JFarrington

Jami, it's Atragon. I don't know when you'll get this, but I'm recording it on September 9th ::pause:: I've been thinking of you today, of course, and I hope you're happy. You know I'll always love you, but I think you'll agree that it's for the best that we are apart. I always said that you were my second wife and my last wife. I still feel that this is true. I will never marry again, even if we formalize our separate lives. I feel that I have hurt two women by trying to force them into a commitment to my unique career and I will never do that again. I'm betting that you will argue with me when I ask for your forgiveness, that there is "nothing to forgive," but we both know there is. I can never atone for all I have put you through, so the best I can offer is my apology and the desire that the rest of your long and wonderful life be exciting, fulfilling, fun and joyous. Be well and think of me kindly. Sincerely and Covertly, Atragon Jami stared at the screen for several minutes before she regained her composure. She glanced at the calendar. September 9th. Thirteen years. Her wedding ring, as perfect as the day she'd received it, as perfect as the day she gave him its match, glowed in the light of her desk lamp. A few minutes later and she would have received his message on September 10th. Turning back to the screen, she reread his message. She could hear his voice as she read, "Jami, it's Atragon." As though she wouldn't recognize him, his writing, his words, his touch.... Oh, dear God, how she missed him. She took a deep breath and began: Dearest Atragon, I, too, have been thinking of you all day, as I do every day. Your presence in my life, though from a distance, is very real. Am I happy? Yes and no. I'm happy that you have the courage to follow your calling, as I am following mine. But an emptiness remains, one that can only be filled by you. Our paths met for a brief time, then they parted, but we remained joined and always will be. Such is the fabric of life; the warp and weft, together but apart. I miss you terribly and always will; we are one and always will be. Forgive you? Of course I will argue that; isn't arguing what I do best? Here she paused, tears welling so she could no longer see the screen. The chronometer, set to chime as a grandfather clock, rang 11:45 PM. She continued: If you feel the need for forgiveness, I give it with all my heart. Unforgiveness is a great burden, more for the one harboring it than for the unforgiven. The truth is that I forgave you long ago, as I hope you forgave me for the many times I disappointed you, questioned you wrongly, or accused you of wrongdoing when the fault was mine. Atragon, you never forced me into your unique career. I chose Manticore specifically because of its mission. And to further that truth, I must tell you something I've neglected to tell you for so many years. At the time I didn't believe it mattered, but now I realize it does. Before Manticore launched, Gren tried to dissuade me from deep space covert operations. Several times he came to me, pleading, and he finally resorted to sweetening the pot by offering me a position as his second in command in the Medical Corps: Assistant to the Starfleet Surgeon General. Why, I do not know. There was no romantic connection between us, but for whatever reason he persisted. Atragon, I turned him down because I believed in Manticore's mission, and especially because I believed in your ability as a strong leader to carry out that mission, to pursue it with vigor and serve the highest standards of Starfleet: to serve with honor. You did not lure me; the mission did. So don't flatter yourself, Atragon. Goodness knows your head is big enough. My life is exciting and fulfilling, but fun and joyous? Not so much without you to share it with me. But I, as you, are bound to the mission. We are very much alike, Atragon: people of purpose, people of mission. Think of you kindly? Never. I think of you with love and always will. Happy Anniversary, My Love. Jami She pressed the send button and the clock struck midnight. The lights on the corridor dimmed to graveyard shift. Jami dimmed her lamp and stood, still staring at the Medical Corps logo, swirling on the monitor. "Good night, Atragon," she whispered. "Be safe. See you in the morning."

