Julie Raybon
and I were overjoyed at the results of our first collaboration,
"Introductory Offer." Thus, we've decided to forge ahead with a
full-blown crossover between our two primary storytelling vehicles.
She'd worked on Adventurous
for some time a few years ago, but more pressing matters had
pushed it onto the back burner. I read through some of her material, liked it,
and conceived of an interesting plot that would bring the two crews together and put the formidable pair of Erika Donaldson and Luciano
Mantovanni at loggerheads. We hope you enjoy the fireworks.
I can also guarantee that, since Adventurous
is now a member of the 13th Fleet, you haven't seen the last of the
intrepid little ship and her rather remarkable crew. Hopefully this novella will
convince you that's a good thing.
Lest any of you think I'm begrudging
Julie equal billing for the following tale: I provided a scene for her story,
"…And Never Brought to Mind," and this is the method we decided then
was best for showing that the second writer's contributions were significant,
but not quantitative enough to deserve status as a co-author.
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE): 50017.7 (
TIME:
1103 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21544
FEDERATION
AUSPICIOUS-CLASS FAST EXPLORER/LIGHT FRIGATE USS ADVENTUROUS,
CAPTAIN E.J. DONALDSON COMMANDING, IN CLOSE FORMATION WITH STARFLEET/KLINGON
SPECIAL TASK FORCE, DESIGNATE EPSILON ONE THREE SEVEN TWO
ALERT
STATUS: YELLOW
“I don’t
know why you’re so upset about this plan,” Shana Arland commented to her captain as they stepped out of Adventurous’
sickbay.
“Why
wouldn’t I be upset?” Erika Donaldson replied, while poking experimentally at
her now fully healed ribs. “It’s insane.”
“It’s also
exactly the sort of thing you would do.” As they set off down the
corridor, the red-headed doctor grinned at her friend’s obvious irritation.
“Oh, come off it, Erika. You’re just annoyed that you have to deal with someone
else being in charge again.”
As much as
Donaldson hated to admit it, her CMO was right. Over the last few years she’d
become quite comfortable being her own authority. Now, they weren’t even home
and she’d been dragged back into the reality of Starfleet.
Petty,
Erika. Very, very petty, she chided herself. Four members of your crew dead, 26 wounded, and
here you are pouting because Luciano Mantovanni has the authority—and
gall—to tell you what to do.
As if she'd
read her friend's mind, Shana asked, "Is he
really so bad?”
Donaldson
pondered that, frowning. “He’s… intense.”
In fact,
the legendary captain of
She couldn't
help but wonder if he thought the same of her.
It's not
like your present behavior would give him any reason to think otherwise, she thought sourly. You’re acting
exactly like the insubordinate loose cannon everyone presumes you to be.
As Donaldson
paused in front of a lift, Arland squeezed her
shoulder. “Don’t start expecting the worst, Erika.”
“Start?” Donaldson
smiled wryly. “I never stopped.” The lift doors slid open and she stepped in.
“Just keep reminding me to keep my big mouth shut.”
“By the
way,” Shana immediately supplied, grinning, “keep your big mou-...”
As the
doors closed, cutting off the doctor’s oddly comforting impudence, the target
of her barb ran a hand through her hair and sighed.
You,
Erika Donaldson, are your own worst enemy.
Brennig Tethyan met her as she stepped onto the bridge. The Vor'Shan security chief regarded her apologetically.
“Sir,
Commander Maxwell called up here... again.”
Oooohh, that’s surprising,
Donaldson thought. With a slight roll of her eyes, she inquired, “What was her
complaint this time?”
While Tethyan couldn’t precisely smile—he lacked the
facial muscles for such an expression—there was an intimation of humor in the
tilt of his head.
“It was
difficult to pinpoint only one.”
Donaldson
took a deep breath. “All right. Tell her I’ll stop
down there later. Remind her that I meant it when I said 'best behavior.'”
The tip of
his tail twitched. “She won’t be happy.”
“Well,
that'll make two of us.” Absently rubbing the back of her neck,
Donaldson made her way down to the pit. It wasn’t so much the fact of their
induction into the “13th Fleet,” but the circumstances that had led to
it. She was feeling trapped by events beyond her control.
Some days
it seemed like that was the story of her life.
Welcome home,
Erika! What happened while you were gone, you ask...? Hmmm, let’s see... same
old, same old...
...oh...
and a war
started. Nice to have you back!
Settling
into her seat, she began pulling up the shift reports on her console. There was
a soft cough to her right, but she coolly ignored it.
“You’re
still angry.”
Doug Roese, who was
smarting from the dressing down she’d given him after he related his
altercation with Liberty’s first officer—it hadn’t been
pretty—hesitantly essayed that opening comment.
Erika
snorted.
“Oh, I
don’t think ‘angry’ is the best word, if you're looking for real precision,
Doug. Maybe ‘indignant.’ Or
‘incensed.’ Or, oh, how about ‘infuriated’?”
But
definitely one of those “in-” words, she thought.
“I did not
need that,” she added softly—then, abruptly stopped; she’d made her point
earlier. Berating him further wasn’t going to help.
“I know.”
He stared at his hands, which were clenched in his lap. “I’m sorry."
For a
moment, she was slightly mollified… but he couldn't just leave it at that.
“It's just
that he's such an arrogant son of a..."
Erika's
warning glare cut him off in the nick of time.
She knew he
wasn't talking about the Tzenkethi.
"Doug,
we’re in it, for good or ill, so quit whining. I get enough of that from
“I know,” he repeated, and slouched deeper into
his chair.
The silence
lasted all of fifteen seconds.
“I just
don’t like the way he dismissed our concerns out of hand. Or the way he treated
you. Just because he has the biggest boat he acts like he can do whatever the
hell h–...“
“Drop
it, Commander.” The rebuke was mild, but Doug recognized it for what it
was: The last warning he was going to get on the matter.
Wisely, he
complied.
Donaldson dug
her thumb into her temple in a vain attempt to alleviate the building headache.
She knew she should take her own advice. After all, she had always made it her
goal to judge people on their merits, and most emphatically not on what
was attributed to them by reputation, rumor and speculation. Why treat
There was
a difference, though: Usually, after one of her altercations with a superior,
she could retreat to her vessel, perform her duties, and not have to see or
speak to her opponent for anything between weeks and years afterwards.
Luciano
Mantovanni, however, she couldn’t just leave behind: He was in the next ship
over...
...and he wasn’t
going away.
Shutting
off the console, Donaldson stood, eyeing her X-O. “You have the bridge.”
She paused
by ops as she left. "Solan, I want you to get as
much information on the state of the war from
The Vulcan
handed her PADD.
"I
estimated there was a 98.2% chance you would request that information, Captain.
Here is a preliminary dataset. The computer is finishing final
correlations. The completed file will be accessible under your command codes in
20 minutes.”
"Only 98.2%?" For the first time in almost three days, Erika smiled.
"There
is never 100% certainty where you are concerned, Captain."
"Really? I'll take that as a compliment, Solan."
"Indeed,
sir." An expression that might have been a smile ghosted over his chiseled
features.
Erika
Donaldson laughed softly as she made her way to the lift.
Time to make the best of a bad situation.
***
Eight decks
below, her chief engineer, unfortunately, did not have the same attitude.
It was
commonly known that Lieutenant Commander Taylor Maxwell was a brilliant
engineer, one of the best in Starfleet; she was acknowledged a preeminent
expert on transwarp drive technology and considered a mechanical genius.
It was also
commonly known that she was, in the words of a former colleague, "the most
aggravating, infuriating and impossible person in the Alpha
Quadrant."
Right at
that moment, she was watching events from the upper deck of main engineering in
a manner that had even her own people avoiding her.
Assistant
Chief Engineer Jolan Tigel
approached, but made an abrupt about face when he saw the look in her eyes.
Instead, he caught the attention of Chief Petty Officer Otto Eberhard, who was explaining to a group of
“Otto.” The Bajoran glanced to the upper deck as he drew the older
engineer aside. “I think you should go talk to her.”
Eberhard followed Jolan’s gaze. “Why do I feel like I’m being sent to the
phaser range—as a target?”
“You know
that other than the captain, Shana, and Brennig, you’re the only person who has a chance of
reasoning with her when she’s like this.”
The stocky
German crossed his arms. “There is no reason involved, Tigel. It is just a matter of waiting her out.”
“Well, wait
fast.” Jolan gave him a gentle shove toward
the ladder.
His brow
wrinkling, Eberhard made his apologies to the
visiting engineers and unhappily went to beard the lioness in her den.
Maxwell
didn’t turn around as he approached. She was drumming her fingers on the rail,
and her foot tapped a silent rhythm on the floor.
“What are
they saying?”
Eberhard hesitated,
then realized there was no way out.
“They’re,
ah, just wondering about the modifications we’ve made.”
“I’ll bet.”
The staccato beat of her nails on the imitation wood grain increased. “The
Vulcan doesn’t look too pleased.”
Eberhard forbore
from confirming her observation. “The discrepancies between our systems and the
standard specifications are rendering her inspection less relevant. She wants
to start a physical survey of all systems.”
Maxwell
said nothing for a long moment.
“I should
go… assist.”
The German
cringed. He knew that tone all too well. "Uh, Chief,
you remember what the captain said…"
"I'll
be civil."
“Maybe you
should give me your phaser…”
Glaring at
him, Maxwell slapped the sidearm down on the table before she spun on her heel
and stalked in the direction of the
He waited
only until she was out of earshot before opening a comm channel. "Eberhard to Lieutenant Tethyan. I think we're going to need you in
engineering...”
He winced.
“...about
five minutes ago."
***
Lieutenant T'Lann caught sight of Commander Maxwell approaching on what
her more metaphorically appreciative colleagues would probably call “an
intercept course.” Her fellows from
"Yes, Commander?"
"What
the fuck do
you think you're doing?" the petite brunette practically
snarled, interposing herself between the Vulcan and the panel she’d just
opened.
"I am
preparing to begin a visual inspection of the exhaust manifold assembly, prior
to a full physical survey of the warp and transwarp matrices.” The Vulcan
glanced down at her tricorder. “Both drive configurations are significantly
altered from the original design specifications.” The tone of her statement
sounded almost disapproving.
Maxwell snorted
contemptuously—whether the target of her disdain was her "guest" or
the designs, no one was sure.
“Of course
they are. We wouldn’t have gotten out of the Sol system with the piece of crap
they gave us. I’ve spent the last five years redesigning the engines.” She
crossed her arms and glared up at T’Lann. “Is that a
problem for you?”
“Under the
circumstances, it would be logical for engineers unfamiliar with your...” the
Vulcan hesitated, as Maxwell’s eyes narrowed and her expression graduated from
angry to threatening, “...innovations,” she finally decided, “to acquaint
themselves more fully with the alterations to Adventurous’ basic
design.”
"Would
it now?"
"Yes,"
the Vulcan replied simply as she edged around Maxwell and returned to her
previously interrupted task.
She didn’t
get far.
Casually,
Maxwell reached over... and slammed the panel shut. Fortunately, T’Lann’s reflexes were such that she was able to withdraw
her hands in time.
No one
present thought that consideration had been foremost in
"I
didn't give you permission to go ahead with that, Lieutenant." Adventurous'
CEO said, biting off each word sharply, and emphasizing their difference in
rank with all the subtlety of a Klingon pain stick.
