A low hum of conversation filled the Lounge, the name given to the mess hall of Starbase 23. Groups of officers and enlisted Starfleet personnel gathered and discussed their day, laughter and smiles erupting from the occasional table. Engineers talked shop, Medical personal reviewed patient files, Command officers discussed whatever business was at had.

The doors to the lounge slid open with a familiar hiss and as if on queue the various conversations around the Lounge stopped. Dozens of eyes turned to watch the man who had just entered. He stood just under six feet tall, his brown hair, slightly longer than Regulations would allow. In any normal circumstance this man wouldn't have drawn a glance from most people, but it was hard to notice the black on black uniform of Starfleet Intelligence standing out in stark contrast to the multiple colors of the standard duty outfits. The training of Starfleet quickly eliminated the few looks of disdain for the Lieutenant Commander. Many personnel in Starfleet felt the members of Starfleet Intelligence were nothing more than untrustworthy, dishonorable thugs.

The man quickly scanned the room, his eyes missing nothing, and simply headed to the service counter. The conversations around the room began again but with a subtle lowering of tone. Whispers concerning this new person seeming to predominate. The man soon had a tray of food, and headed towards an unoccupied table. Eyes tried to subtly follow the stranger, which brought a hint of a smile to his lips. The stranger pulled a PADD from his wait and set it and the food tray down. A few quick pushes on the PADD control interface and words began to steadily stream across the viewer.

Lieutenant Commander Douglas Forrest slowly read the information on the screen, his face blank, something he'd had years to practice.  He slowly enjoyed the food on his plate, a wonderful Kaferian fruit salad, prime rib steak, and baked potato. A definite change from the rokeg blood pie and heart of targ so available while he was involved in the operation with the Klingon High Council. Granted the Klingons knew how to live life, but their cuisine took a strong stomach and sense of adventure, to fully understand.

Forrest was happily surprised to see his next assignment placed him back aboard the USS Republic, his last stay somewhat shortened by the increase in the Kreltan Affair. But `Fleet Intel Operation Division had ordered him back after he had reported the mysterious technology provided by Daniels. Intel's R&D Department, jokingly called the "Toybox", had gone all giddy when they first began looking at the specs provided by Forrest, but Intel Command quickly stamped a CWD-Omega clearance on it.

Forrest knew there would be some difficulty from certain officers on the Republic, many of them still sat on a moral high-ground that left them unable to accept that `Fleet Intel was an important part of the Federation. Intel officers either learned to ignore the disdain or became cold, callous operatives. Either method was within operational parameters. Forrest was pleased to see that his assignment to the Republic didn't involve any Top Secret details, he was simply assigned to the Republic because he possessed training that would be valuable. It would also be nice to see Shadow again.  The brief message requesting help at Beta Taurii and a quick hello afterwards, was all he had a chance to say "hi" last time they met.

Shadow had always been top notch and Forrest still felt a debt to him ever since a mission on Celtris III went south. `Fleet needed some files in a Cardassian officers computer system. A team had made it's way there and had no problem extracting the files, but something went wrong (like they tend to) and Forrest had taken a nearly fatal disrupter blast. Shadow had been there. For that Forrest would always be grateful.

Forrest quietly finished his meal and slowly sipped the tall glass of orange juice, amazed how the replicator always had the perfect amount of pulp. The Republic would be here to pick him up in less than thirteen hours. Enough time to catch a work out in a holosuite and still get a nice nap. Once more into the breach, dear friends.

 

<Location: U.S.S. Republic, holodeck three>

The off-white, circular chamber walls of the U.S.S. Enterprise bridge made the room a small, cramped place to work.  The black-colored workstations along the walls used old-fashioned manual switches, making their operation a lot less efficient than current control stations.  However, that did not deter the hologram replicas of old-style, maroon-uniformed Starfleet crewman from carrying out their duties.  A handrail encircled the centralized command pit, and a single command chair stood on a raised platform where Doctor Leon Cromwell surveyed the operations around him.

Leon was once again running the simulation of Starfleet’s ancient ‘Kobayashi Maru’ scenario; an ancient military-style training exercise 80 years out of date.  The program was a gift from Commander Carter to help him in his starship-strategy portion of the bridge-officers exam.  Although the doctor had little time to play the scenario given his current holodeck class-schedule from Starfleet, he felt it proper to try it a second time since his disastrous attempt two weeks ago.  At this particular moment, he was at the portion where the ship had just received the distress signal from a passenger ship in the Klingon Neutral Zone.

‘We know the Klingons are out there,’ he thought.  ‘What’s our chances?’

“Mister Spock,” he asked, swiveling around in his chair to face the young, black-haired Vulcan science officer.  “What chance do we have against a Klingon patrol group should we encounter one?”

“Captain,” replied Spock.  “Klingons patrol this sector with individual fleets of no less than three D-7 cruisers.  Chances of us surviving an such attack intact are approximately five-point-two percent, even with shields up.”

“Is there any way to fool their long-range sensors into overlooking us on their scanners?”

“None, sir.”

“So we either chance war and destruction by rescuing the ship, or hold station here and do nothing.”

“Precisely, captain.”

Leon shook his head with pursed lips.  ‘Definitely sounds like winning this scenario is difficult.  I guess one has to be pretty good to beat it.’

“Very well, then,” Leon announced.  “Bring the ship to red alert, raise the shields, and load torpedo bays.  If there is a patrol out there, we’ll try to reason with them, but whatever we do, we’ve got to rescue that ship. Helm, set an intercept course.”

As the alarm beacon sounded throughout the room, the lights bathed everything in a deep red color.  “Aye sir,” replied the Asian helmsman.  “Plotting new course to Kobayashi Maru.  Estimate two minutes to intercept.”

Just then, the communication system of the Republic came to life.

=/\= “Bridge to Doctor Cromwell.  You have a subspace communiqué coming in from Cestus Three.  It’s marked personal.” =/\=

“Computer, freeze program,” Leon announced, and the simulation immediately paused.  Standing up from the command chair, the doctor tapped his combadge.  “I’ll take it down here, bridge.”

=/\= “Aye sir.” =/\=

“Computer, arch.”

The familiar holodeck archway whispered into existence at the far end of the bridge simulator, directly between the two aft turbolifts.  The doctor walked over to it and pressed a button, activating a two-way video monitor.  A middle-aged woman with blond hair appeared on the screen that immediately brought a smile to his face.

“Ann!” Leon said with joviality.  “It’s great to hear from you!”

“Good to see you too, bro,” the woman responded.  “I got your message about being called back to Starfleet.”

“Yeah, well it wasn’t under the greatest circumstances, but I’ve decided to take the bridge officer’s exam.”

“No kidding?  I thought you made a solemn oath never to wear that uniform again.”

“Well, it’s been a while since I made that vow, and things are a little different here on the Republic.  I actually feel like I’m making a difference.”

“That’s great.  Mom will be thrilled.”

“What about dad?” Leon asked with a hint of poison in his voice

The woman’s smile decreased somewhat at the mentioning of Leon’s father.  “Oh, you know HIM.  He’ll find any reason to be unreasonable.  I wouldn’t worry about it.  He’s just going through a phase.”

“For twenty years?” Leon said sourly.

“Leon, I didn’t call about dad,” she said changing the subject.  “I called to ask if you know of anything regarding the Gorn border.”

The doctor suddenly lost his smile.  “The Gorn border?  No, I haven’t heard anything.  Why?”

“Well, there’s been a lot of Starfleet activity around here lately.  Starships in orbit, more boys in uniform, that sort of stuff.”

“What’s so odd about that?  Maybe it’s a new science project or something.  Just because Starfleet shows up with a few ships doesn’t mean anything.”

“They’re not science vessels, Leon.  You don’t call a fleet of Sovereign and Nebula class ships for a gas anomaly.”

Pinpoints of static began to dance across on the screen, with a few wisps of an interfering signal.  The quality of Ann’s message began to worsen steadily.

“I can look into it if you wish, Ann.”

“Leon . . . .  can’t hear you.  You’re pict . . . . .ing up.”

“Ann, can you hear me?” Leon asked in annoyance at the signal loss.  However, the noise became more pronounced over the next few seconds, with Ann’s picture flickering erratically.

“Leon . . . . “  the picture suddenly flipped off with the Federation logo appearing in the center of the screen.  A text message below read ‘SIGNAL LOST.’

The doctor quickly pressed the intercom button.  “Bridge, what’s wrong with the transmission?  Why did we lose the signal?”

=/\= “It appears that the signal was jammed at the source.  I don’t know why, sir.” =/\=

“Can you re-establish the transmission?”

=/\= “Negative, sir.  Starfleet Communication stations report that all subspace signals from Cestus Three have halted . . . . Stand by, sir.” =/\=

Leon waited for over a minute that seemed like eternity.  Unfortunately, the response from the bridge was not directed exclusive to the doctor, and left him wrought with anxiety.

=/\= “Yellow alert.  All decks, yellow alert.  Captain and senior officers to the bridge.  Repeat:  yellow alert.  We are at yellow alert.  Senior officers to the bridge.”  =/\=

 

<First Officer's Quarters, U.S.S. Republic. 1830 HRS>

John Carter seemed to recall that Admiral Chester "Chesty" Puller once said `a 25 year career in the navy amounts to 24 years, 11 months, and 28 days of boredom punctuated by 2 and a half days of sheer terror.' If that was true, John reflected as he looked at the personnel reports, then he must have spent his two and a half days and a half days all at once.

The light in his cabin was low `Doctor's orders' he mused, but after the trip John had had through time, to say nothing of the different sides of Death he'd been on, he figured that Leon was right to order him to take it easy. Soft piano jazz filtered through the speakers, and Carter looked over the file of Lieutenant Jason McClintock who was slated to fill the long-vacant Chief Tactical position on Republic. "Well THANK YOU!" John said to whichever deity might have been listening at the time. "Now we're getting some place."

The door signal chirped and John rolled his eyes. He stood up, made the requisite Carter family `Old Man Noise and rolled his neck from side to side, praying for a soft "click" that he never heard. Despite the fact that he was off duty, John was still wearing the black pants and command red tunic of his duty uniform, minus. The collar of the tunic was unfastened, and the sleeves were pushed midway up Carter's forearms in a fashion that most fighter pilots called "ready Five". Yet another piece of Terran military tradition that somehow managed to stick for hundreds of years.

John walked calmly to open his cabin door. A quiet "swish" revealed Doctor Shannon Harris, with a beaming smile, a package under one arm, and her scarlet hair draped down her back in a decidedly non-military fashion.

There was an audible gulp as John took it all in. "W...wow," he whispered.

Shannon smiled warmly and stepped into John's cabin. "That may be the first time I've ever caught you speechless John." Shannon walked past Carter (who now knew first hand that it was just as pleasant to watch Shannon Harris leave a room as it was to watch her arrive), and set her package on John's desk. After a short while, Carter regained his composure and cleared his throat. *Ahem* "Is there something I can do for you Counselor?"

Harris turned with an easy grace that John hadn't realized she possessed. "Well, for starters, `Commander'," she said for emphasis, "We're off duty, so you can call me Shannon." Harris turned again and took a seat on the other side of John's work space. "Second," she beamed, looking at the box she'd brought in, "you can say thank you."

"Um...Shannon, it's a nice dress, but..."

Harris giggled in flattery. "Not for that," she said coyly, "but I'm glad you like it." She pushed the box in John's direction. "For this", she said, as John picked the box up. "It's my way of saying thanks for sticking around."

"What do you mean?"

