ST: The Last Starship

[Belushi TD]

It seems.... foolish of Dillon to be intentionally antagonizing Kirk like this.

Ok, I get it. Kirk has no real function on the mission. Its a salvage mission, and not even to salvage the hulk of the Enterprise, just to grab the computer cores. Kirk is a starship captain, not a salvage expert. Additionally, I strongly suspect once Smiliee found out that Kirk was going to be included, he crafted the mission parameters to specifically exclude Kirk from any meaningful contribution.

This being said, it seems like a stupid, stupid idea, even considering the history between the two of them, to box Kirk out like that.

Belushi TD

[Johnnie Lyle]

There are captains, and then there are Captains. Dillon is the former. He’s an O-6 just filling the needed command billet to screen for a flag. You can see it in his lack of empathy, how he dances around the Big Chair, and his fear that an actual captain is on his bridge. He certainly doesn’t have the same relationship with BLUE RIDGE that Kirk does with both ENTERPRISEs. Not only does he not have it, he doesn’t value it and actively despises it.

BLUE RIDGE and her crew are just a means to an end for Dillon, while ENTERPRISE is the end-all and be-all for Kirk. Dillon doesn’t see Kirk as an asset; he only sees Kirk as a threat to screening for commodore and getting to run a nice spacedock.

And it’s going to get him killed, relieved or worse.

[Johnnie Lyle]

Kluge is very much the evil Worf, though he’s not really evil. They’re both dour, duty-driven and very atypical Klingons.

It’s very interesting that Kluge demands total silence when silence freaks Klingons out.

[jemhouston]

Kluge is very much the evil Worf, though he’s not really evil. They’re both dour, duty-driven and very atypical Klingons.

It’s very interesting that Kluge demands total silence when silence freaks Klingons out.

Kluge is the opposition.

There was no reason to bring Kirk and McCoy along. Bringing Scotty was probably needed, but I'm not sure Spock is needed.

If they're trying to get Kirk to retire, they simply needed to tell him it was time. This way it's just mean.

[Johnnie Lyle]

Kluge is very much the evil Worf, though he’s not really evil. They’re both dour, duty-driven and very atypical Klingons.

It’s very interesting that Kluge demands total silence when silence freaks Klingons out.

Kluge is the opposition.

Not just the opposition. He’s a good example of “first dig two graves” when pursuing revenge. He’s sold his honor to salve his pride, even if he dresses it up in the clothes of a savior. Yes, Klingons respect the Right of Vengeance, even for those who allegedly have no honor; the best example is how all of Duras’ men clear the way for Worf when he claims it in “Reunion.” Klingons even respect assassination to remove a challenge to your authority or to remove a weak superior. But Kluge’s heart has gone sour because vengeance was denied because his brother was killed as a consequence of his own folly, and that is not how a Klingon is supposed to bear up under misfortune.

There was no reason to bring Kirk and McCoy along. Bringing Scotty was probably needed, but I'm not sure Spock is needed.

If they're trying to get Kirk to retire, they simply needed to tell him it was time. This way it's just mean.

I concur that there’s really no reason to bring McCoy and Spock, except to support Kirk. But Kirk needs to go - Dillon doesn’t understand why, but Nogura and possibly even Smilie do. He needs to go for the same reason he needed to go to Genesis, and to atone for what friendship with Spock and McCoy cost him.

Kirk has to apologize to ENTERPRISE, to atone to her for sacrificing her for Spock, and to try to save her.

[jemhouston]

Point taken.

[Johnnie Lyle]

Addendum: the elder Kluge was arguably killed by the Right of Vengeance. Certainly under Klingon law and tradition, Kirk had the right to kill Kluge, because Kluge killed his son. At least by 2366 or so, Klingon law held the matter to be closed once the Right had been exercised - and certainly none of the House of Duras felt entitled to kill Worf for killing Duras, though they were more than capable of doing so while they had him captive.

So Kluge is very much acting beyond what Klingon tradition would expect of him. And it’s going to destroy him.

Point taken.

We don’t really see much of the emotional impact of it, but destroying ENTERPRISE was probably the worst thing to ever happen to Kirk, with the possible exception of the deaths of Spock, David, Gary Mitchell and Edith Keeler. Scuttling your own ship is probably the third worst thing to happen to a captain, after losing your ship and crew. The worst happened to Matt Decker - he killed his crew through a mistake in judgment and lived. No wonder he cracked.

Now Kirk has a chance to bring her back, if only to a graving dock. He’d be absolutely miserable if they left him on -1701Alpha and he learned about it later.

[jemhouston]

I don't think Starfleet would have told anyone other than the Federation Council. Genesis is a hot potato that doesn't need anyone being reminded of it.

[MikeKozlowski]

Addendum: the elder Kluge was arguably killed by the Right of Vengeance. Certainly under Klingon law and tradition, Kirk had the right to kill Kluge, because Kluge killed his son. At least by 2366 or so, Klingon law held the matter to be closed once the Right had been exercised - and certainly none of the House of Duras felt entitled to kill Worf for killing Duras, though they were more than capable of doing so while they had him captive.

So Kluge is very much acting beyond what Klingon tradition would expect of him. And it’s going to destroy him.

Point taken.

We don’t really see much of the emotional impact of it, but destroying ENTERPRISE was probably the worst thing to ever happen to Kirk, with the possible exception of the deaths of Spock, David, Gary Mitchell and Edith Keeler. Scuttling your own ship is probably the third worst thing to happen to a captain, after losing your ship and crew. The worst happened to Matt Decker - he killed his crew through a mistake in judgment and lived. No wonder he cracked.