Tough Love Starfleet Medical, San Francisco, Earth Jami followed Mark Murphy as he maneuvered awkwardly through her office toward the door. His prosthetic legs, though state-of-the-art, were still clumsy, a reflection of his state of mind, his inability to cope with “the life he’d fallen into without his permission” as he put it. The young Starfleet SpecOps Petty Officer had seen too much for one lifetime and his last mission left him the only survivor. Dealing with that along with post traumatic stress and a merciless media that was now kept at bay only by the protection offered on this campus and other Starfleet installations had withered him to a shadow of his former self. She’d been working with him for six months, but it would take several years to overcome his most prominent disability: his attitude. And she knew just the person who could help. The Academy faculty lounge, located on the top floor of the office complex, was quiet this time of day, so after making a call Jami wandered in that direction. It was the lull between noon and dinner when food service personnel cleaned and rearranged the tables, preparing for the next onslaught. They’d set up several tables together in a far corner, as though for a meeting. Someone was working overtime in the name of whatever discipline. Jami had grown beyond that. She’d intentionally scheduled her graduate seminars and private sessions - with the exception of emergencies like Mark’s - to allow her to dine in relative privacy, to give her the space she needed since Manticore's departure. She missed Atragon, of course, and she missed the crew. They’d become her extended family; bonds had formed that would never be broken, some even going deeper than family ties. But she didn’t miss the rest: the destruction, the politics, the suffering of a population under fire, and a myriad of other situations that came with working in SpecOps. She especially did not miss the moral and ethical tradeoffs associated with the decisions that boiled down to kill or don’t kill. Removed from that theater of operation, she was dealing with the theater of the mind, the aftermath that so many, young and old, faced when they either left the service or were forced out because of physical or mental disability. Putting those thoughts aside, Jami chose a table in a private alcove against the main windows where she could look out on the mall that stretched from the office complex to the main education building. In the distance a group of students huddled together in discussion; to the right of them and toward the office complex a few spread out, enjoying the early spring sun and the absence of San Fran’s trademark fog; just beneath the window a few played Frisbee-keepaway with their class’s yellow lab mascot, Bongo, dubbed Master of the Air by all who knew him for his ability to leap and grab anything at a moment’s notice. She watched a while, quietly cheering Bongo on every time he gained points for his team: himself. This time of day it was the perfect place to meet someone whose presence would draw too much attention had he appeared an hour earlier. Hidden within the noontime crowd always lurked someone begging a question, asking for an opinion, or wanting a quote for some such. It happened especially with adjunct professors who didn’t always adhere strictly to protocol... “Hey, J.” The soft voice of SpecOps tactical instructor Greg Patterson broke Jami’s concentration on the game below. She turned just in time to see him quietly pull out a chair and settle into it. He’d come in clad in blue jeans, identification pinned low on a black T-shirt, the gray shadow image of a phoenix splayed across its front. As he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back, his signature tattooed biceps stretched the tee to its limit while his boyish grin softened what would otherwise be an imposing presence. “Greg.” Jami smiled, but it came out worn, her session with Mark having been more intense than she imagined. “Quiet and sneaky as ever.” The Starfleet Marine MSgt dropped his chin to his chest and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Didn’t intend to do that,” he said, eyes peeking sheepishly through his lashes. “The hell you didn’t,” Jami shot back, flicking a dismissive hand at his expression. “And keep that for your girlfriends. You know better than to pull that crap with me.” Greg’s unabashed laugh echoed in the empty room, drawing the attention of a few servers. “Day-m, girl, guilty... as charged,” he said, his accent thick, one fist slamming down to rock the table. “And I even got ya to spit out one o’ them bayd words y’always talkin’ ‘bout.” Jami eyed him for a minute, her worn smile brightening before the shadow of Starfleet’s newest fighter drifted across the mall. Jami, Greg, and everyone below stopped to watch and admire its silent, stealth passage, the first of a series of Peacekeepers due to enter service within the year. “Damn sweet, that ride,” said Greg as it disappeared over the Santa Cruz range. “Let’s hope it lives up to its name.” A few moments of silence passed before Greg leaned forward to clasp his hands on the table, ready to discuss the situation at hand. “Hear you have someone for me?” The accent had mostly disappeared. “I do,” said Jami. “It’s taken him six months, but he’s ready.” She locked eyes with Greg and he finally gave a slow nod, lips pursed as he considered all the implications of his next move. Besides being an instructor within Starfleet’s clandestine/covert operations corps, Greg headed a group that extended the Wounded Warriors* program that began in the 20th century. Known for tough love, they were specialists in attitude change, and those who came never left without it. There was a period of psychological assessment - which was Jami’s side of the coin - followed by a period of camp adjustment, after which the specialists in situ threw the person into what amounted to an intensive mental boot camp. They were no longer patients, they were candidates, and treated as such, all under the watchful eye of medical personnel. Candidates for attitude adjustment, they said, which ultimately led to accelerated physical healing. Their rate of recovery often astounded the candidates’ former physicians, and sometimes the candidates themselves. “He has to come over by himself,” Greg continued, the direct, no-nonsense tone he was known for creeping in. “You’re aware of that. No assistance. No company.” “He knows. He’s ready. He asked for you by name today.” “And you said...?” “I said I’d look into it.” Greg continued to stare, his eyes fixed on hers as though he were making a decision. “He’s hurting, Greg. And he’s falling. If he’s not given this chance, it may be his last.” Another long moment of staring and Greg nodded, relaxing in his chair after one knock on the table. “You know where to send him. I’ll be there when he arrives. Keep ya posted.” ============= *This log in no way illustrates techniques used today by the Wounded Warriors or any of its affiliates. It is pure fiction and is intended to be read as such. For the real story on Wounded Warriors see woundedwarriorproject.org.

