Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Governor Ronjar]

Yeah, me again... I'm not doing just a great amount of constructive writing right now, so continually posting seems to keep me at least working with my stories. My apologies to those who have had enough.

This one found me stalled out more than on any story previous. Let me know if it shows.

Star Trek
Settling In…
CH. 1





Johnathan Bronstien looked from Commander Davenport to Commander Tolin as he gripped the two parallel rails that bisected this compartment of the medical wing. He was nervous and apprehensive about this experiment. He looked down at the neutral colored prosthetics that stretched down from his covered stubs and judged whether or not he was going to be able to do this…and how…

“C’mon, helmsman.” Ronald coaxed him. “You don’t have much time to learn this before the Skipper assumes command of the station. You said you wanted to be on your feet for that.”

Bronstien looked bitingly back to the chief of ops.

“I don’t know ‘bout this sh*t…”

Xia looked down on him crossly. Her brilliant blue eyes shone out like lamps amid her blue face, and the flash of anger she felt toward him was evident. He’d been giving them hell for a week solid.

“You can pilot a shuttle or a starship like no body’s business. You drove Endeavour through the Tempest like you were just negotiating a narrow road! Are you going to tell me you can’t walk on a pair of prosthetic legs?”

“Maybe!”

“Then just take them off and be done with it!”

Bronstien blinked. Ron looked between them uncertainly, then settled his brown eyes on the pilot. He coaxed the lieutenant up with a wave and stepped back and out of the way. Johnathan looked at the two of them again, and then looked right to where Lieutenant Daniel Nechayev, his ship’s weapons officer, stood looking back with a reserved expression. The gunnery officer gave him one, solemn nod and continued to watch without expression as he leaned on the far wall. Finally Bronstien shrugged and leaned out. His wide hands took firm holds on the rails as he levered himself out of the hover chair and onto his new feet.

They held.

With a slight whine of servomotors, the legs bent with him and straightened. He rose to a full standing position. Amazed, he looked down. A very noticeable tingling sensation flooded his senses from where his legs should have been. It was very unusual and unsettling. But he was up. He tried to take a tentative step. It felt as though the right leg was a moment behind his brain and he staggered. But he managed to catch himself and righten before making the headlong plunge to the carpeted deck.
“How do they feel, Lieutenant?” Davenport was asking. The engineer remained silent this time.

“Feels like my legs are asleep.”

Ronald crossed his arms, nodding as he observed the lieutenant.

“I hear that’s common.”

“How long till it goes away?”

“It doesn’t.”

Johnathan scoffed, sighing as he lowered his face and shook his head. He was beginning to allow his arms to support his entire weight on the bars. Tolin slapped his right bicep. “Legs, Lieutenant. You walk on your feet, not your hands!”

“The tough love bit’s getting old!”

Despite his retort, the helmsman straightened and shifted his weight back to his legs. The devices whined quietly as they adjusted and moved to the direction of his neural commands. They really did mimic his own legs. But they felt…sluggish. They weren’t as fast as he wanted them to be. He gave them the mental impulse to move as he would his normal limbs, and he could almost count to one before they responded. He growled.

“What’s wrong, LT?” Ron asked. “You’re standing.”

“They’re not moving fast enough…” He found himself panting. Why the hell was this so damn hard? His balance was good, but the effort of balancing on his stubs, encased in polymers as they were, and the strain of forcing himself into an erect pose were taxing. “They’re out of adjustment.”

“Look at this as your shakedown cruise.” Tolin responded. “Just do your best and I’ll make whatever changes to the system you need.”

John merely nodded back. He was beyond argument. The hope of actually walking was driving him now. The hope felt good when it suddenly flooded in. Yes, he could retrain himself to walk on these. He was a hellova pilot. He could saddle any machine and ride it, even if it was strapped to him.

Bronstien took a slow, tentative step forward. The toes didn’t quite raise good enough. But the foot planted just fine, the toes flexing with the movement. He found himself wiggling those toes. Beside him, Xia had a small remote access device out and was making alterations to the legs as he moved them. His next step, the right foot again, found the foot rising higher from the deck. He put it down softly. The prickly tingling sensations in his feet were almost excruciating. How did people put up with these damn things?

“If I figure these things out…” Johnathan gasped out. He was unreasonably out of breath. “Will I be able to stay on active duty?”

Bronstien noticed their pause. He looked up at them. The two commanders were passing inquiring looks back and forth. At length, Ron looked back to him. “The admiral said he’d leave that up to the Commodore when he gets back. Ford’s shuttle will arrive early tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll speak with you after the change of command ceremony.”

The doors on the left-hand side of the long room opened for Lieutenant Noah Smith to enter. Smith had been on base ever since the Tenseiga came in to return the commodore from prison and get her repairs. The comm officer should have been shuttled back out to their ship by now, but Sharp wanted as many familiar officers as possible on hand when Ford took over command of the sector. Thus, for now, Smith remained here. Tenseiga wouldn’t be gone long.

“Hey, you’re a biped again!” The cocky sounding officer called out and hurried his pace toward the center of the room. Johnathan shifted more weight to his legs so he could flip his friend the bird with a free hand. Noah chuckled and came to a halt with the rest of the gawkers. “How do they feel?”

“Like sh*t.”

“Take another step, Lieutenant,” Tolin urged. Her crystalline eyes were locked on the readouts on the remote’s screen. Noah leaned in close to read what it said.
Bronstien obliged. The next left-footed step came off smoothly and faster. But those damned pins and needles were beginning to hurt. “sh*t!” A single tear rolled down his cheek. “This f*ckin’ hurts!”

Ron stepped in and placed a warm pair of hands on his shoulders to steady him. John leaned into the senior officer, letting out a long, ragged sigh. “Alright, pilot. That’s enough. We’ll make some more adjustments to the interface, see if we can’t make them more comfortable.”

At a nod from Davenport, Smith rounded the confines of the bars and pushed the hover chair close for the lieutenant to sit. Johnathan lowered himself into the seat and gratefully pressed in the codes on the kneepads of his prosthetics to shut them down. The bloodless tingling faded and at last, extinguished.

“Wery good, Lieutenant.” Came from Mister Nechayev. He rarely spoke. Since Bronstien’s accident, the tall, lanky Russian had been more sociable toward him. John didn’t know why. He felt a certain kinship forming with the tactical officer. “You do my brother, Vladmir, proud.”

“Your brother?” Johnathan asked. He looked over to the approaching tactical officer, squinting.

“Yes. Vladmir Piotr Nechayev. He vas a construction vorker in Leningrad. Tventy years ago, he lost his legs in an accident. He vas just a small boy.”

“But you said he was a construction worker?”

“He vas…after he grew up and mastered his new legs. There is nothing a determined man cannot do.” Pride flowed in the Russian’s voice as he remembered his brother fondly. He looked down at the sitting lieutenant, a small smile on his bearded face. Bronstien’s heart swelled. So that was the connection!

Bronstien tapped the activation code back into the kneepads and began to rise up from his chair once again. Gripping the silver rails, he glared menacing holes in them all. “Alright, then. Let’s do this!”
***







The crew of the USS Endeavour, and the command staff of Starbase 23, stood as one at the entry of their new sector commander. Commodore Chevis D. Ford was smiling ear to ear when he emerged from the shuttlecraft Sanchez. Tucked in his arm was his faithful Pekinese, China, who paused in his eternal panting to examine the huge amount of people amasses into the station’s giant hanger bay.

Admiral Jonathan Sharp awaited Ford’s presence behind a podium erected for the purpose of this ceremony. Ford shook his head as he approached his old friend and mentor. Rather than put his loving canine down or hand him over to the petty officer who accompanied him, Ford shifted China to his left arm as he stepped up to shake the admiral’s hand. This act got a laugh from several attending, and a smirk from Sharp as well.

