

“They would not dare.”

“Oh, do please press them, Commander Kruge – “

Now it was Kruge’s turn to stiffen, inclining his head and quietly growling, “Lord Kruge.”

Kumerian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at that, but he managed to restrain his temper. “Do…not….not for one heartbeat…pull your social rank on me…You disobeyed a direct order and took an Imperial ship of the line on a harebrained mission that could have started a war - I will have no scruples whatsoever about taking the actions that are called for - AM I UNDERSTOOD?” Kumerian’s hand slammed down on the desk surface for emphasis, and the sound echoed through the room like an explosion.

Kruge thought for a moment, then answered, “My apologies. But since I am standing here without a squad of Marines surrounding me, I will – no, must assume that my safety and freedom is, at least for the time being, assured.”

“Assume nothing, my friend. Nothing.”

“As you wish. What has the War Council decided on my recommendations?”

Kumerian’s face went from anger to plain, simple disbelief. “In Kahless’ name, Kruge, what do you think they said? No, no, ten thousand times no!”

Kruge was silent longer than Kumerian would have liked before he finally spoke. “Why? What possible justification can there be for not responding to a threat that could destroy the Empire and turn us into slaves?”

Kumerian exhaled slowly, equal parts exasperation and empathy, before he answered. “Kruge…Chang himself has declared that there will be…no…war. In between shouting matches and quoting obscure Klingon playwrights, Chang has a point – we cannot afford a war right now –“

“We are stronger in regards to the Federation than we have ever been.”

Kumerian nodded. “Numerically we have them at more than two to one, and we can guarantee better than that if we choose our point of attack correctly. Politically, they outnumber us. They are unified, they are determined, and they are ready. Right now, the fleet is rent into a hundred factions, each of whom believes that they are supporting the true future Chancellor, and there’s no guarantee the fleet would even support whoever is chosen – IF, of course, they could choose anyone.” With that, Kumerian smiled, or gave what passed for a smile among Klingons. “Be honest, Kruge – when General Chang himself declares we cannot go to war, you know we have a problem.”

“The problem is that the Federation has the ultimate weapon – a weapon that can not only erase every trace of life from a planet, but then re-create it in whatever image they wish. And despite their protestations, they still have the knowledge of how to build it in that ship – the ship whose captain killed my brother.”

“Kruge…I understand. In Kahless’ name, I understand, I understand that, I understand you. We grew up together, we endured painstiks at the Academy together, and I howled beside you for your father and your brother. We are of different houses, but when you became Head of House after your brother died, I swore loyalty to you as a friend. But you must realize – must finally realize – that your brother was on a mission that was bound to end in disaster, that could have no other ending than his death and the risk of a war we could not win! For the last time, we will not attempt to recover whatever is left of the Genesis project! Chang has spoken, and will brook no argument!”

Kruge said nothing for a few long heartbeats, his eyes partially closing, before slowly opening again. Finally he said, “I hear. And I obey.”

Kumerian visibly relaxed at that, the tension slowly ebbing from his body, but he still spoke with a warning tone. “I am glad, my friend. But hear this – the Secret Ones now watch you. Further disobedience will no longer bring mere discipline.”

Now that got Kruge’s attention, though he was careful not to show it. The Secret Ones, the common nickname for the political police, the pegh avwl, were not to be trifled with. As a Head of House and a senior captain, he had somewhat more protection from them than most, but there were lines that one did not cross. Kumerian’s mere warning could be enough to bring him before a noH if anyone ever found out he’d told Kruge, so he did appreciate his old friend’s caution. To an extent. “I thank you, Ardak. I shall be careful.”

Kumerian grunted. “You will have no choice. You are to take Dragon out on a show-the-banner on the Hydran border. You know the routine; remind them that we still rule, and do so until we tell you to come back. With some luck, we will be able to sort out the political nonsense by the time you return. And if nothing else, it will enable you to run up your score a little bit.” Plus, it went unsaid, try to rebuild confidence in your reliability. At that thought, Kruge smiled, his first since he’d entered the room. “I suppose it is better than a teaching position at the Academy.”

“Be careful, old friend. At this point you would be lucky if they let you clean the halls.”

“Indeed. I shall take my leave then and return to my ship. When shall we depart?”

“As soon as possible, according to Chang. I would not tarry long.”

“Understood. I shall therefore take my leave.” Hand to the heart. Kumerian came to attention and returned the gesture. “Be safe, old friend. Come back whole and ready to rebuild the Empire.”

One corner of Kruge’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly upwards. “You may count on it.” With that, Kruge spun on one heel and marched out of the room.

The journey back outside was far quicker than the one going in; he had his orders and he knew his duty. It was dark now when he finally got back into the plaza, and he looked at the base of the Warriors’ Statue for a form that he knew would be waiting for him. Kruge was not disappointed – at one corner of the statue’s base was a stocky, powerful looking warrior, his hair braided into a single intricate ponytail down the left side of his face. K’voch, his first officer. He was leaning against one corner, for all the world like a panther contemplating a choice of prey until he saw Kruge approach – then he came to attention and saluted.

“My Lord Kruge. The word, sir?”

Kruge took a deep breath, and as he did he looked up. Miles above his head, the cloud deck opened just for a moment, and he was rewarded – no, graced, a word he did not use lightly – with the sight of a handful of stars gazing down upon him. The tales are told, and remembered early – if the stars themselves look down upon you, then you will be blessed in your actions. And Lord Kruge, Head of House Kruge and Commander of the Imperial Klingon Vessel Dragon, knew in his heart at that moment, that he would be blessed. Turning to K’voch, he replied, “The word is no. We are therefore going anyway.”

K’voch smiled, canines gleaming. “You may count on me, sir.”

“I expected nothing else. Come, we have much to do.”



To Be Continued….

Mike

[jemhouston]

Star Fleet should have figured out a way to quietly blow the hulk into a million pieces and call it day.

Instead, right before a major fleet exercise with everyone watching, yank out the one Captain and his staff everyone would be watching. Now everyone will try to figure out where he's at.

[Johnnie Lyle]

Kruge and Kumerian are your best characters. Your Starfleet is hood, but your Klingons are spectacular.

[MikeKozlowski]

Kumerian leaned back slightly in his seat, watching the remote camera feed show Kruge and one of his officers walk away from the plaza until they left the camera’s view. They looked innocuous enough, but Kumerian wasn’t foolish enough to believe that Kruge didn’t think he was being watched.

Kruge had been one of his best friends since childhood, a classmate at the Academy. They had served together, fought together and grown old together. Kumerian knew, probably better than anyone outside of Kruge’s own family, that all the man had ever wanted to do was command a starship. The political nonsense, the social demands of being a head of one of the oldest Houses in the Empire, meant nothing to him. He had been perfectly happy sitting on a darkened bridge, honing his crews and his ships to an edge that even hardened veterans thought impossible, and he would have cheerfully retired that way.

If his older brother hadn’t decided to run a rogue intelligence operation against the Federation – and quite possibly lead a conspiracy against the Empire - and paid for it with his life. If the elder Kruge boy hadn’t blown a fairly harmless Federation science ship right out of space. If he hadn’t gone flatly berserk when he found out he failed – and after all, how one deals with failure speaks a very great deal about one’s character.

Kumerian shook his head slowly and sadly. Honor and all, but the elder Kruge had painted himself into a corner, and just about everyone knew it. It should have ended with a ritual demand for vengeance, and then everyone going about their business, overlooking the unpleasant and unanswered question of exactly what he was going to do with the Genesis Device once he got it. Instead, his friend withdrew and became more driven, more demanding, more silent, and always more focused on revenge. It got worse when his father died not long afterwards, bitter and heartbroken that his Empire refused to go after the man who took his oldest son. He’d taken his oath as Head of House…and then turned to stone, all silence and cruelty, the last of sufficient intensity to concern even Kumerian and his staff.

They’d spoken to him then, made it clear that he was of course, in the right, but that he needed to focus on his duties – or, frankly, resign his commission and assume the duties of Head of House full time. Family retainers and managers could only keep things going for so long, and House Kruge had responsibilities – to its subordinate clans, of course, and to the Empire went without saying. Kruge had sullenly promised better behavior, and they’d believed him. Right up until he and the Dragon disappeared for two weeks, and then he’d come back with proof that the information needed to rebuild Genesis was still in existence…and that the Empire had a duty to get it.

Kumerian smiled gently to himself, or at least as gently as a Klingon can smile. General Chang, head of the War Council, had been furious – ready to have Kruge hauled off in chains to Rura Penthe if not shot on sight, have House Kruge disestablished – and the War Council itself only slightly less so. But for all his anger and histrionics, Chang was right – with the political divisions in the Empire right now, they’d lose any war they’d start…and assuredly if they were caught, they’d start one. Now was not the time – wait. And of course, Chang just had to quote that damned playwright he was so fond of:

"How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Thou know'st we work by wit, and not by witchcraft;
And wit depends on dilatory time."

They could have done without the acting, but the point was valid. And Kruge had – reluctantly – acquiesced.

He had, hadn’t he?

Kumerian wanted to believe. Wanted to trust. Wanted to reassure himself that his old friend had given his word and would keep it. He was a Head of House, and that demanded honor, lest your name be erased from the past and hidden from the future.

But what was it that his grandfather, an honored old warrior, had said so often from a mouth and jaw scarred and twisted by Kzin phasers and claws -

“…DaneH'a' vay' yIvoqQo', Ardak, 'ach reH chaw' pe’.”

“…Trust anyone you want, Ardak, but always cut the cards.”

The old man had lived to be a hundred and seventy though his wisdom.

An easy decision, then. The call to Fleet Security was even easier.






There was utter, complete, and absolute silence around the conference table for far, far too long until Spock finally and mercifully broke it. “Admiral Smillie,” he said quietly, “I fail to understand why it is necessary to recover the wreck under the extraordinarily hazardous conditions it currently rests in. The Enterprise was in the process of being decommissioned for eventual preservation as a museum - there are surely no objects or technology of sufficient value aboard her to warrant any kind of salvage effort.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mister Spock. Genesis is still on that ship.” No one had heard the door open, but they all turned to the voice and saw Fleet Admiral Heihachiro Nogura standing there – or at least who Kirk thought was Nogura, with the Marine major standing close behind him, one hand lightly on Nogura’s right elbow. The man he’d known for almost forty years had been slender enough, but still solidly built. But this…this was nearly a scarecrow, with the uniform hanging off him, cheekbones sharply defined against seemingly parchment thin skin, eyes in sunken hollows, all of it unsteadily hunched over. The voice was right, but dear Lord, that wasn’t him. No one in the room was expecting what they saw, and that slowed down their reactions – but it was still almost a simultaneous reflex as everyone crashed to attention. Nogura smiled, or at least what he had to have thought was a smile as he made a feeble wave for everyone to return to their seats, the major still hovering protectively behind him as he made for the head chair. “My apologies for the entrance,” Nogura said, “but you have to admit, my timing is still perfect.”

“Yes, sir,” Smillie said respectfully as he pushed Nogura’s chair in, and Kirk could tell by the expression on the VCINC’s face that this was no false politeness, no obsequiousness – Smillie being as gentle and respectful as he could, all bluster and sarcasm gone now. Kirk looked around quickly at his staff – Spock was utterly impossible to read, McCoy was carefully assessing Nogura’s condition, and Scotty was doing his best to look somewhere else entirely. Dillon and Marchal were watching Nogura politely, but it was clear they were – what? Disturbed? Embarrassed?

“Now,” Nogura started, “Where was I? Oh yes…damned Genesis. Short version is that while we were starting to take 1701 apart, the computer techs were sweeping the core, strictly by the book – after all, starship computer core sections are expensive, and if we can salvage them, we do. That’s when they found the Genesis project – “ Nogura paused, inhaled, coughed sharply – “every last terabyte of it.”

“How?”, Kirk asked. “All we had on the ship was the initial proposal video, and that’s all we ever saw – and the only reason we could access that was because you had cleared me into it in my capacity as DCINC Ops.”

“True enough,” admitted Smillie. “Mister Spock, what’s your recollection of your actions when you arrived at Regulus III?”