Please remove the title.

Nede Prime Revisited Starfleet Headquarters San Francisco, Earth It is said that within every being lies a deep desire to experience tragedy in its most visceral form, that the range of emotions, from profound grief to extreme euphoria, is a basic affirmation of life. If this were true, the desires of one Jami Farrington would have been fulfilled several times over, from the birth of her daughter, to the death of her first husband, to her marriage to Atragon followed by the rollercoaster of emotions experienced aboard the USS Manticore. If the premise were true, she would be returning with Manticore to revisit those desires, to experience that basic affirmation of life that gave validity to her own. Instead, this so-called affirmation of life had the opposite effect. For hours, Jami had been staring from the expansive windows that lined the corridors of Starfleet Medical’s executive wing onto the grounds below. She had occupied an office here while working under Vice Admiral Gren DeJariov, supervising the construction of the science/medical complex that now served the Academy’s School of Medicine as a teaching facility and the Federation as a research center. Its facade was now a campus landmark, not only because of the beauty of its design but because its position and window composition caught and splayed the first rays of dawn and the last rays of sunset across nearby hills and the buildings that surrounded it: a beacon of hope for the future, and remembrance for the many who had given their lives. Young and old alike favored the grassy mall that led to its entrance as a place of rest, love, and reflection. At this particular moment, though, Jami’s mind was numb, unable to appreciate the sight or its significance. “Hello, Mother.” “Janis,” Jami replied, barely turning. The vestiges of Qin telepathy left by the Iota-18 nanites had signaled the young woman’s approach, but in her present state of mind it gave Jami little comfort. Born not long after her Vulcan father’s tragic death, Janis had grown tall and beautiful: outwardly Vulcan and inwardly both, by choice. “Your expression is the same you had after Nede Prime, Mother.” A simple observation, filled with innuendo that conjured an unwanted flash of memory. The first time Jami had left the Manticore, after Nede Prime, she vowed never to return, only to be lured back by the unseen force called duty and the insatiable human need for exploration and adventure. Nede Prime. Like Watergate, the term needed no descriptor; it had become a descriptor in itself. The mere mention of the planet to anyone within the Federation conjured lurid details of a mission that toppled Consul General Elaine Jaffe and sent ripples to the lowest peon, like an earth tremor radiating from its epicenter. There had been an inquiry. Heads that should have rolled didn’t. The name Manticore had never been mentioned; the ship had officially never been there. Things had quieted down in ensuing years, but the phrase “looks like another Nede Prime” endured as common politispeak. Then, as now, there had been an inquiry. This time the inquiry was different. It reached into the mind and examined the deepest recesses of the soul. It dredged up memories best left suppressed and called forth the darkest demons of the soul - those things best left buried, never to see the light of day. What the nanites left intact was unraveled and spread across an examination table to be picked over by an inquiry board of psychologists and physicians – all in the name of healing. Jami especially remembered an encounter with Mitch Campbell, who had come for a series of interviews after Nede Prime. Retired reporter for Millennium, The Weekly News Magazine, his name had become a household word. A blue button-down shirt hid more battle scars than some of Starfleet’s finest. He’d earned his stripes behind enemy lines as an imbedded journalist where he cultivated a quiet but direct manner. A hint of gray hair fringed a bald spot, and he had a ruddiness that came from being in the trenches for days without shelter, food, or water. Mitch’s interest in Nede Prime was a diversion from his current assignment as historian and biographer for Starfleet. He seemed to believe that Jami had more to offer than the others on his list and interviewed her almost daily for a month. His easy manner and penchant for confidentiality allowed Jami to trust him implicitly, but he was also a stickler for detail. She remembered sitting at her desk, twirling a stylus in one hand while they engaged in the small talk that was always a precursor to the relevant question. Light from the window behind her danced from the stylus to the