“You knew the only way I’d do the big ceremony was if you bushwhacked me in the landing bay!” Ford was accusing his senior flag officer, pointing a pale finger at the admiral. They were both now within range of the audio pickup standing atop the address podium.

The tall, brown skinned admiral shrugged, smiling a set of perfect, white teeth to him. Sharp wore all his campaign medals today, decked out in all his brass for his friend. Ford’s own uniform was creased from packing and the shuttle ride in here. A big wrinkle traveled up the rear of his maroon jacket, hem to hem.

“You’d have run and hid if I’d given you a warning.” Jon finally replied to the benefit of those gathered. “But I’ll make this one short for you.”

Ford smiled on as Sharp turned to pick up a data PADD from the podium top. The commodore’s eyes drifted past Jon to the collection of senior officers from Endeavour that stood as the honor guard for him on this side of the podium. All his command officers were present with full dress honors. His eyes lingered on Mister Bronstien. The lad was looking his way. His face was blanched and strained. Chevis had heard all the gory details on the accident during Endeavour’s repair that had cost him both his legs. The boy was visibly strained from standing on his very new prosthetics. His just being here today bespoke what the lieutenant thought of his commanding officer, and the act was not lost on Ford. The Commodore smiled broadly to the young officer.

Pointedly, he motioned for the helmsman to take his seat. Bronstien continued to stand, one hand on Mister Smith’s shoulder for support, the other waving off the offer. Ford pointed at him sternly and then to the waiting hover chair behind the boy. Finally, Smith turned to help the lieutenant take his seat. Johnathan looked much relieved.

Sharp held up the data PADD for all to see. Then he faced Ford again and began to read it aloud.

“From: Sharp II, Admiral Jonathan K.

“To: Ford, Commodore Chevis D, Commanding Officer of NCC-2007, USS Endeavour

“You are hereby ordered and required to assume direct command of the base station Starbase 23 and Sector KL-115 and its assigned assets. The responsibilities of administration and protection of said are now commended to you, this Stardate. Signed by myself and approved by Starfleet Commander In Chief.”

Sharp eyed his friend happily as he turned the small pad over. Ford smiled as he accepted it and tucked it into the same arm that held his dog so he could shake Sharp’s hand a second time. “Thank you, Admiral.”

Applause rose from the crowd gathered in the hanger. There were well over three hundred officers and assorted base crew assembled here. Almost all of the Endeavour crew could also be seen. The total amount of these groups edged easily over a thousand. They made this enormous flight bay look almost too small for them. There had just barely been enough room on the deck to land the new Type R shuttle PO1 Goodwin had piloted him in with.

Sharp cleared a space before the podium for the commodore to address those people. This was the exact reason Ford shunned such public ceremonies. He hated being the center of attention before large groups. He could feel the weight of their gazes bearing down on him. But the men and women of Endeavour and many of those represented in the base staff had been through a lot in the last months. Chevy couldn’t bring himself to just skip out on them. He bellied up to the dais and cleared his throat.

“Well…I never thought to command an entire sector in my career. Or to be a commodore, for that matter. I’m gonna need everyone’s help out there to do this right. So…I wanna thank you right off the bat and end this lil’ speech with: ‘Let’s get to work’. Thank you all for coming.”

There was a thunder of light applause from the gathering. A few sharp shouts of approval issued from the younger men. Smiles were seen around the room. Ford turned to regard the folk he truly wanted to see, his senior staff. The bridge crew of the Endeavour. They approached him as one, moving in to congratulate him on the posting. Now that he was back with his family, he was truly home.
***


The pace and telling of this story is somewhat different from others I've done. Hope it is still enjoyed!

--thu guv!

[Czar Mohab]

Still enjoyed

Perhaps you could include a scene from Crimson Tide with the dog taking a leak randomly, but more realistic with a scolding that follows? Just a thought.

I always hated CoC ceremonies. Wouldn't have minded being at that one, though.

Thanks for continuing so soon.

Czar "No quote today, quote tomorrow" Mohab

[Governor Ronjar]

Thought about that, oddly enough. Also thought of a spot-bot which might follw a pet and phaser it's doodies...but then...

--thu guv!

[Governor Ronjar]

Been kinda quiet in story reply land. No matter. Here I is to update for the week.

This story loosly touches on another that I started around the same time and am STILL plucking away on even now. The mention of Dath'mar is an allusion to this.

Without further gabble from me...

CH. 2





“The Ya’wenn haven’t done more than send out a scout ship in all the time you were gone.” Sharp was explaining to the commodore as the two circled around the big, white lit strategic planning table one level below Ops. The computer-run holo display was at the moment set to show the sector in a two-dimensional format. The swirling border of the Tempest plasma front took up nearly a fifth of the table’s far edge. The station, highlighted with a tiny 23 beside it, occupied the further corner of it, marking the sector’s frontier with the core worlds of the Federation. Dotted tracers showed the trade lanes. Blue icons all about the table represented the growing number of Starfleet escort and patrol craft in the area. Green icons were for the various civilian vessels plying the space lanes. Sharp pointed to a particular peninsula of energized gas trailing out from the Tempest. “This out-gassing is where most of the scouts come from. They peek out every few days and take a long-range scan our way. Their sensor pulses are pretty weak, but they do actually make it out this far. They’re learning.”

Ford glanced up at the senior flag officer with a nod.

“They’ve started to guess what they’re up against when they fought us. Any conflicts at all?”

“None. When our patrol ships move in to warn them off, they tuck tail and head back in. Lieutenant Smith has been intercepting various coded Ya’wenn transmissions from the Kovarn System and the area of the Ya’wenn homeworld. What he’s been able to decode shows that Jarn’s under attack. Seems Governor-General Heedis has taken advantage of the amount of ships you disabled and mounted a full-scale offensive. It sure took him long enough to get his act together.”

Ford was squinting at a data PADD he’d picked up. He glanced back up to his friend. “From what we’ve been able to discern of Ya’wenn operations, they’ve never had an interstellar conflict on this scale. Their fleets were probably spread pretty thin. Kinda like Starfleet back before the Romulan War.”

Sharp nodded his agreement and again noted how much trouble Ford had reading his pad. Finally, Ford sighed as though he’d been caught at something and glared back sardonically at Jon. The commodore reached into his right trouser pocket and withdrew a small, folding black case. Depositing it on the table edge, Chevis opened it and pulled out his slim glasses. He put them on and looked over the rim at his friend with humorous frustration. “Seems old age is catching up with me. Doctor I saw before leaving New Providence said I’m far sighted…”

Sharp studied the sight of his friend wearing his new spectacles. He now seemed bookish in an odd, scholarly way. He smiled at Ford and reached up to the grey hair at his temples that was threatening to turn his whole scalp grey. “Happens to the best, Commodore.”

Now using his visual aids, Ford looked over the data copied onto the PADDs memory.

“Decrypted messages all show that Jarn’s forces have taken heavy losses. All the decrypted messages belong to the Warden’s side. Can we not decode the Governor-General’s?”

“Seems not.” Sharp replied. “Their own encryption is pretty advanced, and their messages are extremely short. Smith’s still working on it though.”

“How many escort ships are we dealing with now?” Was Ford’s next inquiry. He returned his attention to the illuminated holo board and leaned on the plastic edge of the console. There were many more allied icons on the table than were present when he’d left.

“Plenty. We have the Akyazis firmly ensconced in their escort and patrol paths. I don’t think you’ll find any difficulties in their patterns. They rotate from a two week long escort run, patrol the Tempest border for another week, and then come home for refurbishment. Works good for ships with such limited endurance.”

Chevy nodded. He was certain that any administrative decisions Sharp made were the most well considered options, and should be left as they were. He continued to eye the admiral as Jon pointed out a series of ships new to the sector.