Spock’s face was a mask. “Admiral Smillie, I ask your understanding – the days before my death are extremely…unclear to me. My last unquestionable recollection is our first encounter with Khan and the Reliant. Everything after that and up to some days after my arrival on Vulcan is fragmentary at best.”

Smillie nodded, but there was at least some decency in his expression this time. “Mister Spock, you are a superb officer - but you are an even better scientist. The download record shows that just after you scanned Regulus III, you directed a download of all records pertaining to Genesis. That of course, included all the project files - every nut, bolt, and note. They in turn were copies of everything here…which means that everything you need to rebuild the device - from scratch - is in that computer core. In any event, before we could make arrangements to quietly and discreetly get the core out - or at the very least, wipe the damned thing clean and get on with our lives - Kirk decided he needed 1701 for one last joyride.” Smillie paused for a moment, a look of unpleasant recollection on his face. “Just about eighteen hours. That’s all we missed it by.”

There was silence for a few moments until Nogura spoke up, voice soft and reedy. “The bottom line is that we cannot - can not, lady and gentlemen - take the chance that somebody is going to get in there and salvage her. We know we can get close enough to identify her, and once you can do that, the camel has its nose in the tent. It won’t take all that long for somebody else to figure out how to get in - obviously, we’ve done that - and we can’t keep a guard out there forever. Hell, in fact, we know from the Poseidon’s experience that it might be possible to have a guard out there and still be able to get to her without being spotted. No choice, gentlemen - we have got to get 1701 out of there and make sure the problem is dealt with once and for all.”

“I’m not clear on who these ‘somebodies’ are,” Kirk said. “Do we know of a plan to salvage her? Is there an individual who we suspect is passing this information on? This threat seems pretty damned nebulous to be taking this kind of risk.”

Smillie and Nogura exchanged glances, then Nogura looked down at the table. “We have some…security issues,” Smillie said, perhaps more quietly than anything else he’d said that evening. “Next question.”

“So then,” Scotty asked, “what’s the plan? Or perhaps more properly, how’s the plan?”

“That, Captain Scott, is where we come in.” Captain Dillon touched the pad in front of his seat, and a 3D holo of the Blue Ridge appeared a foot or so above the conference table. It wasn’t a pretty ship - the Dreadnaughts weren’t the most graceful ships the Federation had ever built to begin with, and the redesign had done them no favors. The engineering hull had been replaced with what looked like a cargo pod on steroids, with a row of hangars along the upper sides, and a deranged spider’s web of gantries, frames, and equipment poking out either side.

“The Conestoga class Deep Space Repair and Replenishment Vessels, or DSRRVs, were designed to do two things - first, keep the fleet supplied with, as the old wet navies called it, ‘beans and bullets’, all the things a fleet needs to stay out in deep space to do its job and not be tied down to the Starbases or Base Stations. Secondly, we have the ability - previously unknown in Starfleet - of repairing ships in deep space.” With that, a frame unfolded itself from the holo’s side, opening up into a partial drydock, and a generic starship appeared within. “We have all the repair and maintenance capability of a Class III drydock - two of them, actually, one to port and one to starboard, and can even do the work when underway, though we’d prefer to be stationary.” The holo blinked, and the engineering hull glided apart into labeled segments, focusing in on the hangar deck and an open area that ran almost the entire length and width of the hull. “We have a shuttle complement of twenty WorkBees, eight Percherons and eight Clydesdales,” the specialized work and repair shuttles lighting up in a cheerful shade of blue on the hangar deck as he spoke, then the focus turned to the cavernous deck below it. “This is the Fabrication, Maintenance, and Repair Deck, or FMR. In that space we can repair just about anything that can be moved into it, up to and including impulse engine units. We can fabricate structural and electronic components, along with whatever else we might need to get a ship moving and combat ready again. Once we get the computer core out of the wreck, that’s where we’re going to secure it.”

“Something to be proud of,” McCoy said, “but I’m not clear on how we’re going to get the Enterprise out of the asteroid field. There’s no way you’re getting that beast in there to her.”

“Absolutely right, Doctor,” Dillon replied. “That’s why we’re going to go in and fly her back out.”

There was silence for a very, very long moment until Kirk said, with quiet, calm conviction, “Bullshit.” That drew the first genuine smiles of the night until Nogura raised a tentative hand and said, “Hear the man out, Jim, hear the man out.” Scotty nodded with the beginning of a grin and added, “Aye, Cap’n - let the man speak his piece…this, I’ve got to hear.”

Marchal touched her desk pad, and began her brief, just the faintest hint of a French accent drifting down on every word. “The recovery operation will be in two parts - first part code named ‘Day Trip’. There will be four Percherons with the away teams proceeding to the wreck - Captain Dillon commanding, I’ll be back on Blue Ridge monitoring. What we’ve managed to do with the shuttles is take the idea the Poseidon’s engineers came up with and refine it a bit.” The holo blinked, and showed four Percherons in a line astern formation, along with what looked like a streamlined but far oversized cargo container in the center of the formation. “Starfleet managed to come up with a combination shield/navigational deflector rig that will push the really big rocks out of the way, and take care of any smaller ones we do hit. On top of that, the flight control computers have been set up to automatically take us around anything truly dangerous. The only real drawbacks are that it will be a very rough ride - we’re still going to have impacts up against the shields on a constant basis - and it will be, of necessity, slow. The term ‘day trip’ is apt; we estimate roughly twenty hours to get to the wreck, and we will be in hard suits all the way.”

“Stopping to stretch our legs along the way is probably too much to hope for,” McCoy commented.

Tap.

“Now,” Marchal began, “we get to the interesting part - the actual salvage, code named ‘Road Trip’. Captain Dillon said we were going to fly the wreck out, and that’s exactly what we have in mind. This is how we’re going to do it.” The holo closed in on and enlarged the ‘cargo container’, and the image resolved into a rectangular box with a Starfleet insignia on the side, rotating to show an impulse engine at the rear, phaser mounts on each side, and what looked like a photon torpedo muzzle below the forward end.

“This is what Starfleet officially calls the M2290 Autonomous Control System, though we’ve got a slightly different name for it - the Brain Box. It is a self-contained vessel salvage unit that will attach itself to a disabled vessel, tap into its computer systems, and effectively reboot it. In the event that is not possible - and on the 1701 wreck we believe it will be, though we are not entirely sure - the Brain Box is able to use its own impulse engine and thrusters to move the vessel at up to point four warp. In addition, it has two Type III Gatling phasers firing forward, and a single photon torpedo in a freezer mount. It can carry up to six crew members and support them for up to thirty days.”

Scotty leaned forward to look at the slowly rotating image, then gave Marchal a knowing smile. “…Bloody amazin’, Commander, my compliments. I’m assumin’ of course though that it’s been tested up one side and down t’other?”

Dillon nodded. “Just before we found out about the 1701 wreck, we did a all-up test on the USS Prairie, one of the old Ohio class light cruisers - pulled her out of the mothball fleet at Utopia Plantitia, took her out to deep space, and then beat the hell out of her. No shields, no maneuvering, just straight phaser and photon hits until the computers told us to stop. By any possible standards, had she been in a combat situation, we could not have brought her back - multiple catastrophic hull breaches, computer conduits fractured and severed in a thousand places, and structural failures throughout the hull. We attached the Brain Box, and in eight hours, we had the Prairie actually moving. At ten hours, we were making point one warp and moving to a rendezvous with the Blue Ridge. Less than twenty-four hours later she was in the dock, and inside of thirty-six hours we had her closed up sufficiently to fire up life support, and in forty-eight hours she was underway on warp power, though structurally restricted to Warp 1. The point, however, was made. We can take vessels that would have previously been abandoned and bring them back for full repair at a proper Fleet yard.”

Dillon’s information was greeted with approving nods all the way around the room, except for Spock, who said nothing and simply looked at the rotating holo, his brow creased. Dillon was about to speak again, when Spock held up one finger for a pause. “A moment, Captain Dillon. I would appreciate some clarification.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Kirk could see that Spock was choosing his words carefully, and McCoy realized it too, sitting back in his chair to watch the fun.

“My understanding of the damage to the Prairie is that the computer systems were, quote, ‘fractured’?”

Marchal nodded. “Not just damaged in places, but actual physical gaps.”

“And yet, the Brain Box was able to remedy these gaps? Bubble memory conduits can be, under some circumstances, regenerated - but only in essentially intact systems. I am most curious as to how you accomplished this.”

Dillon and Smillie exchanged a glance before Dillon answered, “It’s a little difficult to explain under our current time constraints -”

Spock, being without emotions, could not slam the table to get Dillon’s attention, but the look on his face did far more than any physical gesture. His voice was soft, but harsh and nearly growling in a way Kirk, Scott, and McCoy had never heard before. “Captain Dillon, I am a graduate with honors of the Vulcan Science Academy. I have served for several decades as the Science Officer of the most decorated ship in Starfleet history, and one whose crew has discovered and indeed, created some of the most important scientific discoveries in the fleet’s history.

“Please do take a moment to enlighten me.”

Dillon swallowed, and began, “Captain Spock, I meant no disrespect -”

“Unless of course, you can not - for reasons of security - so enlighten me. In which case, I shall bring up my concerns regarding the Treaty of Charon - signed by and scrupulously adhered to by every major race and political entity in the galaxy, including the Romulans, Klingons, and the Orion pirates - that forbids, without allowance or exception, the development of artificially intelligent nanite devices.”


The look on Bill Smillie’s face was one of mounting anger, but he somehow kept his voice under control as he said, “Spock, this is not a discussion we need to be having -”

Spock’s gaze was like two phasers at close range. “On the contrary, Admiral, so let me make my position plain - I have already been, no matter how inadvertently or peripherally, been party to the development and use of one weapon of mass destruction. I shall not be so involved in another, unless you can explain to me why it was necessary to create it in defiance of intergalactic and Federation law.”

Smillie started to snarl something back, but Nogura took a deep breath and said, as forcefully as he could, “We didn’t create them. We found them.”

Silence for a moment, then Kirk replied, “Admiral…that’s a legal nicety, at best.”

“It’s enough. Our civilization still has lawyers for a reason, Jim.”

Kirk considered that for a moment. Lord alone knew how much of his career had been based on, and survived only by dint of, such niceties. “Okay then, Admiral. We need some explanations.” Smillie’s face went crimson, but Kirk turned to him with his best command gaze and said, “Bill, stow it, and stow it now. Either we get full answers or we’re done here, and I for one no longer care what it might do to my career.”

“Second,” added Scotty.

“And thirded,” chimed in McCoy. Smillie’s only response was to lean back heavily in his seat, jaw muscles tight enough to cut through tritanium. Nogura took the opening, and leaned forward to the table.

“What I say here, stays here. Heroes or not, any word of this gets out and you people go to Tantalus V for goddamned ever and it won’t matter how many medals you have, how many lives and ships you’ve saved, or who your family is - I may not have long left in this life, but I am STILL Commander in Chief of the United Federation of Planets Star Fleet, and I will… make… it…happen.” There was no weakness now, no illness. Heihachiro Nogura, the man Kirk had known and respected and the rest of the galaxy had feared, was back if just for a few minutes. For his part, Spock simply inclined his head towards Nogura and said, with politeness and respect, “You are clearly understood, Admiral. I apologize for any disrespect you may have perceived.”

Nogura sat back slightly, took a deep breath, and began. “A few weeks after you people tangled with V’ger, a routine patrol ran across a ship in a fairly remote part of Federation space. It was something new, about the size of a Constitution, cubical in shape. It was dead in space - no power, no emissions, no life signs, no nothing. The patrol commander decides to go aboard and see what’s over there. They find the remains of about thirty crew. All cyborgs with implants unlike anything we do here - like they were bolted on instead of merged, no attempt to hide them.”

Eyebrows went up all around the table on that, but otherwise there was silence.

“Weird part - well, weirder part was that the crew was not from a single race. There were humans, Klingons, Romulans, Vulcans, Kzin and/or Lyran, and a bunch that they weren’t able to identify.”

Scotty asked, “Only thirty crew for a ship that size?”