Now Kirk has a chance to bring her back, if only to a graving dock. He’d be absolutely miserable if they left him on -1701Alpha and he learned about it later.

John,

And Ron Tracy aboard Exeter.

Mike

[Johnnie Lyle]

Addendum: the elder Kluge was arguably killed by the Right of Vengeance. Certainly under Klingon law and tradition, Kirk had the right to kill Kluge, because Kluge killed his son. At least by 2366 or so, Klingon law held the matter to be closed once the Right had been exercised - and certainly none of the House of Duras felt entitled to kill Worf for killing Duras, though they were more than capable of doing so while they had him captive.

So Kluge is very much acting beyond what Klingon tradition would expect of him. And it’s going to destroy him.

Point taken.

We don’t really see much of the emotional impact of it, but destroying ENTERPRISE was probably the worst thing to ever happen to Kirk, with the possible exception of the deaths of Spock, David, Gary Mitchell and Edith Keeler. Scuttling your own ship is probably the third worst thing to happen to a captain, after losing your ship and crew. The worst happened to Matt Decker - he killed his crew through a mistake in judgment and lived. No wonder he cracked.

Now Kirk has a chance to bring her back, if only to a graving dock. He’d be absolutely miserable if they left him on -1701Alpha and he learned about it later.

John,

And Ron Tracy aboard Exeter.

Mike

Ron Tracy is a weird one, depending upon whether you see him as cold and calculating, or crazed due to the loss of his crew. Both are reasonable interpretations of what information we have.

[James1978]

Ron Tracy is a weird one, depending upon whether you see him as cold and calculating, or crazed due to the loss of his crew. Both are reasonable interpretations of what information we have.

I'd embrace the power of "And" with Ron Tracey, and add a third - savior complex.
He went crazy over the loss of his crew, no doubt. But then he thought he'd discovered the key to immortality, and developed a savior complex thinking he'd go down in the history books as the savior of the Federation. That's when he got cold and calculating. He thought that his "discovery" would be so profound, so galaxy changing, that the ends would justify the means and whatever sins he'd committed on some backwater iron age planet would be forgiven.

[Johnnie Lyle]

Ron Tracy is a weird one, depending upon whether you see him as cold and calculating, or crazed due to the loss of his crew. Both are reasonable interpretations of what information we have.

I'd embrace the power of "And" with Ron Tracey, and add a third - savior complex.
He went crazy over the loss of his crew, no doubt. But then he thought he'd discovered the key to immortality, and developed a savior complex thinking he'd go down in the history books as the savior of the Federation. That's when he got cold and calculating. He thought that his "discovery" would be so profound, so galaxy changing, that the ends would justify the means and whatever sins he'd committed on some backwater iron age planet would be forgiven.

I rewatched The Omega Glory, and one thing struck me - nobody from EXETER beamed down after the landing party beamed back up. From the surgeon’s last log entry, it’s clear they knew what was happening and that it wasn’t happening to Tracy.

And yet he didn’t try beaming his crew down. As if they were expendable or inconvenient - or wouldn’t go along with his scheme.

If anything, I’d say Ron Tracy is the opposite of Matt Decker. Decker killed his crew trying to save them. Tracy killed his crew because he didn’t try to save them.

Also, the biofilters on the transporter suck. Just saying.

[MikeKozlowski]

“Come.”

Dillon’s day cabin door opened with its usual discreet whoosh as Beri Marchal strode in, coming to a tight parade rest before his desk. Dillon sat back, slightly mystified. “XO, you know you don’t have to stand on ceremony here. What’s up?”

Marchal’s face was set about as hard as Dillon had ever seen it. “If it’s all right, Boss, I’ll keep it.”

Oh, boy, Dillon thought. It took a lot to piss off Beri Marchal, so this had to be a good one. Relaxing as much as he could, Dillon put down his stylus and sat back in his chair, consciously trying to keep from folding his arms or otherwise assuming a position of authority or intimidation - not that it would work with her. “XO, you have my complete attention. Please - talk to me.”

Marchal composed her thoughts for a moment, then spoke, carefully but firmly. “Boss, I have got to ask what was going on with Captain Kirk. I went up to the VIP quarters to see how they were doing -”

“You didn’t need to, Enterprise’s staff is all grownups- “

“- Like a good XO, Boss.”

She was right. Dammit. “Point taken. Go on. On second thought, you don’t need to. Kirk was…upset?”

“To put it gently, Boss.”

“Good.”

Marchal’s eyes widened slightly, but other than that she showed no surprise. “Boss, how important is this op?”

“Easy. It’s quite literally the most important salvage mission ever carried out by StarFleet or, for that matter, the Federation. Aside from that whole ‘existential threat’ thing that could lead to an apocalyptic war, we’re proving the viability of a concept that will win the next war for us, when - not if, but when it comes.”

“So, to clarify, you and I both have skin in the game - not just the mission, not just the future of the Federation, not just getting nine hundred and fifty beings back home in one piece, but that you can get your star and slot at StarFleet Engineers, and I can make O6 next cycle and get back out to the fleet.”

Now Dillon crossed his arms. “A little over the line, XO. My personal ambitions have nothing to do with this mission, and neither should yours.”

“With respect, Boss, bullshit. Neither one of us is out here for our health. You’ve been part of ramrodding the RRV project since it started, and I’m trying to get a ship of my own. We both have a lot of incentive to make it work above and beyond the mission, but none of it is going to get done if we’re pissing off the people we need to make it happen.”