Harris propped her head sideways on her arm, and gave Carter a sour look. "John," she said flatly, "Do you realize that you and Leon are the only members of the command staff who haven't left since this crew went out of port? We've go through two Captains, two Engineers, a Science Officer, a First Officer, and I don't know HOW many people you've tried to put in Tactical."

The last remark punched trough John's amour, and the Martian First Officer cracked a smile. "Don't get me started."

"So, while you were on Betazed," Shannon waved her hand, "and no, I don't want details. In case you haven't noticed, I'm happy not being `one of the guys'".

"Um...yeah. I noticed."

"Anyway, you and the rest of the volunteers did a lot for us when Reg..." Shannon stopped herself from using the name of John's fallen tactical officer. "When the Kreltans took over the saucer. So I got you a little something."

John opened the box and held up a type six duty jacket; soft red suede with black accents on the shoulders. John couldn't help but smile. "Damn but that's pretty. You really shouldn't have."

"It was nothing John."

"No, I mean you probably shouldn't have. I'm pretty sure only ship commanders can wear this."

"Well that's where you're wrong," Shannon said with a self-satisfied smirk. "I did some checking, and it turns out that anyone who's been in command of a starship is within regs to wear it. So, there you go." Shannon stood up and stepped behind John, placing her hands on his shoulders. "There's a shirt that goes with it in the box."

John felt himself relax at Shannon's attention. "Thanks Shannon, a lot."

Harris leaned closer and whispered. "Aren't you going to try it on?"

John leaned back and looked up into Shannon's eyes. "Doctor Harris?

Are you making a pass at me?"

"Why?" she said, blinking, "Is it working?"

On cue, the com system chirped.

=/\= "Yellow alert. All decks, yellow alert. Captain and senior officers to the bridge. Repeat: yellow alert. We are at yellow alert. Senior officers to the bridge." =/\=

"Better make it quick." Carter said with a wry smile as he tapped his comm badge. "Carter to Ops."

=/\= "Sullivan here sir."=/\=

"Sullivan?" John queried, "How can we be at Yellow Alert inside a starbase?"

=/\= "Captain's orders sir, he wants you all in the Observation Lounge in five mics."=/\=

"Roger that, Sullivan," Carter said, lapsing back into `fighter jock speak'. "We'll be there in five. Carter out."

On the bridge, Lieutenant Sullivan wondered just who `WE' were.

 

<location: U.S.S Republic, deck 8, main corridor>

Doctor Cromwell did not take the news lightly.  A cloud of gloom hovered over his head at the sounding of yellow alert, especially after he learned of the reason behind the heightened alert status from Lieutenant Sullivan, the current on-duty operations officer.  Leon was lost among his own thoughts when two individuals, Commander Carter and Lieutenant Commander Harris, came walking up from behind.

“Yellow alert in port.  Got to be the strangest thing, eh doc?” Carter greeted the doctor.

“Hmm?” Leon replied, looking to find the executive officer and counselor tailing him.  Doctor Harris was busy tying her scarlet-colored hair up in a bun, taking care not to get it caught in the hastily zipped collar of her blue duty uniform.  John’s attire, on the other hand, was of a slightly different genre, that being a type six red-velvet duty jacket.  Leon looked it over, nodding approvingly, and looking towards the counselor.

“You’re right, Shannon.  He does wear it well.”

Carter raised an eyebrow at Leon asking, “you knew about this?” referring to his gift from the temporary counselor.

“Who do you think she checked with about the dress-code regulations?” Doctor Cromwell returned, patting his own civilian-grade ivory turtleneck sweater with emphasis.  “Section 9-C of Star Fleet regulation 670-1, paragraph fourteen, states that ‘With the permission of their superior officer, any member of Starfleet, regardless of their rank or position, is entitled to wear the type-six duty jacket while serving aboard a vessel that they have, at any time during their service, served as it’s commanding officer either in a temporary or permanent fashion.’ So, Shannon asked the captain for his permission, and he gave the green light.”

Carter looked slightly disappointed at the news, and looked towards Harris.  “And I thought it was a special gift from you . . .”

“It WAS,” Leon interjected.  “It wasn’t my idea to get you a gift.  You still owe me two bars of latinum from last week’s poker game.”

As the trio walked down the corridor towards the turbolift, a blue-uniformed lieutenant commander with a crop of black balding hair, a beard, and moustache came jogging up from the opposite direction.

“Leon,” Doctor Saal Yezbeck shouted as he strode up.  “Glad I found you before you headed up to the bridge.”  He paused to acknowledge the two other officers.  “Commander, Counselor.”  Turning back to Doctor Cromwell, he continued.  “We just had our replacement personnel report in.  Two medical doctors and a new head nurse.”

“Well that’s good news,” Leon responded.  “I guess the end of the Kreltan Conflict finally freed up some medical personnel.  Go back to sickbay, and get a staff meeting together for when I get out of this command briefing.”

“Aye, sir.” Yezbeck answered, continuing on past the officers before Leon called him back.

“Wait a minute!” the doctor stated with comprehension.  “What’s that?” Leon was pointing to Yezbeck’s collar where the two full pips of his rank insignia were joined by another pip with a blackened center.  Yezbeck comprehended Cromwell’s question with a smile, but Carter spoke up first.

“That’s what you get for missing out on staff parties, doc,” Carter chided.  “Didn’t you get the invitation for drinks at the Hill last night?”

“Yes,” Leon admitted.  “But I had coursework to do on the holodeck.  I didn’t have time for parties.  You could have at least warned me!”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” the counselor chimed in, “for both Yezbeck AND Fernmore.”

“Sorry, Leon,” Yezbeck apologized while continuing further down the hall.  “You can buy me and Eliza a drink later!”  He finally disappeared around the corner toward the aft turbolift.

With a furrow in his forehead, Doctor Cromwell looked to Carter with dissatisfaction as the trio continued their walk to the mid-deck turbolift shaft.  “Two of my staff get promoted to lieutenant commander and you don’t even warn me!”

“Hey doc,” Carter said defensively.  “You should have known!  After all, you put them in for it three weeks ago!”

With a dissatisfied smirk, Leon turned away from him silently as they all entered the turbolift.

“Bridge,” announced Carter, and the soft hum of the turbolift car came to life.

“I wonder what this is all about?”  Harris broke the silence.  “A ship usually doesn’t go to yellow alert inside a starbase unless there’s a local emergency.”

“Or,” Doctor Cromwell added, “Star Fleet itself has gone to a heightened alert status.”

“You know something about this, doc?” Carter looked at Leon quizzically.

“All I know,” the doctor started forebodingly, stroking his blond moustache with anxiety.  “Is that I was talking to my sister on Cestus Three via subspace when the signal got jammed.  Then the bridge informed me that all subspace transmissions from the planet ceased.  Ann, my sister, was asking me about the Gorn border before her signal was lost.”

Both Carter and Harris looked at Doctor Cromwell in astonishment.

“The Gorn border?” Doctor Harris asked.

“You have a sister?” inquired John, which drew a sour look from Harris.

“Ann sounded nervous,” Leon continued without pause.  “With the arrival of so many Star Fleet vessels at Cestus Three.  With it being so close to the Gorn border, she naturally thought there was something heating up.”

“We haven’t heard anything from the Gorn Alliance since the Metron Treaty of stardate 3067 where the Federation/Gorn border was established,” Harris added with curiosity.  “I mean, there’s been several minor border incursions from renegade ships involving warring Gorn clans, but nothing official from the government in years.”

“How do you know so much?” Carter looked at the counselor.

“It’s been part of my temporary counselor training, SIR,” she replied with moderate sarcasm in her voice.  She was obviously referring to Commander Carter assigning her additional work duties for brushing up on diplomatic and cultural skills following her temporary assignment as ship’s counselor.

Carter then spoke up.  “All I know about the Gorns is that they’ve never been much of a threat to the Federation since the Cestus Three colony was rebuilt over a hundred years ago.  Since then, only a few cultural historians have gained permission to enter Gorn territory.  They all returned with very little information since the Gorns have such a closed society.”

“One of those historians,” Doctor Cromwell added, “was an old teacher of mine.  Timotheous Clark.  He’s in his golden years now, flirting with 110, but still pretty sharp.  If we are able to re-establish contact with Cestus Three, he’d be a good person to consult about the Gorns.”  Leon shook his head ominously.  “I only hope that losing contact with the colony was just a communications glitch and not an actual attack,” he said with concern.

“Don’t worry, doc,” Carter soothed.  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“I hope so.”  Leon tried to take comfort in John’s words, but as the turbolift doors opened onto the bridge, the added alert status had gripped the command center, and left the room buzzing with activity.  The doctor could feel a knot forming in the pit of his stomach as Carter and Harris led the way to the observation lounge.

***

As Forrest moved through the Republic's corridor he watched crewmembers heading to stations and even a few of them looked confused. A Starship at Yellow Alert while in station could mean only a few things. Starbase 23 was facing a threat and had gone to red alert, a `Fleet Alert had been issued, or someone wanted the Republic ready ten minutes ago. Knowing the history of the Republic, Forrest felt it safe to bet on all three.

Forrest pressed a small spot on the back of his left hand, and tapped his Comm Badge.

"Relay Forrest-Echo." He spoke to nothing in particular.

Routine communications traffic began, the requests of Starships waiting for docking, engineers giving work crews instructions, nothing out of the ordinary.

"End". Stated Forrest and the stream of traffic faded.

Forrest entered the nearest turbo-lift, still amazed at what the Toybox was doing these days. Just prior to his mission with the Klingons, he'd had a couple of things done. One included a SubComm, a subdermal communicator that allowed `Fleet Ops to communicate without being detected by sensors. Its range was about 100 meters so the application was limited, but could be boosted by standard a standard Comm badge. If the SubComm was linked to a Protocol Emulator there was no communications system that couldn't be tapped into. The men and women at Toybox had saved many lives with their wonderful little "gifts".

"Bridge" spoke the Lieutenant Commander.

The hum of the turbo lift lasted only a few moments before the door opened again and admitted a taller, blond Lieutenant dressed in Operations yellow. Forrest quickly put a name to a face and realized this was Nathan Hawk, the Chief of Helm.

"Lieutenant." Nodded Forrest.

"Hello, Sir", replied the younger officer, his jaw tense with anger, unnoticed by Forrest. "You have any idea what's going on?"

"Well I've got a couple of theories," replied Forrest "But we've had no reports of Romulans nearby and Commander Carter hasn't assumed command. So I'm betting on it being something less dangerous."

Lieutenant Hawk barely contained a smile, as the turbo-lift doors opened onto the Bridge. The two men walked down the ramp and into the Observation lounge. Forrest wondered exactly what trouble `Fleet would need to be bailed out of next.

 

<location: deck 10, forward, U.S.S. Republic>

The Hill - more commonly known as Ten Forward on other Galaxy-Class vessels - was the center for social interaction and communal gathering aboard the Republic.  It was also recently re-instated Lieutenant Nathan 'Nat' Hawk's favorite place aboard ship - other than in bed with an attractive young woman, that is.  It was also where - since the resurrection of Commander John Carter, the ship's first officer - Nat had spent the bulk of his time aboard ship.  As expected at this (or any other) time of day, seated at what was now known ship-wide as 'his' table - the one in the far starboard corner of the room by one of the windows - was Hawk himself. 

To either side of him where those who had become his closest companions aboard, Lieutenant Sven Buttenhoff and Ensign 'Green' Gren.  Sven and Nat had attended the Academy together, and served along side one another for nearly a year just before and into the Dominion War.  Gren on the other hand was a more recently acquired acquaintance, having had the luxury of being piloted to their transport ship, the Searfoss, by Hawk.  All three men had drinks in their hands, though each at their own level of consumption.  Nat was already on his third whiskey, while Sven was just finishing his first Bourbon, and Gren barely nursing his native tonic water.