“Added to the Akyazis are the Loknar-Class frigates Palantir, Bernajoux, Athos and Treville. Each of these are rotated to escort the larger convoys. Occasionally you’ll have to provide a larger escort force for convoys in need of heavier protection. That shouldn’t be too hard since you now have more redundancy. Another two Okinawa-Class ships will be arriving in a few months when they finish their shakedowns in the Sol System.”

The commodore nodded, seemingly happy with what had been displayed to him. The admiral was leaving him to his new command with every possible angle covered. He still felt overwhelmed. A subtle fear chewed at his insides as he thought about the huge number of people his decisions would affect every day.

Sharp waved him to the doors.

“Now, let’s go meet your Station Administrator.”





Captain Heather Conally turned around from the operations console before her and Commander Davenport at the sound of her name. Admiral Sharp was leading her new CO down to meet with her. She seen him and met him briefly already at the change of command ceremony. But all she’d got then had been a short handshake as everyone present vied for Ford’s time. He was popular among his old crew and even among the station’s personnel.

The two flag officers stepped down from the control wing of the Ops compartment to join the senior officers in the lowered command section. Ford held his hand out once again for the brown haired captain. “Captain Conally, I hear you’re going to be the new station boss.”

Conally nodded briskly and shook his hand, looking aside to the admiral.

“Yes. Jon tells me you’ll be running the sector from a mobile stand-point aboard Endeavour once she’s finished.” The officer replied. She kept her words cool, but not emotional enough to show any affront. But Ford could tell she didn’t approve of the idea.

“I imagine I’ll still find myself here more than I’d prefer.” Ford made his own reply bluntly. He obviously didn’t care what she thought of his policies. She just hoped this wouldn’t devolve into some kind of conflict between them. “All settled in?” He asked further.

Conally’s mouth drew into something approaching a scowl.

“Aye, sir. I’ll have your office cleared and turned back over to you inside the hour.”

The commodore cast a long look back over his broad shoulder to the office with its glass doors. She’d been here for a week already and had taken the office for her own till he came aboard. She was quite comfortable there, despite knowing she’d have to give it up very soon. She had no idea that Ford held the compartment in distaste. He could not get past remembering his heart attack, which had occurred in that very room. He looked back to Captain Conally with a wide grin.

“That’s fine, Cap’n. You can keep the main office. Makes more sense for you to have it since you’ll be the one running the place, even when I am here. I’ve never run a space station, and Sharp tells me it’s your bread and butter. Just think of me as an absentee landlord.”

Sharp seemed to turn a disapproving eye on the lighter skinned flag officer at that comment, but it made the captain happier. Now she wouldn’t have to move her own office to a lower deck. She gave him a more enthusiastic nod. “Very well then, Commodore. Where shall I place your office?”

“Gimme the briefing room space near the strategic ops compartment on Level Two and also an office for my aide.”

“Certainly, Commodore.”

“Call me Skipper.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

“We’ll meet at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow for a sector briefing before I begin my tour of the installation and all her orbital assets. I’ve got a lot to relearn about these stations. Tonight, though, I want to get aboard my ship and tour the repair progress.” At this last statement, the commodore’s eyes came to his friend, who leaned on the operations table, arms crossed. “Before I left for New Providence, she was in sad shape.”

Ron’s head cocked to the side. He was obviously running himself on the razor’s edge of exhaustion, but he was making it along somehow. “Endeavour’s come along pretty well, Skipper.” His Mississippi drawl told the junior flag officer. “We’re installing the warp reactor tomorrow and final refurbishment of the coils will be done by the end of the week. Hull integrity checked out yesterday in all compartments and service sections.”

Chevis smiled warmly at the news. He obviously missed his ship.

“Good, when your duties allow it, we’ll take a pod out there and take a good look.”

“Aye, sir.”

Ford looked back to Admiral Sharp.

“How long till you leave for Sector 1?”

“Yorktown embarks tomorrow morning. Till then, we have a few sector command issues we need to discuss.” The heavy expression in the senior flag officer’s eyes made the commodore nod once and immediately turn in to follow Sharp out of the compartment. Conally and Davenport watched them go, then returned to their perusal of the ops board.

Conally gave Ronald a sidelong glance as the flag officers entered the lift.

“He’s friendly.” She commented dryly. Ron glanced back to her.

“Yeah, he’s a pretty good commander.”

“I don’t think Sharp likes the idea of Ford commanding from Endeavour.”

“Chevy wouldn’t have it any other way. Th promotion was really only for the purpose of keeping Commodore Shiloah off his back while Endeavour was in this sector. Now Chevy’s stuck with it. But he isn’t going to give up starship command.”

“Officers on starships generally remain on starships. The opposite is also true,” The captain murmured as the two of them refocused the tactical map before them onto a smaller section of the Tempest where the Comanche was sending her update. “I’ve been station bound for most of my career. When Sharp ordered me here from Starbase 12, my biggest worry was that he intended me to command a ship.”

“Don’t think you can?”

Conally frowned and looked back to the other officer in earnest.

“I could…but it would be so much different. I’m more used to handling administration and strategic concerns. Stations don’t have to move. Things come to us. We send other ships to get things done. I’m afraid I’d feel…hemmed in by the lack of options.”

Ron stood up straight and looked taken aback.

“Hemmed in? On a starship? Captain, you got some funny ideas about life on a starship.”

Conally matched her subordinate’s pose, considering his reaction. He looked back at her as though she was the funniest looking alien he’d ever laid eyes on. Ronald finally looked away, returning his attention to the status boards before him. Conally did likewise, lending her brown eyes to the flowing report that rolled across a dedicated window on the table’s screen.

“Comanche is responding to a Gorn call for assistance, heading toward the Goesa’vaina Sector.” She read aloud. “Ramses hasn’t included many details.”

Davenport shrugged.

“Knowing the Gorn, they probably didn’t give many details.”

“True. Didn’t the last report from Comanche state that she’d located the IKS Pang in his patrol section?”

“Yes, sir.”

Conally looked the area over. No other starship icons abounded in the viscinity of Comanche’s moving marker. “How long has the Pang been gone?”

“Over a day now. She hightailed it out of here for the Goesa’vaina Sector.”

“Headed for home base?”

Ron looked at a stray data PADD. He looked up the information in question.

“Not quite. Cartography estimates that she was headed for the Klingon colony of Galt.”

“Galt… Pang was under repair.” Conally mentioned, looking back up to the commander. “Are there any starship facilities at Galt?”

“None observed, sir.”

“Then why would Dath’mar be headed there?”

Ronald straightened again and looked off at nothing in particular.

“Might be some kind of problem there. Enemy incursion or whatever gets the Klingons’ attention.” The operations officer shrugged. “Hard to say.”

Conally remained hunkered over the display table and looked it over one more time. Hopefully Comanche wasn’t off to get herself in any trouble. The captain had no experience with the ship’s CO, but she knew of his reputation as an adventurous commander. She hoped he brought his ship back in one piece.
***

--thu guv!

[Czar Mohab]

Odd, mostly because I waited to be not the first to comment on this next part. Slackers. 

Impressions: the Ya'Weenies seem to be the main focus, despite playing the "Gorn" and "Klingon" cards. I have a feeling Pang and her lot will play a nice role, but until then, seems like it might be leading to a Ya'Weenie roast.

Things I'd do If I was them: Remind Comanche, don't f*ck with the eggs.

(One of the) Best line(s):

“Certainly, Commodore.”

“Call me Skipper.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Shows more about Ford's personality, along with the "you keep the office, I'll take the broom closet below" (well, not a closet, but you know what I mean) seems to play along within his personality. Its more than just bad memories or anything else, just Ford's sensible and generous self.

Things I like alot: More to come when the story develops more.