“We don’t need them, XO. Never needed them.”

“Again, Boss, no. They understand that ship better than anyone else in StarFleet, including the people who designed and built her. We have the blueprints, we have the technical data, we have everything about her - but we don’t know her. They do.”

Dillon looked at her with exasperation. “XO, please don’t start with that ‘the-ship-is-a-living-thing’ crap; you and I both know better.”

“What we both know is that there are times when we have to treat the ship like one of us, because it’s the only way we’re getting back. They know things about that ship the designers don’t know, and we need to understand those things in order to pull it out of Hell’s Half Acre. We don’t make the mission without them, and not making the mission puts both of us in awkward positions. So what do you say - at least try to be pleasant to the VIPs? We need them - full stop, period, end of story, whether you like it or not. Now, we’ve both been nice to people we don’t like during our careers, and we’ll have to be long, long after this is over. We can do it for, what, another week or so?”

Dillon’s face was hard. “I’m open to suggestions, XO. You got any?”

Marchal nodded. “Dinner at the captain’s table tonight up at Whitehouse’s. We relax, tell a few war stories, and we tell them how happy we are that they’re here - and then we make it damned clear that they are a valued part of this mission.”

“And not address the fact that they were sent here to make sure they were present and accounted for when we fix it.”

“They’re here. With us. Regardless of the reason, they’re ship’s company for the next week or two. We could try being nice to Kirk.”

Dillon frowned at first. Whitehouse’s was the officer’s wardroom aboard Blue Ridge, furnished in mid-19th century Shenandoah Valley, with the best food on the ship and a view from the forward primary hull that was nothing short of spectacular. On the other hand, it was supposed to be someplace to get away from work, not spend your time picking at the food while making social niceties and ironing out problems. But the more he thought about it, the more Dillon thought Marchal might have something. Get everybody with a full belly, some warm coffee, and a few reassuring statements of undying friendship and loyalty….

“I’m not gonna like them, XO. I may eat with them, I may even stroke their egos, but I am not going to like them.” Dillon paused, and Marchal was about to reply, but instead Dillon pressed on with, “ I am going to ask why it’s so damned important to you, and don’t you dare just tell me how important it is to the mission.”

“Because those guys are literal living legends. We can learn from them.”

“Think so, XO?”

“Why not? Look at their records.”

There was a long pause, and Marchal thought that Dillon was boring two phaser beams right through her with his eyes. “Oh, believe me, Commander Marchal, I do know their records. Everybody who sits in a center chair knows them, and let me strongly urge you to commit them to memory. Spock, Scott, and McCoy may not be too bad on their own, but they’ve aided and abetted Kirk for almost four decades, and they’ve helped make him a goddamned danger to any other captain who’s ever gotten their own command.”

“You can’t blame Kirk for other people’s mistakes -”

“I can’t blame him for driving Matt Decker to suicide? I can’t blame him for what he did to Will Decker, on Will’s own bridge and simply to satisfy his own ego? I can’t blame him for leaving Khan Noonian Singh, Khan Noonian Singh, for God’s sake, the one man who truly came close to ruling the planet on his own, loose out there to come back so he didn’t have to explain how he lost his ship to that madman and mutinous crew members? And how many times did he lose his ship, anyways, whether he got it back or not? Want me to keep going, XO? No problem. I won’t blame him for hijacking a starship and almost starting a war with the Klingons, and I won’t blame him for losing that ship, either. You have got to get this through your head, XO - when Jim Kirk shows up on your bridge, something is going to go terribly, terribly wrong, and I have no real desire to add to his legend and/or have him give a eulogy at my memorial service. Got that?”

Marchal was taken aback by the quiet ferocity of Dillon’s response, but she knew better than to argue it at that point. “Got it, Captain. May I set things up?”

Dillon looked at her for a moment, then quietly answered, “Make it happen, XO. And then this discussion is over, understood? After this, if Kirk and his people don’t like me, tough. They’re not paid to, nor am I paid to like them.”

“Dismissed.”



It was not often that the Commander In Chief, Imperial Klingon Fleet, showed up at the euphemistically-named Research Facility nine levels below Fleet HQ. It was always a possibility of course; that was a given. But as a practical matter, it was either in the event of something very, very important - or very, very bad.

This day was one of the latter.

Ardak Kumerian came through the doors, all armor and black fury, barely waiting for their swoosh/grind as they opened ahead of him. The Marines guarding the main hatch came to attention, staring straight ahead - it made no sense to greet him, and in any event he appeared to be in no mood for mere pleasantries, plus the truism that mere Marine NCOs did most emphatically not speak to Fleet Admirals.

Two warriors stood in the entry area - a fairly young one looking like he was carved out of a solid block of obsidian, perfect leather and armor with hair exquisitely braided, the other looking like…well, one’s kindly grandfather, in worn but comfortable leather, hair gray, and almost cherubic - for a Klingon - features. Both came to attention and saluted but only the younger spoke as he said, “Fleet Admiral, thank you for co-”

His statement was interrupted by Kumerian, moving like lightning as he clasped his fists together and swung, connecting with the younger warrior’s jaw. Kumerian was a big warrior, even for a Klingon, and the younger warrior rolled backwards almost completing a full somersault as he landed a few feet away. Kumerian paid no attention to the younger, turning instead to the other as he adjusted his gloves and said, “What happened?”

The older warrior smiled grimly and said, “Failure to obey even the most basic security protocols, old friend. Never attribute to malice what can be adequately explained by stupidity.”

