Comet 1
- Location
- Australia
Belated Merry Christmas & Happy New Years, everyone
-
Light flickers within the quiescent main engineering antechamber. Self-contained emergency strip lighting comes to dim life, not doing much more than let workers know where the walls are. The first person to step out from the corridor grimaces at the gloom and flicks a setting on her pocket-mounted flashlight, snapping it into a much broader beam.
"Better," she mutters, hefting up a large spanner-like tool up onto her shoulder.
Unlike the dozen people who fall in behind her as she picks her way gingerly among the engineering antechamber gear, she wears civilian pattern work-clothes, but with a Starfleet com badge on top. On the other side of the antechamber a large semi-transparent barrier blocks access to the cavernous room beyond. A human man in Starfleet hazardous engineering coveralls springs up and unlocks the manual release. Another engineer, a Rigellian, joins in and together they lift the barrier up into place.
The woman in the civilian gear shakes her head in disgust as the door comes up. "Less than a year in operation and we've already had to have a baryon sweep and a warp core contaminant scrub," she says, glaring at the warp core from the corner of her eyes. "You rotten queen."
"Ms Ydzazzi," hissed another woman in the loitering engineering crew virulently. Like Ydzazzi, she was an Apiata, her long antenna dangling over her bangs and a low and dangerous buzzing sound getting out past her self-control.
Ydzazzi gave her a sharp look for a moment, then turned back towards the silent warp core once more. "You heard me. Our warp core is a mean, rotten, toxic queen of a hunk of metal."
The ensign opened her eyes wider, scandalized, before hurriedly looking away from her commanding officer. Ydzazzi ground her teeth impatiently and watched as the engineering blast shield finished rising up and coupling itself into position. The towering cylinder was, she knew from the scrubbing process summary, in perfect shape. It was just the plasma conduits, coolant distributors, and dilithium crystal armature that had all needed replacement. Comet's warp core was like a blue star, burning out everything around itself in fractions of their normal lifespan without suffering in the slightest itself.
"We're going over every modification to each replacement part," Ydzazzi said as she marched ahead of the rest of her department into the main engineering chamber. The lights and interface modules came back on, but the warp core itself remained inactive. "See if we can squeeze at least six quarters out of them this time. Or at least one really, really long sprint."
She didn't need to add the qualifier "if the Harmony spots us." Everyone already knows the sort of harm their patrol will put them in the way of.
"Move, go to!" she snaps and the waiting crew surges out into the chamber, clambering over ladders to catwalks above and blow, getting in position to inspect every component and check each other's work. Engineering in Starfleet is, after all, very much in the mode of collective responsibility. If a Power Transfer Conduit fails during a sprint it doesn't matter which officer or spacer made the mistake, everyone is free-floating atoms anyway.
"Think we've got it right, this time?" comes a new voice.
Ydzazzi looks back over her shoulder at the sound of Tib's voice. The white-grey skinned, bald-headed Qloathi is perched against the wall near the main engineering room's side entrance. The entrance unlocked less than a minute ago yet Tib looks like they've been waiting there since the ship docked. As always, were Ydzazzi the sort to regale a Queen with tall tales, she'd say the Lieutenant-Commander was part Q.
"The models say that we've compensated for the flux at higher output," Ydzazzi said, her scowl giving way to a fatalistic sigh. "The simulations corroborate. Put a stinger in that, though, how's the deflector coming along?"
Tib Mirendair grimaces and irritably dusts off the grey Operations department facings of their uniform. "Same answer. Starfleet and All-Hive technology have proven theirs such a tempestuous marriage."
Ydzazzi buzzed. "Take it up with the matchmaker."
Tib scoffed. "I feel like we have."
The chief engineer and ops officer stared up at the core, watching the crew continue to scurry over the chamber. Ydzazzi takes a moment to follow a particularly inexperienced Ensign take guidance from her highest ranking petty officer as they inspect the anti-matter injection systems. Good hands there. When she turns back to Tib, she sees them struggling with their words.
"We're starting a war," Tib finally said.
It was Ydzazzi's turn to scoff. "No. You bridge-mites are starting a war. I'm just making sure we can run away after starting it."
-
"Captain Villeneuve, reporting as ordered, with my First Officer," announces a woman in a red Starfleet uniform that had clearly had every button polished in preparation. Some would assume it had something to do with meeting the head of the entire Coreward Theatre, someone with only a single desk between them and The Admiral. But this is just Victoria Villeneuve's nature when docked. After all, professionals have standards, and Victoria is nothing if not a professional.
Behind her, and nearly as smartly buttoned up, is a very tall Andorian thaan. His antennae almost twitch with curiosity as he tries not to stare out the window into orbit too intensely. His smile is bright and energised, with a boyish wonder about it that Victoria hopes the service will never take from him.
"Commander Adan th'Enoth," supplies the Andorian.
"Welcome, Captain, I'll let the Admiral know you're here," replies a young Caitian with petty officer tabs they seem impossibly young for. Of course, just about every petty officer these days seems alarmingly young, not to mention the departmental officers. Victoria's first officer, for that matter, is much younger than she recalls his counterparts were when she entered the fleet. The petty officer looks up after a moment and gestures towards the great window into space beyond. "If you would like to take a seat, someone will be out shortly, sir."
Victoria gives the young petty officer a polite reply and takes one of the offered seats. The window looks out over the planet Nahr, a world of some blues, some greens, and great sickly grey fingers. For a planet that is home to a tree-like people it is less green that most would have guessed. Victoria has been planetside and seen the scars of the environmental collapse the Obar had come so near to. The Obar are very embarrassed about it, of course, but as Victoria told them, in the hallmarks of stupid things done on the way to the stars, not just humans but even Vulcans had them lapped twice over.
"Is that the Monsad keeping formation with those Honiani ships?" asks Adan with great delight as he waits for Victoria to sit first.
"I can't believe that old girl is still out here on the frontier," says Victoria with a sigh. "That -A refit cannot come soon enough."
"What a study in contrasts, though," continues Adan heedless of the practicalities. He extends a graceful limb towards the starships. "That rock-to-the-face blunt style from the Monsad, and then those Honiani flying artworks. This is why I love getting away from the Old Core, new ships, new styles rather than just Starfleet styles again."
"Well you won't find yourself tiring of seeing Starfleet vessels around here," says Victoria, regarding her first officer with an exasperated smile. "All we have in-system are Comet and the venerable old Bon Vivant, both getting patchwork done."
Th'Enoth waggles a hand in not-quite disagreement. "Pathfinder and her gaggle will be back from patrol soon. That will make it all a bit more crowded."
"It will certainly ease some nerves on the planets below," says Villeneuve.
Both officers know there are many more ships and task groups out there in the depths between worlds like Nahr, Canun, and the Harmony of Horizon. Dozens of ships patrolling with an aggression few would credit Stafleet with being capable of. Every week brings news of a skirmish, a pursuit, or some other form of altercation.
The door to the foyer opens and a Vulcan with captain rank badges and a large data padd steps out. "Captain Villeneuve, Commander th'Enoth," he calls out. "If you would follow me to your briefing."