Nits, rants, raves: None noticed.

Czar "I think I like that format" Mohab, who has finally caught up on 1-present, and has to say, "Man, what a ride."




[/color]

[Commander La'ra]

Yep, this one seems to have that nice 'rock slowly rolling down the hill while gradually picking up speed' pace.  Not much to comment on yet...all of the stuff Mohab says, I echo, but I don't have much else.

Need more.  Feed me.

[Commander Maxillius]

motion seconded 

[Czar Mohab]

Something, somewhere, just poked my brain with a wierd thought.

Eventually, somehow, this entire Ya'Weenie situation will have to end, possibly closing this, your second season, of ST:E.

It is in this closing that I see the 'heroes' in a bar, singing '99 Bottles of Beer', while consuming said bottles. The singsong verse would then turn into drunken attempts at Kareoke(sp?), including songs like '99 Luftballons', 'Achy-Breaky Heart', and a horrible rendition of 'Pinball Wizard'. The drunks eventually file out of the bar and pilot Endy home to 23, only to be pulled over for DUI, thus setting the stage for the third season, where the crew is released to the much harsher charges of:

Bad singing. 

Czar "Even though what is to come is already written, mayhap you could squeeze in part of said bar scene?" Mohab

[Governor Ronjar]

I was beginning to wonder if we were in for another long dry spell of no commenting. Thankfully someone fired one off...

Well, this story does indeed start off slowly... Not too sure what y'all will think of the end. While I'm liking the direction the stories after #11 have gone, I can only gague by your reactions as to how good they actually are.

Here's some more.

CH. 3





Commodore Chevis Ford knew from the moment Sharp began this line of conversation that he was not going to like what he was going to hear. And he’d been right. He was now glaring defiantly back to his friend.

“You mean I have to sit back and let Jarn get away with all that he’s done.”

Sharp, as always, stood his ground. The short-haired officer looked back as evenly as if Ford possessed the most benevolent demeanor. “If you want to put it that way, Commodore, yes. Starfleet Command, the C in C and the Federation Counsel all agree, that to further involve ourselves with the Ya’wenn in any way is to draw ourselves into their civil war. Starfleet does not pick sides in internal power struggles.”

“He handed us our asses in the Tempest!” Ford countered with vehemence. “We lost hundreds in that fight and he used us to draw out his own Premier so that he could kill him!”

Jon took a step closer to the younger flag officer. Ford was not new to command, but he was new to the arena of strategic command and policy decisions. He would learn, but he would not enjoy the lessons. “I know perfectly well what we lost in that battle, Chevis. Jarn is a small-scale tyrant hoping for a shot at grandeur. Given all his actions, you and everyone else has every reason to hate him and want him dead. But that isn’t how Starfleet works, and you know we can’t aggressively seek his death or even his arrest at this moment. Since your rescue, Jarn wasn’t done much more than send a scout outside his region to take a look around. He isn’t a threat to us and he hasn’t entered our territory. To actively target him now would drag us into a political quagmire that would never end. Think back on the lessons of the ancient Earth governments.”

Ford rolled his eyes and looked away from his end. The two men were in what would soon become the commodore’s administrative office on Level Two. It was pretty bare at the moment, little more than an extra and unadorned briefing room on the strategic analysis deck. Chevy stepped further away from the admiral and sank into a rolling office chair. He stared at the blank, fleet-issue blue bulkhead for about a minute, then looked back to Sharp. “What happens if he’s the winner of their conflict, Jon?”

Sharp forced out a shrug, his mouth twisting into a distasteful kind of frown.

“Then we deal with that as best we can. We can’t allow our personal vendettas to affect official policy, Chevy. You know this.” The admiral also took a seat at the table now. “How much of your insistence to attack Kovarn is based on his threat to us…and how much of it is based on your anger at his treatment of you?”

Ford shot the other a dangerous glare of warning.

“You ain’t got a f*ckin’ clue what he put me through!”

“Don’t I?”

Ford considered that. When he looked back, it was with certainty.

“No, you don’t. The time you were captured, the Klingons didn’t deprive you of your dignity in addition to the physical abuse. They respected you as a warrior. The Ya’wenn were much more…human. Funny thing is, while Jarn ordered it all, he couldn’t bear to stand there and watch it all. He couldn’t handle the dirty work.”

Both officers were totally silent after Ford made his point. Jon thought about the possibility that he’d made a mistake in assigning Ford as Sector CO. Perhaps the commodore was no longer stable enough for the job he was being given. But then, Ford had never disobeyed an order. He’d handle Jarn in the manner Sharp directed him. And he’d be the toughest son of a bitch Jarn could ever hope to cross. Once Jarn inevitably made a mistake, Ford would be all over him.

No, Chevy was the best choice. He’d just have to work through his own demons.

When Ford turned his brown eyes back to his friend, they were softer.

“So I’m to leave the Ya’wenn alone till they sort out their own mess.”

“Basically. We recognize the remainder of the legitimate government, but we’ll not make further contact unless specifically asked to do so. We don’t recognize any relation with Jarn’s rebels. However…if the opportunity to discover Captain Rell’s involvement and intentions with Jarn arises, you should investigate in any such manner available that does not involve the Federation in the civil war.”

Ford smirked, scoffing an unhappy laugh.

“Tall order. Find out what a renegade Klingon commander wants from Jarn without making it look like we’re choosing sides. Alright. I can do that. I ain’t happy with all the particulars, but what the hell. I just wish you hadn’t promoted me.”

Sharp stood, crossing his arms and looking down on Ford as a teacher looks upon an errant student. “You were due for it eventually. At the time, I thought it a brilliant solution to your problems with Shiloah. Now, you’re just playing catch-up. Just let things ride for a while. Jarn will make his mistakes. And you’ll be here to get him when he does. Till then, establish yourself a stable mode of operation and let things develop. I think you’ll do very well here.”

Ford looked at the taller man dubiously.

“’Least one of us thinks so…”
***





Lieutenant Commander Davenport yawned a huge, open mouth kind of yawn as he ducked beneath a set of transfer conduits leading across the engineering corridor he was leading the commodore down. He was on his last bit of energy, badly in need of sleep. When Ford had laid eyes on his condition an hour earlier, he’d tried to order Davenport to bed. Ron had refused, insisting on leading this inspection.

“Any way…” Ron murmured tiredly as they rounded the final group of welding workers and reentered Main Engineering. “Endeavour will be ready for launch in three weeks baring any complications.”

“Good!” Chevy responded with enthusiasm. The two of them halted and lingered near to the open access way meant for the ship’s warp drive reactor. The core would be installed soon, and not a single piece of temporary equipment remained near the deck-spanning trunk. “How’s the new armor checking out?”

Davenport blinked irritated eyes and focussed on his friend.

“Installation wasn’t very hard. Acceleration is gonna be off unless we refit with different sublight engines. She’ll be harder to maneuver also. We’ve added nearly ten percent more tonnage to the ship.”

“Any projected difficulties in structural shearing?”

“None. The structure was rated for much more than was necessary to help cope with the trials every starship eventually faces. We have strength to spare.”

Ford leaned on the rail surrounding the open access trunk and looked down. The loading port at the bottom of the ship’s hull was open to space. Only a series of forcefields protected those within from the cold airless void beyond. But it provided an interesting view. “How much do you think it’ll help us against the Ya’wenn?”
The chief of operations looked out into nothing and shrugged. He too leaned into the rail, facing opposite of Ford, arms crossed. “Just fine so long as they don’t use torpedoes. The armor ablates energy fire ten times better than traditional alloys, but against concussive impacts, it’s only…ten percent better. A torpedo will still cause a breach on an unprotected hull.”