Though all three where usually on duty at this time of day, their lay-over at Starbase 23 had been cause enough for Hawk to convince the rest of his trio to take a day off and relax.  Yet so far, they'd done nothing more than what they'd done for the past two weeks every night - sit in The Hill, enjoy a drink or two (or nine in Nat's case), and attempt to pick up any young woman that caught their respective eyes.  Nat of course was the most successful at this, only having been shot down once since coming aboard.  Thus he'd taken to mentoring the other two in the art of flirting, with mixed results.

"I tell ya, boys," Hawk said, taking a mouthful of his drink, "things don't liven up soon 'round here, I'm liable ta fly us inta an asteroid field just fer kicks."

"Oh, please don't," Sven replied with mock-sarcasm in his German-accented voice, "that might mean I'd actually have something to do during my shift except run diagnostics and 'routine maintenance'..." he said with a sigh, and another mouthful of his drink.

"Well, I for one am glad things have been so calm lately." Gren chimed in eagerly.  "I mean, getting here was an intense enough experience to last me for a while!" he exclaimed.

"Gren, Gren, Gren," Nat scolded, "what in the hell's the point'n life if ya ain't gonna live it?"

"Oh, I want to live life.  I just want to live it for a long time, too.  Preferably without any injuries or stressful situations of alien conflicts along the way." Gren remarked, sipping his tonic water as if the thoughts alone had made him anxious.

"It would sure as hell be more fun than this," Sven replied with a sip of his own beverage, his tone of voice devoid of much emotion except for a hint of boredom and irritation.

"Hey," Nat responded defensively, "could be a helluva lot worse.  Ya'll could be at yer posts, twiddlin' yer thumbs." he pointed out.

"Good point." Gren replied, raising his glass before taking a long gulp of the tonic water, then coughing once he'd finished.  Silence descended upon the table for a few moments then before Sven finally broke it with a question.

"So, any word on replacements?" Sven asked of Hawk.

"How the frinx would I know?" Nat answered, honestly.  "Ya think I actually pay attention at staff briefin's er somethin'?"

Sven shrugged, "I just thought you might have heard something."

"I wonder who'll take over as Chief of my department?" Gren thought aloud.

"Prolly some by-the-book prig," Nat answered, taking another mouthful of whiskey.

"I hope not.  I mean, I just hope we get someone more... creative." Gren replied, as he turned the half-empty glass in his hands.

"I know what you mean," Sven remarked.

"I thought ya liked Virtus?" Nat asked, surprised.

"Oh, I do," Sven replied instantly, "I just mean I know what Gren means, about hoping for someone creative.  I had the same hopes when I was assigned to the Republic.  Glad I got my wish." Sven explained.

"Alright, quit yer gushin' already, ain't like I report what ya'll say back ta the Cap'n er somethin'." Nat replied, bringing a small chuckle from both men.  "I tell ya though-" Nat began before he was interrupted.

"Yellow alert. All decks, yellow alert. Captain and senior officers to the bridge. Repeat: yellow alert. We are at yellow alert. Senior officers to the bridge."

"You see what you did?" Sven remarked jovially, "You threaten to take us into an asteroid field if things don't pique up, and look what happens!"

"Phh," Nat remarked, standing up and polishing off the end of his whiskey, "prolly some damn drill er somethin' else just as stupid."

"You think we should report to our stations?" Gren questioned.

"I didn't hear mister-repeats-himself-four-damn-times call general quarters 'er tell all hands ta their stations." Nat replied.  "Si'down, n'joy yer drinks, two strips says I'm back in half-a-hour."

"Two strips it is." Sven replied as Nat made his way to the doors and into the corridor.  After a moment waiting for the lift, the doors opened and revealed a man in a black collar.  Nat cursed inwardly, holding back from doing so vocally until he knew who this particular SI prig was.

"Lieutenant." nodded the Intelligence goon in greeting.

"Hello, sir," Nat replied, the title as meaningless in his mouth as a joke was to a Vulcan.  "You have any idea what's going on?" he asked, testing the SI-waters to see just how informed this one was.

"Well I've got a couple of theories," replied the black-collared Lieutenant Commander. "But we've had no reports of Romulans nearby and Commander Carter hasn't assumed command. So I'm betting on it being something less dangerous."

Nat had to stifle a smile at the apparent ignorance of the SI as they made their way to the Conference Room.  He wondered how much of Nat's file - if any - he'd read, and if he had his own undisclosed assignment pertaining to it. 

 

<location:  Observation Lounge, deck 1, U.S.S. Republic>

The Captain nodded as Victor entered the room.  Victor paused to look over the new individual in Science blue, as well as the new Chief Tact Officer.  He smiled inward at a handful of ancient tactical puns.

"Good day Captain."

"Good day Mister Virtus."

Vic quickly stepped to the right as Doctor Cromwell came in with a slightly uncharacteristic haste.

"Sorry."

"Not at all Leon."

The good doctor moved around to his traditional seat, weaving around the narrow space between the conference table and the port bulkhead.  Victor started to move back across the doorway as it slid open to admit Commander Carter and Counselor Harris.  The nimble engineer pivoted on his left foot and returned to his spot betwixt the door and the right wall, narrowly avoiding the rush.

"Sorry Vic."

"No harm done Commander."

The door slid shut as John took the seat to the right of the Captain, and Shannon the left.  Victor sighed in relief, stepped in front of the door... and stepped back as Nat Hawk barreled in with a smile, and stopped short of plowing into the wiry Malthan.

"Whoa thar'.  Pardin me.  I'din see ya."

"Think nothing of it."

Victor allowed the drawling helmsman by to sit beside the first officer, and gave the door a good long look.  He then counted to 011 in binary, and when Lieutenant Cmdr Forrest walked through the reopened door, Vic blazed past him aft like an Oranian smuggler through a Tellarite blockade, and took his seat between the doctors.  The Intelligence officer had to yaw two hundred seventy degrees to starboard to track the engineer's progress, and ended his pirouette facing astern.

"Welcome back Lieutenant Commander Forrest."

"Thank you Captain.  I see things are fairly normal around here," he replied, taking the seat at the foot of the table.

Across the room, the new helmsman, Lieutenant Nat Hawk, shouted out an explicative.

"What in the hell?" Nat remarked upon laying eyes upon Lieutenant Jace 'Jackhammer' McClintock, "s'like a friggin' reunion a'ma past 'round here!" he exclaimed, much to the confusion of most in the room.  Taking a seat next to Commander Carter, he looked across the table to his one-time semi-colleague. 

"Coulda sworn ya went up with the Honshu back'n '74." he remarked to McClintock.

"It takes more then that to kill a McClintock, you should know that. Most of the meantime, I've been working in the black, or at least the light grey anyway," Jace said with a wink and a grin, "so if you were looking for me, you wouldn't have found much. What have you been up to, still have that 'Death Wish'?"

"Phh," Nat replied, "figures ya'd show up here if ya had somethin' ta do with them." Nat remarked with less than cordial nod of the head towards the present representative of SI, clad in the tell-tale black collar.

"Too much to do with 'them' if you ask me. Unfortunately, I pissed one of their higher ups off. Seems like he'd never had anyone question his decisions before, so of course he ignored me. And lost a whole company of SpecOps Marines. Arrogant Cho'Faqi Prig." The look in Jace's eyes said in no uncertain terms just exactly how he felt about the aforementioned individual. "So, I've 'fallen into disfavor' as it were." Jace looked about as sorry as a large tomcat with a canary in his mouth.

"Yeah, well," Nat replied, noticing a (not so) good amount of attention focused on them and their conversation, "we'll talk later.  Been savin' a bad bottle a'brandy fer just such a pain in the ass s'you." Nat remarked with a devil-may-care grin at his old friend.

Jace pulled quite a face at the thought of flavor of said brandy. "If you are calling a bottle of brandy bad, I don't even want to be in the same room when its open. You'd drink anything," Jace stated with a twinkle in his eye.

"Heh," Nat chuckled, as the Captain stood up from his seat to begin the briefing.

The doors closed as John Carter sat on Marshall's right with Harris sitting on the left side of the Captain.  Marshall then exchanged pleasantries with Lieutenant Commander Forrest before Lieutenant Nathan Hawk arrived and conversed with Lieutenant McClintock.  'Four and a half minutes,' he thought, 'next time I'll have to shorten it.'  Just before the Captain rose to begin he turned to John Carter and said, "By the way John, nice jacket."  James Marshall then rose and cleared his throat.

"Welcome back everyone, I hope you had a nice shore leave.  We've had some recent arrivals on board.  First off, welcome back Lieutenant Commander Forrest.  For those of you who don't know, he will be our liaison to Starfleet Intelligence.  Mister Forrest, I'm sure you'll find Admiral Kostya's war-room suitable for your needs."

Forrest nodded as Marshall continued, "We've had some trouble at the Security/Tactical position, but we now have Lieutenant Jason McClintock at the position.  Lieutenant, I'm sure you remember how to fire quantum torpedoes."

Marshall then said, "and last but certainly not least is Lieutenant Kristen Tyler, our Chief Science Officer.  I am confident she will do well in that position."

=/\= “Bridge to Captain” =/\=

'Next time I order no interruptions' "Go ahead," he said.

=/\= “Sir, there's a communiqué from Admiral Kostya.  It's not eyes only.” =/\=

=/\= “Put it through in here.” =/\=  It had been two weeks since Jim Marshall had watched the Admiral walk out the airlock.  The image of the Admiral filled the viewscreen in the Observation Lounge.

=/\= “Captain, we've got a situation.  There's been a communications disruption on Cestus III. I'm ordering you to investigate.  Ascertain the situation, and only use force if needed.  It is possible that the Gorn maybe up to something, so look sharp.” =/\=

“Understood Admiral.”

=/\= “Good luck Captain.  Kostya out.” =/\=

Marshall then turned back to the crew, "Well, if it is the Gorns we'll be facing, I'd like to know what we're dealing with.  Doctor, what can you tell us about them as a species?"

Leon was transfixed on the scene outside the observation lounge.  The various ships docked at Starbase 23, each nestled into their respective alcoves and sheltered from the cosmic elements within the bases’ enormous docking bay, seemed to be a tranquil sight for the doctor.  Unfortunately, his thoughts were of just the opposite mood.  The fear of what may be happening at Cestus Three gripped Leon’s stomach tightly, and as all the different dreadful scenarios played out in his head, the more worried he became.

“Doctor?” the captain beckoned again.

“Hmm?”

“Doctor . . . the Gorns?”

“Oh . . . yes.”  Doctor Cromwell, whose mind was definitely elsewhere a moment ago, was caught off guard by the request for information.  He quickly accessed his PADD, and scrolled through notes he still kept from various xenobiology symposiums over the past years.  He settled on a seminar about the history of sociological evolution in non-humanoid species by Doctor Timotheous Clark, a fellow native of Leon’s homeworld of Cestus Three.  Since the renowned historian was one of the very few humans to have had access to the Gorns, Doctor Cromwell zeroed in on the seminar’s introductory abstract in where he jotted down notes about the mysterious race known as the Gorns.