Nogura spread his hands. “That’s what they found, Captain Scott. Possible there might have been more, but the patrol never had a chance to fully examine the ship. They got several sets of remains off, along with some tech - the skipper had the good sense to beam it all into cargo containers and tow them behind his ship so as to minimize any chances of contamination or other contact problems. But before they could get anything else done, another ship of the same type and size drops out of warp and starts attacking the first ship. Was kind of odd; they ignored the patrol ships until they tried to hail them, then they opened fire. The patrol got in a few good hits and then the unknown started hitting them pretty hard and the patrol didn’t seem to be scoring. It looked bad until the patrol launched a suicide shuttle at it, only this one had a transporter bomb aboard. Went right through the bandit’s shields, exploded and sent the thing off on an erratic course into deep space. The patrol had its own problems at that point and couldn’t follow or track. The first unknown went high order a couple minutes later, and that was that. Now - the point of all that is that we’ve been examining and trying to reverse engineer a lot of that tech ever since. The nanites were part of that. They appear to be designed specifically for computer system repair, and when we realized that…well, we ran with it.”

Scotty nodded in understanding. “Aye, sensible enough….we can sail and fight in ships wi’ great bloody holes in ‘em, but if the computers don’t work, it’s hopeless.”

Spock considered this for a moment, then said, “It is logical enough, but I am unable to understand why we would violate a treaty of such importance to our survival for a relatively simple wartime tactical advantage.”

Smillie shook his head in frustration. “ ‘Simple tactical advantage’ ? Spock, this is a strategic advantage, a war winning advantage! We are outnumbered and outgunned by either of our main adversaries - if they ever stop mistrusting each other enough to cooperate in a war against us, we’ll need every single advantage we can get simply to survive, much less win! We have to be able to defend a couple hundred billion citizens of the Federation, and we will never have enough ships to do so - we have to be able to keep as many of those ships functioning as possible!”

“Why then could we not develop remotely operated vehicles to do the work?”

Dillon stepped in. “We tried, Captain Spock. If they were big enough to do the work, they were too big to get in and take apart panels and damage. If they were small enough to get in, they were too small to do the work. The nanites were perfect - they can be programmed with the layout of the computer systems, and then once they’re injected into the core, they can search every single millimeter of it, from bow to stern, and reroute commands in ways we never thought possible. For instance, on the Prairie tests, we actually had weapons control going through the meal replicator computers on the mess deck. It didn’t work well, but it would have made the difference between being disarmed or being able to shoot back.”

McCoy drummed his fingers on the table for a second. “All very nice,” he said, “and I’m sure that we’ll save a few ships - but how do we control the damned machines? I wasn’t aware of the Charon treaty -”

“You weren’t supposed to be,” Smillie growled. “It’s classified. I’m not sure how Spock knew.”

Spock, for his part, narrowed his gaze at Smillie. “I am the son of one of the Federation’s most senior diplomats. There are at least several things I am aware of that I probably should not be. In any event, the Doctor’s question is relevant - how are the nanites controlled so as not to be a danger?”

“Their programming has been adapted to their specific use,” Marchal answered. “They are programmed for the specific vessel they’re placed in, and they are programmed to immediately subordinate themselves to that vessel’s computer once it’s functional again. When it’s up and running, they are deactivated and eventually flushed and destroyed. They are not, in any way, shape or form, self-replicating. That is a flat impossibility; they are only manufactured in specific lots for the job at hand.”

Spock asked, “Was this the sequence followed on the Prairie tests?”

Dillon considered his words, then replied, “Up to the flushing and destruction. We towed Prairie out a little bit deeper and scuttled her. As the nanites draw power from either the Brain Box or the ship itself, they deactivate within seconds, and then deteriorate within hours. Before and during missions, they’re held in stasis bottles.”

Spock considered all of this for a few moments, then carefully said, “Gentlemen, understand this - I shall serve on this mission to be at the side of my brothers in service, and the friends who sacrificed everything they had for my survival. When we return, please rest assured that there will be a long discussion about the wisdom of this decision.”

Smillie shot Spock a sarcastic look. “Captain Spock, once you get back, please feel free to stand on a soapbox in Golden Gate Park, or write your planetary representative on the Federation Council - right now however, we can only deal with one existential threat at a time, so would it be possible to continue with the briefing?”

To Be Continued…

Mike

[jemhouston]

One thing, I thought Carol Marcus transferred Genesis info off the lab's computer and took it down to the asteroid. Then the lab's computer was erased.

[Johnnie Lyle]

One thing, I thought Carol Marcus transferred Genesis info off the lab's computer and took it down to the asteroid. Then the lab's computer was erased.

Concur. The question is whether Khan got the data when he stole the Genesis device. Spock may well have grabbed any remaining project items to keep them out of Khan’s hands.

Or somebody goofed, and Genesis was misidentified during the decom process. Would not be the first time something like that happened either.

[MikeKozlowski]

...A little bit of both - Dr. Marcus deleted the primary file off the Regulus III main core, but there were partial backups (think what happens when your computer hiccups while you're editing a document) that didn't get wiped.

Mike

[MikeKozlowski]

The taxi drive from the Headquarters District was quiet, and Kruge silently appreciated the fact that Klingon customs were such that small talk among strangers was never common. He was for the most part though deep in thought as the scenery outside the cab’s window changed from the lights and bustling population of the Headquarters District to less light, less imposing buildings, and far, far less people. It didn’t worry him - very little ever ‘worried’ him, and then not for long - he’d been in far, far worse places in his life.

One simply needed to be more alert, that was all. A warrior who was caught unawares here was simply not paying attention.

The driver remained silent as the cab turned to glide down one darkened street, buildings with far more darkened windows than lit ones and those none too bright. No bustling crowds here at all, just individual Klingons shuffling with their heads down into the wind and occasional knots of people gathered around small fires. Some watched, eyes and faces hidden under hoods, and Kruge took note of that. Without doubt the entire neighborhood knew of his arrival, whether or not they had communicators. That was to be expected.

“Here.” Kruge spoke somewhat more softly than he normally would have, no sense in attracting more interest than absolutely necessary. He threw him a handful of darseks as the cab came to a halt, and left the cab in a hiss/whine of pneudraulics as the door came open and he stepped out. The cab moved smartly away, in search of better fares, as Kruge contemplated the shabby building front before him - a dirty, battered, windowless face, one door with a barely functioning light blinking in a deranged sequence above it. And beside the door, on a scratched and dented plate, was the tavern name.

The Golden Bat'leth.

That brought an actual smile to Kruge’s face as he touched the disruptor on his hip and strode in.

Kruge had been in places that looked and smelled worse, but he was hard pressed to remember exactly when. There were some scabby tables with men studiously not paying attention, a bar that looked like it had been used as a target range backing, and a barkeep behind it that looked the same. No one obviously looked up when he entered, but Kruge knew he was being watched very, very closely. Fine. The smell of warm blood wine managed to claw its way past all the other odors, and Kruge stepped slowly but purposefully to the bar, holding up one finger. The barkeep nodded almost imperceptibly, and took a mug from the shelf behind him, filling it with blood wine from a cracked, chipped bowl, then handed it wordlessly across the bar. Kruge took a sip and winced. It wasn’t bad, but Kahless knew, it wasn’t good. That was all right though; he didn’t want more than a sip because -

- A chair slid back behind him.

That, he expected. It had been a long, long time since Kruge had to defend himself on a personal level like this, but it was a feeling - no, a thrill - that one never forgot, triggering reflexes one never lost. The cup went down and the hand came up with the disruptor and he spun in one fluid motion -

- To face three Klingons, disruptors and daggers drawn down on him, close enough to do whatever harm they wanted before he could take down more than one. A good way to go, if one had to, but today was not The Day.

Oh my, Kruge thought for an amused heartbeat. These men were good.

A moment passed, only the sound of their breathing in the room, and then one of the Klingons stepped aside and a fourth, tall and stocky, his face hidden by a hood and scarf, stepped forward. The covering was probably just as well; even with just the narrow space across his eyes visible Kruge could see a truly wicked scar running across the bridge of his nose and up into his foreheads. No weapon in his hands, no house badge visible, just those eyes.

And they were angry.

Very slowly and deliberately, Kruge lowered the disruptor back into its holster. The others didn’t lower their weapons, though in fairness he hadn’t expected them to. With his arms at his side, Kruge turned his right hand palm outward - I carry no weapon, you need not fear me. Only a warrior without honor would kill -

Ah, yes. Without a doubt, every one of the men who stood before him was Discommended.

The tall and stocky one spoke, a mountain accent muffled by the scarf. “I will kill you now, unarmed or otherwise, warrior.” That last was said with barely concealed hatred.

Kruge shook his head, eyes narrowing. “I think not. Is that any way to treat the man who intends to bring your honor back to you?”

At least one of the men inhaled deeply, but the rest didn’t move. The tall one raised his right hand in a bent, battered mechgauntlet with servomotors twitching, and it shuddered slightly as he pushed back the hood and scarf. The years had not been many, but they had not been kind, and the scar was in fact far worse than Kruge had thought, an irregular pink/red/black streak running from right cheek upwards across to the top of his head. And it was just the most obvious of a dozen. The scarred one stood wordless for a moment, then said. “Understand if I am not impressed by your solicitude. As I recall, you helped take it from me.”

Kruge nodded equitably. “I insisted on it,” he replied. “My brother was dead, his ship captured by Federations. Someone had to pay, and pay publicly. You were the highest ranking survivor - no, my apologies, the only survivor. It was nothing personal, simply business.”

“So you will have no problem with me cutting your heart out on the spot and letting you see it before you die? Nothing personal, no hard feelings?”

Kruge’s gaze was fixed and unblinking. “None whatsoever. It would however be decent for me to point out that if my heart stops beating, my crew will know it. A platoon of Marines will transport here from my ship before you can even lick the blood off the blade, and I assure you that whatever tortures you think you have endured up to this point will be as the games of a child. And when they are done - days, certainly, weeks perhaps - your head will be cheerfully delivered to the authorities, and I will have received a state funeral. Your name will not only be erased from history, but your family will vanish as well, and I am sure they will have many, many questions to ask of you in Gre’thor.

“I have no fears for my afterlife, Maltz. Do you?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence for a moment, and Kruge began to wonder if perhaps, finally, he had gone too far, but the feeling vanished as Maltz raised his right hand slightly and motioned for his men to lower their weapons, and he inclined his head towards a table, Kruge carefully stepping behind him to follow.

“You can buy your own drinks,” Maltz said over his shoulder.





The rest of the briefing was surprisingly - and thankfully, thought Kirk, routine. Times, code names, RVs, comm frequencies - the limitless minutiae of any operation, no matter how many ships were involved. It did tend to go on, however, and Kirk had pretty much lost track of time until Smillie - suddenly, it seemed - said, “All right, that covers it. Dillon, departure still on as scheduled?”

Dillon nodded. “Yes, sir. Blue Ridge has already moved over to Irktusk, we’re headed back there as soon as we’re done.”

“Right, then. Kirk, you and your people might want to get some rest, you depart here at 18 - no, 1930, and it’s still an hour’s ride up to the Tusk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t be late. Bad habit you’ve picked up lately.” Kirk didn’t blush, he was far too old for that, but he did turn red out of anger as he bit his tongue and said, “Aye aye, sir.”

“Okay. You people know how important this mission is; don’t screw it up. Dismissed.” Kirk looked at his wrist chrono - dear Lord, he thought, 0100. It would take another half hour at least to get back to the Arch, and after the last few hours’ sleep would be fleeting, if at all. They’d still have to take care of some of the last minute details, and -

Without even seeing him approach, Bones was at his shoulder. “Jim, can I get a moment? I’m guessing you’ve got some questions.” Kirk looked up and saw Nogura, still in his seat, with Smillie, Dillon, and Marchal making small talk with him, and it was then he remembered that he did, indeed, have questions.