Chevy nodded, out of Ronald’s sight. The commodore abandoned his place and came to stand before Davenport. He had a mischievous glint in his eye and he withdrew something from his pocket. Ford held out a small black velvet case to Ron.

“You’ve done a hellova lot in a short amount of time, Ron. I think it’s time you bolted these on.”

Ron straightened and took the case from the commodore. He pulled the box open and looked upon the contents with curiosity. There, staring back at his, glinting in the harsh work lights, were two ranks pins belonging to a full commander.

Suddenly, Ronald was rejuvenated. Chevy seemed to delight in the turn in his mood and bobbled on his booted heels as he grinned ear to ear. Davenport looked back in askance, full of disbelief. He hadn’t been at his ops post for very long at all. Ford cleared up any further doubt.

“You are hereby promoted to the full and standing rank of commander, and will assume the commission as Executive Officer of Endeavour, effective immediately.”

Ron smiled whole-heartedly for the first time in a very long while and held a meaty hand out to shake with his CO. “Well…thank you, Chevy! I’m… well… I’m shocked! I was only your chief of operations for a few months!”

“Yeah, but you’re the next up and you’re more than qualified for the position. I could promote from outside the ship and bring in fresh blood, but I like to keep the family goin’. I don’t like breaking in new officers when I don’t have to. As Sector Commander, I have a lot more leeway in selecting my XO. I want you.”

Ron gave Chevy a final shake, slapping the man’s shoulder, and then went to the task of removing his old rank pins. Only upon removal of his former pins did the newly minted commander discover just how dirty his uniform was. The spaces beneath the old Lt. Cmdr. Pins shown out whitely against the dingy surrounding fabric. Chevis smiled at the sight of this.

“You just work too hard, Commander.” The commodore looked about the engineering space. The room was full of temporary power conduits and hoses. It was crowded with RAD suited crew going through the actions of readying the ship to run on her own power once again. Crews were already dismantling the free standing work lamps that cast bright, garish illumination into every corner. “You said all compartments checked out as airtight and ready?”

“Aye, Skipper.” Ron relied. He was beginning to feel the tiredness again. His elation remained, but the high of it had been short-lived. The XO studied his commanding officer as he finished pinning the final rank medal on his left sleeve. Ford was looking from bulkhead to bulkhead as though gauging the ship anew.

“How are the crew cabin areas?”

Ron understood.

“Mostly intact. Those in the fo’c’sle need new interior bulkheads, but the ones further abaft are fine. We could have our people back on board and in suitable living conditions in a couple of days.”

“Good.” There was a wistful way in which the commodore sighed. It was obvious that he loved this ship. Ron felt likewise. He’d been stricken at the thought of losing this vessel and had fought tooth and nail to make sure she remained active. Sharp had given both Ford and Davenport a lot of leeway in allowing them to rebuild Endeavour. Ford looked sharply back. “Alrighty, then. Inform the crew that any and all members who wish to move back on board may do so at their discretion. During the final week before launch, however, make sure it’s a standing order that all crew and officers are in place on board.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll pass along the orders through administrations first thing tomorrow.”

Ford reached out and grasped Ron’s shoulder as he headed toward the fore exit from engineering. The tour was complete, and Ford had not signaled for his new XO to follow. Likely he was going his own way. Ron leaned once again against the rail behind him and looked down at the maroon sleeve covering his left arm. He was proud to wear the Starfleet maroon. He was prouder still to be XO of the USS Endeavour.
***

[Czar Mohab]

Odd, you all still seem to be slackin'. Slackers. 

Impressions: Kinda leading us away from the big 'End of the Ya'Weenies' plot, and it may not happen in this piece, but I still feel that they'll play a big role, somehow.

Things I'd do If I was them: Stir the Ya'Weenie sh*t pot a little, with outside help. Orders is orders, after all.

(One of the) Best line(s):

“No, you don’t. The time you were captured, the Klingons didn’t deprive you of your dignity in addition to the physical abuse. They respected you as a warrior. The Ya’wenn were much more…human. Funny thing is, while Jarn ordered it all, he couldn’t bear to stand there and watch it all. He couldn’t handle the dirty work.”

True of Klingons, sadly kinda true about Humans, and reminds us Jarn truly is a Ya'Weenie

Things I like alot: Keeping the reins tight on Ford, its kinda like keeping a tiger in a cage dangling a hunk of raw meat just inches from its reach... Eventually the tiger will get out, and someone's going to get fragged.

Especially liked the promotion/tour scene. The new XO shows something that is all too true of RL shipyard time: Fatigue. Been there, done that. Kinda made me wonder, though, if one of them had spit down the ol' warp core hole, would it have gone through the field and splattered on some unsuspecting something-or-other?

Nits, rants, raves: None noticed.

Czar "So I used it again" Mohab, who can neither confirm nor deny being present for someone "releasing a brown trout" into the partially flooded dry dock we were in one mid watch long ago in the shipyard...




[/color]

[Grim Reaper]

Finally the time to check this out again, and found I needed more like a junkie needs his fix. It makes for good reading mate! GIMME MORE

[Governor Ronjar]

Lo...

If thou joneseth, ye shall be gratified.

CH. 4





Station’s Log, Stardate: 9712.6
Sector Commander’s Entry.

Things are proceeding smoothly my first official full day of command. The USS Yorktown departed at oh-nine hundred hours this morning. She bears home my friend, Admiral Sharp, and also heads home on her final mission. Yorktown is the oldest remaining Constitution-Class cruiser, one of the original twelve that became so very famous. She will be decommissioned upon arriving at Earth and remanded to the care of the orbital Starfleet Historical Museum. There she’ll join the ranks of some of Earth’s finest starships such as the NX-01 Enterprise and USS Potemkin.

I’ve completed my first leg of inspections. Station life is much different than shipboard duty. I’ve noticed duty shifts resemble those of a round the clock factory, creating almost civilian duty cycles. This seems to work well with the bustle of non-fleet personnel that grace Starbase 23. I could probably get used to it…but would rather save it as an option for partial retirement. Hopefully they never make me an admiral.

Official note to Command: I WILL retire before I put on admiral pins!

Today’s duties are light. This mornings staff briefing consisted of my officers informing me of strategic and operational concerns while trying very hard not to make me think they think I’m a dumb-ass. Hopefully they don’t think I’m a dumb-ass, but I’m hoping the next briefing is smoother.

The Ya’wenn are still keeping their heads down and tending to their own business. Lieutenant Smith has reported the results of another battle transmission from Jarn’s fleet. The war is not going well for my old friend. Too bad… Jarn’s commander reported the loss of two ships and had to fall back to an adjoining starsystem. I’m delighted with Mister Smith’s skill in decryption and will officially site him for commendation. He’s requested and received special permission to remain attached to Starbase Communications till the relaunch of our ship.

Beyond command concerns, I have also seen that another member of my crew needs some special attention. I’m taking some extra time tonight, after my shift, to see to him.

End of Log.




Commodore Ford squinted into the near smoky darkness of the Gentlemen’s Club, the officer’s lounge on SB 23’s thirtieth level. Every station had what equated to a dark corner bar. This was what served for such in this neck of the galaxy. The commodore immediately grew to like the place when he entered and caught the strains of a thirty-year-old hard rock song, ‘Hell on Sathura’.

The long compartment stretched out into the gloom before Ford as he stood near the doorway and allowed his eyes to focus in the scant light. Officers and crew from several passing ships mixed with a myriad of civilians throughout the bar. Two civilians, he noticed, had brought along their pet tribbles. This fact unnerved Chevy somewhat, but he presumed that any such animal had been neutered before being allowed past security. The officer continued to scan the room. He found the table and person he sought with little problem. Leave it to him to be seated in the darkest, furthest corner table in the darkest, furthest corner bar…

Chevy unsnapped the front of his uniform to better blend with the off-duty personnel lounging in the pub and slung the jacket over one shoulder. Most station personnel did not know him by sight. It would be some time before they recognized him. Tonight, he could take advantage of that fact and blend.