“Well, there’s very little to tell about them socially,” Leon started.  “The Gorns are an extremely xenophobic society, especially towards what they call ‘non-saurians.’  However, we can draw some conclusions on their physical makeup.  Basically, the Gorns are a tall, bipedal, reptilian species with standing heights ranging between two and two-and-half meters, and average weights of about 200 kilograms.”  The doctor tapped a few buttons, and downloaded information from his handheld PADD to the observation lounge’s viewscreen.  With a point of his finger, Leon directed everyone’s attention to the monitor where a large, green, and frighteningly fierce-looking reptilian creature stared back.  The head was a miniature version of an extinct Tyrannosaurus Rex from Earth, yet had a serrated crest of vertical spines down the rear of it’s head and back, with cranial extrusions over the eyes giving it the appearance of a vicious predator.  The eyes themselves were large, multi-faceted sensory organs, and below the sloped muzzle, the jaw revealed rows of conical teeth unhidden by lips or maxillary membranes of any sort.  In addition, the powerful-looking frame wielded muscular arms ending in hands with five brawny, clawed fingers.  The entire skin was of an olive green shade, and wore a skirted tunic of a brown and yellow squared pattern.

“As you can see, they resemble a Terran lizard species, and by most accounts, are suspected to have an exothermic metabolism.”

“How do we know that?” asked a curious Lieutenant Tyler, the new chief science officer.

“Well, due to visual accounts, mainly,” Leon continued.  “First contact reported a large, lumbering creature with limited flexibility.  However, later accounts by investigative historians explained them to be highly mobile, with excellent range of movement and very alert reflexes.  The two together do not make much sense until you look at the reported ambient environment of the two different accounts.  First contact occurred on a dry planetoid with temperatures no warmer than 298 Kelvin.  The later investigative reports mentioned the ambient temperatures of the Gorns’ very humid living modules to be a stifling 310 Kelvin.  One can only conclude that environmental temperatures were the cause of the discrepancy.”

“True, but until we have a little more proof, I don’t know if we can come to that conclusion yet,” replied the science chief.

“Agreed,” Leon admitted.  “But then there’s the analysis of their homeworld, Tau Lacertae IX, by long-range senor buoys.  And although I’ll acquiesce to any sort of geologic or astronomic conclusions you may come to on the details, basic telemetry tells us that it’s distance from the red giant sun puts it in the barely habitable range for most humanoid species.  So, the evolutionary equations indicate that any species evolving in such a hot environment would have no need to develop a metabolism that generates it’s own heat.  In fact, the limited post-contact accounts mention that the spines on their head crest seem to change size depending on the surrounding temperature, indicating a heat-dissipating mechanism.”

“My guess,” interjected Tyler, who continued to scrutinize the viewscreen, “would be that their world is bathed in ultraviolet radiation due their eyes.”  The slight change of subject indicated a constant, scientific evaluation of the material by the lieutenant.

“Yes,” Doctor Cromwell agreed without hesitance.  “Their compound eyes indicate to me a spectral sensory range between about 350 to 600 nanometers, so ultraviolet light may form the basis of their visual cortex.”

“How do we kill them?”

Doctor Cromwell and Lieutenant Tyler ceased their verbose scientific exchange at the audacity of the crass question, and a moment of silence ensued where Leon searched the audience for the inquisitor.

‘”Excuse me?” the doctor asked the audience of partially flummoxed officers.

“I said, how do we kill the lizards?” the person asked again, and this time, Leon realized the question was coming from the ship’s new tactical officer, Lieutenant McClintock.

“Um,” replied Doctor Cromwell, who was caught off guard yet again.  “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” McClintock said with impatient emphasis.  “If we have a one-on-one with them, how do we kill them?  With fists or phasers?”

“Well,” the doctor started again.  “I certainly wouldn’t try it with fists.  First contact dealt with a so-called ‘one-on-one’ between a human and a Gorn, and the human reported that he was lucky to get out alive.”

“How’s that?”  McClintock edged on.

“The Gorn’s epidermal layer is seemingly a complex network of micro-scales composed of layered chitin proteins interlaced with a mineralized calcium-iron resin.  Investigative historians were able to sneak away with a few of these shedded scales for analysis.  It’s theorized that the Gorns are long-lived, as these outer scales dated back almost a hundred years.”

A whistle of impressed astonishment came forth from Lieutenant Kristen Tyler.

“A layered kitten-what?” McClintock asked with increasing frustration.

“It means, lieutenant,” Tyler responded.  “That if you tried to punch a Gorn with your fists, you’d be hitting a wall of steel.”

“Exactly,” confirmed Leon.  “In addition, the deep muscular conformities indicate a very powerful body frame, so the return punch would knock you unconscious if it didn’t kill you.”

“Okay, so we use phasers . . .” replied McClintock, hoping to get a clear answer.

“Well, we could,” replied Doctor Cromwell, drawing a wince from the tactical chief.  “But medical estimates are that the epidermal layer is so thick with years of built-up scales, that even your best shot on a heavy stun setting would barely be felt by a Gorn.  Analysis of their scales indicated that Gorns are impervious to many different types of radiation that would otherwise be lethal to humans.”

“These are tough little bastards, lieutenant,” Commander Carter interjected.  “Let’s hope that we don’t have to run up against them in combat.”

“Agreed,” emphasized Captain Marshall.  “Battle will be our last resort.”  The commanding officer then turned to the ship’s counselor, Lieutenant Commander Shannon Harris.  “Counselor, what can you tell us about their mentality?  How are the Gorns likely to perceive us should we encounter them?”

“At the very best, captain” the scarlet-haired counselor replied, “they’d be suspicious.  All accounts are that the Gorns are very territorial, and it was this behavior that led to a very violent first contact where the original Cestus Three colony was completely annihilated.”

Doctor Cromwell shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the fretfulness of the current situation welling within him. 

“Limited historical investigation shows a feudal society,” continued Harris.  “Minor border incursions with the Federation were due to internal strife, where warring clans we vying for either territory within their small collection of star systems, or power within the confederate government known to Starfleet as the Gorn Alliance.  Contact with them has been limited to simple reporting of fleet movements along the border and nothing else.  I suggest caution when dealing with them, sir.  They’re paranoid of non-Gorn species, aggressive, and likely to attack if provoked.”

“Understood,” the captain replied.  “Thank you, counselor.  Alright then," he continued, "Forrest, what does Intelligence have on the Gorn and the recent activities at Cestus III?"

Lieutenant Commander Douglas Forrest stood as the doctor took his seat and straightened the black duty jacket he wore. Forrest looked at the officers sitting at the table and began to speak.

"Thank you, Doctor," Forrest began. "Intelligence on the Gorn has always been limited. Over the years we have depended heavily on our Klingon allies to provide us with details. Our other major resource has been long-range sensor relays, dedicated to watching the border of Federation/Gorn space. If you'll refer to the map you'll see that Gorn space is bordered by the Klingon Empire, the Tholian Assembly and the Federation."

Forrest moved around the room, his pace slow and steady, matching his voice. He often used this method when required to recall detailed information, a trick he's learned while in training. 

"During the Dominion War," Forrest continued "'Fleet was concerned that the Gorn would take advantage of our distraction and attempt to move along our border. To this end `Fleet Intelligence placed a manned, covert, early warning outpost on Cestus III. In the last few years it has given us ample information on the Gorn.

"Analysis of gathered information has given us some insight on Gorn society. Initially we thought of them as a military society similar to the Klingon, but we soon learned that they actually follow a rigid caste system. They are divided into three castes each responsible for specific functions in their society. The largest is the Warrior caste. This group deals with defending and expanding Gorn space. They control the ground-based military and fleet-based ships. The next is the Worker caste. This group handles all manufacturing, repair, and maintenance of Gorn society. This also includes their science, medical and research fields. The last group is the Service caste. This group deals with bureaucracy, law and government of the Gorn society."

Forrest waited a few moments to let his fellow officers absorb the information. His orders were to share all knowledge `Fleet Intel had on the Gorn.

"What about their military capabilities?" interjected Lieutenant Jason McClintock.

"According to our resources the standard Gorn battlecruiser is similar in size to our Miranda-class Starships. They use a less refined version of our warp drives, which gives them a top warp of 8.2. Gorn ships are armed with two major weapons systems. The first is a Phased Disruption System. This system places a disrupter beam on a frequency that renders shields less effective. We do know the range on this system is about 30% less then our phasers. They also employ a modified Plasma Torpedo, similar in design to those developed by the Romulans, but with out the need for near total ship shutdown to fire. We believe this is why their warp drives are so under powered. The Gorn ships rely on weaker shields than then our vessels, but their ship hulls seem very resistant to energy weapons. I've sent specs to both Lieutenant Commander Virtus and Lieutenant Tyler. Perhaps they can add more."

Forrest made his way back to his seat as he finished. He regretted not being able to share the rest of the information he had in this open briefing. His superiors had been quite specific. When this briefing was finished he'd talk to Captain Marshall and let him in on the rest.

Lieutenant Commander Virtus nodded and stood, changing the main viewscreen to show a rotating wire frame cube, with little spheres at the vertices, and larger spheres on the faces, and in the center.

"From the little time I've had to study the hull data, I agree with the boys in Intel R&D that it is most likely a molybdenum/niobium alloy in a here-to-for unknown crystalline matrix."

Victor highlighted the smaller spheres, and switched to his 'lecturing' voice.

"Isolation of niobium is complicated. Niobium minerals usually contain both niobium and tantalum. Since they are so similar chemically, it is difficult to separate them. Niobium can be extracted from the ores by first fusing the ore with alkali, and then extracting the resultant mixture into hydrofluoric acid. This could be done with old Terran technology, but not in the quantities necessary to make starship plating.  Current methodology involves the separation of tantalum from these acid solutions using a liquid-liquid extraction technique. In this process tantalum salts are extracted into the keytone MIBK (methyl isobutyl keytone, 4-methyl pentane-2-one). The niobium remains in the HF solution. Acidification of the HF solution followed by further extraction in MIBK gives an organic solution containing niobium."

Victor turned back to the table, and was impressed that no one had a glassy-eyed look, unlike the year he had spent teaching at the Academy.  Apparently, four years of chemistry was still a requirement in civilized space.

"Perhaps you could tell us why that is important Mister Virtus," prompted Marshall.

"I'm very curious about that myself Captain. Lieutenant Tyler, perhaps you have some input on this subject?"

"If I had to hazard a fast guess,” the new science chief started.  “As to what the importance of niobium in the hull material is, I would lean towards the possibility that they're utilizing the superconductive properties of the metal in some way.   The element has superconductive properties; superconductive magnets have been made with Nb-Zr wire, which retains its superconductivity in strong magnetic fields which could provide a direct source for large-scale generation of electric power. The metal also has a low capture cross-section for thermal neutrons and is used in nuclear industries."

Victor listened with 9/10th of an ear to the new Science Department Head as she theorized about the chemical composition of the Gorn hulls.  It was a good theory, and far more plausible than a few of his own.  Vic refrained from glancing at the Black Shirt.  Forrest was playing a dangerous game, and messing with ship to ship communications was a brig-worthy offense if you weren't the part of the 'Fleet that catches internal threats.  No use bringing the matter to the attention of the Captain or XO.  The proof had vanished the moment Victor had found it in the commlogs.  But allowing Lieutenant Tyler to bring the matter up would at least alert the

Spook that an investigation 'could' be made. 

Commander Carter was growing impatient. "The ships are tough, right?"

Simple answers were best when dealing with Command Branch personnel, even the ones you've known for 12 years, 134 days, 17 hours... give or take.

"Right,” replied Vic.

There were times when John Carter knew he was out of his depth, and this was one of them. He couldn't help a smile as he regarded the multi-syllabic conversation between Victor, Leon, and the new Science Chief. Victor Virtus was the smartest man Carter had ever known, and from what he could hear, the new Lieutenant just made it very clear that she could give as good as she got.

John cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt the science fair kids," he said with a smirk, "but can I bottom line this?"

"Please," the Science Chief said.

"Thanks." John said simply. "The ships are tough, right?" he asked looking at Virtus.

"Right." Virtus said.