Kumerian grunted in understanding. “Show me,” he said, and the Admiral and the warrior walked down a corridor, Kumerian delivering one last solid kick to the still-prostrate younger warrior. About two thirds of the way down, two Marines stood on either side of an open cell door. And in that cell lay the crumpled corpse of Lieutenant Kast, head and face down, forehead crushed, his Fleet Security epaulet jarred loose and half-drowned in a pool of pinkish blood. Kumerian simply looked at him for a moment, then back to the old warrior.

“Appears that he was able to get his body turned just enough that he gave himself enough force to land squarely on the front of his skull. He apparently timed it right that he wasn’t found until the next guard check, which was more than sufficient time for him to bleed out. The medics tell me that even if they had found him at once, by the time they got him to a facility the result would have been the same.”

“Mmm. You trust them?”

“Oh, absolutely, though I’ve had them - and the guards - mildly disciplined as a matter of principle. After all, the reward for perfection should be no punishment.”

Kumerian raised one eyebrow, and the elder warrior smiled, waving one hand. “A few hours with a painstik is wonderful for focusing one’s minds on one’s duty. They’ll be fine - nowhere near what we used to get back in the day.”

“Good. Walk with me.” The two men slowly began moving back down the hall, where they could see the younger warrior struggling to his feet. “Talk to me, old friend,” Kumerian said quietly. The elder warrior took a deep breath, for he knew he would have to say things his friend truly did not want to hear. But - what is a friendship, if not honor and honesty? “Admiral -….Ardak…without question, Dragon’s crew has been compromised. For what reason, I do not know, but I do know and understand that it is to an extent that clearly indicated that Captain My Lord Kruge is either an utter incompetent…or implicated up to his ridges. We both know he is the finest captain that the Fleet has ever turned out, so that eliminates the first option.”

Kumerian nodded, then asked, “Why?”

The elder warrior focused his thoughts. “Clearly, something to do with Kruge’s vendetta against the Federations. Beyond that, I cannot tell.”

“And we let him take the finest ship in the Fleet and get out of our grasp.”

“We did send escorts, did we not, Ardak?”

Kumerian scoffed. “Of course we did.”

“How many?”

Pause. “Two.”

The elder warrior snorted. “Not enough by a factor of ten.”

“Then what do you think we need to do?”

“Quite straightforward - recall him and arrest him upon his return. Interrogate him, give him a fair trial, then execute him.”

“He is a Lord, old friend. A head of House. Even if I had indisputable evidence, demanding the arrest and trial of a head of House would send shockwaves through the Empire. The Chancellor himself would have to sign off on this, not to mention Chang and the rest of the Fleet.”

“You allow mere captains to dictate your policies?”

“When they are proteges of Lord Kruge, they will have a say whether I want them to or not. We still have far too many captains who believe that they serve their houses and their own reputations rather than the Empire, and if they disapprove I had best have excellent reasons for putting him in an execution chamber.”

“Then recall him. Now.”

Kumerian shook his head. “The only real option, I’m afraid, but ‘now’ isn’t practical. It will be tomorrow before I can even get the General Staff together, and then we have to convince the other chiefs of staff, and then the Chancellor.”

“Do it, Ardak, and do it now. At worst, he’s halfway back and that much closer to our vision, even if the ultimate answer is no. If he defies you and runs, you have your justification to turn the entire Fleet loose on him.”

They arrived at the entry area, where the younger warrior stood, bruised and unsteady. Kumerian clapped his hand on the elder warrior’s shoulder and turned to his friend. “It will be twenty-four rep, but I will start things moving. Keep your ears to the ground and see if anything else pops up.”

The elder warrior nodded, then said, “You understand of course that I must put a watch on the senior Kruge family and their retainers. To do less, even without permission, would be sheer dereliction of duty at this point.”

In reply, Kumerian looked around the room as if trying to locate something, then said, “I’m sorry, old friend. I did not hear a thing you said.” Walking back to the lift, Kumerian laid a solid right hook on the younger warrior, who crumpled like a targ that had been hit by a hover. Calling back over his shoulder, Kumerian called, “My best to V’aikana.”

“I shall, Admiral. Do not forget dinner this jaj wa’, she has a krada leg marinating just for you.”

The doors to the lift shut, and the elder warrior turned back to his own workspace, his nominal superior spitting out blood and teeth as he tried to pull himself back upright. Oh well, the elder warrior sighed to himself. Sometimes the children need just a little help. With that, he bent down and helped the younger warrior up, dusting him off as the poor lad tried to get his bearings. “There, there, sir,” the warrior said comfortingly, turning him towards their offices. “You really should clean yourself up, we have a lot of work to do, and far too little time to do it in…”



K’voch came to full attention before Kruge’s cabin hatch before he knocked. Strictly speaking, there was no need to do so before he presented himself to his commanding officer, but this was Lord Kruge. He would be expecting K’voch to be centered in the hatch and braced like a cadet on his first day at the Fleet Academy, because that is what you were supposed to do. As the old Klingon saying goes, “muchlu'DI' Qob lonlu'DI' chuQun” - ‘Honor is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.”

One gloved fist thumped on the hatch, followed by a barked, “COME!” from behind as the hatch ground open and K’voch strode in, minding what little furniture was in the dimly lit cabin, then saluting and braced motionless until Kruge quietly snarled, “Speak.”

“The sensor and position check is clear. We will be crossing into Hydran territory in a few tup. Your instructions?” Kruge leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment, nodding as he did. “Place the crew at Readiness wej until further notice. I expect decent meals brought to them at their stations, and recreation areas are closed until further notice - off duty I expect them sleeping and resting, not prancing about the sparring floor or getting drunk on bloodwine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And please make sure the security augmentees are aware of their responsibilities as well. I expect them to uphold their duties.”