Undeterred,
T'Lann raised a brow. It was a standard Vulcan
gesture, but to the already infuriated Maxwell, it seemed to read like an
insolent challenge.
"Indeed?
My orders are to make a full survey of your faster-than-light
engineering systems.
"Your
permission," she concluded, "is neither requested, nor
required."
There was a
soft "Oh, dear God," from someone in the small crowd that had
formed around them. For a moment, time slowed in that way it often seems to do
before some particularly disastrous event occurs.
Thankfully,
the Deity on whom someone had just called decided to listen.
"Is
there a problem here?" A large scaled hand, tipped with impressive
jade-green claws, settled gently on Maxwell’s shoulder, breaking—or, rather,
momentarily blunting—the tension.
She glanced
up at Brennig Tethyan.
"Yes,
there’s a problem. This…"
T’Lann addressed
her reply to the large saurian, who appeared more
rational than the fuming Maxwell.
"My
authorization comes from Lieutenant Commander Irriantia—and,
ultimately, Captain Mantovanni. He is the senior officer in the task force, and
thus has the final say in this situation.”
“I don’t care
if he’s Julius Caesar,” the small woman seethed. “My engines,
my jurisdiction. End of discussion.
“Good bye!” she spat.
T’Lann pointedly
ignored her and again appealed to Tethyan. “I have my
orders, Lieutenant. I cannot be responsible for Commander Maxwell's irrational
possessiveness as pertains to ‘her’ engines."
“‘Irrational possessiveness’?!” Tethyan's firm grip on her shoulder was all that kept Maxwell from lunging forward. "Get her
out of here!"
"If
you wish to remove the individual causing the difficulty,” T’Lann
continued, unfazed by the narrowly averted attack, “then I suggest you look to
your own chief of engineering."
With a
faint sigh, the Vor’Shan gently, firmly, drew
the furious
“I
appreciate your situation, Lieutenant.” The cultured British accent hid most of
his irritation. “But perhaps it would be best for all involved if you and your
people made a more concerted effort to defer to our CEO and personnel while on our
ship. I am certain that, were positions reversed, our people would accord yours
the same consideration—even under the present circumstances.” It was
diplomatically phrased, but an admonishment nonetheless.
T'Lann seemed
unimpressed.
“Though our
positions obviously are not reversed, Lieutenant, I am more than willing
to afford Commander Maxwell the respect due her rank and position. I must,
however, be permitted to perform the duties assigned me. She is clearly
interfering with that.”
Brennig, though
not thrilled at the woman’s literalness, acknowledged her response with a
slight nod. He then returned to where Adventurous’ chief engineer stood,
brimming with indignation—whether righteous or not was open to interpretation.
“In
return,” he
addressed
Positioned
as they were, Tethyan was the only one who saw the
panic pass across her face at his words. She went rigid in his grip, and her
mouth snapped shut. “No,” she said in a strangled voice, “that won’t be
necessary, Brennig.”
When he
released her, she spun about and strode for her office. The room remained
utterly silent until the door slid shut behind her.
“Your
intervention in this manner is appreciated, Lieutenant,” T’Lann
offered a moment later.
“Indeed,” Tethyan replied. “I only hope it does not become
necessary again, Lieutenant.”
Irritatingly
enough, T’Lann again had an answer.
“That is
entirely up to Lieutenant Commander Maxwell.”
With a curt
nod, he left, the very tip of his white and grey ringed tail twitching
sporadically. He was quite relieved the situation had been resolved so easily,
having been witness to others that had not ended so quietly.
Hell hath
no fury like Taylor Maxwell.
Brennig Tethyan would have been dismayed to know that at least one
of its principals considered the incident far from resolved.
For some
time afterwards, T’Lann, rather than focusing entirely
on the task at hand, reexamined the scene with Maxwell, replaying it in the
privacy of her thoughts using the eidetic memory and capabilities of
compartmentalized thinking that were her race’s birthright.
The woman
used profanity, attempted to prevent me from doing my duty, greatly overstepped her authority,
and, finally, threatened me with physical violence—all in the name of an
irrational territorial and proprietary feeling. Most
illogical.
But it was
more than that, and T’Lann was beginning to realize
it.
In some
engineers, that characteristic was a sentimental, but tolerable, affectation.
It was clear, though, that the volatile Taylor Maxwell perceived the phrase
“her engines” as far more of a literal statement... and expressed her
perception most vehemently.
The
implications were... disturbing.
The Vulcan re-analyzed
the data available to her—Commander Maxwell’s actions; the reactions of Adventurous’
engineering staff to the incident; the intervention and commentary of Brennig Tethyan; the near terror
in Maxwell’s voice when informed by him that the matter might come to Captain Donaldon’s attention—and came to the only logical
conclusion she could.
And once
she’d done so, it was, of course, necessary to act upon it.
T’Lann stepped
away from the maintenance panel, turned, and passed her PADD to Chief Petty Officer
Carmine Prinzo, who’d been assisting her.
“Please
continue working, Chief,” she told the compact little technician. “I shall
return as soon as possible.” The Vulcan strode briskly out of the engine
room, and waited for its doors to close behind her.
She then
tapped her comm badge.
“
She
hesitated... and finally added, “...immediately.”
Interlude One
"I
believe we've located them."
Gul Vamaq Danar smiled triumphantly
from his command chair. He'd been certain that his task force would have far
more luck than had the now-dead Jasad's, and his crew
had not disappointed him.
He steepled his fingers, index nails resting against his upper
lip, and, while carefully avoiding a glance at Gul Kirith Ocett, ordered,
"Specify your findings."
His aide, a
capable and carefully vindictive young Glinn named Uran, smirked as he handed a PADD to his superior.
"They
are trying to assemble at certain coordinates… then,
they plan on making an attack in force before running for the Federation
border, where they will cross in one of the less exhaustively patrolled
areas."
His
resources were limited, granted… but Danar knew he
had more than enough force to bring these recalcitrant humans to heel—and then
grind them beneath it.
"Begin
long range scans… narrow the focus of your search to known Federation ID call
markers, distinct warp field signatures and other clearly identifiable signs of
a Starfleet vessel's presence. Concentrate your search in the area indicated by
the intercepted transmissions."
"Do
you plan on waiting for reinforcements from Cardassia
Prime?" inquired Ocett. She'd returned only a
day ago, aboard the last remaining vessel from a task force that should have
been more than enough to rid them of the ships they thought they were
facing: An Akira-class heavy cruiser and a pathetic, cobbled together
frigate.
Instead,
they'd been shattered with humiliating ease when the Sovereign-class
fast battleship
Danar was eager
to intercept and deal with the upstarts on his own. He was, however, also aware
that the more prudent measure would be to alert Task Force A, and have them
move in and provide support.
"Send
an encrypted message to Gul Macet."
He nodded to his fellow—and, exaggeratedly, to Shalra,
the Vorta standing with her—then continued,
"Inform them that if we act swiftly, we can crush this little gathering of
ships before it becomes a genuine threat."
Before…?
"Considering
what they did to my task force, I consider them a 'genuine threat'
already," Ocett observed acidly.
Danar glared at
her, but seemed to concede the point.
"I
meant no disparagement, Gul Ocett." He then added, smirking, "Your ship may
have the point when we strike, if you wish it."
A palpable hit.
Ocett's eyes
narrowed. "You're well aware our repairs won't be completed by the
time you're ready to attack, Danar." Well
aware… and savoring it, you obnoxious…
"Then
you'll have to remain here at the depot until such time as your vessel is again
fully operational," he declared. "You're welcome, however, Gul Ocett, to assist in planning
the assault… the assault in which your ship, regrettably, cannot
participate."
I'll
certainly allow that you twist the knife with a certain…
energy, don't you, Danar?
"Thank
you, no," she answered frostily. "With your permission, I'll see to Narad's repairs."
It will
spare me your continued company.
While Ocett had managed to retain her dignity in the face of Danar’s poorly disguised ridicule, she found herself in a
difficult position: It was irritating (and somewhat career imperiling, if she
wasn’t prudent with her damage control) to have been present at the scene of
perhaps the only exclusively ship-to-ship engagement of any size the Federation
had won in the campaign’s opening days. Elsewhere, the conflict was going much
as the Central Command—and the Founders, of course—had foreseen.
That is,
while it wasn’t precisely a rout, it wasn’t exactly much of a war,
either: The Federation and its Klingon allies were learning that facing the
Cardassian Union and the Dominion simultaneously wasn’t the same as either
bullying the former or outpointing the latter.
Other than their admittedly well-conceived and crippling raid on the Tauros II shipyards—which still had the Founder
furious—Starfleet had done little more than attempt a few half-hearted
deployments; these had been beaten back almost effortlessly: In addition, their
attempts to counter the Dominion offensive were meeting with extremely limited
success.
Already the
front had clearly shifted into Federation space. Most of those territories
along the Cardassian frontier had already been annexed in the opening days of
the war. Starfleet, seemingly, didn’t have the stomach to resist the type of
viciousness the Jem’Hadar were more than willing to
employ in their attacks: Suicide runs; refusal to ask or grant quarter of any
sort; relentless application of force.
The
Federation is proving to be a... a... what’s the phrase the Terrans
use? she pondered. Ah... yes.
“A paper
tiger,” she
laughed aloud, momentarily enjoying the metaphor.
Then her
thoughts again grew sober.
Of course, I run into the wolf. How like
my fortune that is.
Stalking
furiously down the corridor, Ocett gradually became
aware of her newfound shadow's presence.
"You
will not accompany the task force, Shalra?" she
inquired.
The Vorta laughed.
"You
are a survivor, Ocett; I may serve the Founders,
blessed be their names, but I have no desire to die in so doing. I threw in my
lot with you some months ago, and shall remain with you. For the moment, I am a
Vorta without Jem'Hadar…
you did not use my vulnerability against me. I trust you, and wish for you to
trust me—well, insofar as any Cardassian truly trusts one such as I."
Ocett smiled
slightly, but didn't turn before she'd eliminated all traces of the momentary
lapse.
"And
you are welcome, Shalra. When additional Jem'Hadar are dispatched to your
service, perhaps you and I shall have conceived a plan of our own." She'd
had no idea why she'd said that, but trusted her instincts.
When Shalra smiled with serpentine relish, Ocett
knew that, once again, her intuition had proven correct.
End Interlude One
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE): 51017.78 (
TIME:
1147 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD (FST)
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21544
FEDERATION
SOVEREIGN-CLASS HEAVY EXPLORER/FAST BATTLESHIP USS LIBERTY,
CAPTAIN L.C. MANTOVANNI COMMANDING, HEADING STARFLEET/KLINGON SPECIAL TASK
FORCE, DESIGNATE EPSILON ONE THREE SEVEN TWO
ALERT
STATUS: YELLOW
"My
response was justified."
Commander Bagheer's snarling defense of his recent actions garnered
less of an immediate rebuttal than he'd expected.
"I
see."
Whatever
brief hope he'd maintained that no consequences, or comments, would be
forthcoming disappeared a moment afterward, though.
"So
you felt yourself to be in some danger?" his captain asked. He then smiled
humorlessly. "Commander Roese's wit must be
significantly sharper than that for which I credited him, to so easily pierce
through that Tzenkethi pelt of yours."
"He's
a snotty, sniveling little weasel,
"Indeed?
Interesting."
The
mildness of his captain's response caused Bagheer to wheel and regard him, jade green irises nearly obscured by dilated
black pupils. Unfortunately, this took the Tzenkethi off his accustomed
stalking path. As his tail whipped around, it passed over the small antique
table—and scattered the ivory and onyx chess pieces to the ground.