"And the Gorn themselves are resistant to phaser fire?" he asked, looking at Leon. There was no response.

"Doc!"

Leon heard Carter's voice, and started. "What? Oh...yes, yes, resistant. Absolutely."

"Check," John confirmed. "So what you're saying is, the usual stuff might not work. Am I getting that right?"

The trio of scientists nodded. "Ok then," Carter said. "Tac, you work with Lieutenant Commander Forrest and see if you can't get me a few tricks to play with."

With that, Captain Marshall spoke up. "If no one has anything further," he pushed away from the conference table and gave his duty jacket a quick tug as he stood up, "I'll let you all get to work. We leave port in 90 minutes."

The rest of the officers got up from the table as Marshall exited to the bridge. Waiting by the door, Carter gave the Science Chief a quick look, extending a hand to the new lieutenant. "Welcome aboard Lieutenant," he said with a friendly grin. "Sorry I couldn't greet you when you came on board, but," Carter stifled a yawn, "the yellow alert caught us a little off guard."

John cocked his head and continued. "I understand this assignment caught you off guard too. Anything I can do to help?"

Not missing his yawn, whatever thoughts Kristen might have been having at that point were neatly hidden as she shook his hand in return.  "At the moment Commander, to be honest I haven't been aboard long enough to know what I might feel needs work within the division.  Can I get a rain check on that offer for help until I've had time to review the officer's under my supervision so that I know what I need to do?  As you just pointed out, this assignment was unexpected and I have a great deal of catching up to do."

 

<Meanwhile, in the Cestus system>

Pack leader G'Meth looked on with pleasure as his tactical display showed the steady progress of the Sss'thak reclamation fleet across the Federation border. A low growl rumbled through the humid Gorn bridge.

 "The prophecy is fulfilled." G'Meth said to a smaller, yellow Gorn lieutenant. "How do you feel? Being here again after so long?"

G'Meth moved slowly, despite the warm environment. A by-product of his own advanced age. "It has been a long time indeed, First Sword. I doubted I would ever look on home again."

The First Sword circled around to his pack leader's side. "All is as it should be, Pack Leader," the First Sword encouraged, "the humans' own short-sightedness and wasteful nature have brought us to this."

The first sword hissed as more sectors of local space turned green, indicating that Gorn assault teams had landed at their assigned places on Cestus II and III. Back at the centre of the ship's bridge, G'Meth shook his head. "We have not won yet, First Sword," he said with a weary look. "The humans are sure to send their best. And they can be quite...resourceful."

G'Meth felt the sting of memory as he remembered the last time he'd been to the Cestus system. For generations, the warm climate of Cestus III proved ideal conditions for the Gorn incubation process. While all births took place on the Gorn homeworld, several planets within Gorn territory proved ideal for spurring on the rather fickle saurian mating cycle.

Almost 100 years ago, G'Meth had led a small colonizing mission to Cestus III for what should have been a routine stop. Instead, the Gorn crew  found their ancestral territory over-run by millions of filthy, foul-smelling hairless apes.

`Apes' G'Meth cursed silently, `With no concept of proper use of the bounties the galaxy provides them. Spreading like weeds to any planet that will support them,' he chuckled as the next thought occurred to him, `and some they CANT'.

`They came to this place, not caring what it meant. And now, they've violated their own agreements, making that damned treaty as worthless now as they always meant it to be.'

G'Meth's memories turned bitter as he recalled the humiliation he suffered at the hands of the Metrons...his mind under constant assault from the alien's probing...making it nearly impossible for him to move, and how a lone human, not subject to G'Meth's own anguish was able to craft a primitive weapon to defeat the Gorn Captain.

His mind back at the present, G'Meth hissed again, confidently. "Well, let them come," he said. "I, G'Meth have returned to reclaim this system. If the humans want to stop me again, then their weak and cowardly captain will have to face me again. I will have my revenge!"

 

<location:  Observation Lounge, deck 1, U.S.S. Republic>

As the briefing ended, Nat stood up from the table and kept a scrutinizing gaze fixed on Lieutenant Commander Douglas Forrest as he vacated the room.  The Commander for his part, either failed to notice the leering eyes upon him, or simply wasn't phased by it.  Once the ship's new resident SI goon had departed, Nat turned his attention to Lieutenant Jason McClintock, one of the few people that Nat considered an actual friend in the galaxy.  For the bulk of his life, Nat had not been keen on the types of complex relationships - whether friendly or romantic - that most other people put so much emphasis on.  This detachment was likely why he felt no hostility at Jace for having seemingly died four years ago.

"So howd'ya get 'signed ta the Republic?" Nat asked as Jace lead the way to the exit.

"Well, from what I understand, this ship has tended to be rather hard on Tactical officers," Jace said with an arrogant smirk. "If the destruction of the Honshu couldn't kill me, Starfleet figured that this ship couldn't. Also, I was looking for a place to stay after the near destruction of the Sweden. They were getting tired of my stories in the medical wing."

"Heh," Nat chuckled in reply as they moved with purpose across the back of the Bridge and into a turbolift.  "Ya still spewin' out yer pop's ole war stories?  Christ man, ya lived through yer own friggin' war.  Ain't ya got some stories folks might believe?" Nat asked as the doors shut.   "Deck 10," he ordered, the lift descending promptly in reply.

"Well, my dads done some unbelievable stuff. I suppose your right though, but unfortunately I cant talk about some of the things I did during the war. And a lot of the rest was pretty boring. Who cares about general staff meetings with officers of Flag Rank?" Jace said with a grimace. "So I can tell you how three out of seven Admirals like their coffee, doesn't make much of a story. So, any ideas come to mind about how to deal with the Gorn?" Jace asked, changing the subject without a trace of subtlety.

"Damned if I know," Nat said as the lift slowed to a stop and admitted them to Deck 10, where Nat took the lead.  "I ain't had no dealin's with them big ole lizards durin' er after Starfleet." he said as they entered The Hill, where he found Junior Lieutenant Sven Buttenhoff and Ensign Gren still seated at the same table.  "Fellas," he said as he and Jace approached the table, "this 'er is Jace 'Jackhammer' McClintock, new Security Chief 'board, ole pal a mine." he said as way of introduction as he retook his seat, his back to the windows.

Jace looked at the only open seat, appeared to think a bit - and then reclined against the window in the corner, continuing the conversation as if nothing was unusual. "One thing I was thinking about was projectile firearms. Nothing penetrates better then a sharpened steel bullet. In the right caliber it would punch a whole in the hull of a runabout." Jace said with a smile. "And I am sure we could come up with a design that could make a Gorn go crying to mother. Excuse me for a moment, I'm gonna go grab a drink. Anyone else want anything?" Jace said while pushing himself up from the window.

Mid-sip with his fourth glass of Whiskey of the morning, Nat stopped just as the amber liquid washed over his lips, and put the drink down.  "Frinx man, yer as paranoid's I remember." he said to Jace.  "Gren, switch on over there will ya?" he said, gesturing at the seat across from him.  Gren did so without much thought on it, opening his former seat which was 'secure' set against a wall.  "There, now si'down.  They got waiters 'board, put 'em to use."

"Of course, used to a nice place on the starbase, no waiters, but a nice place." Jace said gesturing to get a waiter's attention. "I've shown you my projectile firearms holo program right?" As the waiter approached Jace turned to him and said, "Get me a pint of Guinness, and a shot of the closest thing to Russian export vodka you have on the side." The waiter nodded and looked around to see if anyone else wanted anything.

"Might s'well just gimme the whole bottle a whiskey," Nat said as he choked back a mouthful of his fourth glass, waiting till the waiter departed to reply to Jace.

"I'll have a glass of Andorian ale," ordered Gren, surprising both Nat and Sven who exchanged a quick look.

"Gimme another," Sven ordered, gesturing to his own drink.  Bourbon if Nat recalled correctly.

As the waiter moved off, Nat was about to reply when Gren interjected his own question.

"What's all this about the Gorns and projectile firearms?" he questioned, a bit nervously.  Perhaps the motivation for ordering the Andorian ale.

"Headin' down ta the Gorn border, lost touch with Cestus III." Nat replied, polishing off the fourth glass.  "An yeah, Jace, ya done showed it ta me.  The program I mean." he said.

"Well, the Gorn sound nearly impervious to a phaser, we'll need something with a more concentrated punch. For both their ships, and for their people." Jace said with a shit eating grin. "And if there's anything I know, it's personal weapons. And you'd be amazed what a well designed gun will do. As far as their ships go, I am hoping that they can be overcome with different applications of standard weapons. But I am open to suggestions."

"Hey, this ain't the bridge 'er the Academy," Nat said, "lets ditch the shop talk, ok?"

"Sorry," Jace sighed. "Your right. I do have some trouble letting go of an idea once I get started. So run into anything interesting lately?"

"Almost," Nat replied with a devil-may-care grin.  "Comin' here, I got this close," Nat said, a centimeter of space between his index finger and thumb representative, "ta gettin' with the Jenia Olmn." Nat revealed.

"The former Miss Alpha Quadrant?" Gren asked, practically drooling as the waiter deposited their order.

"The vera same." Nat replied.  "This yokel though," he said, gesturing to Sven, "had ta go an call me up 'priority one' ta help him outava jam."

"Your lucky Sven. I would have killed you. Or at least made you wish I had." Jace said with complete seriousness. "So, what was so important to you, that you felt you should take such a wonderful life experience from our friend Nat here?  Heck that kind of thing might have been good enough to take his mind off of crashing into things."

"Hey!" Nat replied defensively to the jab, "I only crash when I wanna." He replied with a smile.

"Hehe," Sven chuckled, "Well, we had this jerk of a Commodore take over the ship, turned out he was an alien imposter, but Commander Carter got hurt.. er.. killed, and, well, long story short we needed help and didn't have many options.  Not like I knew he was with Olmn.  Hell, I think Commander Carter wouldn't have minded staying dead a while longer just to hear the details later." Sven joked.

"I never kiss'n tell," Nat replied, mock-serious, "I do a helluva lot more'n tell!" he replied, busting out with a laugh that flowed through the table.

"And you were complaining about my stories earlier? I am not entirely sure that some of the things you've claimed to have done are anatomically possible, let alone that kinds of things you could get such nice young ladies to participate in." Said Jace laughing. "And, the fact that you only collide with things you intend to isn't very reassuring when I am living inside something you are going to be allowed to pilot. But then, I have every confidence that you wont accidentally run into anything, so it almost evens out." Jace said with a Gaelic twinkle in his eye.

"Hey, ya wanna talk 'bout worry, I'm servin' somewhere yer gonna be head a Security.  Might s'well just surrender now so as not ta get humiliated later." Nat replied.  "As to anatomical possibilities... we'll leave that ta the Science folk, right Gren?" Nat asked of the out-of-his-element Ensign, who just nodded and smiled.  "Speakin' of anatomy..." Nat said, trailing off as he eyes traced the well-curved body of a Junior Lieutenant he'd yet to see in the Hill before.

"Well, I can see that your going to be distracted for a while. When you have some extra free time, I brought some rather exotic liquors with me. Your welcome to sample them. Gentlemen, its been fun, but I have to get back to sorting out my wayward department." Tossing back the last of his vodka, Jason McClintock stood up and headed back into the unknown, stopping only to ask for directions.

Nat barely noticed Jace leave as he moved over to the bar and struck up a conversation with the lovely Lieutenant...