-
A large canvas bag lands upon the table. The lights are on, courtesy of the impulse reactors beginning to warm up, but the twin light industrial replicators that give this room its purpose are dark and still. Despite the lack of its normal function, the room is busy, all there for the tall Risan showman as he ostentatiously unclips the security fasteners.
"What did I tell you? You want the goods? Tchua has the goods," he says with a smile so bright it could strain the deflector dish. "I've been working over some of my friends at SDB and they've sent me something special."
If it bothers him that his half-dozen strong audience includes not one but two heads of departments, it doesn't show. But then, little of public life ever seems to dampen a Risan's spirits. And even then Tchua is a tall, athletic man, darling of the junior officers aboard the Comet.
"Why ... oh, wait, I forgot, Ship Design Bureau handles all other research as well," mutters the ship's doctor, an older Paddah woman with many creases and cares in her face and a swept-back antenna starting to lose their spring. Tchua has heard through the grapevine that like Tchua she was a transfer from another service. In Dr Beneth Mikout's case, a transfer from a Magen Chalal hospital ship, a veteran of their much longer war with the Arcadian Empire. Tchua hasn't had a chance to make friends with the Paddah, but he's still looking forward to the chance.
Tchua nods and gives the quick thumbs-up gesture the humans seem to impress on everyone to pass through the Academy. "Caught the wave, Doctor Mikout. Quite a few Risans in the Hazard Team 2330 project, knew a bunch back when I wore red and yellow."
"Yes, Tchua, I'm sure it was the fact you were in the Warp Lifesavers together and not that thesis you wrote and sent them that has them sending prototypes your way," says the highest ranking person there, Rezzeth Bakari, the Chief Tactical Officer. The lean human man wears the tactical department's red crew neck with a commander's arrowhead. One deep brown arm is propped up on his hip, the other grips the table, which Tchua recognises as a native-born spacer's paranoid anchoring.
"Ahh, maybe, it was a pretty good paper," says Tchua with a laugh, as unacquainted with false modesty as any other Risan, as he fights the packaging briefly. He begins to pull from the canvas bag a variety of gadgets and gizmos and lays out on the table.
Commander Bakari lets out a low whistle before looking up at Tchua. "So they finally have the tricorder-linked sights for Type-III phaser? Wait... Is that a Yan-Ros Ranger shield emitter?"
"It's Amash Hagan's best efforts at making them safe for away team use," replies Tchua as he picks up what is clear to the Starfleet officers present is a shield emitter, just ridiculously small.
"Tchua," begins Doctor Mikout before she pauses, hands raised in a match to the confusion on her face. "The Yan-Ros are so far outside what we know of baselines for other bipedals in terms of rad-resistance, last I heard they were still a decade away from stopping this microwave cooking a wearer from any other species."
"Medical Research Command said the same thing to everyone involved," agrees Tchua. "But that's with duty uniforms and recharging. I suggested something else to help field test these things while getting a big benefit. See, this last set from Amash Hagan got the radiation down inside the protection ratings of a vac-suit." There was a sharp intake of breath from multiple officers around him as Tchua smiles brightly. "And what does the Captain insist everyone wears the moment the Uh-Oh lights flash and is about the only ship in the fleet with a suit and spare for everyone aboard?"
Tchua follows Bakari's gaze as the Commander looks over at the Head of Security, then at the seconded officer from Starfleet Intelligence. Both officers look like marooned sailors staring at a banquet.
"Downsides?" asks Bakari.
The young environmental officer leans back and folds his strong arms over a wedge-shaped chest. "This is definitely only the little sibling to full Ranger gear. It uses the power system on the vac-suit to maintain the shield's charge, so if you do get blown out into space wearing this, you'll need to turn it off or you'll run out way too soon. It only takes like one or two serious disruptor hits, you better be in cover for the third. And you have to recharge the shield at a base camp."
"Still, I've seen what happens when that first disruptor shot hits," says the CMO with what Tchua can hear is no small amount of pain hidden behind the clinical detachment. "I'll help you run tests to make sure the suit can really keep you safe from your own gear, and what the danger to other people would be."
"Sounds great, Doctor," says Tchua.
Mikout sighs, and Tchua just catches her mutter, "The Prudent Council told me there'd be days like this when I transferred."
"Relax, Doc, they never tagged me," says Tchua with a chuckle.
The Doctor just stares at him, lips pressed thin. Tchua can all but hear another snarky lesson in prudence, like he got in sickbay after all the other Away Missions. But of course he was always prudent, just not Ked Paddah prudent!
Tchua turns back to Bakari. "With the climate controls, the First Officer and I can wear it on board under our uniforms and we'll both be as comfortable with the heat as we want."
Commander Bakari and Doctor Mikout exchange a look, and Tchua figures he just needs one more push. "Here, I'll show you what it looks like when you're wearing it," he says as he unfastens his uniform jacket.
"Over the uniform is fine," drawls Doctor Mikout as she rubs a temple. She turns to Bakari, frowning at the tactical officer. "I guess the Captain finally has her way around Personnel's complaints about her vacuum suit standing orders."
-
"Is the Admiral in?" asks Victoria.
"The Vice Admiral will be joining us later," explains the Vulcan staff officer. A Flag Captain, a role prestigious enough on its own, Victoria supposed, but no match for actually having a bridge of your own. Still, Captain Sitik has a good reputation among the Theatre skippers. "In the interim, I shall take you through your upcoming mission."
Victoria's lips thin as she nods and takes her seat at a small conference table. This, she thinks to herself, is going to be unpleasant. It wasn't much but a gut instinct, but she trusted it. It would hardly be a first, after all. Back on the Lightning, she once took her ship right into a temporal breach in the wake of the Enterprise-C and Ambassador. Danger is something to acknowledge and overcome, never to shy from.
A display appears containing details of a surprisingly unfamiliar subsector. More concerningly, a lot of the points of interest illuminated in the map were connected to a lot of question marks and references to low confidence intervals. Victoria suddenly starts to feel a little queasy.
"You will be taking on a patrol route through this subsector, known most commonly as the Onsloe subprecinct, the Harmony name for Phi Delta 6, an inhabited system with approximately three hundred million sapients."
"Captain Sitik, you're saying my patrol assignment is ... what, twenty lightyears on the wrong side of the median line?" asks Victoria in as flat a tone as she can manage.
"That is correct," replies Captain Sitik. The Vulcan pressed a button on his display and a holographic projection of a space probe that Victoria didn't recognise. If she had to make a guess, the lines seemed to be less customary Starfleet and more Gaeni, having some resemblance to a Tech-Cruiser's aesthetic. It had that so outrageously utilitarian it became a charming look. She did recognise the sensor blister on the front from her brief experience with SFI's transport division.
"This is an automated deep space tracking station. Ensure you pass within a half lightyear to collect a short range data transmission." Another button is pressed and the display changes again. "This is the Harmony outpost at Onlsoe.
Victoria's voice as she interjects is glacially cold. "Captain, are we being unofficially seconded out to SFI?"
The Flag Captain shakes his head and taps his button. A series of little red lights flash on the probe hologram. "This is not an Intelligence operation, or in support of one. You are patrolling to confirm information on Harmony military deployments is still current."