Lieutenant Bronstien did not look up as Ford stood before his table. He seemed to be doing his best to blatantly ignore the room and concentrated on the half empty glass of bourbon sitting in his hand. It wasn’t till Chevis sat down that Johnathan looked up with reproach.

Then he gaped as he realized he’d nearly cursed his CO.

“Commodore…Skipper. What’re you doing around here?” John’s voice was slow and off key, but not slurred. Ford had drunk with the lieutenant enough already to know when he was flying high, though. Tonight, he was pretty well lit.

“Slummin’. You?”

“Drinkin’.”

“Had enough yet?”

“I’m not drunk yet, so…no.”

Ford nodded in fair agreement and motioned for the attendant to bring him a glass. The near empty bottle on the polished tabletop was Gentleman Jack Kentucky Bourbon. There was little better. When the fresh glass arrived, Chevy helped himself while Johnathan smiled faintly.

Chevis leaned back without saying a word and took a cautious, slow pull of the warm liquor. It bit going in, and bit again on the way down, setting small fires along his throat. The flavor wafted in before and after the swallow was gone. He let it hit his stomach with an annunciated thud, then considered the glass.

Chevy didn’t drink like he used to any more. He wouldn’t be able to catch up with his young helmsman without having to be carried out of here. But he could get a good buzz on. That wouldn’t take long at all. He looked up to the kid after a long time of silence. He considered how best to broach the subject he’d come to discuss with the hurting person across the table from him. He also wondered whether he even should…

He decided that a separate topic would be better to start with.

“How was the Tenseiga?”

John looked up slowly. The gears in his mind were whirling. Of course, he knew just why Ford was really sitting across from him right now. Commodores didn’t seek out junior officers to hang out with. They invited lower officers to join them at their own tables.

“Good ship. Fast, quick to turn.”

“Good crew?”

“Yup.”

“How did Thomas rate as a skipper?”

Bronstien nodded quietly.

“Wasn’t there long. He seemed pretty good, what I saw…”

Ford nodded back and listened to the new song that was starting. It was newer. Being in fleet service often meant missing out on current musical trends from Earth. The song playing was not unfamiliar to Ford, but he’d not heard it often. Nor did he recognize the band.

“You come to give me some kind of pep talk?” John was asking, drawing Chevy’s eye back to him. “You don’t have to…everyone else beat you to it. They try to keep my spirits up by telling me things aren’t so bad, I can pull through this.”

Ford shrugged with his facial expression and cocked his head aside.

“So, can you?”

“I don’t know.” There was honesty in that response. “I’m gettin’ used to the legs…but they hurt. Every step is pins and needles or outright f*ckin’ pain. And they constantly feel like they’re fallin’ out of adjustment. I drag my feet… My balance is sh*t! I don’t know what use I am with these damn things.”

Ford did not respond quickly. Instead he took the time to mull the situation over.

“You do have the clone legs coming.”

“But no guarantee they’ll be any better.” John replied. “The nervous grafts don’t always take. I could be in for years of operations if I’m not lucky right from the start. Then there’ll be more rehab even if they do work.”

“No one said it’d be easy.”

Absolute hate flushed across Bronstien’s face right then. It didn’t pass swiftly.

“Like I don’t f*ckin’ know that.” He spat, heedless of rank. Ford didn’t bat an eye. Rank was really just a formality to him. One was either in charge, or not.  Bronstien looked out to the far bank of windows. “I don’t even know if I’m still gonna be in Starfleet…”

“You worried about your fitness review?”

The kid looked back to him.

“Among other things.”

“I’m in overall charge of who comes and goes in my command. If you think you can hack it, then you’re staying. As long as you want. I’ll let you be the judge. Fair enough?”

Johnathan seemed taken aback. He relaxed in his seat, unaware that he’d even tensed up. He stared back for a time, then finally blinked back to life. “Yeah…that’s fair. What if I’m no good any more?”

“Legs come off all the time in Starfleet.” Ford told him. “You are far from the first officer I’ve worked with to lose his main masts. You won’t be the last. It seems like an insurmountable object at first, but you’ll adapt. Clone legs or prosthetics. Whatever. It takes time. I know you’ve heard all that before, but you’ve barely scratched the surface just yet.” Ford set his glass down and looked upon the young man with a considering eye. Then he leaned in to the table and began to roll up both his white sleeves.

Johnathan began to suddenly watch with interest. When Ford had rolled up both sleeves, he could see that the commodore’s left arm was whiter in color than the right. The difference in color seemed to begin just a few centimeters below the left elbow. The flesh above that point was still pale, but somewhat rosier. Ford’s eyes smiled bitterly when the lieutenant looked back to him. Wonder had broken through his malaise of anger and drunkenness.

“You have a cloned arm?”

“Yeah. But for a year, I had a prosthetic arm. You think clone grafting is unreliable now…try twenty years ago. But I had to work my way through it. Felt about like you did. It ain’t a leg…it ain’t both legs for sure. But it was a part of me and I’m kinda attached to my limbs.” Chevis smirked a wide, lopsided grin. The lieutenant matched it. Ford began to pull his sleeves back down. “Never has felt quite the same. But then, after such a long time without it, how the hell would I know? My point bein’, if you let this way on your mind all the time, every day, you’ll go crazy. You need to find something to occupy yourself in the meantime.”

“Like what?”

Ford smirked.

“How ‘bout a mission.” He drained the last half of his glass and tried not to shake or wince as it worked its way down his pipe. Bronstien gawked back, eyes wide.
“A mission.” He repeated, voice still thick and slow. “You gotta be f*ckin’ kiddin’.”

“Nope. Just what the doctor ordered.” Ford felt pretty self-satisfied with the thought that was forming in his mind. Sharp had told him he couldn’t take direct actions against Jarn. But he’d left enough leeway for indirect skullduggery. “Get with me in the mornin’. I’ll have a mission worked out for you and Mister Smith. Probably Davenport, too.”

Johnathan looked back, eyebrow cocked high, at the commodore as he continued to sit and drink. Ford remained with the lieutenant for some time longer, but refrained from further alluding to his idea.
***





Lieutenant Bronstien still looked dubious as he sat across the newly installed desk from the commodore. Beside him was Mister Smith, fresh from his morning shower, his hair still wet as he looked eagerly between Ford and Johnathan. Chevy had thus far limited the conversation to small talk. He was waiting for his third man.

Commander Davenport entered a few minutes after the final bit of conversation had died away. He wore a splendid, crisp new uniform that sported his new rank pins. Ford gave the three men some time to exchange greetings and for the junior officers to congratulate Mister Davenport on his promotion. Ron grinned like he’d won the Golden Fleece and took his seat in the third of the four available seats arrayed within the commodore’s new office.

Chevy gave them all a small smile and swiveled back and forth a little bit as he reflected on his plans for this mission. Ron settled into his own chair and inclined his head.

“Got something for us to do, Boss?”

Chevy chuckled and began to manipulate the computer controls atop his desk. The visual display mounted on the bulkhead behind and to his right snapped to life and showed a spectrographic image of the Kovarn Starsystem. Each of the officers looking on mapped the same expectant expression across their face. The briefings of the day before had made it clear that Starfleet did not want them pursuing further aggression against the Ya’wenn unless attacked first. During said briefings, however, the men knew quite well that their skipper wasn’t going to take matters lying down. He had some dirty tricks in mind.

Ford’s eyes were smirking just as distinctly as his lips.

“We’re all very familiar with this little hole in space. Starfleet says we can’t pay them back for handing us our asses. So I’ve come up with other options. First is going to be a black flight into Jarn’s backyard.”