Drolly,
Mantovanni sighed, "I lose more positions that way."
Abruptly,
he asked, "Am I a coward?"
Bagheer
snarled, "Don't be absurd."
"Do
you think Petrova believes me a coward?"
"No."
"Then
you responded to obvious absurdities with physical force and the threat of still
greater violence," Mantovanni concluded.
Bagheer
muttered something about "too damned much Vulcan critical thinking for
your own good"—but kept it low enough that his captain chose not to
consider it a part of their exchange.
The
Sicilian continued, with gentle relentlessness, "How can I expect to
enforce discipline when my second-in-command won't restrain himself in the face
of idiocy?
"You
will apologize, sincerely and profusely, to Commander Roese for baring your fangs and laying claws on him. Despite
the fact that you considered it sufficient provocation, it constitutes
assault and battery, as well as conduct unbecoming. Consider yourself
tremendously fortunate that he has, thus far, not decided to press
charges. There are more than enough captains to convene a court martial board,
Bagheer… and as your commander, I'd have to step aside and let justice be
done."
He finished
with, “I'm more than a little disappointed with your behavior in this
matter."
A low
growl—not of anger, but instead distress—issued from Bagheer's
throat.
"What
about his comments concerning you?" the Tzenkethi asked.
"Slander is a court martial offense, as well."
"You're
not one to bring a fellow officer up on charges." Not when you could
eviscerate him instead. "Besides, I feel certain Captain Donaldson is
capable of disciplining her officers, if she deems it necessary."
"That
makes one of us," the feline growled resentfully.
His captain
was unmoved.
"Get
it all out now, Rajah..."
Bagheer
threw his head back and roared. It was impressive, and very near to deafening
in the enclosed space of the ready room—though probably not as bad as it'd been
for Roese and Petrova.
When he was
through, he glared back at his captain, and snarled, "I hate it
when you're right!"
"Well,
it happens seldom enough that you'll get over it," Mantovanni told him
sardonically. He then smiled—genuinely, this time.
Bagheer,
despite himself, felt his fury melting away. "Very
well."
Even as the
Tzenkethi turned to depart, the ready room chime sounded.
In a single
stride, his X-O reached the door, and it slid open without requiring
Mantovanni's invitation.
While Hatshepsut’s appearance wasn’t much of a surprise, both
officers were startled to see that Shiro Matsuoka had
left the confines of his sickbay… and each put aside their last discussion
immediately when they saw that the doctor's normally sober expression was
positively grim.
"We
may have a problem," he announced.
Mantovanni
motioned for Bagheer to go, and then invited Matsuoka and Hatshepsut to sit. If
the stately CMO and incisive ship’s counselor noted the scattered chess
pieces—and the Sicilian had little doubt they did—neither gave any sign.
A problem, the captain thought. Considering
Shiro’s penchant for restraint, this could be
borderline disastrous.
He gestured
for Matsuoka to relay his news...
...and was,
of course, almost immediately sorry he had.
***
Substantively
extending the range of
Doing it with
the equipment on hand was the interesting challenge.
Since being
ordered to come up with an innovation three days ago, the brilliant half-Vulcan
had already conceptualized four different reconfigurations to her ship’s
current long range sensor suite (none of which had satisfied her as being
enough of an improvement to show the demanding Mantovanni), as well as two
separate redesigns.
Such was
the mind of Sera MacLeod.
As far as
the latter, Sera knew, if she had the resources of
Starfleet Research and three months, either might be the perfect solution. But
the captain’s inquisitively arched brow of a few hours ago indicated to her
that he wasn’t concerned with significantly expanding the borders of scientific
knowledge at the moment.
We require
an edge, and he’s relying on me to provide it—soon.
She took a
sip of her beloved peach tea, glanced out the window of Liberty’s all
ranks club—which was called, strangely enough, “Another Fine Mess”—and,
there, noted the battered transwarp frigate USS Adventurous.
She’s quite
an ungainly little mutt... but hanging in there, Sera thought. Adventurous
unquestionably lives up to her name.
Something
about seeing the small, doughty ship caused a tangential shift in her thought
processes. As the idea suddenly coalesced in her mind, she stood, spilling her
drink, and dashed for the door.
“Look out,”
said someone at the bar. “Sera MacLeod’s off to change the laws of physics
again.” There was scattered laughter...
...which increased—as their beloved chief of operations stuck
her tongue out at them just before she left.
Luciano
Mantovanni paused the recording, and for a long moment, debated whether or not
he should add to it.
God knows, Shiro and M’Raav have just given me a lot more to consider, he thought.
“We’ve come
from a meeting with Lieutenant T’Lann,” the counselor
had said, after settling herself on the corner of his desk, “in which she
declared her belief that Lieutenant Commander Maxwell of the Adventurous
is psychologically unfit for duty.”
“And she
bases this diagnosis on...?” Mantovanni had asked.
The
Felisian had then relayed the entire incident; his captain had had no doubt
that it had happened essentially as stated, since T’Lann
possessed flawless recall and his counselor wasn’t exactly a dullard, either.
“What do
you want from me?”
Hatshepsut
had answered, “We feel it necessary to speak with both Doctor Arland and Lieutenant Commander Maxwell, at length. This is
a serious charge; it reflects not only on Arland’s
competence, but Donaldson’s as well. Of course, there’s no need to jump to any
conclusions...”
All three
had known, though, that it was unlikely T’Lann would
have made such an accusation if there were no substance behind it.
It hadn’t
boded well for the results of their coming investigation.
“Do what
you think is necessary,” Mantovanni had finally decided.
Matsuoka
had grunted. “We always do... whether you like it or not.”
Now, the
Sicilian pondered mentioning their actions in the captain’s log.
The inquiry
is a fact, he
thought, frowning. Certainly acknowledging such is proper procedure.
Instead, he
tapped the “Complete” button, and leaned back in his chair.
But I’ll be
damned if I’ll make it “official” until we have a better idea of what’s
happening. That young woman might like to have a subsequent career, and
documenting it right now is an indelible mark, whether the powers that be want
to admit it or not.
It wasn’t
often that Mantovanni allowed procrastination to make him feel better...
...but in
this case, he made an exception.
***
Taylor
Maxwell sat behind her desk... or, rather, hid behind it.
She’d
fought her Demon for years. Sometimes—the good times—she wasn’t even aware of
him; he withdrew to some unlit portion of her mind and skulked there, while she
went about her business, almost content with the life she’d forged for herself.
More often,
she could see him flitting in the shadows of her consciousness, whispering
thoughts she could almost perceive—and wished she couldn’t. Then she ignored
him as best she could, and pushed determinedly forward with her duties. Often
he would go away, having failed to incite the terror he so craved.
Now,
though...
I’m not
your enemy, he said. I
wish you could understand that.
You’ve got
to do
something, though. They’re going to take your job away from you...
“That’s
absurd,” Maxwell told herself.
Is it? he smugly replied. The Vulcan bitch
wants your job... she figures that she can supplant you here. You haven’t
solved the transwarp problem, after all, even though
they’ve given you weeks to do it... they’re all alike.
“She can’t
just take over my...” Maxwell protested.
Of course
she can! Erika’s not in charge anymore. Mantovanni’s in command; he can order Erika to take T’Lann, whether she wants to or not... you’ve got to get
out there and do something before it’s too late...
When the
office chime sounded, she nearly screamed.
“What!?”
The door
slid open to reveal a Vulcan woman.
T’La-...?!
No.
“Taylor
Maxwell? Hi, I’m Sera MacLeod, from the
Wordlessly,
on the verge of either hysteria or catatonia, Maxwell slowly nodded.
She’s here to
relieve you...
“Shut up!”
MacLeod
took an involuntary step back. Fortunately, the door had already closed behind
her, and she was the only one to hear the outburst.
“Usually it
takes people over five minutes to tell me to shut up, Commander. Getting a head
start?”
Huh? he said.
“Huh?” she
said.
Cautiously,
Sera moved forward with her statement. “I’ve... read some of your papers on
possible supplemental uses of transwarp energies. I was considering an
experiment, and really need your expertise.”
“You... need
my help?” Maxwell was groggily astonished.
The Vulcan
woman smiled. “Yes. You’re an innovator, so I knew you’d have the vision. My
idea is that, utilizing the particulate emissions from the...”
The Demon
desperately tried to gain
For the moment.
***
The
contrast between
Matsuoka’s
home ground was immense: It took up a sprawling portion of space on deck five,
and was surrounded by treatment rooms, medical research labs, outpatient
facilities, and a host of other applicable spaces.
Adventurous was a smaller ship; much of her bulk
was given over to the enormous transwarp nacelles that were, right now, the
focus of so much lavishly ineffectual attention.
Add to the
space and personnel constraints the fact that Shana Arland had to double as the ship’s counselor, and one
arrived at the inevitable conclusion that her job was not easy.
When
Matsuoka approached her, she was engaged in what at first glance looked to be
exasperating byplay with one of Adventurous’ senior officers.
“...tell
you to perform those exercises twice a day, Doug?” she scolded.
“I know.”
Her patient ducked his head slightly, in a conciliatory gesture—but then
protested, “I’ve been pretty busy.”
“No
excuses. Your arm won’t regain its full strength and range of motion if you
don’t exercise it. Jem’Hadar weapons are pretty
nasty, and I can only do so much... you have to help me, here.
“No
exercises this week,” she declared, “no hockey this weekend.”
“What?
You can’t...!” he protested.
“No...” she
countered firmly. “...you can’t miss any more exercises, or you
can’t play hockey. I’m leaving it up to you. Do your homework, and you can go
out after school. Miss even one time—and, believe me,” she added
sternly, “I’ll know—and you get to come do supervised therapy while the
other kids play hockey. Got me?” She poked him in the ribs.
“Yes, Miss Arland,” he replied snottily. Then his voice softened. “Thanks.”
“Your welcome, Doug. Now," she chuckled, "go do some work.”
Even as Roese withdrew, Shana looked up,
saw Matsuoka, and grinned.
“Doctor. What
brings you to the 23rd century?”
He smiled
slightly; when she’d come aboard to check on a number of Adventurous
wounded being treated on Liberty, Arland had
commented on his ultra-modern facilities, and the fact that her ship’s primary
hull—a type originally constructed for the Constellation-class, and now
in production for almost a century—seemed to have remained relatively
un-refurbished after all that time, and often left her feeling like she was
“working at a historical landmark.”
Then, the
reason for his visit returned to the forefront of his thoughts.
Quietly, he
asked, “Are you currently treating Taylor Maxwell—in either of your
capacities?”
Her
expression changed, becoming guarded, if not quite suspicious.
“Why do you
ask?”
Matsuoka
frowned; on him, because of his normally dour, craggy features, it was
practically a glower.
“Please do not
dissemble, Doctor. I wouldn’t ask the question if it weren’t pertinent and
necessary.”
Shana flushed
slightly. “That falls under doctor/patient privilege, as you well know.”
Adventurous’ CMO wasn't precisely being
uncooperative, Matsuoka knew. The area in which they were treading was a
problematic one, at best.
“There was
an incident in engineering an hour-and-a-half ago, during which Commander
Maxwell exhibited some disturbing behavior. I don’t want to call them symptoms
if I don’t have to do so.”