Commander th'Enoth pinches at the bridge of his nose, even as Captain Sitik sits there patiently for the interjections to end, squared away in every respect. "Then why is it twenty light years on the wrong side of an interstellar border?" asks the First Officer.
"Because that is where the Harmony units are," replies Sitik. "With the small exception of those vessels that are attempting to get twenty lightyears beyond our own border."
"Of course," says Victoria. She manages to suppress the irritation in her tone. Though she does wonder how Admiral Crogan can deal with such a robotic officer.
"Shouldn't this be going to a different ship? Comet is a high-speed response frigate," says Adan, leaning over the conference table. His face is stormy as he stares down the probe.
"The Comet-class frigate carries a sensor suite nearly the equal of the Kepler-class, but is able to sustain considerably higher speeds in low-emissions modes," explains Sitik before he notices a blinking light on his display. "With the volatile political situation, it is also considered advantageous to have the Comet's significant warp speed to limit the hazards of an unscheduled return to Federation space." He presses the blinking light on the side of his display and reads briefly. A moment later, he looks up at Victoria.
"Captain Villeneuve, if you would follow the Yeoman outside, the Admiral is ready to speak to you privately. I will continue to brief your first officer as to the specifics of the patrol."
-
"Computer, lights."
Three steps into her lab, the Amarkian officer stops and looks up at the unresponsive lighting. "Computer, lights." A few seconds of irritated foot-tapping continue with no response. She unclips a little utility gadget from her belt and turns on a flashlight with a click. The bright cone of light sweeps over the silent, sleeping shapes of advanced laboratory equipment, as well as by a desk with a nameplate; 'Lt-Cdr Saea Ildistoor CSO'. On the terminal there she could see no light to indicate even the general power was on, let alone the high-power she needed for her equipment.
The woman let out a soft growl, then pauses to glance over her shoulder and make sure no one heard it. She taps at her communicator. "Main Lab to Operations."
A moment later a slightly tinny voice comes through the badge, "Ch-Ops here."
"Lieutenant-Commander Tib Mirendair, Chief Science Officer here."
"Hey Ildistoor, what can I do for ... oh no, is it already-"
"Mr Mirendair, you told me that my lab would be operational by...," she began before glancing down at a wrist chronometer. "Fifteen minutes ago. Yet I am here now and I cannot even get lights."
"No sweat, Ildistoor, I'll have you up in a flash."
"It would be appreciated," says Saea, trying to keep the exasperation out of her tone.
Several seconds pass without reply, before Tib's voice pipes up again. "I've started B Loop's six-phase juicing now, so you should have lights in a moment. Another fifteen minutes on the eight-phase loop for the lab equipment."
"F-fift...!? Lieutenant-Commander Mirendair, I-"
"Really sorry about it, Ildistoor, but we're flat out and these checks are taking longer than expected. Best I can do, Ch-Ops out."
There was a final little beep and Saea kicks her desk in irritation. "Oooh, people! I'll chop you, Mr Mirendair," complained Saea to the empty air, even as true to Tib's word the overhead light flickered on. A moment later she reaches down and sheepishly pulls a shoe off to rub at the toes suffering from the earlier ill-advised kick. "Hope no one saw that," she muttered.
"Afraid there may be a witness to deal with, Lieutenant-Commander," comes a melodic voice from the lab entrance.
Saea whirls around to face the entrance, hand instinctively dropping to her waist ready to grab a hilt that hasn't been present since she took ship to Starfleet Academy. When Saea catches up with her own hindbrain she straightens up and huffs. "You know, I have equipment in this lab that would have dealt with a peeping witness easily enough, if only I had my electroplasma."
The new woman walks into the room nonchalantly, medical blue visible around the neck of her ever-immaculate uniform, dark tresses pinned up high in a very regulation haircut. "As always, Ms Ildistoor, there's no point trying to bluff a Betazoid," she says. "And we both know the thought of potentially damaging any of your delicate high-energy equipment by squishing a person through it mortifies you even more than the morals of it."
Saea Ildistoor stands there with arms crossed, glaring at the ship's senior counsellor, and doing her best to vividly imagine suspending the woman off the side of the towering Ildistoor Plaza skyscraper in Lironh City. Petulant, sure, but she couldn't really help herself.
It only draws a laugh out of the ship's counsellor. "You know, that's the sort of thing that used to get me in trouble all the time with my school teachers on Rixx." She walks up and sits down at a chair on the opposite side of Saea's desk. "My primary school teachers."
Saea stifles a groan and takes her seat with as much dignity as she can salvage. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Ms Meskoi?"
"I've told you, please, call me Kea," replies the Betazoid. "After you rejected all my scheduling requests, I had to try something new. I had a feeling I could definitely catch you here the moment the non-Engineers were allowed back on."
"I've been busy, trying to get ahead of the race for The Chip, if you must know," says the science officer, trying her best to stay level and precise, still smarting from Kea's gentle rebuke.
"Ah, the Lost Chalice of the entire Federation scientific community right now," notes Kea. "Who are you working with?"
Saea stares silently at the Counsellor for a while before speaking up again. "It is my privilege to work with Daystrom."
"Ah, very prestigious. I expect there must be quite the competition for Chief Science Officers to collaborate with," notes Kea gently. "Enough to make it worth heading back out into space."
"You-," hisses Saea before she schools her features again.
"Don't take that the wrong way, I think it was extremely very brave of you," says Kea. "After the Kumari-"
"Don't." Saea puts her hands down and anxiously smooths out her uniform pants. "I know it's your job, but don't. I don't want to go into it."
"Okay then," says Kea, leaning back in her seat. "How do you feel the Science department is going?"
"Captain Villeneuve's evaluations are glowing," replies Saea, a little hesitantly.
"Not surprising," notes Kea. "I recently spoke to some old Academy classmates who went into the sciences. I didn't realise what a buzz you caused in those circles when you applied for transfer out of SDB specifically to the Comet. All the Keplers and explorers being put to space lately, you could be running a Science Department far larger than the Comet."
Saea lets out a sigh that sounds like it starts somewhere under her chair. "If you would kindly cease trying to lead me around. We have been colleagues on this ship for a year. If it is not yet clear to you that I hate dealing with people..."
Kea's voice is very dry as she replies, "Yet you won't let me work with you on it. I knew some stiff-necked members of the old Houses back on Betazed, but I never expected old Amarkian families to take the cake. Well, alright then. But you can't hide from me so easily, Ms Ildistoor. I can feel how nervous you've been of late. If you don't want me to work around the issue, why don't you tell me what has you so anxious?"
The science officer grimaces, and stares at the counsellor. "I run my laboratory here on the frontier with the Harmony. I work with Daystrom on what is unquestionably the most targeted scientific campaign since the Biophage vaccine. And I can't help but consider that comparison."
She waits a moment, but Kea says nothing in reply. "Diplomatic outreach appears to have been put back on the shelf, yet we aren't simply raising the shield over the frontier. We're pushing. We're provoking. I'm nervous because, Counsellor, I can't help but feel Starfleet isn't satisfied with null relations, or badlands relations. I feel Starfleet is trying to start a war."