They left, back out the hall and into the beautiful San Francisco night, a billion lights twinkling around them. Spock and Scotty stood off to one side, consulting the notes they’d taken this evening, making sure that for a few moments their friends would have some privacy. Kirk and McCoy stepped slightly further away, and stopped, Kirk asking McCoy, “Bones, how bad -”

McCoy shook his head. “Without seeing his records, I’d say some kind of cancer, Jim. At most…three weeks, maybe a month if he was in a hospice - which clearly, he isn’t. I’m sorry, Jim…but we’re going to lose him. If I were you, I’d take -”

“Pardon me, gentlemen.” Kirk and McCoy looked up to see Nogura a few feet away. Still knew how to sneak up on someone, Kirk thought as they both straightened to attention. Nogura made a feeble wave, and shook his head. “Belay the honors, it’s all right. Doctor, I was wondering if I might have a moment with Captain Kirk.” McCoy and Kirk shared a quick look, then McCoy replied, “Of course, Admiral,” then walked over to Spock. Kirk wasn’t sure what to say for a moment, but then Nogura said it for him.

“I’m sorry, Jim. Of all people, you deserved to know, but…with everything going on, the staff was terrified that if the Klingons found out I was dying, they’d jump. And we just aren’t ready yet. We’re getting there - slowly but surely - but we need another few months.”

“Admiral Nogura…then why are we going after the Enterprise? If it’s that bad, we need to be getting every ship and every crew member ready, not doing something like this.”

“Too much risk…” Nogura coughed, waved Kirk back. “If the Klingons get hold of her, they can rebuild the Genesis device.”

“So can we.”

Nogura’s eyes went hard at that. “So tell me, Captain - when both sides have weaponized the Apocalypse and are prepared to use it, is it worth it for us to win? Is it worth it for us to be no better than the Klingons at that point, when we’ve created a graveyard a hundred thousand parsecs wide?” Kirk’s brain searched for an answer, but Nogura spoke first. “You know the answer, Jim. If we began fighting with doomsday machines on both sides, then all the walls come down. Every treaty, open and secret, every understanding, ends. Every scorpion in a bottle gets released. You’re a warrior, Jim, far more than I ever was - tell me what options we have. At that point, we’re fighting to see who has dominions over the corpses. What options do we have, Captain?”

Kirk shook his head. “There aren’t any.”

“Damn right there aren’t. And for what it’s worth we erased every single megabyte of data on the Genesis project after you got back from Mutaara, so even if we wanted her to, it would take Carol years. Assuming she’d even be willing to…as far as I know, we haven’t heard from her in a long, long time.”

“She’s…I honestly don’t know where she is. I haven’t spoken to her since David died.”

“Mm. A shame.” There was a pause, and Nogura looked up at the stars over San Francisco for a moment before he spoke. “You know…I was supposed to be out there today too. The docs cleared me to go out aboard Kongo. I needed it…I needed a deck under my feet just one more time…then I could have gone home, Jim. I would have been fine with that.” There was a pause, then Nogura looked directly at Kirk. “When we found out about the 1701 wreck, we had no choice…had to tell the Secretary of Defense and the Council…and they were furious. Thought it was over, all done long ago.” Nogura stopped, and when he spoke again, his voice was very small. “They said since I authorized Genesis…I approved it, I funded it…then I was staying right here until it got fixed.”

Nogura swallowed hard, and grimly smiled. “Boy, are they in for a surprise.”

That did it for Kirk, his breath catching and a hotness in his eyes that would betray his feelings, but Nogura shook his head sadly. “Don’t, Jim. Too much history to end it like that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nogura reached up and clasped Kirk on his shoulder. “Do your job. Bring your people home. It’s all that matters. And one more thing…when you get back, Jim…retire.” Kirk started to answer, and again Nogura cut him off. “Both of us overstayed our welcome…and you know it. I never should have come back after Harry Morrow quit, and you should have gone home after you got back from Mutaara.”

“Thought about it pretty hard. It didn’t seem like it made a difference any more, like I was just going through the motions.”

“After a while we do. You made a difference every time you went out, but there comes a time when we have to move on, no matter how happy we are at what we do. You still have a long, long time to be happy, Jim. Take it.” With that, Nogura patted Kirk’s shoulder and walked back towards the residence. Kirk, in turn, watched him disappear through the heavy wooden door. Kirk blinked hard, holding back the tears that were forming, and looking up at the night sky. The lights of San Francisco surrounded him, but he could still see a lot, stars whose location he knew as precisely as he knew the back of his hand, whose names he remembered like old friends. Draco, Cygnus, Lyra, Pegasus.

Places as eternal as anything ever would be. Places where friends actually were at that moment.

Places where, for the first time in his life, Jim Kirk really didn’t want to go to.



The barkeep brought over a bloodwine for Maltz, and he and Kruge sipped their cups for a moment, while the others in the bar went back to looking everywhere but at them. It was Maltz who finally broke the silence.

“I could say no.”

Kruge contemplated that briefly. “You could. You’d also not live long enough to tell anyone about it. I have no illusions about you, Maltz. If you thought you could get your honor returned by handing me over to the high command, you would do so without a second’s hesitation. But you know the Genesis Torpedo - at least as well as any living warrior; I have no idea why my brother would have killed the Lady Valkyris for her knowledge and let you live, but it matters not. You have a reason to live…to be victorious.”

“Your trust in me is touching.”

“Thank you.”

Silence, then Maltz put down his cup. “Assuming I agree - and assuming I don’t simply decide to see just how quickly I can kill you in any event - what benefit do I derive from your little conspiracy?”

“When I become Chancellor -”

Maltz snorted. “Gre’thor will freeze over long, long before that.”

“Not if I have the Genesis Torpedo.”

Maltz caught his breath slightly at that, and a shadow passed over a face already deep within others. “None exist, and the plans for one are gone as well -”

“No. The Federation battlecruiser that killed my brother still exists; it was not destroyed on the Genesis planet as was believed. Its computer core is still intact; the plans are assuredly still on it.”

“And you know this how?”

“Friends.”

“You have none.”

“More than you.”

Maltz’ lip twitched, revealing a sharpened incisor. “Have a care, Lord Kruge.” More bloodwine, then, “So, let us assume that your…’friends’…actually know what they’re talking about, that the plans for the Genesis torpedo are in there. How long will it take you to fabricate one?”
“A few weeks at most, and more than one. I have already assembled the needed materials and manpower at a…remote location. Once I have it, we shall return to the Home World, and make our demands.”

“Which are?”

Kruge sipped, and shrugged his shoulders. “My immediate appointment as Chancellor. Or…what is the human expression…’shogun’. Yes, that’s it.” Maltz looked quizzically at Kruge, who replied, “A warlord who holds power while a figurehead sits on the throne. That, in the end, may be the better option, but I can afford to be flexible.”

“So very understanding of you. It does not end there, of course.”

“Of course. Once I have reorganized the upper levels of fleet command, we go to war against the Federation. After you have had your honor restored and been put in your rightful place as a senior Fleet commander.”

Maltz took a swallow of bloodwine. “And of course, the Federations will see the wisdom of your point of view, roll over like a targ wanting its belly scratched, and then submit to the rule of the Empire. My Kahless, you are a genius.”

“Of course not. My brother may have been a strategic idiot, but I am not. Every ship and every warrior we have could never physically conquer and occupy the Federation, but we do not have to. I have seen the contingency plans, Maltz - we can most assuredly take a sufficiently large portion of their space to make it prohibitively costly to recapture.”

Maltz lifted one eyebrow. “And you are sure they will cooperate with your strategic vision? If I remember correctly, the humans alone have a history littered with would-be conquerors who thought they had the final solution.”

“The humans have a weakness right now - they are politically divided over going to war with us. And a good proportion of them believe in peace at any price - most reasonably, the ones closest to our forces. Give them power - or at least the illusion of power - in the occupied zones, let them know that all they need do is obey us.”

“And of course, if they need any convincing, you can demonstrate the Genesis Torpedo.”

“Of course.”

“And when you run out of torpedoes?”

“We will not. The Federations in the occupied zones will submit immediately, and those in Federation Prime will see the wisdom of…cooperation.”

“And when they rebuild the torpedo?”

“They will not. They are unable to conceive of mutually assured destruction. They are unable to bring themselves to understand death with honor instead of submission. We will win. We will prevail.”

Maltz considered this as he threw back what remained of the bloodwine. “Tell me this, conqueror. Who else supports you? How many ships will flock to your banner when you proclaim yourself conqueror?”

Kruge smirked at that, then replied, “Look at those who seek the Chancellor’s throne right now. Bureaucrats…businessmen…not a single warrior among them, though they literally trip over themselves to gain our favor. I command the finest ship with the finest crew in the fleet, and I want nothing less than a Klingon empire that rules what it is entitled to rule. I need not seek followers - they shall seek ME.”

Pause. “You’re quite mad, you know.”

“It is said that if one knows one is mad…then one is not truly mad.”

Before Maltz could reply, Kruge’s communicator buzzed. That annoyed him; he had given K’voch strict orders not to disturb him. It was with more than the usual irritation that Kruge snapped open the communicator and snarled, “Speak.”

“K’voch. There is a complication.”

That, of course, justified the call. “Understood,” Kruge said. “How long until you can beam me up?”

“Twelve tup.”

“Make it happen. I will be alone on this pickup. Out.”

Kruge tucked the communicator away, and turned back to Maltz. “As fascinating as I have found our little debate, my time grows short. Join or die.”

“When you put it so politely, how can I refuse?”

“A wise choice.”

Maltz leaned in, almost nose to nose with Kruge. “However, understand this, my Head of House Lord Kruge - I want my honor back, and I intend to get it. If for even a moment I believe you will betray me, I will take you as my bodyguard to Gre’thor.”

Kruge did not even blink, and for the first time in years, Maltz saw honor in another warrior’s eyes. “If we fail, it will be an honor to go to Gre’thor.” Kruge extended his hand, and they shook. With that, Kruge rose, saying, “ Ready yourself for transport. It may be a few rep yet, but be prepared for my call.”

“We shall.”

Kruge almost did a double take. “ ‘We’ ?”

Maltz nodded amicably. “These men and I share a bond - we are discommended, and through our brotherhood we have survived. I shall not desert them, nor them me.”

Kruge thought for a moment, then said, “Done - on the same conditions as yourself.”

There was no nod, no murmur of assent, just the crash of leather and armor as Maltz and his men came to attention and saluted, and Maltz said, “We declare our faith and allegiance to House Kruge.

“On our honor.”

To Be Continued…..

Mike

[jemhouston]

I can't help but feeling someone in Star Fleet is using this as a red flag to goad the Klingons to start something.

[MikeKozlowski]

Kirk hadn’t gotten much sleep, but the typically uncomfortable Starfleet Lodging bed was only part of the problem.

It was the quiet.

Not a sound to be heard, just the artificial quiet of a residence that wasn’t even yours. His apartment was a few miles away, with a comfortable bed, and the murmur of San Francisco outside. Something about it just kept your mind on track, kept it in its little boundaries and kept you from thinking about things that you shouldn’t.

She was gone, Kirk thought. I saw her go.

You were wrong, Jim, the voice came back, quiet and friendly. You made a mistake. She’s still there. You got a new Enterprise, and you thought it was all over. Nope.

Starship captains don’t make mistakes. They can’t make mistakes.

Wanna bet? Ask Steve Garrovick. Ask Matt Decker. Ask Ron Tracey. Oh, wait, you can’t. Ron’s been in an asylum for twenty years, and the other two are dead. Think about it, Jim…how many times were you in a position where if the breaks hadn’t gone your way, you would have ended up just like them - or worse, a desk-bound laughing stock until you finally got the message and quit…when they weren’t pitying you and whispering to themselves, “There but for the grace of God….”

Mistakes happen all the time, Jim, and if you’re lucky beings just die and you die with them. If you’re not…well, you get to live with it. What’s our average lifespan today - 120? And as healthy as you are, with your good genes, 130, 140 no problem. That many more years to reflect on what YOU did wrong -

STOP -

- and it was a long, long night.

The alarm sounded as planned at 0800, and Kirk knew he’d slept, but felt as if he hadn’t gotten a wink. Not the first time, not the last. Out of bed, check the message center - Shuttle departing at 1730, show time 1700 - plenty of time to get things together.