As the
conversation had grown more serious, the two had gravitated towards Arland’s office. There, she sealed the door, and touched at
a control, frosting the window.
“Yes, I’m
treating her, for a chemical imbalance that occasionally causes behavioral
quirks.”
He absorbed
that for a moment.
“‘Quirks’ which include screaming, profanity and threats of physical
violence necessitating restraint by your chief of security?”
Shana paled. “
“According
to Lieutenant T’Lann, whose word I have no reason to
doubt, she did. From what I was told, anyone in engineering at the time could
confirm it.”
Arland scooped up
what looked to be an interesting variant on a Starfleet medikit
and headed for the door.
“Thank you,
doctor... I’ll handle it.”
“May I
accompany you?” he asked.
“I said,
‘I’ll handle it,’” Shana repeated, a little
sharply.
Matsuoka
examined her face for a moment. Then, he bowed slightly.
Unfortunately,
it was in that moment that Arland's “house call”
became unnecessary.
***
Adventurous’ CEO had come to one inescapable
conclusion: Sera MacLeod was fun.
It’s great
to actually speak with someone at my own pace, and not wonder if they actually understand what I’m saying.
The two had
spent a wonderful hour, theorizing, finishing each others’ sentences, and
hashing out the problem with which the brilliant young half-Vulcan had
originally approached her.
She was
very nearly
After the
other woman had excused herself for a few moments,
Marine
biology... zero-point energy... mathematics... physics... The list went on and on.
She knows
almost everything about almost everything. Amazing.
Her mood immeasurably
improved, Taylor Maxwell stepped back out into her engine room...
…and saw
the woman who wanted to take it away—T’Lann—talking
with her new friend.
When the
Demon returned, it was with a power she’d rarely felt before.
Triumphantly,
it whispered, I told you.
Overwhelmed
by swooping despair, Taylor Maxwell momentarily succumbed… and began to listen.
***
“Her
reaction to me is quite irrational,” T’Lann
reiterated.
Sera MacLeod
considered what response might sway her kinsman from the stance she now held.
“Is it not
illogical for you to return to the scene of the disturbance, when you
already have firsthand knowledge of the emotional response for which you were
the catalyst?”
T’Lann arched a
brow.
“A telling
point... but I have my assigned responsibilities, Commander.”
Sera sighed
inwardly. T’Lann was good officer: Bright—but not
brilliant; rigidly rational; and unwavering in her sense of duty.
She simply
couldn’t see why Maxwell was upset... and since it was illogical, it was
to be dismissed.
Sera
disliked being heavy-handed, but...
“Return to
T’Lann
immediately began to pack her tools.
“As you wish, Commander.” Her tone was faintly disapproving.
MacLeod
smiled inwardly, remembering Abraham Lincoln’s admonishment about teaching pigs
to sing.
She then turned, saw Taylor Maxwell—more, read what was in her eyes…
…and knew
things were about to get bad.
***
The air of
tension on Adventurous' bridge was glaringly obvious, M'Raav Hatshepsut
noted—though admirably restrained. Still, she had to make a conscious effort to
still her bristling tail.
She
approached the slender, almost gawky man in the center seat, and purred,
"Excuse me, Commander… I was told Captain Donaldson was on the
bridge?"
He shifted
uncomfortably before answering, and Hatshepsut realized that the Adventurous
officer seemed almost afraid of her.
Bagheer,
you're not making my job easier, she chastised him in mental effigy. You may have given this poor man a
complex about felines.
Finally, he
answered, "Yes, Counselor… Cleopatra?"
She trilled
in amusement. "Hatshepsut, actually."
He grimaced
in mild embarrassment, offered a sincere, "Sorry," and followed that
with, "She's in her ready room."
Hatshepsut
exchanged a swift but sophisticated greeting with the Felisian at tactical,
using a near sub-sonic series of purrs and trills that had meaning for the two
of them, but were probably inaudible to everyone else on the bridge—with the
exception of the Vulcans, of course.
Pashta's ritual
response was genuinely happy, but a little strained.
These
people are in desperate need of a break, the Felisian mused as she pressed the door chime.
Unfortunately,
they're not going to get one anytime soon.
The door
slid open almost immediately.
"Counselor." Donaldson, who had been staring out the window on the far wall, gestured
to one of the chairs.
After
Hatshepsut took the indicated seat, Adventurous' captain reclaimed her
own. Covertly, the Felisian examined the desk's contents with a clinical eye:
It was covered with neatly organized stacks of reports, and a few small
personal items.
"I
hope I am not interrupting anything important, Captain," Hatshepsut
offered; the niceties, after all, had to be exchanged.
Absently
tapping the stylus against the PADD she held, Donaldson shook her head.
"Just reviewing data on the war, and trying to formulate some useful
contributions to the cause."
“You seem
to have adapted well to a frustrating situation.”
Donaldson's
gaze wasn't quite sufficiently sharp for the Felisian to label it a "dirty
look," but it wasn't exactly open and receptive, either.
"And
to what situation are you referring, Counselor?"
More than a
little defensive, Hatshepsut
thought, concerned. I'd guessed as much.
"The shock of return from a deep-space probe into a war zone,
Captain."
The tapping
stopped suddenly, and Erika deliberately put the stylus down. “I have no choice,
Counselor… there's difficult work to be done, and I’m not inclined to do it by
halves.”
She seems
eager to somehow “establish herself” with me—and through me, perhaps, the
captain.
"Your
attitude is commendable." It was a neutral enough comment; the Felisian
was curious as to what the response would be.
“Let’s see
if you and your commander still see it that way in a week,” Donaldson muttered.
She has to know I heard that; she has a
Felisian working on her own bridge.
Hatshepsut
chose, however, to ignore it. She waited in silence, until Donaldson, perhaps a
bit unconsciously irritated at having not provoked a response, testily
inquired, "What may I do for you?"
Curious,
the counselor phrased her first mention of the reason for her visit carefully.
"Actually,
Captain, I need to discuss a rather serious matter with you. I don't know if
you're aware of the incident that occurred in Adventurous' main
engineering room some hours ago. Lieutenant T'Lann
was concerned enough about it, though, to report what had happened to both Dr.
Matsuoka and myself."
The Felisian's eyes dilated to saucers, as she examined the
other woman.
To her
credit, Donaldson hid her reactions well enough, but Hatshepsut had enough
experience with Mantovanni's trademark inscrutability that Adventurous'
captain was no real challenge for her to read: The barest hint of
confusion, then irritation, had touched her expression.
This is the
first she's heard of it.
“Dr.
Matsuoka and I have some… concerns about the behavior of your CEO.”
Donaldson
sat up a little straighter. “What sort of 'concerns'?”
“Actually,
it was regarding her, ah, medical condition.”
That
touched a nerve.
"Then
you should be discussing them first with Dr. Arland.
She's more than qualified to answer any questions… and it's far more
appropriate for her to do so."
Steadily,
Hatshepsut replied, "Dr. Matsuoka is speaking to her even as we converse
here."
Donaldson
didn't at all seem amused by that.
"Well,
then, it seems to me that until the two of you have met and discussed his findings
at length—assuming there's any real need—I don't believe you and I have
anything about which to talk."
Coldly, she
added, "And if, at that point, you have any further… 'concerns,'
as you put it, Counselor… take them to Captain Mantovanni, and he can
bring them up with me.”
The fact
that Erika Donaldson then returned to examining her PADD was enough of a hint
to Hatshepsut that their interview had just been terminated.
Dryly, the
feline purred, "I'll take your flagging regard as tacit permission to depart."
That got
her Donaldson's attention again.
"Watch
the attitude, Lieutenant," Adventurous' captain said coldly.
"You're not my counselor, or my conscience. Save your pert
observations for someone who's interested in hearing them."
And they
say I'm catty,
Hatshepsut thought.
"Apologies,
Captain. May I be excused?"
"With my enthusiastic blessings." Again, she returned to her reading…
…only to be interrupted by a hail.
"Sickbay to Captain Donaldson."
She glanced
up, met the Felisian's eyes, and answered, "Go."
"Nurse Jackson, ma'am. Commander Maxwell is in sickbay. According to
Commander MacLeod,
"…and
tried to kill her."
***
But, Sera
wouldn't… she'd
thought.
She lied to you, you stupid girl,
the Demon had whispered. She was keeping you distracted while…
"Nooooo!" she'd cried, an anguished howl that chilled the blood of everyone who heard…
with the exception of the woman at whom it was directed.
T'Lann had turned
and stood to face Maxwell's assault, adopting a defensive stance as the little
engineer had borne down on her at what seemed to the onlookers transwarp speed.
She'd launched herself at the Vulcan…
…and though
the target of her onslaught had been able to catch both of
T'Lann had
realized—jarringly—that she was fighting for her life.
Everyone
had been frozen, shocked, as the tableau unfolded… everyone, that is, except
Sera MacLeod.
She'd
stepped back, giving Maxwell room to charge the source of her fury.
Sera had
nearly miscalculated:
Then
The
half-Vulcan had then sunk to the floor with Taylor, and there cradled her small
form—even as Otto Eberhard had roared into his comm
badge, "Transporter room, we have a medical emergency. Beam
Commanders Maxwell and MacLeod directly to sickbay!"
Interlude Two
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE): 51018.37 (
TIME:
1700 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD (FST)
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21611
FEDERATION
DEFIANT-CLASS ESCORT/ARMORED FRIGATE USS VALIANT, BREVET CAPTAIN
(NEE SENIOR CADET) TIMOTHY WATTERS COMMANDING, CURRENTLY ENGAGED IN
EXTENDED EVASIVE MANEUVER PATTERNS NEAR HALLORN SEPRICIA STAR SYSTEM
ALERT
STATUS: YELLOW
Well, there
it is, Tim. Reality hitting you right in the face.
Captain
Timothy Watters reread the communiqué, searching for a way of creatively
interpreting the orders he'd just received.
There were
none.
There was
no mistaking the validity of the message; it was contained within the highest,
most sophisticated encryption protocols ever designed by Starfleet.
He'd been
judiciously, if unenthusiastically, searching for a way to rejoin the
Federation Fleet, but had, for almost two weeks, been frustrated at every turn.
Now
Starfleet had come looking for him.
Well, it
was fun while it lasted.
The rest of
Red Squad—his crew, he amended quietly—had done well; they'd been the first
Academy students assigned to a state-of-the-art combat vessel for their cadet
cruise, and had been well on their way to completing their mission:
Circumnavigation of the entire Federation core worlds.
Then the
Dominion War had broken out, and they'd suddenly found themselves on the wrong
side of a rapidly widening line.
They'd
destroyed the Keldon-class battle cruiser
they'd encountered almost immediately afterward, but the engagement had been a
costly one: It had claimed the lives of their instructors, including Captain
Ramirez (who'd preferred—strangely enough, so far as Tim was concerned—to be
addressed by the ship's master rank rather than that of his true grade, Rear
Admiral, Lower Half). The dying officer, with his final, flagging breaths, had
commissioned Tim, and transferred all the applicable command codes he could,
making the 22-year-old cadet the youngest starship captain in Starfleet
history.
Wonder how
long that'll
last once I join up with other Federation ships, he thought, glumly. I
have no seniority, and
He knew
what would happen: The "kids" would be dispersed to various of the other vessels, and given safe, low priority
tasks to perform. No doubt he'd end up as Captain Mantovanni's
"attaché," or some other such meaningless, bullshit position.