-
"Absolutely we are," rumbles the Vice Admiral as he pours two small shot glasses of Tellarite brandy.
"With all due-," began Victoria, before straightening up in her seat at the small coffee table in the Admiral's office. "Wait, what?"
Admiral Gorac Crogan bulldozes ahead. "Well, not quite in those terms. And more the Council than Starfleet."
Villeneuve settles further back into her chair and accepts the glass Gorac offers. "I know they sent out a War Warning to all commands but I thought that was for a Harmony attack." She takes a small sip of the brandy and shakes her head. "Really? President Okaar's Council?" she asks in no small disbelief.
"Okaar hates pseudo-wars, even more than the full thing," says Gorac as he settles into his own chair opposite Victoria. "She made it her mission to put a capstone on the Gabriel after seeing what it turned into. So this impolite disagreement we have with the Harmony up here, most of the brass who knew her were starting to suspect she was running through a checklist of things to try before war could be considered."
Victoria took in a deep breath and turned that over in her head. "Is she looking for more proof? What she took to the press seemed pretty conclusive."
"Fed Charter has a few different instruments for declaring or recognising a war," explains Gorac as he looks out through the office windows to the planet below. "The Pacifists still aren't over what they consider the trick the President N'Gir and Development used to push the declaration of war so quickly."
"I don't recall hearing anything about that," says Victoria. "And I was pretty in the thick of it."
"On the Torbriel for that one, weren't you?" asks Gorac.
"Surprised you remember that, but yes," replies Victoria. "Not exactly the ideal ride to a war."
"Keplers would be much more comfortable, I'm sure," replies the Admiral. "No, it didn't go public very much, the Council was very much trying not to publicly display wedges, but if you ever wondered why the Vulcans slow-walked everything during that conflict, it was objections to how Development passed the vote on one of the emergency articles."
"So what are they doing instead?"
"Bigger the Fed gets, the harder it is to get everyone on the same page," says Gorac. "Everyone facing the Cardassians are pretty nervous about facing the Ashalla Pact with most of Starfleet off Corewards. They want to try keeping things at this level. President Okaar needs not just the Council but each member on board for the formal declaration that she wants. Things are quiet because no one wants to give Harmony exact timing for when this can be resolved."
Victoria downs the rest of her drink in one gulp and plants the empty glass upon the coffee table with some finality. Realising how that might have looked, she carefully straightens up and squares her shoulders, restoring the proper image of a ship captain.
Gorac cocks an eyebrow and says with a wry smile, "Well, you can't blame them for not jumping at the idea of declaring more wars in a span of time than the Klingons." The heavyset Tellarite slowly stands from his chair and walks over to the windows. He takes a sip from his glass and sighs with clear satisfaction as he stares out the window into space and the planet below.
Victoria joins him silently at the window. After a moment he extends a hand, pointing out towards the horizon. "You can make out the Orbital Moot shipyards if you look carefully," he says. "Starting next year they'll be refitting the Reliquary class, here and at Ucuta." Gorac turns and shares a little smile with his subordinate. "I've been looking forward to it. Lovely shipwrights, the Starkin. It's still artistry for them and I hope it always stays that way. Always loved arguing that the statuary serves a purpose and should remain there."
Victoria narrows her eyes at that. "It occurs to me, Admiral, that they might be wanting to move that schedule up, if they're about to have front-row seats to a war," she says, taking care to keep her tone professional.
"They are," says Gorac, turning back towards space. When he speaks again his voice is so tired and ashen that Victoria almost startles. She pushes down that surprise and considers the flag officer, a surprisingly festive crimson against the verdant planet below. The Tellarite's snout trembles a little, a gesture that experience in Starfleet taught Victoria means he's busy mulling something over, so she waits. After several seconds he glances over his shoulder. "Humour an old officer?"
"Admiral?"
"I'll understand if you don't want to hear some old head with starbursts yammer on," he says, "I know it wasn't anything I'd be excited for when I had a ship of my own."
"If you have thoughts on all this, I'm all ears," replies Victoria.
"I've been told I am the most singularly notorious officer back at Starfleet Operations. Have been ever since they had me take a turn after Ainsworth and ka'Sharren at running the Gabriel, just to give you an idea of the competition. I have a sarcastic streak a lightyear wide when faced with the absurd. Truth be told I don't know how I made it past LT without making someone throw me into warp plasma."
"Admiral?"
"People who report to me tend not to know that, because I hate the idea of being sarcastic with people I have power over," continues on Admiral Crogan after a moment. "Though I fail from time to time. But everyone my rank or above? Yeah, they know about it." There's a little smirk about his face as he says it. "Somehow hasn't cost me my career yet.
"War and battle is without a shadow of a doubt the most ludicrous and absurd venue for us explorers to find ourselves in," he says, not turning away from the planet below. "Yet we keep finding ourselves here. It's a big galaxy, and even with rejecting war as politics by other means, as I seem to recall one human put it, and embrace the concept of infinite diversity in infinite combinations, some of those combinations plain old can't coexist with each other. War may be a pretty amoral operation, but when I can't have self-integrity within even my own spongy brainmeat alongside somebody, then it stands that the amount of interfering in their culture we'd need to do to change that is a pretty amoral Prime Directive breach as well."
He settles into silence for a while after that, so eventually the Captain speaks up. "How much longer?" asks Villeneuve.
Gorac sighs and rests his hands against the sill. "Soon. I spoke with some people I trust on Sol III, and they tell me 'soon'. Either Harmony comes in a bolt from the black, or put the public vote up and declare. You may be lucky enough to be back by time it happens but it may be while you're out on patrol, part of why I wanted to talk with you personally.
"But soon."
Victoria lets out a long, slow breath, then points to the empty glass Gorac was holding. "Can I get another one of those?"
"Tell you what, I've got a spare bottle you can take with you."
-
Just past the last bevy of security checks and pockets and parcels of starbase crew watching from the gallery windows, the tone of the deck underfoot changes. Flooring pops and clangs with each footfall as they advance into the extensible bridge.
"Do you think we'll go down in history as the Starfleet officers who started the biggest war the Quadrant had seen since the Orion Empire fell?" muses Adan th'Enoth, keeping up his fast-clipped speech easily as he walks with his Captain.
"From what the Admiral told me, I think there will be plenty of targets for future historians before us," replies Villeneuve. "Once we get aboard, I want all department chiefs to report to the conference room. The sooner we leave, the more likely we are to get back before everything gets far too exciting."
"Exciting?" echoes th'Enoth.
"I'll explain when we're aboard," says Victoria. She glances at her first officer and then taps at the nondescript box the Admiral gave her. "Don't worry, I'll share some of the bounty as well."
Th'Enoth laughs and stretches a little. "Well, a good toast is always a good omen to start a voyage." He glances out at the starship beyond the gangway's windows. "You know, it's odd. Even though I complained they should have sent a Kepler, looking out at the Comet, I can't honestly think of a ship I'd rather be in to try this."
Victoria glances out as well, seeing the elongated form of the frigate, the rounded teardrop saucer, the waspish point to the tail, the Apiatan touch across the ship and those ferociously sleek nacelles. No better ship for getting into harm's way.