“Yes, sir. I also had taken the liberty of ordering the hunting banquet for this evening, as we would probably not see anything before then. Shall I cancel it?”

Kruge actually thought about that for a moment. The 'ach boqwI' or hunting banquet was a Klingon tradition going back millennia, when the House’s elite hunters would enjoy an elaborate meal the night before the start of the true hunting season. Klingon ships still had them the night before raids, Army and Marines still had them the night before battles. Kruge did not have them often - after all, one should not have to celebrate the occasion of one’s duty - but when he did, they tended to be comparatively boisterous and surprisingly happy affairs compared to routine aboard Dragon, and Kruge was known to pay for better food and real bloodwine (as opposed to standard Fleet concentrate) out of his own pocket. After a few heartbeats though, Kruge looked up and said, quite pleasantly with what he certainly intended to be a smile, “K’voch, I believe an 'ach boqwI' would be a wonderful idea. And I think our newest officer should be the guest of honor, don’t you?”

K’voch stood there stunned, for one of the few times in his career utterly speechless. A Kruge did not normally use words like ‘wonderful’, still less did they suggest holding a banquet in honor of someone who was a mortal threat. Kruge’s only response was to raise an eyebrow and say, “Do close your mouth, K’voch. It’s unbecoming to an Imperial officer.”

“Of course, my Lord. I would however like to respectfully point out -”

“That this will be an excellent opportunity to…honor…Lieutenant Karzz. Yes, of course I see that. Frankly, I had something somewhat more complicated in mind, but I had forgotten about the 'ach boqwI'. I can think of no better time - or place to show our respects. I wish you to speak to the augmentees immediately about assisting us; you will of course need to provide them with proper uniforms and equipment.” With that, Kruge held up a finger to pause the conversation, picked up a stylus, and quickly began writing on a piece of crystal paper. K’voch stood at parade rest, looking at the banners on the bulkhead behind Kruge as the stylus scratched across the paper’s surface, not even dreaming of looking at it to get some idea of what his captain had in mind. He had seen Kruge’s handwriting before, a spidery, almost archaic script that was now taught only in the finest schools available to the greatest families. The stylus moved steadily on; Kruge’s head turning only slightly to follow his words as they flowed out in a smooth, even stream. When finished, Kruge signed it with a final flourish that K’voch had not expected from his captain, who then folded it carefully and handed it across his desk to the first officer. “Go now. Make this happen.”

K’voch tucked it behind his armored breastplate, then saluted. Kruge saluted in return and went back to whatever he had been looking at on the computer screen when K’voch arrived. Turning on one heel, the first officer strode back out the hatch into the corridor, doing the ‘Fleet dance’, the bob-and-weave that every crewman learned to do in the cramped, low-overhead ships that made up the Fleet. He knew exactly where he was headed; a First Officer should know his ship even better than the Captain, if for no other reason than to make sure nothing lurked or cowered in an unknown corner, and this part of the Dragon had more than a few corners that even the designers at the Drakutia Design Bureau might not have even realized they’d put there.

One of those corners was just below the hangar deck, a space simply too small for any realistic use to the Fleet - but of almost infinite use to Lord Kruge, who had quietly and carefully refitted it some time before, There was no obvious hatch, the shipfitters had done a magnificent job of concealing its seams and hiding the controls in the overhead. K’voch paused, opening what looked like a humble junction box to reveal a retinal scanner that he pivoted down to shine a sickly green laser into his right cornea. There were exactly two men on the ship that hatch would open for and it did so now, just wide enough for a warrior to slide through sideways.

K’voch’s nostrils twitched slightly - he was a warrior and used to the smells of warriors crammed together in tight, poorly ventilated spaces, but even he had to admit that this was something…beyond that. In the poorly lit space, K’voch’s eyes adjusted to the sight of several bodies curled up on the floor asleep, some crates of combat rations and water along one bulkhead, and a waste disposal unit tucked back into one corner, it’s operating lights blinking…oddly.

“No one ever taught you to knock, K’voch?”

The first officer spun to see Maltz looming up behind him. Had he meant me harm, K’voch thought, I’d have been piped aboard the Black Fleet by now. “You’re on my ship, Maltz. Warriors ask me for permission to go places.” K’voch pulled the crystal paper from his armor. “Lord Kruge has given us our orders; I am to review them with you.” Maltz’ only response was to pull a small light from his armor and aim it at the paper. It wasn’t much, but Maltz and K’voch were able to decipher Kruge’s handwriting quite readily.

After a few moments, Maltz turned the light off and turned to face K’voch. “He’s quite mad, you know.”

K’voch grimaced as if smelling something even worse. “Given the history of the Empire, he’s in very good company. Can you and your warriors be ready?”

Maltz snorted contemptuously. “We are ready now, child. Is your captain’s plan going to get us all killed?”

K’voch bit off an obscene reply, but instead took a deep breath and answered, “My captain’s plan is a good one. We just need you to do what you’re told.”

“Fear not. Our honor is on the line; we will succeed. You can provide uniforms, I trust?” K’voch grunted with a small nod. “I will deliver them later. In the meantime, brief your own men and…for Kahless’ sake, try to bathe. Your smell alone will warn Karzz a hundred meters away.”

Maltz raised his right hand in its twitching mechgauntlet, his index finger pointing at K’voch’s face like a tightly focused disruptor beam. “Child, I was sweating in combat when you were still suckling. Don’t - do not - put yourself above me for it. I will joyfully come after you when this is done, and sing about it to my warriors. Now get us in motion.”