He'd almost certainly be demoted, and have to watch the officers he himself had
elevated pushed back to ensign—or even, in some cases, cadet.
We can make
the rendezvous in 37 hours.
Then
another part of him spoke up.
Or we could
go the other way.
For a long
moment, Tim Watters debated his duty and his desire, and finally came to a
decision.
When he
reentered the bridge, his first officer, Karen Farris, asked, "What are
your orders, sir?"
"Bring
us about," he commanded firmly. "Course 112, mark 23. Go to warp
seven."
"Aye,
sir," replied his helmsman. "112, mark 23, warp seven."
As the Valiant
kicked into a steady gallop, Karen whispered, "Anything in that message,
sir?"
Watters
didn't hesitate in the least.
"Disinformation. Nothing for you to concern yourself with,
Commander."
He then
issued further instructions.
"From
this moment on, all incoming transmissions will be routed to my ready
room, and placed under my personal cipher. We'll maintain strict radio
silence: No communications are to leave this ship without my express
order.
"It's
my job to shield this crew from harm…" Even the harm of being forced to
become children again, he thought determinedly.
"…and
I plan on doing just that."
Karen
Farris looked at him with admiration. "Aye, sir!" she
acknowledged.
Tim wanted
her; they'd been involved for three years, but he'd broken off the relationship
ten days ago when he'd become a captain. She'd been hurt, but, as a newly
commissioned officer, had understood: He couldn't afford to be distracted by
any other considerations—not even love.
They—he—had
a destiny to fulfill; that much Tim Watters knew.
And he
would seek it out as commander of the Valiant.
End Interlude Two
"She's
sleeping now," Shana Arland
said.
All the
particulars in the drama—Mantovanni, Donaldson, Matsuoka, Hatshepsut, T'Lann and even Brennig—were
gathered in Adventurous' sickbay, watching from a distance as Sera
MacLeod kept silent vigil over her troubled friend.
"I
regret that I have been the locus of such an unfortunate happenstance," T'Lann offered soberly.
"I
should have brought this to you, Captain," apologized
Brennig.
"It's
not at all your fault, Lieutenants," Arland
told them. "If anyone's to blame, it's me."
"Us," added Matsuoka.
Hatshepsut
nodded. "We should have intervened earlier…"
"No,"
Donaldson interjected firmly, sparing a guilty glance for the still form on the
bed across the room. "I'm the captain of Adventurous…"
"That's…
enough."
They all
fell silent as Luciano Mantovanni swept them with an irritated glare.
"Oh,
'Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,'" he chanted. "I
feel like I'm in room full of Catholics. Let it go. I'm not interested
in who's to blame.
"We
have to decide what's to be done now."
No one,
though, seemed ready to volunteer a suggestion.
***
When, a day
later,
"What
the hell kind of option is that?" the indignant engineer had asked.
"I'll be there… if people are going to talk about me, I'd better
be… else my 'paranoia' is pretty damned justified, isn't it?"
It had been
easy to say she'd be there; it hadn't been as easy to go. It had
taken Shana quite a bit of coaxing outside the
conference room door, but eventually, they'd entered.
And here I
am, she
thought, glancing around in mild alarm.
Present
along with Erika, whom she'd expected, was a contingent from
"I
know this might seem a little intimidating,
Hesitantly,
And that
might be the way it turns out, Maxwell thought.
Shana Arland began.
"When
I first read then-Lieutenant Maxwell's medical file, I realized it could pose a
serious problem. Captain Donaldson and I discussed the risks of having her
assigned to Adventurous."
Hatshepsut
let out a small trill of surprise. "Her condition was known before she was
assigned to Adventurous?"
Donaldson
nodded curtly.
Quickly,
Maxwell added, "I was already a member of Starfleet in good standing; I'd
been diagnosed a year before my posting here."
"As a
result of that discussion," Arland continued,
"I sat down with
She handed PADDs to Matsuoka and Hatshepsut. "It's all there. A complete record of the treatment program from its inception,
including all the modifications and notes on why they were made. It's
been exhaustively documented—and phenomenally successful."
"Then what
happened?" This came from
Arland started to
reply, but Maxwell interrupted.
"It's my
fault."
Mantovanni
raised a brow, inviting her to elaborate…
…but
"If I may?" Hatshepsut asked.
"Oh,
please, by all means… that's just what we need," Donaldson answered,
in a tone rife with sarcasm.
The
Felisian had been doing her job for far too long to be baited, though, and
simply launched into explicating her perception.
"I've
read the reports, and it seems to me that Commander Arland
is correct in her interpretation of events. She and Taylor danced this rather
exhausting dance of trial and error, advance and setback, extremely well
for four-and-a half years—until they were approaching Federation space, and the
transwarp engines seemingly died the death."
She glanced
at her listeners: Even Donaldson seemed appeased by her approach. She purred,
reassuring herself as much as expressing any sentiment, and continued.
"Unfortunately,
it was then that
Maxwell's
downcast expression was all the evidence they needed.
Hatshepsut's analysis
wasn't meant to be condemnatory; when she moved forward, it took a distinctly
sympathetic turn.
"From
what I've read, for
"This
is not to be interpreted as an attack on Dr. Arland," Hatshepsut hastened to add. "She has a tremendous
amount of responsibility, limited staff, and had the added difficulty of trying
to maintain objectivity in the face of a friend's insistent assurances. That's
why doctors tend not to treat family… and it's clear that the Adventurous
senior staff is a close-knit family."
"I'm
sorry,"
"If
I'd been honest, none of this ever would have happened."
Hatshepsut
purred reassuringly. "Eventually—just as Taylor was finally feeling pretty
good, and beginning to see what she needed to do to fix the drive—the Demon
stirred to life."
The room
was quiet.
Everyone
had come to the same realization: It was understandable—all of it.
Unfortunately,
it didn't solve anything.
Mantovanni
then asked a question that gave them all pause.
"Now
that you've had a chance to reevaluate, and your patient's been more
forthcoming, Dr. Arland, what's the situation? Have
you been slowly conquering this—which would make this incident merely a
setback—or is Commander Maxwell slowly getting worse?"
All eyes
turned to Adventurous' CMO. She closed her eyes.
"Until
three weeks ago, I would have staked my reputation on the former. Now, I just
don't know for certain."
It was an
honest answer, but it wasn't a popular one;
Matsuoka
opined, "What about the standard conventional treatment: Neural
reorganization? It's 99.77% effective in curing the disorder…"
"…but
has a 23% chance of lowering the recipient's intelligence quotient by 15-25
points," Arland countered.
"Still,
if it would give you some relief, Commander, and spare you these… instances… it
might be worth…"
"No!"
She hugged
herself tightly. "I've seen what reorganization does. It takes a part of
you away."
Matsuoka
tried to reassure her, "The chance of such is slim, Commander."
"Not
slim enough," she whispered in reply; her eyes were locked on Erika.
"I'm sorry…no. You can relieve me of duty, throw me in the brig,
whatever you want to do… but I refuse.
"I'd
rather die."
Without
another word, she spun and fled the room.
"Mantovanni to MacLeod."
"MacLeod.
Yes, sir?"
"It's
my opinion that Commander Maxwell could use a friend right about now."
There was a
moment's pause.
"Well,
she's got one. MacLeod out."
The
discussion continued for almost an hour. Tempers flared at the suggestion that
Maxwell might not be competent to make the decision as to whether neural
reorganization was the proper direction.
Erika was
nearly livid at the thought.
"You
know, you're right, Dr. Matsuoka… let me call security; they'll stun her
and we'll stick her in the chair for a brain drain."
The
Japanese man drew back in surprise and affront.
"I was
merely attempting to explore all avenues."
"Well,
consider that 'avenue' permanently closed—unless
Matsuoka
considered a reply—a vehement one—but caught Mantovanni's warning glance, and
simply fell silent.
"Captain, if you could join me in my ready room on
Warily,
Donaldson nodded.
"Doctors,
I'm sure you have treatment strategy to discuss. I'd like to see you pool your
resources on this; we need a solution, and quickly: The '13th Fleet'
and the Cardassians are going to find each other rather soon, and we can't have
this hanging over our heads. It will be resolved, one way or another,
before then.
"Dismissed."
***
"Well,
that was depressing," declared Hatshepsut, as she and Matsuoka headed
back to
"Captain
Donaldson is combative. That didn't help. I was merely attempting to play
devil's advocate."
The
Felisian attempted to soothe him.
"I
know, Shiro; unfortunately, to the Adventurous
officers it seemed more like you were playing the devil himself. This is a lot
for them to handle all at once. We've known the Dominion War was coming for
almost two years. To them, it just happened a week ago. In any other situation,
they could try to handle Commander Maxwell's problem 'in house.' Now Shana has you and I looking over her shoulder,
and Captain Donaldson has Captain Mantovanni."
Matsuoka
gave a thoughtful grunt. "Which would you say was worse?"
Hatshepsut,
though, gave no answer.
En route to the transporter rooms, the venerable
doctor remembered something that until that moment had been nagging at him, and
tapped his comm badge.
“Matsuoka to MacLeod.”
“MacLeod.”
“Sera,
report to sickbay.”
There was a
long pause, and then the response he hadn’t at all expected.
“Not today,
Shiro... and not tomorrow or the next day, either.”
His
immediate thought was to protest... but, knowing Sera MacLeod as he did, he
considered the reasoning behind her statement.
After a
moment, it became clear.
All he
could say was, “Are you sure?”
Her laugh
had a tremor. “Of course not. I’ll keep you
posted.” Without another word, she cut the channel.
Hatshepsut
murmured, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Matsuoka
glanced at his colleague.
“We’ll find out in a few days.”
***
"Captain
Mantovanni," Donaldson started, after they had settled into their
respective seats in his ready room, "I realize it might seem I'm making my
arguments from a purely emotional position, but if I honestly felt Commander
Maxwell was a liability to this, or any, mission, I wouldn't hesitate to take
the necessary actions."
Mantovanni seemed troubled.
Unfortunately,
I don't know whether that's good or not, she thought.
"I can
appreciate—and admire—loyalty to an officer who's proven herself time and again
in the past, Captain Donaldson.
"We
also have to weigh the need to help Commander Maxwell live her life as a
productive Starfleet officer against the possibility of harming Adventurous,
the task force, or our chances for survival out here."
Erika
sighed, shaking her head slightly.
"Captain,
I've weighed that same need from the day I took command of Adventurous,
and especially over the last three years, when we were cut off from all
contact… because, to be perfectly frank, Starfleet gave me a ship full of
possible liabilities, of which Taylor Maxwell was just the most obvious
example."
Now his
expression changed—becoming, for all intents and purposes, unreadable.
"Do
you find the events of the past few days forcing you to reevaluate your earlier
decisions?"
Before she
could speak, he added, "Let me ask you this: What do I do if T'Lann decides to press assault and conduct unbecoming
charges? It would be well within her rights."
"Yes,
it would," Erika agreed softly. "As I said before, I expect that
you'll do what you feel is right."
Too bad I
have no idea what the hell that'll be, she thought.
"Well,
Vulcans have a tendency to see the universe somewhat
differently than just about any species I've encountered," he told
her. "I have some degree of familiarity with their thought processes; I
can't make any promises, but I'm fairly certain I can bring T'Lann
around to my way of thinking using logic vis-a-vis
inappropriate leverage. Criminal charges, at this point, will only muddy the
waters and confuse the issue."