-
Light flickers within the quiescent main engineering antechamber. Self-contained emergency strip lighting comes to dim life, not doing much more than let workers know where the walls are. The first person to step out from the corridor grimaces at the gloom and flicks a setting on her pocket-mounted flashlight, snapping it into a much broader beam.
"Better," she mutters, hefting up a large spanner-like tool up onto her shoulder.
Unlike the dozen people who fall in behind her as she picks her way gingerly among the engineering antechamber gear, she wears civilian pattern work-clothes, but with a Starfleet com badge on top. On the other side of the antechamber a large semi-transparent barrier blocks access to the cavernous room beyond. A human man in Starfleet hazardous engineering coveralls springs up and unlocks the manual release. Another engineer, a Rigellian, joins in and together they lift the barrier up into place.
The woman in the civilian gear shakes her head in disgust as the door comes up. "Less than a year in operation and we've already had to have a baryon sweep and a warp core contaminant scrub," she says, glaring at the warp core from the corner of her eyes. "You rotten queen."
"Ms Ydzazzi," hissed another woman in the loitering engineering crew virulently. Like Ydzazzi, she was an Apiata, her long antenna dangling over her bangs and a low and dangerous buzzing sound getting out past her self-control.
Ydzazzi gave her a sharp look for a moment, then turned back towards the silent warp core once more. "You heard me. Our warp core is a mean, rotten, toxic queen of a hunk of metal."
The ensign opened her eyes wider, scandalized, before hurriedly looking away from her commanding officer. Ydzazzi ground her teeth impatiently and watched as the engineering blast shield finished rising up and coupling itself into position. The towering cylinder was, she knew from the scrubbing process summary, in perfect shape. It was just the plasma conduits, coolant distributors, and dilithium crystal armature that had all needed replacement. Comet's warp core was like a blue star, burning out everything around itself in fractions of their normal lifespan without suffering in the slightest itself.
"We're going over every modification to each replacement part," Ydzazzi said as she marched ahead of the rest of her department into the main engineering chamber. The lights and interface modules came back on, but the warp core itself remained inactive. "See if we can squeeze at least six quarters out of them this time. Or at least one really, really long sprint."
She didn't need to add the qualifier "if the Harmony spots us." Everyone already knows the sort of harm their patrol will put them in the way of.
"Move, go to!" she snaps and the waiting crew surges out into the chamber, clambering over ladders to catwalks above and blow, getting in position to inspect every component and check each other's work. Engineering in Starfleet is, after all, very much in the mode of collective responsibility. If a Power Transfer Conduit fails during a sprint it doesn't matter which officer or spacer made the mistake, everyone is free-floating atoms anyway.
"Think we've got it right, this time?" comes a new voice.
Ydzazzi looks back over her shoulder at the sound of Tib's voice. The white-grey skinned, bald-headed Qloathi is perched against the wall near the main engineering room's side entrance. The entrance unlocked less than a minute ago yet Tib looks like they've been waiting there since the ship docked. As always, were Ydzazzi the sort to regale a Queen with tall tales, she'd say the Lieutenant-Commander was part Q.
"The models say that we've compensated for the flux at higher output," Ydzazzi said, her scowl giving way to a fatalistic sigh. "The simulations corroborate. Put a stinger in that, though, how's the deflector coming along?"
Tib Mirendair grimaces and irritably dusts off the grey Operations department facings of their uniform. "Same answer. Starfleet and All-Hive technology have proven theirs such a tempestuous marriage."
Ydzazzi buzzed. "Take it up with the matchmaker."
Tib scoffed. "I feel like we have."
The chief engineer and ops officer stared up at the core, watching the crew continue to scurry over the chamber. Ydzazzi takes a moment to follow a particularly inexperienced Ensign take guidance from her highest ranking petty officer as they inspect the anti-matter injection systems. Good hands there. When she turns back to Tib, she sees them struggling with their words.
"We're starting a war," Tib finally said.
It was Ydzazzi's turn to scoff. "No. You bridge-mites are starting a war. I'm just making sure we can run away after starting it."
-
"Captain Villeneuve, reporting as ordered, with my First Officer," announces a woman in a red Starfleet uniform that had clearly had every button polished in preparation. Some would assume it had something to do with meeting the head of the entire Coreward Theatre, someone with only a single desk between them and The Admiral. But this is just Victoria Villeneuve's nature when docked. After all, professionals have standards, and Victoria is nothing if not a professional.
Behind her, and nearly as smartly buttoned up, is a very tall Andorian thaan. His antennae almost twitch with curiosity as he tries not to stare out the window into orbit too intensely. His smile is bright and energised, with a boyish wonder about it that Victoria hopes the service will never take from him.
"Commander Adan th'Enoth," supplies the Andorian.
"Welcome, Captain, I'll let the Admiral know you're here," replies a young Caitian with petty officer tabs they seem impossibly young for. Of course, just about every petty officer these days seems alarmingly young, not to mention the departmental officers. Victoria's first officer, for that matter, is much younger than she recalls his counterparts were when she entered the fleet. The petty officer looks up after a moment and gestures towards the great window into space beyond. "If you would like to take a seat, someone will be out shortly, sir."
Victoria gives the young petty officer a polite reply and takes one of the offered seats. The window looks out over the planet Nahr, a world of some blues, some greens, and great sickly grey fingers. For a planet that is home to a tree-like people it is less green that most would have guessed. Victoria has been planetside and seen the scars of the environmental collapse the Obar had come so near to. The Obar are very embarrassed about it, of course, but as Victoria told them, in the hallmarks of stupid things done on the way to the stars, not just humans but even Vulcans had them lapped twice over.
"Is that the Monsad keeping formation with those Honiani ships?" asks Adan with great delight as he waits for Victoria to sit first.
"I can't believe that old girl is still out here on the frontier," says Victoria with a sigh. "That -A refit cannot come soon enough."
"What a study in contrasts, though," continues Adan heedless of the practicalities. He extends a graceful limb towards the starships. "That rock-to-the-face blunt style from the Monsad, and then those Honiani flying artworks. This is why I love getting away from the Old Core, new ships, new styles rather than just Starfleet styles again."
"Well you won't find yourself tiring of seeing Starfleet vessels around here," says Victoria, regarding her first officer with an exasperated smile. "All we have in-system are Comet and the venerable old Bon Vivant, both getting patchwork done."
Th'Enoth waggles a hand in not-quite disagreement. "Pathfinder and her gaggle will be back from patrol soon. That will make it all a bit more crowded."
"It will certainly ease some nerves on the planets below," says Villeneuve.
Both officers know there are many more ships and task groups out there in the depths between worlds like Nahr, Canun, and the Harmony of Horizon. Dozens of ships patrolling with an aggression few would credit Stafleet with being capable of. Every week brings news of a skirmish, a pursuit, or some other form of altercation.
The door to the foyer opens and a Vulcan with captain rank badges and a large data padd steps out. "Captain Villeneuve, Commander th'Enoth," he calls out. "If you would follow me to your briefing."