Mike

[Johnnie Lyle]

Dillon’s insecurities and bigotries are going to get them all killed.

He doesn’t get that Kirk is a team player. We see that when he dies, twice - first with Harriman (though Kirk very badly wants the Chair, he doesn’t take it when Harriman offers) and then with Picard. With Picard, they’re a team, but it’s clear that it’s Picard’s mission, Picard’s got the plan and Picard is in charge - despite being almost a century junior.

If you make Kirk part of the team, and are secure in yourself, he’s going to play ball.

Marechal understands that implicitly, and carries herself accordingly. She’s got gravitas, she carries herself with authority and you can clearly see how she conveys to Kirk appreciation for him but also that he’s a guest on her bridge.

As for bad things happening, that comes with the job. If you can’t handle that, you don’t belong in the Big Chair.

Kumerian is just . . . Uncle Ardak. Great characterization.

If Kirk doesn’t kill Kluge, Maltz will - and then K’Voch will kill Maltz.

[Poohbah]

This is going to be . . . interesting.

[jemhouston]

Starfleet, the only boring day was yesterday.

Had another thought, Spock will be raising the issue of "secret sauce" Blue Ridge will be using when they get back. Depending on how hacked off he is, he can either raise it within Star Fleet or Vulcan will be raising it with the Federation Council.

[MikeKozlowski]

Starfleet, the only boring day was yesterday.

Had another thought, Spock will be raising the issue of "secret sauce" Blue Ridge will be using when they get back. Depending on how hacked off he is, he can either raise it within Star Fleet or Vulcan will be raising it with the Federation Council.

Jem,

You betcha he will - to him, Logic dictates that the cost of adherence would be far less than the cost of violation, especially as given that there are admitted security issues at an apparent extremely high level, this is going to get out.

Mike

[MikeKozlowski]

The bosun’s whistle. Jim Kirk was pretty sure he heard that sound in his dreams.

“Come.”

The doors hissed open, and Beri Marchal stood there, smiling pleasantly. “Evening, Captain. May I get a moment?”

“Absolutely, Commander. Come on in.”

“Thanks, but just need a second.”

Drat. “Anytime. What can I do for you?”

“Captain Dillon sends his compliments -”

I’ve got his compliments right here….

“ - and would like to invite you and your staff to dinner this evening at Whitehouse’s - the officers’ wardroom.”

Didn’t see that coming. For a brief moment, Kirk contemplated telling her, in exquisitely phrased Fleet-speak, exactly what Dillon could do with his invitation. On the other hand…. Well, simple decency, and all that…

“Commander, that sounds great -please let Captain Dillon know we’ll be there with bells on. What time?”

“1900. One level below the bridge, and all the way forward, can’t miss it. Bring an appetite.”

“That’s a promise.”

“Glad to hear it - see you then.” The doors closed, and Kirk found himself, for the first time in a long time, wondering what he was going to wear for dinner. After a moment, he touched the monitor’s intercom stud and said, “Spock.”

Spock appeared on the screen, seemingly grateful for an interruption. “Yes, Jim?”

“It seems the four of us have a dinner invitation tonight with Dillon up in the wardroom.”

Spock pondered this for a moment. “I assume that declining said invitation would be considered rude?”

“All things considered, it would actually be quite reasonable,” Kirk shot back. “However, in the interest of cooperation and getting this horror show over and done with, let’s graciously accept. And besides, as my father used to say, ‘Never turn down a free meal.’”

Spock’s eyebrow twitched slightly. “Jim, I have always been under the impression that when aboard ship, all of our meals were free.” Kirk started to say something, caught himself, and then smiled, replying, “I’ll explain it later. Nineteen hundred hours sharp. Out.”



The sound of boots tramping down the corridor was a typical one on a Klingon ship; for good or for ill depending on the individual listening. In the case of Lieutenant Karzz, it was for Good.

For Order.

For Security.

For Compliance.

That one word - compliance - was drilled into his head at the Schoolhouse. His senior instructor, one of those warriors who looked like an affectionate grandfather when he was in his twenties and only grew more so over the years, had told them, "Empires do not survive on the best wishes of those they rule. Those are of course important, and one should always, always take care to support and nurture them - to do otherwise is to light a thousand fuses to ten thousand mines. Empires only truly survive - truly thrive - truly flourish - as long as those under their rule comply."

"Now mind you," he had continued, "There will always be some who believe, 'I will outwardly comply, but inwardly I shall rebel.' It is a false hope, children, a false hope that always leads to shame and death...and worse, dishonor. One can hide one's thoughts for a very, very long time, but eventually they will say or do something that exposes them. And when that happens, we are here to guide them back to the path of righteousness. The penitent ones, the ones who understand their error, who seek forgiveness and rehabilitation may eventually become productive, reliable subjects. I say 'become', for they were never those things in the first place."

Karzz smiled inwardly at that; for Captain My Lord Kruge - and would some people never stop using those titles? - may in fact have been one of those who was never reliable at all. He had wealth untold, an impeccable family tree, a reputation as a tactical commander second to none, and was certainly on his way to high rank within the Fleet.

But then his elder brother died, a man who had drawn their attention long before. He had been up to something - what exactly, had never been clear - and arguing over just how far it would be pursued left them in an awkward position when he died a hero's death against a Federation renegade who had a great deal to answer for in the first place. There were quiet, earnest meetings between the pegh avwl leadership, and the General Staff, and the Chancellor's office, and the juH qach Ii tuq, and in the end it just went away and no one inquired any more closely as to just what Lord Kruge had been up to.