"While
I appreciate the offer, Captain, T'Lann does have
every right to press charges, and should not be unduly pressured against that
action by leverage or logic, if that is her decision." She met his gaze
squarely. "My officers and I take full responsibility for the consequences
of our actions."
Mantovanni
didn't look amused.
"As
you so eloquently pointed out seconds ago, Captain, I'll do as I think is
right... and if I chose to speak with a fellow Vulcan citizen on a matter of
logic and propriety, I shall. Don't allow your misplaced pride and an
overdeveloped sense of responsibility to hurt your officers, Captain."
"Please
forgive my presumption, sir," she shot back in a tone that was
anything but conciliatory. "I would never want to question the way a
fellow captain handles one of his, or her, officers." She took a deep
breath, regaining some measure of her composure.
Now she saw
something that gave her pause: Evidently she'd failed at least part of the
quiz, for his visage darkened even further. He refused, though, to fire back.
"I was
only attempting to consider everyone's best interests, Captain. T'Lann is a Vulcan; she is unmoved by the types of
pressures that would cause most humans to wilt—the ones, by the way, I'd
already said I wouldn't apply. She would, as an intellectual, appreciate a
logical perspective she'd not considered, if it enabled her to make an informed
decision.
"And an informed
decision is inherently a better one."
Donaldson
was beginning to realize that, unlike many superior officers with whom she'd
had disputes in the past, he didn't try to bludgeon her with rank, or the fact
of her "disrespect"; at least, hadn't so far.
It was,
frankly, startling.
The
realization derailed another sharp response, and she leaned back in her seat.
"Of
course," was all she said, with no evidence of her earlier rancor.
Whether it
was a capitulation or the eye of the proverbial storm wasn't readily apparent.
Trying a different
tack, she sallied forth again.
"This
is the first serious episode she's had since she came under my command, Captain
Mantovanni. Trust me, I had my fair share of concerns when I first saw her
medical records, but in almost six years she has never once failed in her
duties, despite her condition. She has done her job with brilliance and
dedication, and I and my crew owe our lives to her actions."
"But
we have to face the fact that, in this case, one episode may just be one
episode too many, Captain Donaldson. She, not 20 minutes ago, admitted
to lying about her treatment. What happens if she starts doing the same thing
two months from now? What happens if she has a meltdown when we're engaged with
a Cardassian fleet?"
"I know
that won't happen," Erika countered unwaveringly. "My instincts tell
me to trust her."
"And
therein lies our problem; your instincts, and those of Dr. Arland,
were off once before as pertains to Taylor Maxwell. Do we dare rely on them
again?"
Mantovanni exhaled
carefully, as if consciously attempting to avoid a heavy sigh. Clearly even his
careful control was slipping in the face of such emotional upset.
“I know
it’s difficult, but perhaps you should try and get a little rest or something
to eat.”
Wordlessly,
she nodded and made for the door.
As she did
so, he added, “I’ll give you my decision in a few hours.”
Erika
Donaldson stopped in mid-stride, and pivoted slowly. An alloy of confusion,
indignation and disbelief was evident in her features.
“What do you
mean, your decision? Shana
Arland and I will make the final
determination as to her status; Taylor Maxwell is my officer.”
Mantovanni
shook his head.
“An officer that assaulted and threatened one of mine... a young woman
with real psychological difficulties... this is no longer exclusively an Adventurous
problem, Captain.”
With
difficulty, Donaldson managed to maintain an even tone, even as her temper
struggled to break free.
“Respectfully...
we have the most expertise in dealing with the situation.”
“I agree,”
he answered steadily. “That’s why I’m very much considering your
recommendations.”
“‘Considering...!?’” she echoed incredulously. “There’s nothing for you
to consider. It’s not your decision to make. This situation is my
responsibility… and the decision will be mine.”
Now
Mantovanni’s voice grew cold.
“Then you
can consider yourself relieved of that burden as of right now, Captain
Donaldson.” In a statement he meant as reassurance, he added, “Dr. Arland is the primary care physician, and I assure you her
opinion will, by far, carry the most weight. I can’t see depriving
Adventurous’ commander relaxed, minutely. At
least he hasn’t gone totally drunk with power.
“But since
you’re obviously upset,” the Sicilian continued, “you should know, now... I'm
considering having you relieve her of duty and initiating the paperwork for an
honorable discharge from Starfleet.”
Erika
clenched her fists in anguish and frustration. When she spoke again, her words
were heated with a carefully stoked fury.
"I
understand you have to do what you feel is necessary, Captain Mantovanni, but
so do I. I stand behind the decisions of my officers. If you want me to relieve
Commander Maxwell of duty, and I do not feel it's
necessary, I will refuse to comply."
For a long
moment, they locked glares: Donaldson a fiery, irresistible force and Mantovanni
the icy, immoveable object.
Finally,
“If I issue
an order, you’ll obey it, Captain... unless you’d like to spend the rest of the
war in
Erika
Donaldson's stance was both proud and defiant.
"'If
the time ever comes when I must choose between betraying my country or my
friend, I hope I shall have the courage to betray my country.'
"E.M.
Forster. Look him up. He could teach you something."
Before he
could frame a reply, she stalked out.
In the
hallway outside transporter room one, Erika ran into someone else she most
emphatically didn’t want to see.
Captain
Maitland Forrest of Athene obviously didn’t
have the same impression. He smiled broadly, sketched her a
bow, and addressed her with, “Cap’n Donaldson! What a
genuine pleasure”—making “genuine” rhyme with “benign”—though his
tone seemed anything but either to her.
I’m not in the mood for this, damn it! she thought.
“Excuse
me,” she
gritted, looking to maneuver around him.
When he saw
her face, he asked, “You look upset, Cap’n. Is there
anything I can do to assist you?”
On later,
chagrined reflection, she realized his offer had been kindly meant.
In that
moment, though, she heard nothing but the irritating innuendo—mostly
perceived—that was Forrest’s stock in trade...
...and she
reacted to it.
She pasted
a caricature of a pleasant expression on her face, and replied, with the cloying
sweetness of a poorly made mint julep, “Yes, Cap’n.
You can remove your arrogantly medieval personage from my path... and
from this moment on, keep your archaic asininity to yourself.”
His own
face an admixture of shock and dismay, Athene’s
commander immediately stepped back.
As a
parting shot, when Erika passed, she turned, and finished, “Y’all have a
nice day, y’heah?”
Matt
Forrest reflected for a moment after her departure. Then, his usual good humor
reasserted itself.
My... what
a firebrand, he
thought, chuckling inwardly.
“Well...
so much for the irresistibility of Southern charm,” Forrest said to no one in
particular.
He found
his way to Mantovanni’s ready room, was buzzed in, and presented himself,
saying, “Reporting as per your instructions, Commodore.”
Forrest
realized, after a moment, that
“Ahem...
yes, well... Athene is fully operational,
and primed for battle, as per your orders.”
Mantovanni
nodded.
“So, by the
way, is Captain Donaldson.”
In what
almost sounded like an apologia, the Sicilian told him, “That’s my
fault.”
Forrest
chuckled. “I’d assumed that. As great-grandfather Matt—several
times removed, o' course—is rumored to have said, ‘It
is the duty and pleasure of all true gentlemen to shoulder the blame in any
dispute with a woman of culture and breeding.’”
"Well,
it's good to know that every woman who ever said to me, 'This is all your fault!' was correct," Mantovanni noted
dryly.
Forrest
laughed aloud.
"There's
that sense o' humor growin' back again. I suggest you
have that attended to." When his comment garnered not even a lightening of
expression, he changed tactics.
"I
shall, in deference to your obvious disinterest, refrain from mah usual incisive repartee…
"…Commodore."
Interlude Three
STARDATE
(TERRAN COMMON DATE): 51021.42 (
TIME:
1938 HOURS, FEDERATION STANDARD
LOCATION:
ALPHA QUADRANT, SECTOR 21561
FEDERATION
NOVA-CLASS PLANETARY SURVEYOR/LIGHT DESTROYER USS PTOLEMY,
CAPTAIN BELA TIRAZ COMMANDING, CURRENTLY IN SILENT RUNNING MODE WHILE
ATTEMPTING TO EXECUTE STANDING ORDERS FROM STARFLEET COMMAND
ALERT
STATUS: YELLOW
“This still
doesn’t make any sense, Bela.”
From his
expression, it was obvious that Lieutenant Commander Christopher Holbrook
wasn’t particularly fond of things that didn’t “make sense.” He studied the
PADD containing the subspace message they’d received—the one that had inspired Ptolemy’s
senior staff to engage in their current freeform, intermittent debate—but his
determined glower didn’t help him divine anything new from the text.
His captain
smiled indulgently.
“Still
requiring events and people to make sense, Chris? You’re going to give yourself
an ulcer if you don’t stop that.” Bela Tiraz was a small man, and his frequent observations and
witticisms tended to be of the lighthearted sort—almost as if his brand of dry
humor was issued in proportion to his size. He rarely inspired guffaws, but
almost always managed to amuse.
“Though I’m
often loath to agree with our chief of operations, I find myself, regrettably,
forced to concur in this case.”
Selennia Vox’s comment drew another series of chuckles from those
assembled on the bridge. The Trill was, like many of her species, an
accomplished noodge, and seemed to take
particular delight in tormenting the younger, more excitable members of the
crew—including, much to his chagrin, Chris Holbrook. Despite the fact that
Holbrook was senior to her, Ptolemy’s tactical officer often used nine
lifetimes of experience to select the most irritating comment—and deliver it
with timely precision.
Today, the
gentle poke failed to inspire the reaction she’d wanted: Holbrook, in a gesture
that couldn’t be considered particularly respectful without a spirited exercise
of imagination, gave a brush off gesture with his right hand, while never
taking his eyes off the PADD.
“It seems
that you have been relegated to irrelevance, Lieutenant Vox,”
observed Lieutenant Commander Suvak. The tall Vulcan
was Ptolemy’s full time X-O, oft-time unofficial chief science
officer... and some time debate moderator.
“A
temporary state of affairs, I assure you, Suvak,” she
replied, laugh lines crinkling from frequent use. Her expression sobered.
“Kidding aside, it makes no sense for
“Maybe
that’s exactly what he thinks,” Holbrook stressed the adverbial with a
heat that surprised them. “I’ve heard he’s an arrogant sort... pretty
insufferable.”
Bela Tiraz gave his chief of operations a smile that seemed
liberally laced with grimace. A moment later, the latter realized why.
Suvak raised a brow.
When he spoke, the timbre of his voice had changed slightly; it evinced that
dismissive disdain Vulcans delivered so well.
“I served
with Captain Mantovanni as communications officer aboard USS Intrepid
for one year, two months, and four days. Further, I experienced no such
occurrences of ‘arrogance,’ as you say, in our encounters at familial
gatherings while we were adolescents.”
Holbrook
gaped, like a fish tossed onto the Ptolemy’s deck.
“Uh...
you’re related?”
Suvak sighed
patiently, and clarified, “Vulcan familial ties are difficult to explain in
human terms. They involve not only genetic considerations, but those of honor
and history as well. Suffice it to say that we are ‘cousins,’ since that, I
believe, is the default term when one is uncertain how to describe the
relationship.
“At any
rate,” he continued, “this is a discussion for some other time. I assert that
Captain Mantovanni’s motivations are neither ‘arrogance’ nor
‘self-aggrandizement.’”
Tiraz nodded. “Granted, Suvak. He knows the
message is essentially meaningless, since our standard orders are top priority.