-
A large canvas bag lands upon the table. The lights are on, courtesy of the impulse reactors beginning to warm up, but the twin light industrial replicators that give this room its purpose are dark and still. Despite the lack of its normal function, the room is busy, all there for the tall Risan showman as he ostentatiously unclips the security fasteners.
"What did I tell you? You want the goods? Tchua has the goods," he says with a smile so bright it could strain the deflector dish. "I've been working over some of my friends at SDB and they've sent me something special."
If it bothers him that his half-dozen strong audience includes not one but two heads of departments, it doesn't show. But then, little of public life ever seems to dampen a Risan's spirits. And even then Tchua is a tall, athletic man, darling of the junior officers aboard the Comet.
"Why ... oh, wait, I forgot, Ship Design Bureau handles all other research as well," mutters the ship's doctor, an older Paddah woman with many creases and cares in her face and a swept-back antenna starting to lose their spring. Tchua has heard through the grapevine that like Tchua she was a transfer from another service. In Dr Beneth Mikout's case, a transfer from a Magen Chalal hospital ship, a veteran of their much longer war with the Arcadian Empire. Tchua hasn't had a chance to make friends with the Paddah, but he's still looking forward to the chance.
Tchua nods and gives the quick thumbs-up gesture the humans seem to impress on everyone to pass through the Academy. "Caught the wave, Doctor Mikout. Quite a few Risans in the Hazard Team 2330 project, knew a bunch back when I wore red and yellow."
"Yes, Tchua, I'm sure it was the fact you were in the Warp Lifesavers together and not that thesis you wrote and sent them that has them sending prototypes your way," says the highest ranking person there, Rezzeth Bakari, the Chief Tactical Officer. The lean human man wears the tactical department's red crew neck with a commander's arrowhead. One deep brown arm is propped up on his hip, the other grips the table, which Tchua recognises as a native-born spacer's paranoid anchoring.
"Ahh, maybe, it was a pretty good paper," says Tchua with a laugh, as unacquainted with false modesty as any other Risan, as he fights the packaging briefly. He begins to pull from the canvas bag a variety of gadgets and gizmos and lays out on the table.
Commander Bakari lets out a low whistle before looking up at Tchua. "So they finally have the tricorder-linked sights for Type-III phaser? Wait... Is that a Yan-Ros Ranger shield emitter?"
"It's Amash Hagan's best efforts at making them safe for away team use," replies Tchua as he picks up what is clear to the Starfleet officers present is a shield emitter, just ridiculously small.
"Tchua," begins Doctor Mikout before she pauses, hands raised in a match to the confusion on her face. "The Yan-Ros are so far outside what we know of baselines for other bipedals in terms of rad-resistance, last I heard they were still a decade away from stopping this microwave cooking a wearer from any other species."
"Medical Research Command said the same thing to everyone involved," agrees Tchua. "But that's with duty uniforms and recharging. I suggested something else to help field test these things while getting a big benefit. See, this last set from Amash Hagan got the radiation down inside the protection ratings of a vac-suit." There was a sharp intake of breath from multiple officers around him as Tchua smiles brightly. "And what does the Captain insist everyone wears the moment the Uh-Oh lights flash and is about the only ship in the fleet with a suit and spare for everyone aboard?"
Tchua follows Bakari's gaze as the Commander looks over at the Head of Security, then at the seconded officer from Starfleet Intelligence. Both officers look like marooned sailors staring at a banquet.
"Downsides?" asks Bakari.
The young environmental officer leans back and folds his strong arms over a wedge-shaped chest. "This is definitely only the little sibling to full Ranger gear. It uses the power system on the vac-suit to maintain the shield's charge, so if you do get blown out into space wearing this, you'll need to turn it off or you'll run out way too soon. It only takes like one or two serious disruptor hits, you better be in cover for the third. And you have to recharge the shield at a base camp."
"Still, I've seen what happens when that first disruptor shot hits," says the CMO with what Tchua can hear is no small amount of pain hidden behind the clinical detachment. "I'll help you run tests to make sure the suit can really keep you safe from your own gear, and what the danger to other people would be."
"Sounds great, Doctor," says Tchua.
Mikout sighs, and Tchua just catches her mutter, "The Prudent Council told me there'd be days like this when I transferred."
"Relax, Doc, they never tagged me," says Tchua with a chuckle.
The Doctor just stares at him, lips pressed thin. Tchua can all but hear another snarky lesson in prudence, like he got in sickbay after all the other Away Missions. But of course he was always prudent, just not Ked Paddah prudent!
Tchua turns back to Bakari. "With the climate controls, the First Officer and I can wear it on board under our uniforms and we'll both be as comfortable with the heat as we want."
Commander Bakari and Doctor Mikout exchange a look, and Tchua figures he just needs one more push. "Here, I'll show you what it looks like when you're wearing it," he says as he unfastens his uniform jacket.
"Over the uniform is fine," drawls Doctor Mikout as she rubs a temple. She turns to Bakari, frowning at the tactical officer. "I guess the Captain finally has her way around Personnel's complaints about her vacuum suit standing orders."
-
"Is the Admiral in?" asks Victoria.
"The Vice Admiral will be joining us later," explains the Vulcan staff officer. A Flag Captain, a role prestigious enough on its own, Victoria supposed, but no match for actually having a bridge of your own. Still, Captain Sitik has a good reputation among the Theatre skippers. "In the interim, I shall take you through your upcoming mission."
Victoria's lips thin as she nods and takes her seat at a small conference table. This, she thinks to herself, is going to be unpleasant. It wasn't much but a gut instinct, but she trusted it. It would hardly be a first, after all. Back on the Lightning, she once took her ship right into a temporal breach in the wake of the Enterprise-C and Ambassador. Danger is something to acknowledge and overcome, never to shy from.
A display appears containing details of a surprisingly unfamiliar subsector. More concerningly, a lot of the points of interest illuminated in the map were connected to a lot of question marks and references to low confidence intervals. Victoria suddenly starts to feel a little queasy.
"You will be taking on a patrol route through this subsector, known most commonly as the Onsloe subprecinct, the Harmony name for Phi Delta 6, an inhabited system with approximately three hundred million sapients."
"Captain Sitik, you're saying my patrol assignment is ... what, twenty lightyears on the wrong side of the median line?" asks Victoria in as flat a tone as she can manage.
"That is correct," replies Captain Sitik. The Vulcan pressed a button on his display and a holographic projection of a space probe that Victoria didn't recognise. If she had to make a guess, the lines seemed to be less customary Starfleet and more Gaeni, having some resemblance to a Tech-Cruiser's aesthetic. It had that so outrageously utilitarian it became a charming look. She did recognise the sensor blister on the front from her brief experience with SFI's transport division.
"This is an automated deep space tracking station. Ensure you pass within a half lightyear to collect a short range data transmission." Another button is pressed and the display changes again. "This is the Harmony outpost at Onlsoe.
Victoria's voice as she interjects is glacially cold. "Captain, are we being unofficially seconded out to SFI?"
The Flag Captain shakes his head and taps his button. A series of little red lights flash on the probe hologram. "This is not an Intelligence operation, or in support of one. You are patrolling to confirm information on Harmony military deployments is still current."