 

<location: Cestus III colony, Cornucopia settlement, south district>

Wispy clouds of white floated gently across the seemingly calm, blue skies.  But as the sapphire expanse waned towards a fiery orange horizon, sporadic pillars of black smoke rose towards the heavens, and the muffled sound of aerial bombardment echoed in the distance.  The straight, intricately laid-out ivory streets weaved themselves between shiny metal buildings of complex geometric design, and a latticework of transparent mass-transit tubes paralleled the boulevards, held aloft by carefully constructed support columns.  The streets themselves were alive with crowds of panicked citizens, carrying with them parcels of vital survival gear or precious remnants of their domestic lives.  Overcrowded hover-transports and individual grav-sleds attempted to maneuver around the random clusters of frightened colonists, all heading in a steady direction out of the city and bound for the safety of the surrounding wilderness.

Towards the edge of town, the large commercial constructs ended, and a grid of residential avenues separated plots of vermillion-colored plant communities containing small, dome-shaped buildings of various configurations.  The street scene of the city was not present here; void of the scores of terrorized citizens committing themselves to a mass exodus of settled lands.  In fact, these suburbs were ominously vacant, and only a few intermittent stragglers could be seen rushing through the streets, stopping only to check abandoned homes for possible provisions they may need during the dark days ahead.  Occasionally, there was an obviously occupied dwelling, where the owners, in their futile determination to stand their ground, barricaded themselves into their home in hopes to stave off the pending invasion.

One such home was situated on a plot of varied wildflowers, native grasses, palmettos, and oak trees strewn with Spanish moss; the vegetation standing in stark contrast to the rows of sandbags and scanner-dispersive camouflage netting.  The front foyer, constructed quaintly with stones and planters, had a small entry mat with the words “The Cromwells” displayed across the surface.  Inside, a well-furnished and expansive living room invoked large windows overlooking the multitude of outdoor plant species, and an older, amber-eyed woman with well-groomed hair of blond and gray, sat upon a plush white couch.  She wore a plaid button-up shirt and beige trousers; giving the impression that when she dressed this morning, she expected the day to be a quiet one of relaxation.  Unfortunately, her face betrayed just the opposite, and instead of enjoying the natural beauty of the window scene, the occupant of the room was fixated on the corner communications console.

A whispery, almost hissing voice emanated from the appliance, interspersed with grunts and gurgles.  Moments later, the universal translator deciphered the sound, which was being articulated from an image of a saurian-faced Gorn.

“. . .This is Pack Leader G'Meth of the reclamation fleet Sss'thak.  This system exists within the borders of the Gorn Alliance.  Your illegal presence here is in violation of the Metron Treaty and an act of war.  Your defense perimeter has been destroyed, and as I speak, our valiant troops are taking control of your government centers.  We are invoking our right of ownership for this planet, and reclaim that which is rightfully ours.  You are hereby directed to follow the orders of any and all Gorn soldiers as they arrive in your community.  Any resistance will be dealt with harshly and with overwhelming force.  Repeat: This is Pack Leader G'Meth . . .”

“Janice!  Turn that damned thing off!”

The barking command came from a gruff-faced man with black and gray hair who entered the room from an adjoining hallway.  Like the woman, he wore a button up shirt, but it was covered by a leather jacket bound by an unbuckled utility harness.  Like the harness, the trousers were of utilitarian design too, and adorned with pockets of all sizes.  A slightly out-of-date phaser rifle was slung over the man’s shoulder, and sonic grenades hung from the utility harness next to flaps full of spare phaser cartridges and other various ordinance.

The woman, who stared at the console in shock, did not reply.  Her glazed appearance was that of both disbelief and overwhelming fear as she continued to watch the repeating message, hoping in vain that it was of false design.

“Did you hear me?” shouted the man again.  “I said, turn it off!”

At that moment, a pounding came forth from the front door.  The man immediately brought the phaser rifle to bear, but the muffled voice from outside caused him to lower it.

“Mom!  Dad!  Are you in there?”

Instantly, the man strode over to the door, and pressed the entry switch.  As it slid aside, a frantic young woman with blond hair stood outside.  Like her father, she also wore a leather jacket, but instead of a weapon, she had a backpack slung over her shoulder.  The two embraced tightly, and as they let go, the woman urgently spoke.  “Dad, you and mom have got to come with me.  My flitter is just outside, so get your stuff and let’s go!”

“Forget it, Ann,” the man said, turning away and walking back inside.  “I’m staying.  I’m not giving up this place without a fight.”

Stunned, Ann walked into the house after her father.  “Dad, you’ve got to leave!  The Gorns are approaching from the north, and they’ll be here within the hour!  They’ll kill you!”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” he retorted.  “Look, take you mom if you can get her to go.  But I’m staying here.”

“Dad, the colony is regrouping at the mountain reserve shelters,” Ann said frantically.  “They’ve got enough facilities and are decentralized so the Gorns won’t be able to find them all.  The surviving defense troops could really use your help, dad!  Come on!  We need you!”

“Forget it!” the man said with spite.  “Those Starfleet bastards are the ones that got us in to this!  I wouldn’t trust them as far as I can throw them!”

“Dad, you’re throwing you life away!” she shouted.

But the stubborn man did not listen.  Instead, he walked over to the catatonic woman on the couch, and picked her up by the arm.

“No!” she protested with incredulous screams, struggling to tear loose from the man’s grip.  “No!  This is propaganda!  Starfleet’s here!  They’re lying!  They can’t do this!”

Janice, the older woman, was obviously in denial as the man grabbed onto both shoulders.  Pulling her off the couch, the struggle knocked several articles off the coffee table.  He shook her once, just long enough to halt her protest.  “Janice, listen to me!  Starfleet’s gone!  Go with Ann!  Get out of here!”

“Arthur, it’s not fair!” she whimpered with tears in her eyes.  “We’ve lived here all our lives!  Our children were born here!  They can’t take it from us!  They can’t!”

“They won’t,” the man said with emphasis.  “I swear it.”  As the woman began to weep, Arthur embraced her in a tight hug.  “You’ll always be my one and true.”

A moment went by as they hugged, interrupted only by a low-flying vessel that rumbled overhead.  The vibrations rattled the shelves, causing more items to fall on the floor.  Arthur looked upward with anxiousness, and handed Janice into Ann’s arms.

“Get her out of here, Ann,” he said with fervor in his voice.  “Take care of her.”

Ann herself began to cry.  “Dad . . .” her lip quivered, as if struggling to voice words she did not often speak.  “. . . I love you!”

Arthur corralled them towards the door, and the three embraced as a second vessel flew overhead.  Urging them to leave, he said, “Go!  Now!”

The two weeping women obediently left the home, leaving Arthur to finish his defense preparations.  He pressed a few buttons on the wall that extinguished the lights, and only the orange glow of the sky radiated through the windows.  As a third vessel flew overhead, Arthur charged his rifle and walked across the littered floor of the living room, and past a family picture of himself, Janice, Ann, and Leon.

 

<location: Sickbay, main ward, U.S.S. Republic>

Yellow alert not only brought the ship to a heightened readiness level, but it also activated an additional duty shift to the current on-duty shift.  Unless modified by the commanding officer, a starship normally ran on three eight-hour shifts.  Alpha shift, or day shift, normally took over duties from 0800 to 1600 hours ship time, and is the most active time where the civilian personnel and family members are awake and go about their daily activities.  Beta shift, or evening shift, is on duty from 1600 to 2400 hours, and is preferred by Starfleet personnel who like a quiet, leisurely morning before reporting to duty.  Gamma shift, or night shift, is also known to some as the “graveyard” shift, since the late-night duty hours (from 2400 to 0800 hours) is a time when the ship’s crew is most dormant, and lights throughout the public areas of the vessel are dimmed by one-half.

In alert situations, the activation of additional duty shifts is prescribed by Starfleet regulation as either (1) the next scheduled duty shift to be brought to duty alongside the current shift (yellow alert), or (2) bringing all of the vessel’s duty shifts to bare for battle-ready situations (red alert).  Normally, red alert is used sparingly and in short time intervals, since having the entire crew awake for extended periods would have everyone sleep-deprived within twenty-four hours.  However, yellow alert allows more flexibility, as all shifts are provided a short eight-hour off-duty period reserved only for sleeping, since each shift will be facing a long, sixteen-hour duty day when they awake.  Still, yellow alert is a good option when a starship needs a heightened readiness level, especially if they expect to be going to red alert in the near future.  This prepares everyone for the eventuality of a battle situation, and almost guarantees they will not be caught off guard.

In sickbay, yellow alert did two things:  first, it doubled the on-duty medical staff from eighteen to thirty-six, and second, activated one of the six-person stand-by emergency teams for duty.  Normally, red alert would have two of these teams ready to go for both internal and off-ship emergencies, but Doctor Cromwell only required one for yellow alert, according to his sickbay standing-operating-procedure (or SOP).  Still, the yellow alert did catch some people by surprise, especially since the ship was still in port, and the fact that is was currently beta shift, bringing the “graveyard” shift to duty prematurely made them a irritable bunch.

Doctor Cromwell, despite his anxious mood, made the most of the heightened alert status by reviewing his new crew, which reported onboard as soon as the ship was taken to yellow alert.  The last cruise, which was in the midst of the Kreltan conflict, sent the Republic into a war zone with a reduced staff; a situation which annoyed the doctor, but made him glad that he had instituted the cross-training program with the life-sciences section.  However, this most recent crew rotation brought his staff back to full capacity, even with Doctor Shannon Harris still assigned as temporary ship’s counselor.

Now, as beta and gamma shift continued to ready sickbay for the possibility of incoming casualties, Leon stood in the main ward reviewing his surgical staff.  Doctors Yezbeck and Fernmoore, the two newly promoted lieutenant commanders, stood nearest to the door, and leaned up against a countertop.    Doctor Ryda and Favuuk, the male Deltan and female Andorian respectively, were each standing next to the four biobeds on the forward-side wall.  Doctor Hudson, the Klingon/Orion/Human female MD, stood by herself against the wall on the other side of the main door, opposite of Yezbeck and Fernmoore; her anti-social behavior still in effect from the B’Rell incident over a month ago.  However, in the center of the main ward, were three new faces:  A dark-skinned human male in a gray ribbed-lined outfit, a blue-eyed human female lieutenant junior-grade of apparently Asian descent in a standard medical-blue uniform, and a short, white-haired and pink-skinned Klingon in the regular, metal-plated uniform of the Klingon Imperial Navy.  Leon, wearing his usual ivory turtleneck sweater, held a PADD in his left hand, and met these newcomers to his staff for the first time.

“Doctor Lawrence Major,” he addressed the dark-skinned male human, who smiled in return.  “Medical doctorate from the University of New Perth, Alpha Centauri.  Is this your first contract with Starfleet, doctor?”

“Yes sir,” replied Doctor Major with a slight Australian accent.  “I graduated three months ago and looked forward to a deep space assignment.”

Leon raised his eyebrow, knowing all too well the long strings attached to a civilian contract with Starfleet.  “Good luck,” he said in a slightly negative tone, causing the doctor to lessen his smile slightly.  “However, I’m happy to have you aboard.”  Leon shook the man’s hand heartily, indicating no malice.

Moving to the next in line, Doctor Cromwell consulted his PADD.  “Lieutenant Alice Copenhagen,” he said to the blue-eye Asian woman.  “Registered Nurse, Starfleet academy, class of ’78.  Coming to us from the U.S.S. T’Pol.  Ever been on a Galaxy Class starship, lieutenant?”

“No sir,” the woman replied. 

“I think you’ll like your assignment here, lieutenant.  We’ve been in need of a head nurse for quite a while.  Welcome aboard.”  Like Doctor Major, Leon shook Nurse Copenhagen’s hand warmly.

“Thank you, sir,” replied the new head nurse.