“It
must," he guessed, "be a coded message of some sort.”
“There
seems to be no pattern contained within,” Vox noted.
“At least, none the computers can detect.”
“The
Cardassians have computers, too,” the captain admonished gently. “It wouldn’t
be something they could understand so readily.
“Could he
be assuming that the Cardassians are going to be able to break the
ciphers?” Chris Holbrook wondered aloud.
“That would
be unlikely,” Suvak countered. “These are some of the
most sophisticated encryption algorithms ever devised by Starfleet.”
“And since
the encryption team is dominated by Vulcans, it’s
doubly unlikely?” the Trill teased.
Cool
disdain didn’t work as well on her. She merely wriggled her nose at him, and
then stuck her tongue out.
He arched a
brow in companionable affront, and then returned his gaze to their captain,
who’d waited with his usual amused patience.
“OK... they
break the code... they think, ‘We’ve got these little bastards now!’... they...” his voice trailed off.
“They send
a battle group to crush us before we can do any harm,” Vox
concluded.
Bela Tiraz suddenly grinned a
particular kind of grin, and it was one with which his crew was familiar: There
was a joke, and he was now in on it.
The fun
part for him was issuing his next series of orders, and watching each one as
they joined him in a state of predatory amusement.
He didn’t
know Luciano Mantovanni yet, but he was certain the man had a vicious sense of
humor...
...and a decided mean streak.
End Interlude Three
"The unmitigated gall of the man!"
Doug Roese had seen his captain in many moods… fuming impotently
was new, though.
Moments
ago, Erika Donaldson had stormed back, practically wild-eyed, onto Adventurous'
bridge, and had made for her ready room without a word. He'd half-expected the
sound of screaming—or breaking crockery—in the instant before the door closed
behind her.
Though he'd
known it was a risk, Doug had waited a moment or two, calmly gone over, and let
himself in.
"I
don't recall summoning you, Commander," she'd practically snarled.
He'd
sidestepped her comment, saying, "I take it the meeting didn't go
well."
That had provoked her initial exclamation.
Now, as she
finished relaying the meeting and subsequent conversation in its entirety,
Douglas Roese found himself in a position he'd have
given anything to avoid.
You
decided to walk in here, he thought. Now you're going to see it through.
Gently, he
said, "Edie… you have to consider the fact that, from a certain
perspective—perhaps, the bigger and more important one—Mantovanni's right."
Donaldson,
aghast, looked at him as if he were some monster that had replaced her first
officer.
"How
can you say that?"
"I
know how it sounds… I know you don't want to hear that, but… you made me
an X-O, and told me I had to give you my opinion, even when it wasn't simply a
confirmation of yours—even if it made you furious."
Roese's
determination never wavered, even in the face of her anger and hurt at what
almost seemed a betrayal.
"I
love
He stood at
attention then.
"If
Captain Mantovanni ultimately decides to relieve her, you can stand aside and
lodge a protest; I'll cut the orders. I don't want you losing your
command over this… and going down in flames for your principles just isn't
an option right now. We're at war. We need you.
"I
know it's ultimately your decision, but another of my responsibilities is to
give you alternatives. Now you have one."
As he left,
Doug Roese heard Erika Donaldson whisper, as she
examined the stars from her view port window, "I don't know what to
do."
***
"I
don't know what to do."
Bagheer had
entered his captain's ready room seconds after Maitland Forrest had left it,
sending Hatshepsut—who'd had the same idea—back to her seat with a warning
growl that was not to be denied.
He'd begun
with, "I see you've already worked your inimitable charms on Captain
Donaldson."
Mantovanni
nodded. "She's berating me for a decision I’m not even close to making. "
"I
assume," the Tzenkethi rumbled, " this is
related to the Taylor Maxwell situation."
"Correct."
He then proceeded to give his first officer the thorough, but expurgated,
version.
Bagheer's tail
thumped twice on the floor, and he asserted, "I don't see your dilemma at
all."
The
Sicilian shook his head.
"Well,
since I know you're not intellectually lacking, Commander, I'll take that to
mean you have a moral stance on the issue?"
"Yes…
and it's the stance that should be yours, too." He leaned forward,
resting the pads of his forepaws on Mantovanni's desk, and growling,
“She wishes
to remain as she is, and do battle with the creature that threatens her. I say
let her do so... let her fight. I honor her for her choice. And, with
all due respect, I'm not interested in the counter-arguments... because I
know what it's like to have a Demon inside you.
"Did
you relieve me after my outburst? I wanted to kill Roese…
but I didn't."
"It's
not quite the same issue, Bagheer," Mantovanni answered mildly.
"It’s precisely the same issue,"
the great feline snarled. "Don't hide behind the ethical screen of your
larger responsibilities. It’s handling the smaller ones properly that give us
the strength to deal with the others which bid fair to break us. No ambiguity,
"If
she has the courage to face her Demon, you have no right to take that
away from her. We're fighting not only for the common citizens of the
Federation back home, but for the Geordi LaForges and Taylor Maxwells who
are taken out and exposed on the side of a mountain, or simply lined up and
shot, for not being perfect by people like the Cardassians and my own
Tzenkethi. Her contribution is fundamental to this struggle—for reasons
that have nothing to do with engineering.
“This
decision is about courage, too,
"Thank
you. Recommendation noted."
"Make
sure you brood quickly," Bagheer growled. "I have neither the time
nor the inclination to deal with a Sicilian's angst."
After the
Tzenkethi had stormed out, Mantovanni finally answered.
"Neither,
my friend, do I."
***
“May I come
in?”
“I guess,” she
replied listlessly, and then withdrew back into her quarters.
“Are you
feeling better?” the half-Vulcan asked, as she glanced around.
“If you
mean, by ‘better,’ ‘less homicidal,’ then, yes, I am. If, by ‘better,’ you instead,
mean, ‘Eager and able to get on with my life,’ well, that’s not my
decision anymore, now is it?”
“Is there a
problem with simply returning to your treatment regimen?” Sera inquired.
“Logically, if it was working before...”
“Your
captain seems to have a problem with that,” she said bitterly. “He, according
to Erika, has decided I’m completely unreliable because I had a brief lapse
once in three years.”
“It is not
my captain’s nature to be summarily judgmental in the fashion Captain Donaldson
is describing. Are you certain she...” or you, Sera thought, “...isn’t coming to a premature conclusion?”
“I don’t
know!”
“Have you
taken your meds today?” Sera suddenly asked.
“No,” she
admitted. “I don’t see any purpose to feeling dull and moronic when my
Starfleet career is over anyway. Shana was upset, but
she can’t force them on me.”
“And so,”
the Vulcan queried again, “how many people are in the room?”
“Wha-what do you mean?”
“I mean is
this a two- or three-sided conversation? Don’t play stupid with me, Taylor.
“Can you
hear him again?”
For a long
moment, nothing more was said.
At least
nothing that I can
hear, Sera thought.
The
frightened girl whispered, “Yes... I can hear him.”
“And he’s
so much more persuasive than everyone out here who cares about you?”
Then came the stunning statement.
“At least he
doesn’t send me away.”
Sera
MacLeod considered her options, and decided on one that would no doubt be
frowned upon by everyone else involved in their respective inner circles.
“I’d like
to speak with him... or at least hear him.”
Sera held
out her hand.
“If you let
me, I can.”
She means a
mind meld,
No...! her Demon
ordered.
“No!” she
repeated.
“Who’s that
talking now?” Sera asked incisively, taking a step closer.
Stay away
from her! it wailed.
“Stay away
from me!” she
wailed.
The Vulcan
stopped.
“You don’t
want to be sent away, but you’re sending me away. Why is that different?”
Abruptly,
she stepped back.
“Let me
show you something,” MacLeod told her quietly. She began to remove her tunic.
Both
Sera
MacLeod's body was covered in lesions and bruises. They were more than
unsightly. They were ugly—almost grotesque. But the Vulcan stood and let
"Oh, Sera,"
she whispered. "What is that?"
"This
is what happens," her friend admitted, "when I don't take my
meds.
"It’s Jaren’s Hybridic Lupus;
occasionally, Vulcan/human hybrids contract it: Elements of the two immune
systems begin to attack each other. It’s... uncomfortable...”
“...and, right now, incurable.
“My
troubles might be more visible than yours, and I may not have to hear them like
you, Taylor, but yours will eventually kill you just like mine if you don't do
what you know you have to do."
Maxwell was
trying not to cry, and failing: Tears were streaming down her face. The Vulcan
knew they were both for Sera... and herself.
With a
tremor in her voice, MacLeod continued, "I know what’s it like
having a life that’s just hard to live… I know what it's like to not
want to eat the things you love because you vomit them up a moment later… I
know what it's like to be a Vulcan, and often be denied the strength of your
birthright because your two halves have declared war, and you’re the
battlefield… I know what it's like to be so tired you just want to go to
sleep... and never wake up. I know what it’s like to be less of
myself."
Sera pulled
her shirt back on, sat down, and took her friend's hand.
"So if
I can take my meds…
"…would
you at least think about taking yours?"
***
Luciano Mantovanni,
against his better judgment, had consented when Sera MacLeod had asked to brief
him and Captain Donaldson on the new sensor suite—accompanied by Taylor
Maxwell.
“It’s her
project, too, sir... and if it’s her last one, she at least deserves that final
‘Well done’ from both of you.”
Despite his
misgivings, “Permission granted” had been all he could muster.
He’d been
prepared for an impassioned, eloquent plea, and had continued to search himself
for the resolve to do what was truly best—even while weighing the incalculable
cost of the wrong decision.
Instead,
the briefing had been precisely what Sera MacLeod had promised: A quick
explanation of what the two had accomplished in the short time they’d worked
together.
It was
impressive, to say the least.
Sera was
even now, explaining,
“The
juxtaposition of energy wavelengths from Adventurous’ transwarp engines
and
“It’s a fugly kit bash,”
Erika’s
brow furrowed. “How so?”
Mantovanni,
ever the tactician, answered.
“Because we
might just pick up militarily relevant information that Starfleet, from its
vantage point, can’t... if we can get it to them in a timely fashion,
that is...”
“Oh, that’s
easy,” Maxwell interrupted. “We’ll leave that to you guys... Sera and I just
handle the difficult stuff.”
She
grinned, and the expression further transformed her face; the closed-off,
troubled person they all knew had disappeared, replaced by a pretty, confident
young woman.
Mantovanni
listened for a few minutes longer, until it became obvious even to him that the
briefing had ended, and the theoretical speculation had begun.
“Thank you,
ladies. You’re dismissed.”
Even before
they left the room, they were already discussing a new theoretical propulsion
model based on Borg transwarp conduits—their captains already forgotten.
Well,
perhaps not: Sera MacLeod paused in the doorway, and shot a meaningful glance
back at them both.
Then she
left, following her new-found friend into the hallways of their mutual
imagination.
“Is that
the same woman we were dealing with 56 hours ago?” Mantovanni inquired
rhetorically.
Erika
Donaldson seemed positively dumbfounded.
“Um... I’m not
even sure I’ve ever met that person.”
The
Sicilian smiled slightly at her surprise and candor.
"Well,
I like her," he decided. "And since she's your chief engineer, I
guess I'd better get used to having her around."
Erika looked
startled.
"Are
you sure?" she asked,
hardly daring to hope.
He nodded.
"I am. You and Bagheer are right: It wouldn't be taking her job away from
her; it would be depriving her of her life. I can't do that… not when
you all have faith she can win."