At this point, while the officers were absorbing his words, Chevis tapped another waiting key on his computer console. The revolving image of the alien system was then overlaid with the schematics of the large shuttlecraft Ford had traveled to 23 in days before. She was a wide craft with an angular profile at the prow. A single cockpit bubble studded the front like a starfighter canopy. Massive thruster quads lined the lateral surfaces and two heavy impulse drivers swelled at the aft end. Her rounded nacelles lined the lower hull to either side of the main compartment. Unlike most shuttles, the ship had pronounced Bussard hydrogen collectors at the tips of those engines, denoting a long projected flight duration.

“This is the Sanchez. He is a Type R medium range recognizance craft build with energy absorbent hull panels and an enhanced propulsion system. He can do warp factor seven for twelve solid hours and has the fusion capacity to replenish her capacitance cells twice. At his cruising speed of warp five, Sanchez can cross three sectors without refueling.”

“Three sectors… in a shuttle craft at warp five…” Mister Davenport shuddered. “No thanks. Hope we never have to test that one.”

Ford made an agreeing motion.

Bronstien inclined his head.

“He?”

Chevy smiled.

“Sanchez was named for the General Sanchez renown for heroism in the Third World War, Mexican Territorial Armies. Besides…it felt more like a he than a she…”

This seemed to satisfy the helmsman. He looked back to the technical images detailing the capabilities of the shuttlecraft. He was already beginning to dream about piloting it. Ford smiled and tried not to look too smug over having proven his impressions right.

“The mission is insertion and surveillance. You’ll go in at minimal velocity, using the same insertion course used by the Tenseiga when Thomas rescued me.”

Before Ford could go on, Ron’s hand shot up in question.

“Won’t the Kovarn forces be watching that area since Ben used it already?”

Chevis nodded.

“They were watching it to begin with, but you’re correct. You won’t be inserting along that path quite as deeply as Tenseiga did. The actual depth in which you penetrate before taking your own course will be up to you as mission commander.” Ron nodded and Ford continued. “The only reason for using this insertion angle at all is due to the coverage of the radiation belt from the eighth planet. It’s the best source of interference available to mask your warp field.”

“What do you want us to do when we get in there?” Smith inquired next. Ford looked fully toward the young officer. Smith was a big kid, barely 23 years old and already a full lieutenant, just like his friend beside him. Both had been promoted straight out of the Academy for exemplary performance during their training cruise. Their training ship, the USS Hood, had been stricken and disabled by a subspace filament. The entire crew of trainers and midshipmen owed these two their lives. This was why Ford pulled them aboard the Endeavour six months prior. It was also part of the reason he relied so heavily on them now.

Ford eliminated the graphics of the Sanchez from the display behind him and focussed the viewer’s image on the asteroid fields surrounding the Kovarn sun. “The Tenseiga’s sensor array noted several power sources active near to the asteroid fields. Upon review, I, and Lieutenant Surall aboard Tenseiga, believe they belong to some kind of construction array. I want detailed recordings of what they have, what they’re building and their production rates. Any and all tactical information you can discern will also be appreciated.”

“And comm traffic?” Asked Smith further.

“Indeed.” Ford looked over to Ron again. “I’ve given you the best folks I have to make sure you can pull this op off. I’ll approve any other resource you may need.”

Ron looked up to the starsystem detailed on the blue on black visual image and gave the matter considered thought. “Beyond supplies, the only thing I can think of is one more officer. A medical officer in case we run into a tight spot.”

“Any particular one?” Ford just hoped he was not about to ask for Doctor Keller. Surely Ronald realized what kind of friction this would cause for his pilot. Thankfully, Ford’s worries were unfounded.

“I haven’t got a clue. I’m not familiar with 23’s medical staff yet. Anyone you assign will be fine.” Was the XO’s answer. Ford nodded, relieved.

“Very well, then. Let’s go over the full details, starting with your supplies and then transport to the Tempest via the Tetsusaiga.”
***

[Czar Mohab]

Woo Hoo!! Time to stir ye olde pot o' poo!!

I'll be brief, as I am sure I'd be saying what everyone else is thinking if I rambled on, and I don't want everyone to be silent

Quit before getting the star, huh? How "Kirk in Retrospect" of you.

Nice touch with cheering up the pilot. Legs or no, he'll feel better at the helm of something.

Now, for the one nit I have: You're spellchecker/auto-corrector sucks. But you've said that before. So I won't beat that dead horse any more. Seriously. I'm done. *Pokes horse*

Czar "Surprised it wasn't karaoke night in the bar..." Mohab

[Commander La'ra]

Pace IS different.  Not sure how to describe it, but it's slower without being sluggish, like one of those old war movies concentrating on the generals or colonels rather than the enlisted guys.  Makes sense, given Chevy's promotion and new assignment.  He's managing things from afar at the moment, and thus, the pace is different than when Endeavour was in the thick of the action.

The Generalissimo's appearance made me smile.  I referenced him in one of the race legs as well, but it was too subtle to truly satisfy me.  Glad to see you gave him more of a starring role.

Liked the scene with Bronstein and Ford in the bar.  And yeah, giving him something to fly was the smart play.

Anxious to see what happens the next time Ford runs into Keller.

[Governor Ronjar]

Thank ye, thank ye!

Y'all need a refill I see...

CH. 5





Commodore Ford looked wistfully on at the growing visage of the USS Endeavour, NCC-2007, as his travel pod approached the scaffold style space dock she was laid up within. Even caged within the unbecoming dark metal box that enfolded about her, the ship was a sight to behold. Up close, her immense size and girth made her seen a colossal beast of extreme proportion. Which, she was… But at a distance of six kilometers or so, such as he now saw her through the unassisted pod view port, the Excelsior-Class starship was a sleek, streamlined beauty that put one in the mind of some aerodynamic work of art. Her hull was in the final stages of being cleaned. Her trim paint had yet to be added. Ford had dealt with the details of what colors to use in painting her just this morning. Endeavour shone in completely silver splendor today.
The awesome view that his command vested upon him washed away the foreboding dread he’d felt when he had got aboard this pod. He had not been looking forward to meeting with the officer he was planning to see. He’d not seen her in a month or better, and their last sighting of one another had not been pleasant. As the pod drew nearer and nearer to his vessel, that sense of dread returned, creeping past his bedazzlement.

Petty Officer First Class Goodwin silently guided the craft in toward the now hulking machine before them and chose a flight path that took them over one of the wide, immensely long engine nacelles. The pod traveled the length of the engine, letting the two occupants to gaze down on workers putting the finishing touches on the upper cowlings and the newly installed intercoolers. The sparkle of welders danced and twinkled at them as they passed over the yard birds’ heads and began to slow. Goodwin angled the craft toward the port side of the saucer section as they neared the forward portion of the ship.

The sloping top of the round main hull still bore the unpolished signs of the repairs Endeavour had undergone. Her patchwork of square and rectangular hull panels were off-colored and of irregular hues. It made the ship look care worn and old. Ford tried hard to over look the discrepancy, but it still made him remember all the bad that had occurred in the past few months.

The docking procedure was thankfully short. Ford was glad to depart the pod and take his leave of his most trusted noncom. Moving helped him to refocus his mind on other things. He passed through circling corridors, now fully lighted and most of them with their grey bulkhead panels back in place, bearing for the centerline radial hallway that would take him where he aimed to go.

He found sickbay right where he’d left it.

The infirmary section was powered down and only partially lit when Ford entered. He did not know why, but he believed he would find Doctor Keller here. He was not mistaken. With her back to the main entry, she sat in her chair within the glass walled confines of her office. A bright interface console shone before her as she read over some kind of data entry. The commodore made extra sure to approach silently. Since his youth, he’d reveled in sneaking up on people. He was naturally quiet on his feet, though not necessarily light.