Shower, shave, breakfast, such as it was. Bones was already down in the dining hall, tucking into a pile of scrambled eggs and sausage, with orange juice and real Starfleet coffee to wash it down. Kirk just ordered oatmeal from the replicators - normally he had a pretty substantial appetite in the morning, but it just wasn’t there today. Bones nodded as he sat down.

“Morning, Jim. You look like hell.”

Kirk winced. “Good to see you too, Doctor.”

Bones smiled. “Get some coffee in you - doctor’s orders.” McCoy waved down a steward carrying a blue carafe, and pointed at Kirk. The man came over and with a practiced flourish flipped one of the massive handleless Starfleet mugs over, and poured a rich brown-red stream of aromatic coffee into it, snapping the carafe up without spilling a drop, and giving Kirk and McCoy a big grin and nod before moving on. Kirk picked up the mug and sipped carefully, the hot coffee rolling down his throat. Almost at once he started to feel better, more alert, that scratching behind the eyes fading out. More placebo than fact, he thought, but it works.


“You all right?,” McCoy asked around a mouthful of sausage.

“Depends,” Kirk replied. “A lot of the past decided to show up last night.” McCoy nodded equitably. “Not just for you, Jim. Spock’s embarrassed because he doesn’t remember most of it, I don’t remember much more than he does, and Scotty feels like hell.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

Kirk looked into his coffee cup as he sipped for a few seconds, so it took a moment before he realized that McCoy was glaring back at him. “Bones, what’s -”

“Now you listen to me, Captain Kirk.” The Georgia drawl was back, but there was nothing pleasant or welcoming about it. “Scotty thinks he let all of us down - not to mention that to him, Enterprise was even more - well, real, than it was to you. That ship was everything to him, and now after it’s been dead and gone for six years, suddenly her ghost appears and you expect him to be understanding about it? Hell, even Spock was surprised.”

Kirk took a deep breath. His old friend was right; he usually was. “Bones….I’m sorry. It’s just a lot to process. This whole story…Khan, David, Carol….Enterprise. It’s like the past just keeps rising from the…” Kirk paused for a second, unwilling to say the last word, but Bones stepped in. “I get it, Jim. You hang the good moments up in your mind for everyone to see, and the bad…well, you try to bury them. Doesn’t always work, and in your case…well, it’s been a few decades of things that would have filled the life of a dozen other men. Sometimes, it comes back. Face it - deal with it - survive it, just like you always have. Like we always have.”

Kirk smiled gently and replied, “Understood, Bones. I -”

“And while you’re at it,” McCoy said with a grin, “Pass the pepper.”


Kruge took a deep breath as the chill of a transport wore off, and saw K’voch standing at the base of the transporter platform, with another Senior Lieutenant behind him - a squat, stocky officer Kruge had never seen before.

With the red/gold epaulet of Fleet Security on his left shoulder.

K’voch came to attention and said, “Welcome, Commander. This is Senior Lieutenant Karzz…our new Security officer.” Karzz snapped to himself at that, saluting smartly and holding it as Kruge stepped down off the platform, sizing him up. Kruge took his time returning the salute, then asked, “Where is Senior Lieutenant Kast? I trust that since he is not here, he is either ill or dead.”

Karzz politely replied, “Kast was notified of a sudden illness in his family, and Fleet graciously gave him leave to join them.”

Kruge didn’t miss a beat. “Kast has never spoken of a family.”

Karzz smiled, or at least tried to. “Our shipmates have many things in their lives they do not speak of. In any event, he will not be rejoining the Dragon before your departure. Which, I am led to understand, will be soon.”

Kruge’s upper lip twitched, but he held his temper. “We will perform one more orbit, and then we depart. See to your stations. By the way - where is Senior Lieutenant Kast’s family? I should like to send my hopes for his loved ones’ swift recovery.”

“Sadly, Commander, I am told that he cannot be reached.” Karzz inclined his head, then stood straight and saluted once more, turning smartly on one heel and striding out. Kruge said nothing, but K’voch finally broke the silence. “Someone suspects.”

Kruge nodded. “Admiral Kumerian. In fairness, he is a brilliant officer and a good judge of character - especially mine.”

“What do we do? Kast knew everything, and should they decide to question him…” K’voch let that trail off. They both understood that if Fleet Security decided to have a chat with Kast, it would be neither brief nor pleasant. Kast was a good warrior and loyal, but even the best had their limits.

“We continue. You know the old saying about no battle plan ever surviving contact with an enemy? Well, that -” Kruge pointed down the passageway - “is the enemy. Let us therefore make a new plan. In the meantime, bring our friends up from the surface on the next pass - use the cargo transporters, lock them out from the rest of the system. As soon as they are aboard, we shall depart.”

“And Karzz?”

“I have no doubt he shall do his duty. And I shall see to it personally.”

To Be Continued….



Kirk trotted down the corridor, weaving through the other shuttle passengers and shooting a quick glance at his wrist chrono only to discover for the fourth time in the last couple minutes that he was, indeed, still late. Half turning, half skidding around one final corner, Kirk saw the holosign that said



17 DELTA
DEPARTING
SSM
ID REQUIRED

The wisdom of advertising a Special Shuttle Mission was lost to Jim Kirk, but on the other hand there were plenty of SSMs launching from here every day - VIP transports, special maintenance teams, couriers, even photo opportunities. One more, he considered, probably didn’t stand out.

The shuttle from Blue Ridge, tucked neatly into the ops bay, was one of their standard personnel shuttles, gleaming white and christened BIG MEADOWS in perfect 304mm Starfleet Standard font, sitting quietly three pads down from everyone else in the busy terminal. Kirk slowed to a more or less dignified, purposeful walk as he came up to the Security CPO and showed his ID. A quick scan, the smile and salute, and Kirk ducked into the open hatch. Everyone was there and looked up as he came in, but only Scotty held his gaze for a moment with a mildly disapproving look. Sitting down next to Spock, Kirk quickly buckled in and sat back to catch his breath.

The pilot was polite and professional, giving his safety briefing the way he clearly had several hundred times before and blessedly unimpressed with his passengers. Just as well, Kirk thought as the shuttle lifted off with a bump, then smoothly accelerated away with a slow, steady increase in gees. Almost involuntarily, Kirk closed his eyes and relaxed, the lost night’s rest still weighing on him. His brain reflexively started to run through all the things he’d have to do once he got aboard, and just as suddenly remembered - he wasn’t in command this trip. Someone else had the conn this time; someone else had all the responsibility.

Now that was an odd feeling. It was one thing to let someone else ferry you around for a couple hours in a shuttle or hopper, but…dear Lord, how long had it been? Back on the Farragut. A lifetime ago.

They cruised northwest across the Pacific, passing hoppers and other shuttles in silence, flashing anti-collision lights and beacons tracing their paths across a black velvet backdrop. The NorthAm Pacific coast glided smoothly below, greens and browns and whites all discreetly veiled by clouds that slid past to reveal the Aleutians, and then Siberia and the lush forests that seemed to roll out forever beneath them - and then a bump as the reaction motors forward fired, and Kirk looked up and saw a blue-silver mushroom shape starting to grow in the forward windscreen.

The speakers buzzed slightly and the pilot announced, “Gentlemen, we are about ten minutes out from Irktusk Station, please secure your seats, buckle in, and we will be landing aboard Blue Ridge through the aft hangar bay. Thank you.”

The usual rustling of beings and gear, the whine of seat servomotors, the rattle of seat harnesses, and the Big Meadows began to slide obliquely to the right, now pointed towards a drydock a few kilometers past the station - reflecting a little bit of sun and star, but unusually dark. Normally, the drydocks were brightly lit - to help the repair and maintenance crews mostly, but otherwise to keep someone from hitting them and ruining their day - but this one was almost…hiding. The perimeter lights were on, and there were quite a few interior lights from the ship inside coming into view, but the overall effect was as if the ship inside really didn’t want to be seen. Scotty caught it too, leaning across the aisle and asking, “There really is a ship in there, I hope…”

Spock was still looking at the screen on his PADD as he replied, “It seems reasonable that someone has decided that there is no need to call any more attention to our departure than absolutely necessary. Of course, any attempt to hide a vessel coming in at seven hundred and twelve thousand, five hundred metric tons, may be considered ever so slightly futile to begin with.”

“Bothers me a little,”, McCoy said.

Kirk leaned forward to see McCoy. “Why’s that, Bones?”

McCoy folded his arms with a dubious look. “A ship that dark usually has something wrong.”


It seemed to be only a few heartbeats, and they were lined up with the drydock. Blue Ridge was clearly inside now, her aft shuttle bay doors opened and the brightly lit interior standing out - a dark gray deck with sequential lights running, first a pulsing blue/white glow that, as they came closer, resolved into a long series of individual lights rolling from the fantail forward. The landing alignment lights - three lights on the outer fantail itself - suddenly snapped on, red-green-red, and the speakers buzzed.

“Big Meadows, this is Blue Ridge Approach, call the ball.”

“Blue Ridge, Big Meadows copies.” The shuttle rose slightly, skittered slightly to port, and the central green light suddenly became a flare that settled down to a circle with a smaller red bar to each side. “I have the ball.”

“Big Meadows, Blue Ridge copies you have the ball. Maintain heading and level, do not reply.”

Blue Ridge was growing in the windshield now, shadows becoming dimly lit shapes that bore a vague resemblance to the Dreadnaught she came from, but with bumps and protrusions going in all directions, the third warp engine standing out above everything else.

“Lord almighty,” Scotty breathed. “She’s a big ‘un, isn’t she?”

Kirk grinned. “I’ve seen prettier.”

There was a bump as they slipped through the atmosphere field across the shuttle bay doors, and Big Meadows reared upwards slightly, then settled gently onto the deck. “Welcome aboard the Blue Ridge, gentlemen. We’ve got some folks waiting for you and to get your baggage sorted out.” With that, the hatch popped open with a hiss of hydraulics and they unbuckled from their seats. Kirk was first out, followed by Spock, Scotty, and McCoy as they stepped down to the deck. Berenice Marchal was standing at parade rest, coming to attention and saluting as Kirk’s feet touched the deck.

“Captain Kirk - gentlemen - welcome aboard. Captain Dillon has asked me to show you to your quarters.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Kirk answered, adding with a smile, “we don’t need anything fancy.”

Marchal smiled back, replying, “As it turns out, we have a full set of flag quarters but no command staff aboard this trip, so Captain Dillon thought you’d like the upgrade to the first class suites.”

“In that case,” McCoy smiled graciously, “it would be rude to turn down the opportunity. Lead on, Commander.”

“With pleasure.” Marchal gestured forward, saying, “We’re going to go forward through the R and R deck, so we can give you the five-credit tour. Through this hatch right here -”

-And they stepped into a literal cathedral of technology, the hull arching a few stories overhead, with galleries lining the sides, dozens of machines - plasma lathes, 3D fabricators, jigs and frames with crew members surrounding each one, the sounds of activity and construction echoing through it. Kirk turned to see Scotty grinning from ear to ear, looking like a kid in a candy store. “I take it you approve, Mister Scott?”

“Aye indeed,” Scotty shot back. “Turn me loose in here long enough and I might never come back. I’ve never seen anything quite like this away from a full dress orbital yard or starbase.”

Marchal laughed back over her shoulder. “Glad you approve, Captain Scott - it’s why we’re here and once we’re underway, you can play down here to your heart’s content.” Scotty’s only reply was a long, appreciative look at all the gear on the R&R deck, and a quiet, “You can count on it, lass….”


It is axiomatic that Klingon life is not quiet. Klingons are - surprisingly - a naturally loud people, and the concept of an ‘inside voice’ does not seem to have developed in their culture. There are several excellent multi-volume works that discuss the many possible reasons for this, but never mind. The Klingon personality is not inclined to silence, the native animal life is raucous - to put it gently - and their technology is much louder than others.

It therefore stood to reason, many centuries ago, that silence could be disturbing. Many a Klingon commander noticed that if the immediate environment was quiet - without sound - their warriors became…well….nervous. This is why Klingon interrogation facilities are as silent as technology and ingenuity can make them - sound absorbing walls and floors, utterly noiseless hatches, and very little conversation allowed outside the interrogation rooms themselves.