Didn't mean they stopped watching his younger brother, though. They assumed that after he'd returned from his joyride into Federation space that Kumerian had warned him - that's what friends do, and no one thought any worse of the Admiral for it. And honestly, reflected Karzz, we'd have been surprised if he had not. After Kumerian had contacted them, it was easy to start matching up data from the ship with what his logs had been showing, child's play to retrace his movements and contacts. Captain My Lord Kruge was very, very good - but on the other hand, they had been doing this for a few centuries now, and their efforts did not go unrewarded. The difficulty they had was that they had all this evidence and no idea what it meant.

It turned out to be Karzz who saw the one thread that joined all of it - Kruge's security officer, Kast. Kast had been almost everywhere Kruge had been, even off the ship. Kast had made several trips that didn't match where he was supposed to be, and after they had addressed that particular flaw it was clear that the shepherd had turned wolf. A quick apprehension, and that was that. What Kast had told them by now - if he'd told them anything - was unknown to Karzz, and frankly he didn't care except insofar as it helped them make a case. That was for the clerks back on Kronos. In any event -

The buzzer at his hatch made it’s harsh, strangled sound to announce a visitor, and Karzz was not so much startled as mystified - one did not normally come to his quarters without a specific invitation, and he certainly did not remember issuing one.

“What do you want???”

The hatch opened, and a stocky warrior wearing the green gorget of a ship’s orderly strode in and saluted. “Captain My Lord Kruge -” Karzz rolled his eyes - “sends his warmest regards!”

Oh, now that was unexpected. Do go on.

“There shall be a Hunting Banquet this evening at the second watch. Captain My Lord Kruge has ordered that you be considered the guest of honor, and requests your presence so that he may properly show his gratitude for your assignment to his ship!”

Targ shit. There were, by his count, three separate facts in that statement…exactly one of which was true. Karzz’ first impulse was to throw something and thereby terminate the discussion, but his professional instincts immediately won the day. Kruge was not the sort of man who changed attitudes that quickly, especially less than a day after coming close to executing his own security officer - but declining could make things rather worse, and besides…there had to be a reason for this. And as a good security officer, it was Karzz’ job to find out what.

Composing himself, he glared at the orderly. “Tell Kruge I accept his invitation and look forward to his hospitality and company this night. Go!” The thud of the warrior’s salute echoed in the small cabin, then he about-faced and strode out.

Now, Karzz thought, what to wear to dinner…..


Kirk checked himself in the mirror one more time, giving his jacket a gentle tug to smooth it out. Wouldn’t have needed to do that twenty years ago, he thought with a gentle smile. It was from his personal baggage, one of a few things he’d made sure made it with him when it came back down from Enterprise that hurried day in San Francisco. Charcoal gray, with a white turtleneck and a miniature command pin on the left lapel. Tailored in Hong Kong, and fitted in a way no replicator could ever match. Worth the day he’d had to spend there and the credits it cost him.

And how often did he get to wear it?

Good question, that. More often than not anymore, StarFleet Combination Alpha One, AKA the Maroons, or one of its variants was de rigeur on a daily basis because working starship captains really don’t have much of a social life. And if he thought about it, he didn’t really want/need one. Social lives were fun, but infinitely more complicated than command. And in any event, there was some talk (always was, actually) about bringing back the century-and-change ago jumpsuits and relegating the Maroons to special-occasion dress uniform status.

Of course, whenever StarFleet found itself facing personnel and policy issues that it couldn’t or wouldn’t solve, they changed the uniforms around. Some things never change.

Stepping out into the passageway, Kirk saw Scotty heading towards him, dressed in what appeared to be the same outfit he’d worn a few nights earlier at CINC’s quarters. “Scotty,” Kirk grinned, “I thought you said you had two suits.”

“I do,” Scotty shot back. “This is tha’ other one. And any idea whether or not they’ve got somethin’ decent to drink with dinner? Besides that bloody synthenol swill, that is.”

“It’s the officer’s wardroom, I’d think they would still have the real thing - in limited quantities, of course.”

Scotty shook his head in dismay. “Askin’ a man to hang his arse out over the edge these days without even a proper whisky - I tell ye, Jim, Starfleet’s gone t’ Hell in an impulse powered handbasket. And for that matter, unless it’s a decent Scots whisky, we may as well be doin’ our laundry wi’ it.”

Spock and McCoy met them at the next passageway, dressed in well-fitted civvies, Spock of course with a cape that seemed to sculpt itself over his frame as Bones tried to discreetly loosen his collar. “Uncomfortable, Doctor?”, Scotty asked with a sly grin. “Let’s just say that I miss the days of open collar shirts,” McCoy cracked back.


Karzz straightened his uniform by muscle memory - Klingon ships did not, as a rule, come with mirrors, so one learned to be very precise in one’s appearance without one. In his case, all the more so because Fleet Security usually only wore their dress uniforms for one of two reasons: official ceremony or funeral. Karzz was not at all sure where tonight’s activities fell within that spectrum, but he was sure to find out, and quickly at -

The wave of dizziness was, as always, mild and mercifully brief, because he needed to focus fully on what was coming next. The Grandfather’s face filled his mind’s eye, almost as clearly as if he had been standing before him, teacher before prize pupil once again, and Karzz almost smiled.

Attention, said Grandfather without speaking. Karzz carefully extended one gloved hand to a table to steady himself as Grandfather’s face faded and Karzz saw Kast’s broken skull on the floor of his cell, a pink stain surrounding him.