Commander th'Enoth pinches at the bridge of his nose, even as Captain Sitik sits there patiently for the interjections to end, squared away in every respect. "Then why is it twenty light years on the wrong side of an interstellar border?" asks the First Officer.
"Because that is where the Harmony units are," replies Sitik. "With the small exception of those vessels that are attempting to get twenty lightyears beyond our own border."
"Of course," says Victoria. She manages to suppress the irritation in her tone. Though she does wonder how Admiral Crogan can deal with such a robotic officer.
"Shouldn't this be going to a different ship? Comet is a high-speed response frigate," says Adan, leaning over the conference table. His face is stormy as he stares down the probe.
"The Comet-class frigate carries a sensor suite nearly the equal of the Kepler-class, but is able to sustain considerably higher speeds in low-emissions modes," explains Sitik before he notices a blinking light on his display. "With the volatile political situation, it is also considered advantageous to have the Comet's significant warp speed to limit the hazards of an unscheduled return to Federation space." He presses the blinking light on the side of his display and reads briefly. A moment later, he looks up at Victoria.
"Captain Villeneuve, if you would follow the Yeoman outside, the Admiral is ready to speak to you privately. I will continue to brief your first officer as to the specifics of the patrol."
-
"Computer, lights."
Three steps into her lab, the Amarkian officer stops and looks up at the unresponsive lighting. "Computer, lights." A few seconds of irritated foot-tapping continue with no response. She unclips a little utility gadget from her belt and turns on a flashlight with a click. The bright cone of light sweeps over the silent, sleeping shapes of advanced laboratory equipment, as well as by a desk with a nameplate; 'Lt-Cdr Saea Ildistoor CSO'. On the terminal there she could see no light to indicate even the general power was on, let alone the high-power she needed for her equipment.
The woman let out a soft growl, then pauses to glance over her shoulder and make sure no one heard it. She taps at her communicator. "Main Lab to Operations."
A moment later a slightly tinny voice comes through the badge, "Ch-Ops here."
"Lieutenant-Commander Tib Mirendair, Chief Science Officer here."
"Hey Ildistoor, what can I do for ... oh no, is it already-"
"Mr Mirendair, you told me that my lab would be operational by...," she began before glancing down at a wrist chronometer. "Fifteen minutes ago. Yet I am here now and I cannot even get lights."
"No sweat, Ildistoor, I'll have you up in a flash."
"It would be appreciated," says Saea, trying to keep the exasperation out of her tone.
Several seconds pass without reply, before Tib's voice pipes up again. "I've started B Loop's six-phase juicing now, so you should have lights in a moment. Another fifteen minutes on the eight-phase loop for the lab equipment."
"F-fift...!? Lieutenant-Commander Mirendair, I-"
"Really sorry about it, Ildistoor, but we're flat out and these checks are taking longer than expected. Best I can do, Ch-Ops out."
There was a final little beep and Saea kicks her desk in irritation. "Oooh, people! I'll chop you, Mr Mirendair," complained Saea to the empty air, even as true to Tib's word the overhead light flickered on. A moment later she reaches down and sheepishly pulls a shoe off to rub at the toes suffering from the earlier ill-advised kick. "Hope no one saw that," she muttered.
"Afraid there may be a witness to deal with, Lieutenant-Commander," comes a melodic voice from the lab entrance.
Saea whirls around to face the entrance, hand instinctively dropping to her waist ready to grab a hilt that hasn't been present since she took ship to Starfleet Academy. When Saea catches up with her own hindbrain she straightens up and huffs. "You know, I have equipment in this lab that would have dealt with a peeping witness easily enough, if only I had my electroplasma."
The new woman walks into the room nonchalantly, medical blue visible around the neck of her ever-immaculate uniform, dark tresses pinned up high in a very regulation haircut. "As always, Ms Ildistoor, there's no point trying to bluff a Betazoid," she says. "And we both know the thought of potentially damaging any of your delicate high-energy equipment by squishing a person through it mortifies you even more than the morals of it."
Saea Ildistoor stands there with arms crossed, glaring at the ship's senior counsellor, and doing her best to vividly imagine suspending the woman off the side of the towering Ildistoor Plaza skyscraper in Lironh City. Petulant, sure, but she couldn't really help herself.
It only draws a laugh out of the ship's counsellor. "You know, that's the sort of thing that used to get me in trouble all the time with my school teachers on Rixx." She walks up and sits down at a chair on the opposite side of Saea's desk. "My primary school teachers."
Saea stifles a groan and takes her seat with as much dignity as she can salvage. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Ms Meskoi?"
"I've told you, please, call me Kea," replies the Betazoid. "After you rejected all my scheduling requests, I had to try something new. I had a feeling I could definitely catch you here the moment the non-Engineers were allowed back on."
"I've been busy, trying to get ahead of the race for The Chip, if you must know," says the science officer, trying her best to stay level and precise, still smarting from Kea's gentle rebuke.
"Ah, the Lost Chalice of the entire Federation scientific community right now," notes Kea. "Who are you working with?"
Saea stares silently at the Counsellor for a while before speaking up again. "It is my privilege to work with Daystrom."
"Ah, very prestigious. I expect there must be quite the competition for Chief Science Officers to collaborate with," notes Kea gently. "Enough to make it worth heading back out into space."
"You-," hisses Saea before she schools her features again.
"Don't take that the wrong way, I think it was extremely very brave of you," says Kea. "After the Kumari-"
"Don't." Saea puts her hands down and anxiously smooths out her uniform pants. "I know it's your job, but don't. I don't want to go into it."
"Okay then," says Kea, leaning back in her seat. "How do you feel the Science department is going?"
"Captain Villeneuve's evaluations are glowing," replies Saea, a little hesitantly.
"Not surprising," notes Kea. "I recently spoke to some old Academy classmates who went into the sciences. I didn't realise what a buzz you caused in those circles when you applied for transfer out of SDB specifically to the Comet. All the Keplers and explorers being put to space lately, you could be running a Science Department far larger than the Comet."
Saea lets out a sigh that sounds like it starts somewhere under her chair. "If you would kindly cease trying to lead me around. We have been colleagues on this ship for a year. If it is not yet clear to you that I hate dealing with people..."
Kea's voice is very dry as she replies, "Yet you won't let me work with you on it. I knew some stiff-necked members of the old Houses back on Betazed, but I never expected old Amarkian families to take the cake. Well, alright then. But you can't hide from me so easily, Ms Ildistoor. I can feel how nervous you've been of late. If you don't want me to work around the issue, why don't you tell me what has you so anxious?"
The science officer grimaces, and stares at the counsellor. "I run my laboratory here on the frontier with the Harmony. I work with Daystrom on what is unquestionably the most targeted scientific campaign since the Biophage vaccine. And I can't help but consider that comparison."
She waits a moment, but Kea says nothing in reply. "Diplomatic outreach appears to have been put back on the shelf, yet we aren't simply raising the shield over the frontier. We're pushing. We're provoking. I'm nervous because, Counsellor, I can't help but feel Starfleet isn't satisfied with null relations, or badlands relations. I feel Starfleet is trying to start a war."