Moving to the last in line, Leon looked at the PADD before addressing the Klingon.  The doctor looked him over, realizing he was not the usual Klingon warrior that has become famous throughout the galaxy.  This one was shorter than normal, and although he appeared fairly young, his hair was white, and his skin a robust pink.

“Lieutenant Q’Tuir,” started Leon.  “Medical doctor, Klingon Imperial Navy.  Onboard in accordance with the Klingon officer exchange program.”

“Yes sir,” replied the Klingon in a deep, stern voice.

“What part of Q’onos are you from, doctor?”

“The Northern B’hraka province sir,” replied the lieutenant.  “It’s a small remote region of coastal fishing villas.”

“When did you graduate from the warrior academy?” Leon asked plainly.

“I have not been through the academy, sir.”

“No?” Leon asked quizzically.  “I thought all members of the imperial navy had to go through it.”

“You are mistaken, doctor,” Q’Tuir replied calmly.  “The people of B’hraka are not mainstream Klingons.  Our region is so remote that we rarely have contact with others from the main continent.  Although we are not as prone to the batliff as our brothers, mainly because we are of a slightly different genetic variant, all B’hrakans are Klingons nonetheless.

“Of course,” Leon agreed without hesitation.  “What brought you to space?”

“The need to explore,” smiled Q’Tuir.  “That, at least, cannot be erased from our common Klingon blood.”

“Have you ever served with humans before?” Doctor Cromwell asked, changing the subject.

“Of course sir,” Q’Tuir replied.  “I served aboard two Starfleet vessels during the Dominion War, and was promoted to assistant chief medical officer on one of them, the U.S.S. Gorkon.”

“Impressive,” Leon admitted.  “Do you have any problems serving alongside humans?  They are a fragile and sensitive species at times.”

“Not at all, sir,” the lieutenant stated benevolently.  “I’m sworn to the healer code like all Klingon doctors.  Species matters not, and I am honored to mend the flesh of anyone who asks of my skills.”

“You honor us with your presence, Doctor Q’Tuir,” Leon said.  “Welcome aboard.”  The two grasped hands tightly in an enthusiastic handshake.

Turning around to address the collection of surgeons, Leon explained to them their current situations.

“I suppose by now, you’re all wondering why we’re at condition yellow,” he started.  “Starfleet has lost contact with the colony of Cestus Three.”  The black-bearded and balding Doctor Yezbeck perked up slightly, looking at Leon squarely and with a raised eyebrow.  “For that reason,” continued Doctor Cromwell, “the Republic has been assigned to investigate.  Although we hope that it’s just a communications glitch, Starfleet has warned that the Gorns may have performed a pre-emptive strike on the colony.  We have to be prepared for anything, so let’s look sharp.  Doctor Favuuk,” he addressed the Andorian doctor.  “I’m moving Doctor Major into the family medical services coordinator job, so you’ll move back into the ward supervisor position under Doctor Ryda.”  The blue-skinned female nodded with a smile, and twitched an antenna.  “Doctor Hudson,” he beckoned the shy woman in the corner.  “You’re tenure as head nurse is over, and I’d like you back into the ward supervisor’s position under Doctor Fernmoore.”  Hudson smiled, and the crest on her nose rose slightly, but she said nothing.  “Doctor Q’Tuir,” Leon addressed the Klingon newcomer.  “It would honor us very much if you would fill the ward supervisor’s position under Doctor Yezbeck.  I believe your medical skills would compliment his own quite well.”

“Understood,” Q’Tuir replied.

“Nurse Copenhagen, I already explained your new position, and I suggest you meet your nursing staff and disseminate our mission situation.”

“Immediately sir,” the nurse acknowledged, and walked out of the room towards the administrative lobby.

As she left, Leon concluded his meeting. “Well, I guess that’s it.  For our veterans, please welcome our newer staff, and show them around the ship when you get the chance.  Dismissed.”

Without another word, Leon made a direct line to his office, not taking notice of the scrutinizing stare that Doctor Yezbeck gave him.  As the CMO exited the room, Saal looked around at the dispersing gaggle of officers and then proceeded to follow him.

***

“Maruevian Tea,” Leon said to the wall-mounted replicator next to his desk.  “Hot.”  As the drinking vessel whispered into the receiving chamber, the doctor wrapped his hands around the mug and raised it to his lips.  Taking a quiet sip, Leon took a moment to relish the spicy liquid before allowing it to slip down his throat.  Unfortunately, as they often do, this quiet moment was short lived as a soft knocking came from the door.  Doctor Yezbeck stood in the doorway as Leon acknowledged him.

“Something I can do for you, Saal?”

“Oh, not much,” he mysteriously answered, strolling into the office.  “Just wondering if things are okay.”

Leon closed his eyes, slightly annoyed that he was being psychoanalyzed.  “If I want a counselor, I’ll call Shannon.”

“Come on,” Yezbeck continued.  “Don’t tell me it doesn’t bother you.  Cestus Three?  Hits a little close to home, doesn’t it?”

“What do you want me to do?  Break down and cry? Saal, I’m not really in the mood to open the floodgates on my feelings right now.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Yezbeck admitted straightforwardly.  “I just wondered if there’s anything you want to get off your chest.  If it is the Gorns, there’s no telling what’s going on at Cestus.”

Leon, quite unexpectedly, slammed the mug down on his desk.  “If it IS the Gorns,” he yelled, “I want to be the one behind the phasor controls!”

“Well,” Yezbeck said, folding his arms.  “So much for not opening the floodgates.”

“Sorry,” Leon replied, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead.

“Don’t be,” he explained.  “I asked for it.  Why don’t you try and get some sleep.  Alpha shift is supposed to be off duty anyway.”

“Sleep?  You expect me to sleep?”

“Look, either prescribe yourself a tranquilizer, or I will.  You’ll need sleep.  Especially if it’s the Gorns.”

“Fine,” Leon surrendered.  “You have sickbay.  Call me if you need me.”  He picked up the mug of tea, and proceeded to exit the office without another word.

 

<location: Captain’s Ready Room, deck 1, USS Republic>

A few minutes passed before the chime to his door rang and Lieutenant Kristin Taylor entered. Crossing towards his desk, she came to attention and said "You wished to see me Captain?"

"Yes Lieutenant, have a seat. Don't worry about what happened in the briefing. Now on to the real topic, when I ask for a scientific explanation please explain it to where someone who is not science minded can understand it. My science courses were my lowest scores at the Academy that's why Lieutenant."

From her seat, Lieutenant Tyler just gazed at him calmly. She hadn't planned on worrying about the events in the briefing, nor had she planned to question the Captain's request that she phrase her explanations in more simple terms even though she had actually simplified her statement quite a bit in contrast to Lieutenant Commander Virtus' statements which had been quite detailed on the more technical aspects of things. Therefore, all she said was simply "As you wish Captain."

Marshall didn't like her short answer, and he hoped that Tyler would fit in with this crew. "When we're on the bridge, and this goes for all senior staff, it is all business. Off duty we're pretty relaxed."

What was going on here? Did he think she was a newly graduated kid fresh from the Academy still wet behind the ears? Kris wasn't sure just what she was expected to say in response to a statement like that, all she could come up with was a simple "Understood Captain."

"Look, I'm not trying to treat you like a fresh Academy grad. I know of your record, and you'll do fine here. All I can ask for is your best." The captain rose from his chair and went around the desk and sat on the edge and said, "We haven't been properly introduced, James Marshall," as he held out his hand to her.

Accepting his hand, she shook his hand as she said "Kristen Tyler.." A part of her wondered if the Captain was a telepath since he'd seemed to know what she was just thinking a moment earlier.

I know how to read people, you looked a little uncomfortable. I'm not trying to be intimidating.   Feel free to make yourself at home on the Republic."

Not knowing what else she could say, Kris replied, "Thank you sir."

"You're welcome"

Feeling very uncomfortable and not sure what if anything she was expected to do now Lieutenant Tyler simply waited for the Captain to continue.

Marshall noticed that she was uncomfortable, "Well Lieutenant, I'll let you get back to your duties."

Rising, Kristen said "Aye Captain." And then escaped as quickly as possible. She hadn't quite known what he wanted from her, and felt a little rush of relief once she'd left.

 'Well that went well' thought the Captain, There were times when he hated being the youngest Captain to get a Galaxy-class starship.

=/\= “Bridge to Captain, we're ready to depart.” =/\=

“I'll be right there.”

Marshall walked onto the bridge, and took the center seat.   He noticed that all of the bridge positions were staffed by department heads.  'Everyone's where they should be' thought the Captain.

“Bridge to Engineering.”

=/\= “Virtus here.” =/\=

“How are the engines?”

=/\= Operating at 98 percent efficiency, Captain.  You can take her out at anytime.” =/\=

“Good to hear.  Bridge out.”

Marshall then turned to the helm and ordered, "Mister Hawk, take us out.  One quarter impulse."

"Cap'n?" Hawk questioned, turning his head towards the Commanding Officer.  "Ain't nothin' wrong with the engines, fars I can tell."

Marshall then replied, "Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander Virtus just told me that the engines were fine.  You heard the order."

"Yessa, I heard it.  Jus' don't understands it.  I mean, engines r'fine - why ain't we goin' faster 'an molasses?" Nat queried.

 Marshall then said, "If you'll check the sensors they're going to tell you that there is a lot of traffic out there.  I don't want to risk hitting another ship. Not that you would, better to be safe than sorry."  James looked out of the corner of his eye, and saw that even Commander Carter was getting a little irritated with the delay.

Marshall then opened a channel to the starbase.  “Approach control this is Republic.  Request permission to leave dock.”

=/\= “Permission granted.  You may depart when ready.  Bon voyage Republic.” =/\=

“Thank you Starbase 23.  See you next trip.” The channel then closed.

"Cap'n," Nat said, standing from his post and turning to face the elder superior, "I was with the 85th attack squadron all through'n before the war.  Flown circles 'round fleets in heavy combat.  Graduated top a'ma class in flight school.  I could fly a Borg cube through space dock doors w'out scratchin' the paint.  I sure's hell can fly this big ole gal through some local traffic." Hawk said, defensively.  "Now ya ain't confident a'ma abilities, dats one thing.  Ya don't know me well 'nough yet.  That the case though, I'd rather ya just says it 'stead of insultin' me by worryin' 'bout some traffic

 "If I say take us out at one-quarter impulse, I mean take us out at one-quarter impulse.  I did not mean to insult you, but that is the regulation.  Look it up, or I can have Mister McTaggart remove you from my bridge and you can stay here at the Starbase.  Which sounds more exciting to you?" said Marshall

 "Ah, regulation, yessa," Nat replied, sarcasm clear as Jeballian Glass in his voice, "gots ta follow thems ta the letter, now don't we?" he said, sitting down at the Conn.  "Wouldn't wanna thing like independent thought gettin' in the way'a the all mighty rule book, now would we?" he questioned aloud.  "Must'a mistook the whole escapade dat got me here'n helpin' resurrect Commander Lazarus as a breech a'them regulations.  How'd I eva'r get 'n idea like that?" he mused, plotting the course and speed.  "One quarta impulse, aye aye, skipper." he informed.

Marshall didn't appreciate the sentiment as Hawk piloted the ship out of the Starbase.  Once the Republic had cleared the Starbase, and all traffic, Marshall said, "Mister Hawk, lay in a course to Cestus III and engage at Warp 7."

 "Christ," Nat muttered.  "Skipper, confirm that?  Ya say warp seven?  Ain't this a critical, life-er-death, emergency-type situation?  Ya know, the kind they built ships dat go warp nine-point-nine-seven-five fer?" he questioned.

 "Commander Carter, you were a Helmsman.  How long would it take to get from here to Cestus III at Warp 7?" asked Marshall.