As a result of his quiet padding across the deck, Andrea didn’t even stir as he rounded the final turn and stood before her open hatchway. He leaned on the door jam and studied the woman he’d once believed he was falling in love with.

Her head was held low, her brow knitted and deep in thought. Her dark, nearly auburn hair flowed down to partially obscure her brown eyes. This was partly why he’d approached undetected. She unconsciously nibbled at the butt end of a stylus as she read whatever it was on her data screen.

Chevis thought about turning and walking away. His heart rent at the thought of finally speaking to her. But he had questions to ask, and, since she hadn’t applied for transfer, and had recended the request for a leave of absence, he would eventually have to see her any way. Better now than later. His mouth was dry, and unwilling to open. As chance would have it, he didn’t have to speak first. Andrea looked up, feeling his eyes upon her.

“Chevy… Commodore.”

He tried to smile, light-heartedly. He failed.

“Chevy is fine.”

She stared back uncertainly. There was just as much emotion behind her eyes as was circling in his chest. She blinked, looking back down, sheepishly. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate any longer.”

“Why?”

Andrea continued to stare at the screen to avoid meeting his gaze.

“For the obvious reasons.” She replied in a quiet voice. “I suppose you might like some explanation…”

“A few questions had crossed my mind. But the evaporation of our relationship wasn’t what brought me here.”

Keller looked back to the flag officer, suddenly curious. She retained the countenance of a nervous and distant woman, however.  “Oh?”

“I actually need a medical officer to accompany a recon mission into Kovarn space.”

“Me?”

“No. I’m sending Lieutenant Bronstien. I’m not crazy enough to put y’all back together.” Several off-color comments came to mind. Ford resisted them. No need to antagonize her. “What I need is your suggestion for a med officer to go with them. Someone you trust.”

“Surely you could just send the chief surgeon from 23.”

“I want someone from Endeavour. Keep our crew working together. Instills trust…” Chevy let those words hang on the air a moment. Keller looked away hastily.
“Nurse Tyler. She’s as good as they come. She’s close to becoming an MD. I intend her to replace me.”

This drew Ford away from the doorway and up to the glass-topped desk.

“Replace?”

Keller looked up to him, her eyes like a doe caught in a trap.

“I intend to transfer, Commodore. I don’t feel that I can continue to serve this ship faithfully as her CMO given our…past. But I shan’t leave till you have an appropriate replacement.”

“So you do wanna leave…” Ford murmured. He looked to the blue carpet. He’d been expecting such, and he’d even thought about ordering her transfer himself. He was the sector commander, after all. But something had stopped him from doing so. That same something made him pause even now.

“Surely you had to have expected it.”

Chevis looked down at her, unsure of what to say.

“Why did you run away?” He then found himself asking.

Andrea’s mouth parted as she stared back. It was some time before she made any reply. Ford began to believe she simply wouldn’t. When she did speak, the words came out in an unbidden rush.

“When they told me… When they said you were dead, I was tortured. I couldn’t bear the thought of having…gotten so close…only to lose you. I’d never gotten so close to a fellow officer.” The doctor looked away once more. Her face seemed so fragile now. Lines shone out from beneath her eyes, the signs of worry. “…And the first time I allow it… You die. Or, at least I thought you had. My career had become a prison. I cursed the day I’d joined the Fleet. And when word came through that you were actually alive and on your way back… I was so relieved. But when I saw you…beaten and haggard… All of those dark feelings came back. I had to get away.”

She said no more. Ford stared down at her darkly for a while longer, then he uncrossed his arms and turned away. He had as much explanation as he could stomach. All he had thought of during the trip back from Kovarn aboard Tenseiga was returning to the love of his woman. He’d even decided to ask her hand in marriage, though he hadn’t been sure of when he would do so. Then she’d literally turned and ran away.

Though he didn’t run, that was exactly what Ford did now. He said nothing more, leaving the doctor staring after his retreating form as he stalked away, fists clenched and back straight as a rail. Once he was out of her sight, a tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away before exiting sickbay.
***





The main docking doors opened amid the civilian docking ring of Starbase 23, disgorging a plethora of differently dressed non-Fleet humans and aliens into the corridors of the enormous space station. Among all these new arrivals, one individual took a moment to halt and look about at his surroundings. The man had been aboard many such complexes in his service life. He’d made his way aboard far too many ships to count and had visited nearly every Federation member world at least once.

This mission was a simple one when compared to things he’d done in his past. It would be relatively cut and dried… something of a courier mission. His cover for this mission was very similar to his true goal: Presenting information in the oldest, most secure method still known to man. In person.

After a brief and attentive pause near the hatches, the man made his way toward the main corridor access that would take him into the station. There were security guards in place here due to the incidents with the Ya’wenn and the Klingon incursions. None of them were checking ID, yet. The traveler had been to several places that did so regularly. Such was not often the case in the Federation. There were no shakedowns, no security checkpoints. No screening.

No… That’s where his organization came in.

The man was a few centimeters taller than that of the average human male. He was, in appearance about fifty, maybe sixty. He was fit, once muscular, and slim. His salt and pepper hair had already turned more to the shade of salt, and the top of his head was totally bald. He had what his coworkers jokingly called the ‘toilet-seat’ hair. He didn’t mind the jibes. He’d earned every fallen hair. Besides, it made him look less assuming.

Once clear of the security noncoms eagle-eyeing the entrances, and secure that he had not aroused their interest, the man bent his path toward the interior turbolift areas of the station interior. He had a man to see about a job…
***





Commander Davenport placed his duffel down on the cabin floor of his temporary abode aboard the USS Tenseiga and turned back to regard her skipper. Commander Benjamin R. Thomas smiled broadly and offered him a handshake from where he stood in the narrow, open doorway.

“Good to have ya’ aboard for a while, Ron.”

“Good to be here.” Ronald replied. Thomas looked more fit than ever he had before. He’d shed some excess poundage and had actually increased the size of his already massive arms. Starship command definitely agreed with the man.

“You’re looking well!” The Endeavour XO complimented.

Thomas glanced down at his dwindling paunch.

“Yeah. Without the Commodore to pad my fitness review, I decided I’d better whip my happy ass back into shape. Been running and hittin’ the weights.”

Ron nodded. The former exec of Endeavour had once been a regular in the ship’s gymnasium years ago. After his promotion to XO, he’d let a lot of that effort go. Now he seemed to be reclaiming it. “How much you benchin’ these days?” He asked.

“Back up to one hundred fifty kilos.” The escort CO boasted. “You wanna join me tonight. See how much you can grunt off?”

Davenport grinned and shook his head, waving off the offer.

“Naw… Not with the mission hanging over us. Wouldn’t do to be soar and trying to sneak around in Kovarn space.”

Thomas shrugged. Men in maroon uniforms moved back and forth down the scaled down corridor behind the commander as he continued to lean on the hatch housing. “Too bad. Sure wish I’d had time to see the Commodore. Hadn’t seen him since he went on leave. How’s he doin’?”

Davenport retreated a bit and lit upon the narrow bunk bed that would be his till Tenseiga dropped the Sanchez off near the Tempest. “He’s good…but a little bit off if you ask me… Strained. Not his good-natured self. He’s trying to hide it, but Jarn did a number on him.”

“Think he’ll be all right?”

“I think so. He’s got a lot of healing to do.”

“And, of course, he’s trying to play like nothin’ ever happened.”

Ronald nodded. Ben shrugged.

“Not much we can do about it, I guess.” Thomas stated. He finally stepped in and allowed the hatch to close behind him. The room was dark with only a single desk light burning. Ron tapped a control to bring the main overhead on, brightening the small compartment. Ben looked around it as though for the first time.

“Sorry we don’t have quarters like the Endeavour. Spa