-
"Absolutely we are," rumbles the Vice Admiral as he pours two small shot glasses of Tellarite brandy.
"With all due-," began Victoria, before straightening up in her seat at the small coffee table in the Admiral's office. "Wait, what?"
Admiral Gorac Crogan bulldozes ahead. "Well, not quite in those terms. And more the Council than Starfleet."
Villeneuve settles further back into her chair and accepts the glass Gorac offers. "I know they sent out a War Warning to all commands but I thought that was for a Harmony attack." She takes a small sip of the brandy and shakes her head. "Really? President Okaar's Council?" she asks in no small disbelief.
"Okaar hates pseudo-wars, even more than the full thing," says Gorac as he settles into his own chair opposite Victoria. "She made it her mission to put a capstone on the Gabriel after seeing what it turned into. So this impolite disagreement we have with the Harmony up here, most of the brass who knew her were starting to suspect she was running through a checklist of things to try before war could be considered."
Victoria took in a deep breath and turned that over in her head. "Is she looking for more proof? What she took to the press seemed pretty conclusive."
"Fed Charter has a few different instruments for declaring or recognising a war," explains Gorac as he looks out through the office windows to the planet below. "The Pacifists still aren't over what they consider the trick the President N'Gir and Development used to push the declaration of war so quickly."
"I don't recall hearing anything about that," says Victoria. "And I was pretty in the thick of it."
"On the Torbriel for that one, weren't you?" asks Gorac.
"Surprised you remember that, but yes," replies Victoria. "Not exactly the ideal ride to a war."
"Keplers would be much more comfortable, I'm sure," replies the Admiral. "No, it didn't go public very much, the Council was very much trying not to publicly display wedges, but if you ever wondered why the Vulcans slow-walked everything during that conflict, it was objections to how Development passed the vote on one of the emergency articles."
"So what are they doing instead?"
"Bigger the Fed gets, the harder it is to get everyone on the same page," says Gorac. "Everyone facing the Cardassians are pretty nervous about facing the Ashalla Pact with most of Starfleet off Corewards. They want to try keeping things at this level. President Okaar needs not just the Council but each member on board for the formal declaration that she wants. Things are quiet because no one wants to give Harmony exact timing for when this can be resolved."
Victoria downs the rest of her drink in one gulp and plants the empty glass upon the coffee table with some finality. Realising how that might have looked, she carefully straightens up and squares her shoulders, restoring the proper image of a ship captain.
Gorac cocks an eyebrow and says with a wry smile, "Well, you can't blame them for not jumping at the idea of declaring more wars in a span of time than the Klingons." The heavyset Tellarite slowly stands from his chair and walks over to the windows. He takes a sip from his glass and sighs with clear satisfaction as he stares out the window into space and the planet below.
Victoria joins him silently at the window. After a moment he extends a hand, pointing out towards the horizon. "You can make out the Orbital Moot shipyards if you look carefully," he says. "Starting next year they'll be refitting the Reliquary class, here and at Ucuta." Gorac turns and shares a little smile with his subordinate. "I've been looking forward to it. Lovely shipwrights, the Starkin. It's still artistry for them and I hope it always stays that way. Always loved arguing that the statuary serves a purpose and should remain there."
Victoria narrows her eyes at that. "It occurs to me, Admiral, that they might be wanting to move that schedule up, if they're about to have front-row seats to a war," she says, taking care to keep her tone professional.
"They are," says Gorac, turning back towards space. When he speaks again his voice is so tired and ashen that Victoria almost startles. She pushes down that surprise and considers the flag officer, a surprisingly festive crimson against the verdant planet below. The Tellarite's snout trembles a little, a gesture that experience in Starfleet taught Victoria means he's busy mulling something over, so she waits. After several seconds he glances over his shoulder. "Humour an old officer?"
"Admiral?"
"I'll understand if you don't want to hear some old head with starbursts yammer on," he says, "I know it wasn't anything I'd be excited for when I had a ship of my own."
"If you have thoughts on all this, I'm all ears," replies Victoria.
"I've been told I am the most singularly notorious officer back at Starfleet Operations. Have been ever since they had me take a turn after Ainsworth and ka'Sharren at running the Gabriel, just to give you an idea of the competition. I have a sarcastic streak a lightyear wide when faced with the absurd. Truth be told I don't know how I made it past LT without making someone throw me into warp plasma."
"Admiral?"
"People who report to me tend not to know that, because I hate the idea of being sarcastic with people I have power over," continues on Admiral Crogan after a moment. "Though I fail from time to time. But everyone my rank or above? Yeah, they know about it." There's a little smirk about his face as he says it. "Somehow hasn't cost me my career yet.
"War and battle is without a shadow of a doubt the most ludicrous and absurd venue for us explorers to find ourselves in," he says, not turning away from the planet below. "Yet we keep finding ourselves here. It's a big galaxy, and even with rejecting war as politics by other means, as I seem to recall one human put it, and embrace the concept of infinite diversity in infinite combinations, some of those combinations plain old can't coexist with each other. War may be a pretty amoral operation, but when I can't have self-integrity within even my own spongy brainmeat alongside somebody, then it stands that the amount of interfering in their culture we'd need to do to change that is a pretty amoral Prime Directive breach as well."
He settles into silence for a while after that, so eventually the Captain speaks up. "How much longer?" asks Villeneuve.
Gorac sighs and rests his hands against the sill. "Soon. I spoke with some people I trust on Sol III, and they tell me 'soon'. Either Harmony comes in a bolt from the black, or put the public vote up and declare. You may be lucky enough to be back by time it happens but it may be while you're out on patrol, part of why I wanted to talk with you personally.
"But soon."
Victoria lets out a long, slow breath, then points to the empty glass Gorac was holding. "Can I get another one of those?"
"Tell you what, I've got a spare bottle you can take with you."
-
Just past the last bevy of security checks and pockets and parcels of starbase crew watching from the gallery windows, the tone of the deck underfoot changes. Flooring pops and clangs with each footfall as they advance into the extensible bridge.
"Do you think we'll go down in history as the Starfleet officers who started the biggest war the Quadrant had seen since the Orion Empire fell?" muses Adan th'Enoth, keeping up his fast-clipped speech easily as he walks with his Captain.
"From what the Admiral told me, I think there will be plenty of targets for future historians before us," replies Villeneuve. "Once we get aboard, I want all department chiefs to report to the conference room. The sooner we leave, the more likely we are to get back before everything gets far too exciting."
"Exciting?" echoes th'Enoth.
"I'll explain when we're aboard," says Victoria. She glances at her first officer and then taps at the nondescript box the Admiral gave her. "Don't worry, I'll share some of the bounty as well."
Th'Enoth laughs and stretches a little. "Well, a good toast is always a good omen to start a voyage." He glances out at the starship beyond the gangway's windows. "You know, it's odd. Even though I complained they should have sent a Kepler, looking out at the Comet, I can't honestly think of a ship I'd rather be in to try this."
Victoria glances out as well, seeing the elongated form of the frigate, the rounded teardrop saucer, the waspish point to the tail, the Apiatan touch across the ship and those ferociously sleek nacelles. No better ship for getting into harm's way.
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