All of which made Senior Lieutenant Kast, formerly Security Officer of Imperial Klingon Ship Dragon, very, very nervous. The only sound in the tiny cell was his own breathing, but after a few hours here - and he wasn’t at all sure by this point how long that had been - he was starting to think he could hear his own heartbeat. Not feel, mind you, but hear it.

No. Remain calm. You are a warrior. They know nothing.

Kast tried to stand up, only to discover for the hundredth time that the room was just too low for him to stand up completely…as it was too narrow for him to extend his arms, and the shelf that extended from the rear wall was just too skinny and too short for him to sit or lie comfortably. Kast fought down the urge to scream and pull the shelf from the wall, but -

- The hatch opened with a metallic SNAP. Kast looked at it in confusion for a moment, waiting for someone - something - to show itself, but nothing did.

Remain calm.

Slowly, carefully, with skills and reflexes honed by years of practice and training, Kast carefully stepped through the hatch.

“Good morning, Senior Lieutenant.”

Kast spun to his left, to see a gray haired warrior standing calmly a few feet away. He looked positively benign for a Klingon, a true smile on his face.

But it’s not morning - is it?

“I was beginning to wonder when you would come out.”

“Who are you? Why am I here?”

“I’m afraid you do not ask any questions here, Senior Lieutenant. I do.”

“WHO ARE YOU??”

“The warrior who asks the questions.”

It all sank in to Kast, with the brightness and violence of an unexpected solar flare. He briefly, so briefly it was not worth even noting, considered making a run for it, or going after the warrior.

No.

He knew where he was, and he knew escape was impossible. The only option remaining to him now was -

Honor.

Death, with honor.

Kast straightened to attention and looked the warrior straight in the eyes. “I shall tell you nothing.”

The warrior inclined his head, and smiled once more, a smile that would have warmed the heart of a child, a smile that spoke volumes. He stepped forward, taking Kast by the elbow and turning him towards the long passage that stretched out before them. Patting him on the back, the warrior said gently, “Of course you will.”



The Flag Quarters on Blue Ridge were what was often referred to as Starfleet Nice - on Earth they would still be considered somewhat basic, but out here they were positively luxurious, and even though Jim Kirk was used to comfortable surroundings on Enterprise this, he had to admit, was pretty good. Real, civilian grade furniture and other odds and ends, and a mural panel up on one wall showing the Shenandoah valley and the Blue Ridge mountains in a series of slowly changing views. When he’d worn stars, Kirk had routinely shipped out in spaces this nice. When he could get out there, he thought with a slightly rueful smile. And he’d hated it. On Enterprise before the refit, he had a slightly larger space than everyone else, and that was just fine. After the refit, it was comparatively huge, but still Spartan enough that you didn’t feel like the odd being out.

The intercom chimed, and Kirk had to search for a moment to find it - ah, the office space off to one side. Took a couple steps to get there plus one long stretch to tap the key. “Kirk here.”

“Jim,” Bones’ voice came through the speaker, “I’ve been in hotels that weren’t this nice.”



Spock’s voice came over the intercom next. “Doctor, the facilities are indeed quite comfortable, but I do in fact wonder if the funds could not have been better spent on operational improvements such as –“

“ - ‘Hae ye SEEN the technical library on this beast? Dear Lord, I could spend a century in there and never see the same journal twice!”

“Gentlemen,” Kirk interrupted with a smile, “please save it for the survey cards when we get done. In the meantime, let’s unpack and I’ll get with Captain Dillon about the briefings when we’re underway. Kirk out.” He’d barely turned away from the intercom when it buzzed again. “Commander Marchal to Captain Kirk.”

No rest for the wicked. “Kirk here, go ahead.”

“Captain, how are your quarters?”

“Four star all the way, Commander, and my staff sends their regards. When do we shove off?”

“In about ten minutes. Would you like to come to the bridge and watch the festivities?”

“A pleasure. On my way.”

“See you then. Marchal out.”

It was easy enough to find his way up, even with Blue Ridge being an order of magnitude bigger than Enterprise. They were in the primary hull, and all one had to do was move in and up. One brief but pleasant detour took him through Blue Ridge’s ‘welcome aboard’ room aft of the bridge, a huge space with massive models of previous ships by that name – a ‘command ship’, whatever that was, of the old US Navy, one of the old UESPA’s first big colony ships, and finally an old Powhatan class escort cruiser from the first Romulan war. Next to them, a display of the ships’ flags – useless in space, but priceless when motivating the crew. And above all of that, a row of official photographs of the ship’s staff and command CPOs, all crowned with the words

WELCOME ABOARD
USS BLUE RIDGE
NCC-2895

Not bad at all, Kirk thought as he strode past. Starfleet had been getting insistent about putting one of these in aboard Enterprise, but Kirk had kept pointing out that if someone was aboard the Big E and didn’t know its history, then they probably had no business being there. With one last hiss a hatch opened, and there he was.

Same basic design as everything else in the fleet, only bigger and roomier, with a smaller one slightly above and behind. Marchal, standing by the command chair, looked up and waved him in. Kirk reflexively looked up at the main viewscreen, now glowing a friendly blue with a StarFleet insignia centered and a smaller insert screen showing the view forward and out of the drydock as WorkBees and shuttles cruised serenely past, and the big stadium lights sat darkened in the dock’s frames.

“So, Captain.” Marchal had stepped beside him as he’d looked at the screen, and Kirk turned to look at her. Certainly squared away, he thought, as any good first officer would be. Attractive enough, too – and Kirk shut that thought down before he went any further. It was one thing on your own ship, but even that had throttled back considerably since the days of the five year missions; as a guest on someone else’s that would be remarkably bad form even for a Galactic hero known for that sort of thing.

Perhaps later, he thought with a forcefully internalized smile. In any event –

“Remarkable ship, Commander. Not familiar though with the facilities up there,” Kirk said as he motioned towards the smaller bridge. Marchal nodded. “That’s the R&R ops center – for ‘repair and replenishment’. When those operations are underway, that’s where we handle them from. StarFleet wanted to make it an ops room down in the engineering hull, but it made a lot more sense to have it where everyone could actually talk to one another. Doubles as a Flag Bridge when we have a staff aboard.”

“Even more people to confuse things when it gets exciting.”

It was Marchal’s turn to smile now. “We’re StarFleet, Captain Kirk, we thrive on confusion. As a matter of fact – “

The simultaneous sounds of a bosun’s whistle, hatch doors opening, and a bellowed, “Captain on the bridge!” got their attention and they turned to see Dan Dillon walk in, taking a look around and settling on Kirk and Marchal, striding over to them with a look of – what, Kirk wondered. Wasn’t confusion. Might have been displeasure.

“Good morning, Captain Kirk. Is everything all right? Hadn’t expected to see you up here.”

Kirk turned on his biggest smile and replied, “Everything’s fine, Captain. Commander Marchal was kind enough to invite me up here to watch departure. It was very gracious of her – feels a little strange not being in the captain’s chair myself.”

Dillon simply looked at Kirk for a heartbeat too long, and an expression that suggested someone had just spilled coffee on his uniform, and Kirk realized at that moment that he wasn’t exactly…welcome on the bridge. Before he could say anything though, Dillon gave him a thin smile and said, “Of course, Captain. Always glad to have guests.” And with that, Dillon stepped off to the captain’s chair, calling over his shoulder, “XO?”

Oh dear.

Marchal straightened her uniform jacket, cleared her throat, and whispered, ‘Excuse me,’ then marched purposefully down to Dillon. Dillon was writing on his PADD as he spoke, his eyes fixed on it, Marchal standing at attention, and although Kirk couldn’t hear what he was saying, he didn’t need to. It would have boiled down to, Do not – do NOT – bring that man on my bridge again unless I tell you to. Got it?

Marchal nodded slightly and said something herself, something else Kirk didn’t really need to hear. He’d been on the receiving end of quiet verbal flayings more than a few times himself back in the day; - Steve Garrovick had been a master of that sort of thing – but the only thing that ever really changed was the why. Dillon said something else, and Marchal executed a perfect about face, then stepped up to the level just above the command chair. Going to parade rest, she called, “Attention all hands, this is the XO, now hear this, now hear this – departure stations, by the numbers!”

The crowd of people all over the bridge was suddenly in motion, the seats at the various stations filled, the murmur of conversation abruptly replaced by calm, purposeful, direct statements between stations and other parts of the ship. Blue Ridge had been dozing – now she was coming to life. Marchal turned to her right and called, “Comm?”

The reply was sharp, confident and efficient. “Comm standing by, XO!”

Marchal nodded slightly. “You’re on, sir.”

Dillon sat up straight in the command chair, hand gripping the side rests for a moment, fingers dancing lightly across the panels and making sure that the drydock crews hadn’t changed anything from when they’d gotten there, and then looked up. “Irktusk Control, this is Blue Ridge Actual. Comm check, please.” A brief pause, then a Russian accent so strong that Kirk reflected it made Chekov sound like he was from New England. “Blue Ridge Actual, this is Tusk Control, we read you five by five.”

“Tusk, we copy five by five, stand by for departure.”

“Blue Ridge Actual, copy. Clearing departure lanes, standing by.”

Dillon looked around the bridge one more time, then raised his right index finger –

-Marchal saw it and called, “All stations, sound off!”

“Ops, go!”

“Communications, go!”

“Helm and Nav, go!”

“Engineering is a go!”

“Environmental, green and go!”

“Weps, go!”

“R&R, go!”

“Sciences, go!”

Marchal allowed herself a small smile. Music to her ears. “Captain, all stations
report ready.”

“As it should be, XO, as it should be. Release moorings.”

Kirk felt the gentle thud of the big power and services moorings releasing, and for the first time in days Blue Ridge was on her own, and in her element. Marchal looked over to Engineering, and the duty engineer quickly scanned the board then gave her a thumbs up. “Captain,” Marchal said, “moorings are clear; Blue Ridge is on internal power.”

Kirk watched Dillon for a moment as he looked around his bridge one more time, checked the displays on the command chair, and then looked thoughtful for just a heartbeat. Kirk knew what he was thinking – is everything right? Is there anything I’ve missed? Is there anything I still need to know? The answer to that was easy enough – if you waited till you had definite answers, you’d never leave dockside. You had trained your crew, they in turn knew their jobs and you trusted them. That was the bargain, and both sides understood it. And with that, Dillon settled back in the seat with a satisfied expression on his face and said, “Tusk Control, Blue Ridge Actual, we are clear of moorings and are requesting departure clearance.”

“Blue Ridge Actual, Tusk Control, copy. Please stand by.”

Kirk knew what was going on there too – one last sweep of the sensors, one last look around to make sure nobody livened up the Blue Ridge’s day by running into them as they left drydock. More than a few starships had enjoyed very short voyages that way, and all captains and ops techs endeavored to make sure it didn’t happen to them. Not more than a heartbeat then, and the speakers announced, “Blue Ridge Actual, this is Tusk Control. You are cleared for departure and one orbit for systems check, deep space insertion at your discretion. Please use departure lane four; good luck and safe voyage.”

Now and only now did Dillon finally smile. “Tusk Control, this is Blue Ridge Actual, confirming departure lane four, single orbit for systems check. Thank you. Helm – take us out, thrusters only.”

“Aye aye, sir, thrusters to ten percent.” There was a slight bump as the thrusters kicked in, and Kirk felt a gentle push forward, then Blue Ridge began to move – imperceptibly at first, then visibly as the main viewscreen came on, showing the view directly forward as Blue Ridge crept out of the drydock.

No lights. No dock riggers in hardsuits waving as you glided out. No chatter between the stations and Tusk Control. Just quiet and being as inconspicuous as possible. Bones nailed it, Kirk thought. It feels wrong.




To Be Continued….

Mike

[jemhouston]

The game is a foot. I hope Blue Ridge has lots of teeth.

[Johnnie Lyle]

Dillon vs Marechal.

The XO is far more secure on the bridge than her CO. A very very clear difference in their self confidence. Dillon is afraid of Kirk. Marechal is not - and clearly relishes the challenge of performing under the eyes of a living legend.