Kast has taken his own life. He feared what was to come, and we believe that he protected Kruge by his actions. Grandfather’s voice was a firm whisper in his head as the Implant translated the message from thousands and thousands of light years away. There were perhaps a dozen Security officers who had one, and not many more even knew of its existence - the citizens of the Empire were remarkably loyal and obedient, but even they might draw a line at a brain implant.

We go before the Chiefs of Staff soon, but you may have to act sooner. Do what you must. Success.

Grandfather’s voice faded out and Karzz took a deep, quiet breath. Think. You have the security staff -

-Maybe. To assume certainty would be to invite disaster.

-Honor demands you try.

-Then succeed I shall.



The Greyhound rolled in astern of Star Empire, bouncing slightly as it crossed into her wake and the comms buzzed out into the hangar deck.

“SAM 289, Star Empire approach, call the ball.”

“Star Empire, SAM 289. I have the ball. We’re gonna turn and burn.”

“SAM 289, we copy. Turn crew is standing by.”

“289.”

There was the almost subliminal hum as 289 eased through the force field and into the bay, flaring slightly over the huge ship’s shield on the deck and then executing a perfect pirouette to face the open bay doors as it settled to the deck with a gentle thump.

“289, we got you. Welcome aboard.”

“Star Empire, thank you. Dropping the hatch now.”

As the starboard side hatch dropped open, Captain John Lyle came to attention, counting three officers with staff pins on their shoulder straps file out and regard him with only slightly disguised disdain before the guest of honor strode out - Vice Admiral Kenneth Prescott, commander Task Force 33 and senior StarFleet officer for RIMFROST, claiming his flagship.

Lyle snapped off a salute that fairly crackled, Prescott returned it and extended his hand. Lyle grasped it and shook, saying, “Welcome aboard, Admiral. Star Empire is at your disposal.” Prescott grinned and straightened his uniform blouse, replying, “Good. Get me to the flag wardroom, I’m starving.” Fair enough, Lyle thought with a smile, as he motioned for Prescott and the staff officers to follow him.

As they entered the passageway, Prescott said, “I hope the advance team wasn’t too much of a pain in the ass.”

Lyle looked heavenward with an angelic expression. “They were models of professionalism and courtesy, sir.”

“That bad?”

Lyle tried not to laugh, not that Prescott would have minded. They’d been meeting from time to time for the last month or so, covering all of the kilogoogolplexes of data that were needed to simulate wartime in peacetime, and Lyle had discovered that Admiral Prescott did not suffer fools gladly, and least of all staff members who forgot that their rank didn’t quite equal that of their boss. But by the same token, he was a smart, decent, and capable combat commander who was known to treasure his men and ships. He had also pissed off a couple DN skippers by choosing Star Empire and Lyle - the newest and most junior DN skipper in the fleet - as his flagship and flag captain.

“Well, I’ll be keeping them busy from here on in - but if any of them comes to you with some hare-brained request slash demand, don’t hesitate to let me know. How are those comm issues coming along?”

Lyle nodded. “I’ve had the teams on it nonstop since the rehearsals. We’ve got it nailed down to the point where we should not have any issues, and if we do, we’ve got workarounds ready to go. All of it traced right back to the refit; Star League is still trying to get things sorted out.”

“I know,” Prescott nodded. “That’s why I’m here - “ A bosun’s whistle echoed through the passageway, followed by, “Bridge to Captain Lyle.” Lyle held up a finger and the caravan stopped as he stepped over to a comm panel. “Bridge, this is the Captain.”

“Yes, sir, OOD here. SAM has departed the ship; I’ve run the speed checks and we are ready to answer all bells at your call.” Prescott nodded and gave a thumbs-up and Lyle replied, “Bridge, copy. On my way.” Turning to Prescott, Lyle said, “Sir, my apologies -”

“None needed. I think the herd and I can find our way without too many problems. I want to have a full staff meeting at 0700; I’d like you there for this one and then you can send a rep for the rest.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. See you in the morning.”

“Got it.” Prescott and his entourage started to head in one direction and Lyle in another , but just as Lyle was about to turn a corner, Prescott called, “Captain Lyle?”

“Sir!”

“Any recommendations on the chow?”

Lyle though for a moment, then answered, “It’s all pretty decent, sir - but I’d avoid the spaghetti.” Prescott took this information stoically before replying, “Duly noted, Captain. See you in the morning.”

TO BE CONTINUED……

Mike

[jemhouston]

More players coming to the table.

When all the gambits start crashing into each other, run.

When at a safe distance, POPCORN!!

[Johnnie Lyle]

It’s back!

Again, your best characters are your Klingons. Karzz is a delight. Very much in the hussar tradition.

One question - does Starfleet follow Royal Navy age of sail practice when it comes to captains, assigning junior ones to the big boys, especially flagships, and more senior ones to the independent cruisers? Or more modern practice of bigger ship = more senior captain?

Given that the cruisers are usually furthest from Federation headquarters, it makes sense to put your most experienced and trusted officers on them, and a newer captain on a makey-learnie cruise as a dreadnought, battleship or home fleet captain. Especially if I have a senior admiral on board.

Conversely, it seems Kirk was assigned ENTERPRISE as his first command, which is very much a feather in his cap. But both he and Harriman, at least, look to be very green captains when assigned ENTERPRISE. Conversely, Picard is very senior when assigned to ENTERPRISE, and other GALAXY class captains are equally experienced, which fits their explorer role (they don’t appear to be very good battleships).