"Thank
you, Captain, for understanding that. It's always comforting to know someone
has faith in you.” For a moment, her expression was one of undiluted gratitude.
Then it evolved into curiosity.
“Why didn’t
you break the news to her?”
Again, that
unreadable mask was back in place.
“Because
you’re the one from whom she’d rather hear it, Captain.”
It was in
that moment Erika Donaldson realized that Luciano Mantovanni, was, in his
understated way, as pleased as she over the outcome of the crisis; he’d wanted
to be persuaded that giving Taylor Maxwell another chance was the best
decision, and had relied upon the officers under his command to do so.
Why, you
sneaky...!
She
suddenly became aware that the speculative regard he now wore was directed at
her.
“You’re smiling,
Captain Donaldson,” he noted drolly.
Immediately,
her expression sobered.
“If you’re
uncomfortable using that particular facial cast in my presence, I could
endeavor to be even more intolerable in the future, and spare you the need.”
With
difficulty, she managed not to laugh.
“That won’t
be necessary, sir.” It took a tremendous effort not to add, “You’re plenty
intolerable as is,” but she didn’t want to risk the sudden cease-fire the two
had just established.
Of course,
he knew. Whether or not he was off put, or actually amused, she couldn’t
determine.
And it was clear that Luciano
Mantovanni wasn’t going to tell.
***
It was near
the beginning of delta shift, but Adventurous' chief engineer had a feeling
that, given the day’s events, the captain would still be awake.
Brennig, too, was
at his station, which was a good sign she’d guessed right. The Vor’shan could almost always be found on the bridge if
Erika was working late—if only to remind her of just how late it was every half
hour or so, until she ordered him away, or gave up and went to bed.
They were
running about 50/50.
“Is that
more work for her?” he demanded, as
“Of course
it’s more work. Why the hell else would I be up here at three in the morning?”
Brennig gave a
tolerant sigh.
Leaving the
Vor’shan to his grousing, she strolled in
unannounced…
…to find Erika reading a book.
“Hey,
boss.”
“Technically,
I am.” The captain marked her place and closed the volume with a careful snap.
"I bet
'technically' wouldn’t be enough for a certain someone…”
Erika
laughed softly.
“Oh, I'm
not so sure.”
It was
Mantovanni, after all, who'd sent her the book—replicated, of course,
she thought, but it's the intent that counts.
And his
intent was… intriguing.
The volume
was The Collected Works of E.M Forster,
with an attached note:
"So you can put your intransigence in proper context."
What a
smart ass.
She set her
book down, and picked up the PADD. “Good news, I hope.”
“I think so.
We’re officially up and running—well, the conventional drives, at least. The
transwarp system needs a bit of tweaking still.”
The petite
brunette raised a brow in a manner not unlike her newfound friend. “That is, of
course, if you don’t get us blown up before then.”
“I’ll do my
best to avoid that,” Adventurous' commander avowed dryly. “I do hope,
though, that you intend to inform Captain Mantovanni of the intended
pilfering.”
“God forbid
the universe should be plagued with two,” Donaldson murmured.
Her CEO
grinned devilishly. “More of us to love.”
“I’m sure
that wouldn’t be the prevailing sentiment, Chief.” Signing off on the
report, Donaldson uploaded it to the main computer. “Is that all?”
“As soon as I finish this chapter.” Erika opened up her book.
“There's a
very large, grumpy lizard out there who’d be very interested in just how much
paperwork you’re doing…”
“Out!” The
captain pointed to the exit, her brow furrowed into a mock scowl.
Laughing,
Taylor Maxwell retreated.
At the
door, though, she suddenly paused.
“Would you
have said 'No'?”
Erika
didn’t look up from her book. “About?”
“If Mantovanni had ordered you to remove me, or risk being removed
yourself and tossed in the brig.”
A deep
silence followed the question.
“Just where
would you get the idea that could have happened?” Erika asked softly.
The
engineer rolled her eyes. “I’m schizophrenic, not stupid. Besides, word gets
around.”
You really need, Donaldson thought,
to acquire some discretion,
She turned
a page. “It’s sort of a moot point now,
That was
answer enough.
“And they
say I’m crazy.”
“Well, I’ve
always felt I was in good company.” Donaldson looked up then, eyeing
“Welcome
home.”
Epilogue
“The trail
definitely leads here, Gul Macet.”
Despite his
own eagerness, Trager’s commander carefully
gave little reaction to the announcement from his tactical officer, Glinn Tellar.
He recalled
a quote from the writings of Gul Vinak,
one of his favorite military historians and chroniclers: ”A
commander must, for the most part, seem above excitement: Even the
destruction of a hated enemy should not be celebrated openly, but, rather, be
accepted mildly, as if it were a foregone conclusion from the moment the
conflict was realized.”
Despite the
stricture, Macet allowed himself a smile—a small one.
The humans’
arrogance has brought them to this, he thought. Their presumption that the best cryptographers from both
the Obsidian Order and Central Command would be unable to decipher their
classified transmissions may well eventually be considered one of the costliest
blunders in the history of warfare.
The
information they’d gleaned from those various transmissions had led them to
this very place: An obscure little system, so unimportant that Cardassian
astronomers had yet to name it. The rather enfeebled little yellow sun cast its
light on one planet, a rather extensive asteroid field...
...and at
least seven Federation and Klingon starships that had gathered here in an
attempt to avoid the very fate that was about to overtake them.
“Your
sensor sweeps have shown...?” Macet inquired.
“They are
maneuvering in the asteroid field, Gul Macet,” Tellar informed him; he
wore the satisfied smile of someone whose skills had proven superior to his
enemies. “Despite their best efforts, our sensors have detected warp signature
vestiges and snippets of ID call markers.
“Best of
all, though, was this.” He handed his commander a PADD.
The little
device held recently gathered telemetry. The playback looked unremarkable for a
few seconds... but then, Macet saw it. He tapped a
few controls, rewinding and then refining the image he’d spotted, and ran it
again.
There,
slipping quickly—but not quite quickly enough—behind an interposing
asteroid, was a Klingon K’vort-class
bird-of-prey.
“The one
the intercepted messages said had a malfunctioning cloak.” Macet
was even more pleased now.
“Klingons have grown sloppy as a race. Their maneuvers and
evasions aren’t as crisp now that they’ve come to rely on the cloaking device.”
Tellar’s contempt for such incompetence was barely
disguised.
“Sir,” his
communications officer interrupted, “the task force commanded by Gul Danar reports they will
arrive on scene in precisely 52 minutes.”
Most of the eyes on the bridge, albeit surreptitiously, turned to their
commander. There were
a number of them in favor of launching the assault without waiting for
support, the better to claim laurels for their own group.
Macet, though,
prided himself on being no one’s fool.
“Since
you’ve so skillfully narrowed the field of possibilities for us, Tellar, I’ll entertain your suggestion as to how we
proceed.”
The young Glinn puffed up with pride; such was a rare accolade.
“I
recommend we enter the system, and deploy so as to prevent any Federation or
Klingon ships from breaking out and escaping, Gul Macet. Then, when Gul Danar’s force arrives to reinforce us, we can begin
launching gravimetric charges into the asteroid field. Eventually, the hidden
ships will be forced to engage us, or be shattered along with the rocks in
which they’ve taken shelter.” He then smiled maliciously, and lowered his voice
so that only his commander could hear.
“Alternately...
we could order the Jem’Hadar to enter the asteroid
field now and flush the Federation ships into the open, where our superior
firepower would certainly win the day for us... well before Gul Danar arrives.”
Macet chuckled.
“Tempting,
but...” He glanced at their resident Vorta, Magon—who was, even now, busying himself with annoying two
of his glinns on a matter of no doubt middling
importance.
Then he
smiled more subtly... and addressed the Founder’s on-site lackey.
“Please
order the Jem’Hadar to deploy, and encircle the
indicated coordinates, Magon. Allow them to move into
the outskirts of the asteroid field, but not to penetrate too deeply. No
doubt our foes have prepared a few surprises.”
The little
man nodded, in a manner he no doubt thought gracious, but that was, in reality,
presumptuous magnanimosity.
“Move our
fighters in as well, Tellar.” After all, we can’t
have our allies thinking we’re hanging back—even when we are.
With their
usual savage precision—Macet was forced to grant that
they were efficient killers, if little else—the 24 Jem’Hadar
attack ships moved into position, accompanied by eight of the new Hideki-class
fighters recently added to the Cardassian lists. While in appearance only
vaguely reminiscent of their Dominion counterparts, their technology owed much
to the new alliance... as well as judicious acquisitions of technical
schematics from Starfleet’s supposedly top secret Defiant-class project,
as well.
Macet had found
he admired and resented them at once. His own cruiser had itself been upgraded
in recent months... but it was still, at its essential self, a Cardassian
ship.
The Hidekis, while useful, were, in his mind, not.
Well, no
matter. When the war is over—and the Dominion has served its purpose—I have no doubt Central Command will consign the Hideki-class to
design oblivion and build a small ship along pure Cardassian lines and
philosophies.
The heavier
ships of the task force—Trager and her five Galor-class brethren—took up support and observation
positions just outside the field itself, there to destroy any stragglers that
braved the gauntlet.
For a
moment, Macet allowed himself to savor his position.
It was
precisely then that triumph turned to disaster.
Glinn Tellar, who was monitoring sensor data, looked up in alarm.
“Sensors
detect a Klingon bird-of-prey decloaking near the
star’s photosphere.” His eyes narrowed, as he examined the incoming
information. “From these readings, it seems to be emitting some sort of
high-energy particle beam.”
A hint of
uncertainty touched at Macet’s mind. “What is its
target?”
Tellar continued,
“The star itself... the bird-of-prey has cloaked again. I have no readings. But... I am now detecting a stellar irruption at the
targeted coordinates.
He gasped.
“It is immense!”
The gul demanded, “How immense?”
His face
suddenly a paler shade of gray, Tellar whispered, “It
will engulf the section of the asteroid field containing the Federation ships, and
our task force, i–...” he nearly choked on his last
words, “...in 17 seconds.”
It was in
that instant Gul Macet
realized his own blunder.
There are no Federation vessels.
Realizing
he had only instants, Macet activated his own
communicator and roared, “To all ships: Veer off! Escape the asteroid field and
go to warp immediately. Leave the system! Repeat! Leave the system!”
He watched
in fascinated horror at what next occurred.
A few more
of them—he later learned that the total number was five—managed, through a
combination of immediate compliance and preternatural reflex, to carry out his
instructions and flee the targeted area. His own Trager
led the way, accompanied by two more of the Galor-class,
and a pair of the Hidekis that had been on the
very periphery of the field.
Only one Jem’Hadar attack ship had escaped.
The
totality of the catastrophe wasn't lost on the Vorta
standing nearby.
“You imbecile!”
screeched Magon, flailing his arms. “They’re all
dead!”
Wordlessly,
Gul Macet drew his sidearm,
took casual aim, and disintegrated the Vorta.
“After
all,” he mentioned, matter-of-factly, “we can’t have you reporting this little
incident to the Founders, now can we?”
He glanced
around his bridge. The rest of his officers looked appalled, but seemed to
understand the necessity of his action.
Macet then
calmly gave the order he'd known was inevitable from the moment they’d
catalogued the survivors.
“Lock
weapons onto the remaining Jem’Hadar ship...
“...and
destroy it.”