"Three and a half hours if I've calculated it right Captain," said Carter

"That's soon enough for me," replied Marshall, "Hawk either follow my orders without question or get off my bridge."

 "Just confirmin' skipper," Nat replied, "long as it's soon 'nough fer ya, alls well.  Hope it's soon 'nough for them colonists though.  Oh an, I'm followin' yer orders sir.  Precious regulations though say when in doubt of an order, askin' fer confirmation's proper procedure.  Wouldn't want me ta break regs, would ya Cap'n?" Hawk asked as he plotted the new course and engaged at Warp 7.

 "No I wouldn't want that."

"Didn't think so," Hawk replied with a devil-may-care grin.  "ETA... three hours, thirty-six minutes, skipper."

The Republic then jumped into warp.  It was good to be in action again.  Marshall then rose from his seat and said, "Commander Carter, you have the bridge.  I'll be in my quarters."

 

<location: Captains Quarters, deck 8, U.S.S. Republic>

Marshall walked in and sat in the chair by the coffee table.  He shut his eyes and thought back to an earlier time.

***

Cadet James R. Marshall walked into the holodeck they were using for training.  It was the dreaded Duck Blind scenario.  He was relieved that Cadet Tylyn Malcome would be in command, and not him.  He had drawn the post of Security/Tactical.  The simulation started, and Marshall headed to his station.

They had approached the ship, a Klingon D-12 Bird of Prey.  They hailed the Klingons but it was no success.  "Cadet Marshall," said Tylyn, "what kind of weaknesses does a Bird of Prey have?"

"None apparent Captain.  However, Starfleet has theorized that they might be susceptible to some kind of ionic pulse."

"Ops, ready the pulse.  Marshall be ready to fire as soon as their shields were down."  Marshall watched his display and fired all torpedoes.  The Klingon ship exploded and the simulation ended.  After the debriefing, James headed back to his quarters.  As he sat down, the door chimed.  "Enter," said James.  He was surprised at who was standing in the doorway, Cadet Tylyn Malcome.  "Tylyn, what brings you here?"  She entered and said, "You.  I wanted to thank you myself for what happened in the simulator."

"It was nothing," said James.

"It's more than that to me," said Tylyn.  She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.  He vowed that he would never forget her eyes with her brown hair cut short covering her ears.  She had an incredible face.

***

Marshall drifted back into reality.  He hadn't thought about Tylyn in a while.

=/\= “Bridge to Captain Marshall.  Sir, there's a small fleet of Corvette size ships on an intercept course.  The lead ship is hailing us.” =/\=

“Slow to impulse. I'm on my way.”

 

<Location: Bridge turbolift, U.S.S. Republic >

U.S.S. Republic was en route to the Cestus system to investigate communications problems. The ship was still ninety minutes out of the system, and while Republic was still at yellow alert, the Alpha shift had ended, and Captain James Marshall had ordered that the Alpha Shift take some down time while they could. Stepping into the bridge turbolift, John Carter had to admit that his captain had a point.

As John entered the lift car, Nat Hawk, Republic's helmsman stepped into the car behind him. Like the rest of the bridge crew, Carter had just heard the helmsman's exchange with Marshall, and a part of him wanted to dress Hawk down like a first-year cadet. Instead, he tired to focus on getting some rest.

`Just calm down Johnny', the XO chided himself silently. `We're all a little jumpy.' Carter turned toward the lift car's audio pick-up.  "Deck 10."

"Thank ya kindly, C'mander." Nat said with a nod, as he stepped off of the Bridge. "Ya headin' fer the hill?" he asked Carter.

The XO cleared his throat, swaying slightly as the car raced toward the forward section of deck 10 that served as the ship's primary recreation area.

"Been damn near livin' there maself." Nat said despite Carter's relative lack of reply.

"I bet." Carter rolled his eyes, trying to hide his annoyance.

"There a problem, C'mader?" Hawk asked, a slice of attitude edged into his voice.

John regarded the helmsman, then cocked his head to speak to the computer. "Hold." The car slid to a stop and Carter gave his companion a steely look. "Yes, Mister Hawk, there is."

"Oh really?" Hawk asked, crossing his arms across his chest, "Ya wanna 'laborate for me?"

Carter turned to face the junior officer. He could feel his temper rising, and had to remind himself to control it. "Just what the hell did you think you were doing up there? That was a starship bridge! Not the Ready Room on a carrier!"

"Yer point?" Hawk replied. "First the Cap'n seemed ta be questionin' ma skills, then he decides ta go at measly warp seven in an emergency, which just seems damn stupid if ya ask me." he said.

"I don't care if he told you to break your own arm!" Carter shot back. "He DID NOT ask for opinions. He gave you an order." Carter leaned back against the car wall, trying to relax. "I've read your file Lieutenant, and so has the Captain. We both know your good, but if your ego needs so much attention, you might want to think about going back to the 85th."

"Heh," Nat replied with a laugh, "ain't got nothin' ta do with ego. Just common sense. He may not a asked fer 'pinions, but that don't mean I ain't gonna give 'um when he gives stupid orders."

"You're a Lieutenant." Carter offered. "You don't get to decide what's stupid and what's not." After a moment, Carter rubbed the back of his neck and continued. "Look. God knows I'm not telling you to blindly follow orders. I'm not always good at that myself, and I haven't agreed with a lot of the Captain's decisions," Carter chuckled. "I'm not even sure I LIKE the man, but I've NEVER questioned an order in front of the crew. Now, in private, well that's a different story."

"Phh," Nat replied, "rank don't matter much ta me. Never did. Just a title when push comes ta shove. Just 'cause I don't get ta decide in the end don't mean I ain't gonna voice my 'pinion in the hopes it'll help somebody make a better choice."

"Griffe! You're not listening to me." Carter straightened back up. "A starship functions on discipline, it's not like flying a fighter or running the triangle trade routes." John put one hand on his hip. "In an engagement, we won't have time for you to question. 'Gee Cap'n sir, shouldn't we oughta fire them torpedoes?' " John was barely aware that he was mocking the affable helmsman. "You do that, we're dead. And I don't want to die because you can't follow an order.”

"Combat's one thing. That's different. Ya gotta trust yer squad - or crew. When somethin ain't right though, and lives ain't at stake, keeping quiets just dumb." Hawk replied. He then shook his head and let out a short sigh, "Computer, resume." he commanded.

"Mister Hawk," the XO questioned, "I see your point. But you're a Department Head. That means that you're part of the command crew, and we have to present a unified front. Clear?"

"If 'unified front' means 'si'down and shut up' then nope, it ain't clear at all." Hawk replied. "Computer, halt" he then commanded. "Listen... I know all you Starfleet types do things one way... but I don't. I'm not here by choice 'er circumstance, I'm here cause I gotta be. Which means you gotta get used ta how I operate, just like the Cap'n - who already seems ta be. Or did ya fail to notice how any other cap'n woulda thrown any other Helmsman off the bridge for being so independent up there?"

"Now that you mention it," Carter commented, "But if you're going to wear that uniform, then you WILL respect fleet procedures." He gave the helmsman a weary look. "I'm all for independent thought, but if you're determined to be a privateer, I can talk to some Orion traders for you." Carter waited for the words to sink in. "Computer, resume."

Nat couldn't think. He could only act. After a few seconds of silence, he did just that. Slamming his right fore-arm against Carter's chest, he used his weight and momentum to push him against the wall of the turbolift, and in another fluid motion brought his fore-arm to bare on the Commander's throat, obstructing part of his oxygen supply and making it clear if he tried to move he was liable to get some broken bones. "Halt turbolift! Lockdown 26-Omega!" Hawk commanded, using one of the few Intelligence codes he had been given by Starfleet, totally isolating the turbolift from the rest of the ship. "What the hell kinda sick maniac are ya?" Nat asked him finally.

It was all Carter could do to keep conscious. Pushing against Hawk's attack...fighting for air. His thoughts were a blur. '26 Omega? What the hell did that mean?'

"I could have you tossed in an SI brig fer a coupla years for threaten' a witness just fer that right there!" Nat shouted.

John worked his fingers under Hawk's forearm, shifting his weight to use Hawk's own momentum to help him slip lose. Carter rubbed his throat and stepped behind Nat. "SI?" Carter coughed again. "Sprock me! You're another damned Black Shirt! Grozit! How many of you guys are there?"

Nat turned on his heel, stepping back to the wall of the lift and keeping himself prone for an attack. "I ain't no friggin black shirt goon!" Hawk shot back. "Only have dealin's with them cause a Faro!" he shouted before realizing what he said.

"Faro?" John wondered, "Kevaan Faro? Damn kid, when you make enemies, you don't fool around, do you? He's bad news. Even the other syndicate members stay away from him."

"Wha?" Nat began, unsure what the hell was going on. "You don't know jack 'bout why I'm really here, do ya?" he asked. "And... you weren't just threatenin' ta sell me other to the Syndicate either..." he stated, realizing.

John swallowed hard. "NOW we're getting somewhere." He tried his best to straighten up, leaning against the wall for support. "I wasn't ALWAYS in 'Fleet Hawk. Everything I learned about sailing I learned from Teddy Peck on the Gilded Lily. Damn it," he coughed again, "This is why I hate secrets."

"Believe me, you an me both." Hawk replied. Letting his guard down, he slumped back against the wall. "Well I s'pose the cat's outta the bag now, ain't it? Alright. Here it is, one time, one time only. Ain't gonna talk 'bout it again outside a secured locale, neither are you." Hawk said. "...Ya obviously know who Faro is. 'Side from a nasty fella, he's also a well feared one even 'mongst his Syndicate brethren. I ain't gonna tell ya the whole story, not even the Cap'n 'er Forrest know that, but jist a things is... I'm sorta like the.. uh, what'd'ya call it? Key... prime... lead witness against 'em." Hawk said. "Ya prolly know he's on the run. So 'till they catch him, Starfleet's the safest place fer me. So here I am."

"Grozit." John cursed. He weighed what Hawk had just told him. As a key witness against a major crime lord, Hawk would be a marked man no matter where he went, so John had to admit that keeping the young man mobile, and where SI could track him, made a certain amount of sense. Knowing now what Hawk had to deal with, Carter offered an easy smile. "Tell you what kid, I'll watch your back if you promise to at least look at the rule book." He looked up again, about to address the computer, then looked back at Hawk. "You um...wanna cut us loose?"

Hawk just stared at Carter for a moment, unsure of him. "Heh," he finally laughed, "I'll look at it, ain't mean I'm gonna follow it." He replied. "Computer, release lockout 26-Omega, code sequence SI-one-one-seven-delta-epsilon." Hawk said. A moment later, the lift resumed and finally deposited them onto Deck 10.

"Tell ya what," he said, stepping out of the lift after Carter. "Lemme buy ya a drink fer, uh, stranglin' ya, an we'll see if we can't reach some sorta arrangement." he said as they moved down the corridor toward the Hill.

 

<location: Deck 10, forward, U.S.S. Republic>

Nearly an hour since he'd come off duty, Nat sat at the bar in the low-lit lounge, nursing a glass of Romulan Ale - his second since the ship's First Officer, John Carter, had left twenty or so minutes earlier.  The incident with the ship's exec had shaken Nat up more than he had realized, or let on.  Having his past stirred up in any fashion was an unpleasant experience that Nat tried to avoid like an Academy Mid-Term.  In the end though, it always caught up with him, no matter how far or fast he ran, or how well he tried to hide from it.  So he drowned his senses and his sorrows in the strongest intoxicant known to the Alpha Quadrant, and hoped to hell it worked well enough to let him forget about things for a while.