Your Klingons continue to be perfect. Karzz and the Klingon who Asks the Questions exude joie de vivre.

[jemhouston]

I'm just wondering if something involved Kirk did something to a person that Dillon cared about. There's a distaste for Kirk that Dillon isn't hiding well. Going out of your way being rude to another Captain isn't smart.

[gtg947h]

I'm just wondering if something involved Kirk did something to a person that Dillon cared about. There's a distaste for Kirk that Dillon isn't hiding well. Going out of your way being rude to another Captain isn't smart.

Dillon seems like one of those super "by the book" types who just can't stand the idea of a cowboy like Kirk getting all the glory while he (Dillon) followed the rules and ran a tight ship and did everything "right" but never got the recognition he felt he really deserved (and/or was always relegated to support roles instead of being on the tip of the pointy end). I've worked with/for a couple folks like that on the civilian side and they made everyone under them miserable.

[jemhouston]

I'm just wondering if something involved Kirk did something to a person that Dillon cared about. There's a distaste for Kirk that Dillon isn't hiding well. Going out of your way being rude to another Captain isn't smart.

Dillon seems like one of those super "by the book" types who just can't stand the idea of a cowboy like Kirk getting all the glory while he (Dillon) followed the rules and ran a tight ship and did everything "right" but never got the recognition he felt he really deserved (and/or was always relegated to support roles instead of being on the tip of the pointy end). I've worked with/for a couple folks like that on the civilian side and they made everyone under them miserable.

Dillon forgot, Kirk help write the book.

[MikeKozlowski]

I'm just wondering if something involved Kirk did something to a person that Dillon cared about. There's a distaste for Kirk that Dillon isn't hiding well. Going out of your way being rude to another Captain isn't smart.

Jem,

In the Mikeyverse the issue is there's a LOT of StarFleet officers out there who served with/under/were taught by the Deckers pere et fils, or have served with those officers.

CDRE Matthew Decker was an irascible, often short-tempered man, but he was a brilliant tactician and had a solid and well-deserved reputation for caring for and about his crews, and in turn his crews worshipped him. CAPT Willard Decker had all of his father's gifts, and none of his personality drawbacks, going out of his way to mentor young officers. The result of all that by the time of TMP was that the Deckers were revered, and - at least until the events of TMP - both considered future CINCs, though Matt's personality may well have kept him from the BIG Big Chair. Will, on the other hand, was on the fast track to RADM and nothing but blue sky after that.

However...

I've mentioned in the past that despite a full investigation, more than a few officers believed that Jim Kirk's treatment of Matt Decker during the events of The Doomsday Machine drove him to suicide, not sacrifice. Bad enough, and over time officers began to at least consider accepting the official version of events. But Kirk's actions to regain command of Enterprise during the V'Ger Incident were too much for a disturbing number of officers. Interestingly, it's not so much Will's death that bothers them; risk was their business and it happens - but he died saving James T. Kirk.

Since then, it's become axiomatic regardless of accuracy that when Jim Kirk shows up, be very, very careful. Add to that the officers trained and mentored by the Deckers and how they feel and how many officers who have had those views passed on to them. And then add the flat out resentment over how Kirk and his command staff were treated after Enterprise's loss, and you've got a situation where the public thinks Kirk is a brilliant officer of legendary status...but a lot of his contemporaries consider him a flat-out menace who has been more lucky than good.

Mike

[Johnnie Lyle]

Decker probably would not have made C-in-C. There would have been too many situations similar to his interactions with Spock - and due to his being a RADM or VADM at the time, he would have gained a public reputation for bullying and disregarding/disrespecting advice he didn’t want to hear. He also stole ENTERPRISE, and almost certainly would steal another CO’s ship. Finally, he cracked under the weight of his people dying because he made a bad call - and that likelihood only goes up as your rank does. Suicide is less concerning than his recklessness with ENTERPRISE before, trying to avenge himself on the planet killer. He was absolutely fixated on a bad plan - fight it with one starship - when that’s exactly what crippled CONSTELLATION and caused him to evacuate his crew to a planet that was eaten.

His reputation was saved because only ENTERPRISE personnel saw him lose it, but that is a lot less likely if he’s an admiral. How would he handle something like the M-5 incident, for example? Would he be equally reckless and inflexible if in combat with the Klingons or Romulans than warranted if his mistake cost him a ship or two, or would he just crumple?

On the flip side, bad things happen to Starfleet ships when Kirk is around. The M-5 experiment cost a lot of lives on EXCALIBER and LEXINGTON. Not Kirk’s fault, but it would add to a reputation.

RELIANT is another good example - it’s really hard to cover her loss up, especially when Starfleet decided to publicly dock a battered ENTERPRISE at Spacedock instead of a more secure military facility - plus the whole Genesis planet being galactic news. A lot of people are not likely to be happy about a) how Kirk handled Khan back in 2266, b) somebody’s failure to put it on the charts, and c) genetic supermen taking control of a Federation starship.

Interestingly enough, Admiral Smillie‘s opinion of Kirk has definitely mellowed by 2293. While ENTERPRISE’s assignment to escort QO’N’OS ONE (name or call sign?) might be a bit of a dig, given Kirk’s view on Klingons, the exchange with the Federation president about how Kirk and McCoy have literally saved this planet has some sentimentality to it.

Kirk also appears to take the very bad way he handled Decker and stole ENTERPRISE back to heart. It’s clear from his conversation with Spock prior to diverting ENTERPRISE to Regula Kirk feels guilty about it, and doesn’t want to undermine Spock the way he did Decker. And, by the 2290s, Kirk doesn’t take ENTERPRISE when Harriman offers her, despite very clearly wanting her.

[MikeKozlowski]

Dragon’s bridge crew heard him coming, and made sure their gazes were fixed forward to their consoles, for a gaze anywhere but your duties was dangerous on this ship. Crewmembers are the same the galaxy over, though, and over time they learned to pick up on Lord Kruge’s mood just by the sound of his footsteps. He was never any better than tolerant, they had learned, and that was rare enough. Normally he was intolerant, and today, from the sound of it, he had shot past that at orbital velocity.

Kruge dropped into the command chair, barely repressing a loud, vicious snarl. K’voch stepped next to him and simply folded his arms in silence. Both of them were thinking the same thing – what now? Changing their minds and calling the whole thing off was definitely not an option. After all, when an Empire is on the line, one simply does not back down simply because of an obstacle.

Ah, but what an obstacle it was, Kruge thought glumly. The Admiralty knew something was going on, but almost certainly did not know what. That of course would change soon enough when they started interrogating Kast, but the fact that they were still in orbit over Qo’noS and not under arrest – or worse – was encouraging, but not by much. He had also hoped to do this without a representative of the Secret Ones breathing down his neck, but –

-And Senior Lieutenant Karzz walked in – briskly, purposefully, and seemingly without a care in the world, taking his station behind and to Kruge’s left.

Kruge, slumped in the command seat, slowly turned to fix his most devastating gaze on his new security officer, but was rewarded only with a slight bow and faint smile from Karzz. K’voch waited for the explosion, but instead Kruge slowly turned back to face the main viewscreen and quietly growled, “…I hate that man.”

“K’voch, take us out.”

K’voch was happy to, at least insofar as it kept him occupied doing something else. “Engines, come to two-thirds impulse power, steering, make your heading point four five oblique.” In StarFleet there would have been returned commands and confirmation, the constant murmur of stations and crew communicating with one another, but not here. Not on the Dragon. A word of anything was met with immediate punishment, so the bridge crew quickly and utterly silently went about their work. The low hum of the engines went to a more pronounced rumble and Dragon turned smoothly and nimbly to starboard, breaking Qo’noS’ gravity as effortlessly as if they were going for a stroll.

“Main screen, rear view.” Kruge’s voice startled K’voch somewhat, but he was careful not to show it. Before the echoes had vanished, the screen changed to show the gray/black ball of clouds that was their homeworld slide to the left side of the screen and slowly begin to diminish.

Miserable place, Kruge thought. Dark and cold and wet, and most of the animal life evolved to eat you if you didn’t eat it first. Torn and battered through most of its recorded history by clan warfare, conquest, and conspiracy enough to fill a thousand epics, and bravery, honor, and courage to bring the strongest warrior to tears…and none of that no one, no one in their right mind could ever possibly believe, because it was all far too impossible to believe had you not come to manhood there. An awful, awful place.

That he was confident he would eventually rule.

There was a harsh buzz from the overhead, signaling that there was an incoming message. Kruge did his best to look as nonchalant as possible, but there was no mistaking his attitude as his gloved finger stabbed the comm stud so hard that a cracking sound came from the panel.

“This is Dragon. SPEAK!”

“This is Departure Post Four. Stand by.” Departure Four. One of a dozen or so orbiting outposts that made sure whoever might be leaving Qo’noS was authorized to in fact do so…or to make sure that if there was any reason for them to stay, they did so. Alive if possible, reduced to their component atoms if need be.

Perhaps I spoke too soon, Kruge thought. “Affirmative,” he snarled.

There was a long pause, and then another buzz as the screen suddenly shifted to the sight of two more D7s approaching from behind. Fairly slowly – normal escape velocity, almost a nonchalant stroll – and definitely no unusual weapons or FCS emissions. The overhead speaker sounded again, saying, “Dragon, these vessels will be joining you as escorts. Qapla'!”

Kruge sat silent and motionless as the tactical screen changed and the two cruisers fell into standard triangle formation with him. There were no greetings from the two ships – they knew who commanded Dragon and they assumed that if he wanted to hear from them, he would tell them so. K’voch remained silent as well, almost as much out of fear as thought. It was probably no more than thirty heartbeats before Kruge slowly stood, his face an expressionless blank as he turned to leave the bridge, motioning for K’voch to follow him. K’voch gestured towards the navigator to have him take charge, and they walked down the passageway leading from the bridge to a corner where Kruge felt it was random enough that no sensors were waiting for them, nor could that DaH QIch Karzz hear them.

Kruge looked at K’voch and said, more quietly than the first officer had ever heard his captain say before, “Speak.”

K’voch collected his thoughts, then plunged in. “I follow you and will fight at your side if it costs me my life. But there is no shame in stepping back –“

-Kruge’s brows furrowed and he raised one corner of his upper lip in a growl –

“…No shame in stopping before we can reassess these new circumstances. We make our patrol, come back, and then when their guard is down, we strike.”

Kruge seemed to give that some honest consideration for a heartbeat or two, then shook his head. “Every day we wait brings the Federations that much closer to being confident enough that they can stop us. They cannot; but to give them any advantage is to risk ours. Our allies are here, the plan is a good one, we go.”

K’voch nodded briefly without hesitation. “As you command. But our newfound friends…” The first officer inclined his head to one side, indicating the two cruisers that sailed just a few kellikams away.

Kruge’s face darkened. “A shame,’ he said, and pivoted on one heel to return to the bridge.


It is axiomatic that a starship captain is never bored. They may be irate, they may be testy, they may be generous, they may be relaxed in matters of discipline or suffer from galactic-level cases of OCD. They may be friendly or they may be diffident, they may be excitable or they may be phlegmatic, but they are never, ever bored.

Except of course for the fact, however, that right now Jim Kirk was bored out of his mind.

Spock could meditate, and the ship’s science library was a place of joy for him – assuming he could admit to being joyful. Bones was perfectly happy relaxing for a change, and the nature of healers was such that he could walk into sickbay anytime and be welcome. Scotty was up to his ears in technical manuals and he had already introduced himself to Blue Ridge’s chief engineer, a bluff Kentauran who welcomed him like a long lost brother. The rest of the engineering crew treated Scotty like a superstar.

That left him. No responsibilities – not yet, anyways, and on reflection, no one had yet explained to him what those responsibilities were going to be. They’d been out for – he shot a quick glance at the wall chrono – just about a day, and they still had three more to go.

Gonna be a long trip, Kirk thought.

That all depends on you, came the response from deep inside his brain. Right, then. Kirk sat up and tapped the comm panel on the desk. “Bridge, this is Captain Kirk.”

There was a pause, and Kirk thought to himself that right now the OOD had to be looking at the speaker like it had suddenly grown six heads. “Captain Kirk,” the reply finally came, “this is Lieutenant Tomaszewski, the OOD. What can I do for you, sir?”

“I was wondering if I might speak with Commander Marchal or Captain Dillon. I was hoping to get down to some planning for our mission.”

That pause again. The crew did have some vague idea what was going on, right?

“Captain Kirk, I’m afraid I’m a little out of the loop on that, but I’ll pass it on to the Captain ASAP. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

“No, thank you, Lieutenant. Kirk out.”

Obviously going to need more than a phone call, Kirk thought.

The walk to Dillon’s quarters was quick, and the crew he encountered were grinning from ear to ear when they saw him, nods and “Good morning, sirs” all the way. One part of being a hero that one never quite got used to, Kirk thought. People think you’re something special. The same walk aboard Enterprise would have been far, far different – nods, polite and respectful “Captain,”, and that would have been it. Even the most junior officer or able spacer realized pretty quickly that Kirk put his uniform on one leg at a time, just like they did. Well…like most of them put their uniforms on, anyway.

The captain’s cabin was in approximately the same place it was on Enterprise, near the center of the primary hull a couple decks down, all the better to get to the bridge fast when things went south. A discreet but well-polished brass plate was to the right of the frame:

CAPTAIN DANIEL X. DILLON
FEDERATION STARFLEET
COMMANDING OFFICER
USS BLUE RIDGE

Almost unconsciously, Kirk straightened his uniform blouse, and then realized how he looked. Been a long time since you reported to the skipper’s cabin, he thought, then waved his hand over the nameplate. A discreet chime sounded, followed by Dillon saying, “Come.” The doors slid open with their familiar hiss, and Kirk strode in. Dillon looked up, his expression going from routine to concerned/mystified in a heartbeat. Folding his hands on the desktop, Dillon asked, “Good morning, Captain Kirk -”

“Please”, Kirk replied with his best smile, “It’s Jim”

Dillon gave in return what Kirk thought was intended to be a smile, and answered, “Thank you, Captain. What can I do for you?”

Well, that didn’t work. All right then, Plan B. “My apologies for interrupting, I know a Captain’s day is never done. I wanted to ask when we were going to start briefings on Enterprise’s recovery. With only four days to arrival, I was hoping to get a jump on planning and prep.” The theoretical smile again, then Dillon said, “Captain, I appreciate that, but we’ve got this under control. The mission has been planned, replanned, and simulated for weeks. We just need you to be ready to go once we get there, and we’ll get everything accomplished.”

Did he even hear me?, Kirk thought then took a breath and started again. “Captain Dillon, if my staff and I are going to be on this ride, we need to know the details - we need to know what we’re expected to do, when we’re going to do it, how we’re going to do it -”

“Captain Kirk,” Dillon said, quietly, but in a tone that brooked no argument, “we’ve got this. Blue Ridge was designed for just this type of mission, my crew and my special teams are ready. You’re coming with us, Mister Scott will be here to advise Engineering, Mister Spock will remain in Sciences to back us up, and Doctor McCoy can do…well, whatever doctors do when they’re not doctoring.”

“But how can I lead a mission -”

“ ‘Lead’? Dillon leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, looking at Kirk with a slightly bemused expression. “Captain Kirk, there may be something of a misunderstanding here. I mean no disrespect, but you’re here as a technical adviser - an exceptionally well known and well paid one, but a technical adviser nonetheless. Per Admiral Smillie, your job is to be there - no more. I’ll be leading this mission - I planned it, I designed it, I tested it. My salvage and support teams are drawn from the best units in Starfleet to make this happen. Your presence is…welcome…, and I am grateful for any input you may have, but it doesn’t imply leadership, command, or any other authority you think just might apply. I’m sorry for any misunderstanding here, but I thought it was clear enough at the briefing. You’re here to - bluntly - help clean it up, no more, no less.”

Kirk could feel his temper rising, and not just because Dillon was speaking to him like he was some hapless JO on his first cruise. Bad enough, but - technical adviser? Kirk’s next words came out far more harshly than he would have liked, but this was getting personal now. “Captain Dillon, that is my ship we’re going after -”

“Your…ship?”

Kirk was slightly confused for a moment. Yes, my ship, the one I spent years of my life aboard, the one that meant more to me than any command or woman ever could, the one that -

Dillon leaned back onto his desk now, and his demeanor was anything but tolerant, but he kept his voice down. “Kirk -” No ‘Captain’, no nothing this time - “that is not a ship, it’s not a ‘she’, it’s not even really Hull 1701 any more. It is an empty, twisted shell. It is two hundred thousand metric tons of trash, more or less, flying in close formation and it is now, technically, properly and righteously, called a hulk - not Enterprise, not the Big E, not the White Lady, or the Great Bird of the Galaxy or any of those other ridiculous names the media came up with. A hulk. A hazard to our security and navigation, in that order. My task, and that of my crew, is to extract approximately one hundred and fifteen of those metric tons from said hulk and get it back to Starfleet.” Dillon paused for a moment, and before Kirk could speak up, he continued, “I am as affectionate for the vessel I command as any captain would be of theirs, Kirk. I respect my crew and their abilities, and I want nothing more than to bring the same number of beings home that I left with. But I have no illusions about the…well, ‘humanity’ of this vessel or any other. Now. As the commander and primary planner of this mission, have I explained myself clearly enough, Captain?”

It had been a long, long time since Jim Kirk had been left speechless about anything, and even longer since the last time he’d been gritting his teeth so hard, they hurt. It was an effort to not snarl the words, “Perfectly, Captain Dillon. My apologies for disturbing you.” With that, Kirk executed an about-face so sharp it nearly whistled, and marched out the door.




As one might expect, the Klingons do not exactly have a word for ‘staff meeting’. The closest they come is Sa'wI', ‘command gathering’ - i.e.; come together so that you can be told what to do. Little enough speaking by subordinates is the norm; aboard Dragon utter silence was expected. It goes without saying, of course, that coffee and snacks are right out, though some commanders are known to tolerate someone holding - but not drinking - a ratkajino.

However, we digress.

Kruge leaned back slightly in the command chair and noted the presence of his staff - K’voch, of course, his chief engineer Kill’ha, the bookish scientist Kundapp, weapons officer Kortok, his Marine commander Mong.

Karzz, security.

Damn him.

“We have been directed by Fleet to proceed to the Hydran border. Those arrogant little homunculi have been restive again, and we need to remind them that they exist at our sufferance. I intend to destroy any major fleet units we happen across, and I want our boarding parties prepared to capture - at whatever cost - any possible prizes. I will have our….friends….” - Kruge inclined his head towards the two D7s that followed at a respectful distance - “…take up positions along any expected threat axis and we will go in for the kill - I see no reason to share glory with them.” The officers nodded carefully in acknowledgement; as close as they dared come to the usual full-throated shouts of victory and glory that accompanied things like this on other ships. Turning to Kortok, Kruge said, “Load the vIH racks with two each long range and short range weapons. I will have the escorts load long range so that they can engage any reinforcements as early as possible. And on the subject of our escorts, K’voch, tell them to tighten up their formation. I want them no more than five hundred kellicams away, and if I see their bows past our engines, I will go over there myself and teach them how to handle their ships.” K’voch smiled and nodded once; he knew that their captains would move the heavens themselves to insure they kept station perfectly.

“Kill’ha.” The chief engineer tilted his head back slightly, a confident snarl on his lips. “I expect your engines to answer all bells immediately, no matter when I give the orders or in what sequence I give them. Failure to do so, even in the slightest degree, and I promise you will conduct your next engine inspection from inside one of them.” Kill’ha nodded with a slight grin; he was considered the best engineer in the Fleet and he had never let Kruge down. Besides, he had plenty of Enginemen Third and Fourth Classes who could do internal inspections of the plasma intermix chambers if need be.

“Kundapp.” The scientist bowed slightly at his name. Kruge knew, understood, and appreciated how vital the scientist was to his ship, and had no doubt that he would be a full professor someday at the Fleet Academy. But until Kruge was done, he was going to be right here on Dragon, for that was where he was needed.

“Your sensors need to be on around the clock. If anything - anything - that you cannot immediately identify as a harmless rock appears, you will call me at once.” Kundapp nodded. He may have been a scientist in the midst of a warrior fraternity, but it was his sensors and his techs who would give them first - and perhaps only - warning of what might lurk out there. Kruge may not praise him, but he made very sure that no one else denigrated him. The last one who did in Kruge’s hearing had a chance to prove his resistance to painstiks for several days.

“Mong.” The massive Marine warrior came to attention, his eyes two disruptor bolts focused on the bulkhead. Silence came naturally to him, Kruge thought, mainly because he wasn’t smart enough to express his thoughts verbally. That wasn’t meant to degrade Mong; Fleet officers rarely held complimentary opinions of Marines. But Mong was skilled and focused, and if he met Kruge’s standards he was doing well indeed.

He was doing well.

“I want every single one of your Marines ready to board on my command, including your internal security detachments.” That brought slightly cocked eyebrows around the meeting; at any given time, at least a fifth of all Marines were rotated through the internal security units and worked for Karzz. By the book, and with the captain’s permission, they could be brought back for any reason. It just didn’t happen very often at all.

“We will overwhelm any Hydran crew resistance at once, and secure the prize so that we can get technicians there to get them clear. There are to be no survivors; you, and your men, of course, are expendable.” The faintest smile crossed Mong’s face. More than once Kruge had told him how expendable he was, and he’d come back every single time. This time would be no different.

“You are dismissed.” Kruge knew he needed to say nothing else; he would never consciously speak the fact that he had the finest crew in the Deep Space Fleet, but he knew it well enough to let them go on their own and do their jobs. Success would be rewarded; failure could often come with a price far higher than death, and -

“A moment, Captain.”

Every single being on that bridge inhaled in surprise except for Kruge, who looked up at Karzz with a mixture of astonishment and utter, hate-filled rage.

“My most respectful apologies, but I do have some brief questions.”

Kruge stood slowly while everyone else held their breath and took one careful, deliberate stride toward Karzz, stopping precisely in front of him and looking down at the security officer, whose saturnine expression remained unchanged.

I cannot kill a security officer, I cannot kill a security officer, ICANNOTKILLA SECURITYOFFICER Kruge thought, fighting down a ferocious urge to unsheath his D’k tahg and turn him into gagh food. His jaws clenched, Kruge carefully snarled, “On…my…bridge….you…do…NOT…speak….UNDERSTOOD?” That last was no mere interrogative, it was a vicious, feral scream. The other men on that bridge had heard it before, and it had always ended with either a corpse quickly bleeding out on the deck or a whiff of smoke and vapor as Kruge holstered his disruptor.

Karzz smiled, and for one hopeful second Kruge hoped against hope that he would make some sound worth killing for, but instead Karzz simply smiled and bowed slightly. Kruge took a few more deep breaths before saying, “I do not care what position the Fleet or the pegh avwl have graced you with. On my ship, you do as I say, and I will tell you what you need to know, and when you need to know it. And I and I alone shall decide your success or failure on my ship. If I speak to you on this subject again, your family will will not find enough of your ashes to howl over on their way to Gre’thor.”

Karzz nodded once more, and came to something resembling attention. Kruge in turn spun on one heel and sat back down, slumping in the command seat and drumming his fingers on the fractured intercom panel. “Get out,” was growled just loudly enough for all to hear. Even the Klingons understand the concept of discretion being the better part of valor, so everyone returned to their stations in silent efficiency. K’voch, of course, remained at his post - slightly above, and behind to the left of Kruge’s seat, having the good sense to gaze directly at the main viewscreen, and he remained so until he saw Kruge spin the chair towards him and beckon with one finger. K’voch leaned in almost touching Kruge’s ear.

“Speak.”

“My Lord Kruge…let me kill him. Please.”

Kruge waved that idea off with a dismissive, almost spasmodic movement of his right hand. “Stay alert. I am setting the stage, and you will know what to do when it needs to be done. In the meantime, find me Hydrans to kill.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

Mike

[jemhouston]

Oh, Boy can't you feel the love on both ships.