highly-polished dark mahogany surface of a desk had been in her family for generations. Its wood came from a tree that had existed a century before the maker cut it and would have endured another century had he not. It had a history of users and once had a life of its own. When the relevant question came the stylus had stopped, Jami had leaned back and rubbed her eyes, then swiveled her chair towards the window. Mitch waited with the patience that had become his trademark, a patience that said take all the time you need, a patience that had gotten him in the door of many inaccessible Federation leaders and had earned him a Pulitzer Prize. Where is he going with this? she had wondered. Why bring up Topan after all these years? What the hell does Topan have to do with Nede Prime? “Yes, I was married to a Vulcan once,” she replied. “Topan of Vulcan, but I suppose you know that already.” The comment was more caustic than Jami intended, but she let it pass and apparently so did Mitch. “We had a child. Janis. Her father was killed in action before she was born. He never knew her, never saw her, never had the chance to see how beautiful she was, watch her first steps . . . hear her first word . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She paused to regain her composure. “I gave her my surname, but Vulcan genes are dominant, you know, and being more Vulcan than Human she was raised on Vulcan by her grandparents.” “So you have no prejudice against Vulcans?” It took a few seconds for the question to register, but when it did Jami turned sharply to face him, her entire body questioning his point. If her action had sent up a flag Mitch didn’t show it. He remained relaxed, leaning back in the armchair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his fingers casually intertwined. He unlinked them and waved a hand over the padd on his lap. “Just wondering about your relationship with Captain Sovak. I thought it might have some bearing on your decision after the incident at Nede Prime.” Jami exhaled slowly. Mitch had inadvertently opened a wound she thought had been healed long ago. “Captain Sovak had no bearing on my decision. He was - and still is - a very dear friend. I know that some say his ‘cold, calculating Vulcan ways’ contributed to the decision, but the fact is that Nede Prime was the proverbial last straw in a long series of missions, Mitch. You know I can’t go into specifics. Working in covert operations puts strain on a being unlike anything else. But you know that. You’ve been there.” He nodded. She crossed to her desk, ran her finger along a prominent grain, then slipped easily into her chair, leaning back to reach her coffee. Beneath their polished surface those grains marked years of drought and years of plenty and held countless tiny petrified organisms with which the tree had once co-existed. It was a constant reminder of mortality; the rich heritage they shared was too often shunned or forgotten in the name of progress, tossed aside as so much chaff in a winnowing wind. “Nede Prime,” Jami began again, taking small sips as she spoke. “We had been watching their development for several years, didn’t like what we saw. ‘We’ being the Federation, of course. Oh, how we can play God. “Pre-warp civilization. Our orders were to investigate and report findings of… technology inconsistent with their normal development, with the idea of thwarting their efforts somehow. We went. We saw. We found more than we bargained for. It got nasty. I wish I could tell you more.” Mitch’s coffee mug nestled in an indentation he had carefully cultivated in the arm of the easy chair over the past month. He waited, his eyes firmly fixed on Jami while he ran one finger around the lip of the mug, his general expression casual. “And these orders came from . . . ?” She paused for a long minute, studying his face. His expression didn’t waver. “Off the record?” Mitch sighed. “Off the record.” “Jaffe.” Jami placed her cup with the now-cold coffee on a side table and swiveled her chair away from the window to avoid the direct rays of a setting sun. A few clicks came from beyond the office door as the night watch slipped their access codes into various terminals up and down the corridor. Her assistant, Saliq, entered briefly to retrieve the coffee tray and ask if they required anything else. As she watched him leave she wondered how Mitch could possibly think she had any prejudice whatsoever against Vulcans. Then she realized the question had been a ploy, a toss of the dice in the game of investigative journalism. “So, Captain Sovak had nothing to do with your decision?” Damn, he’s persistent. “Mitch, there comes a point in everyone’s life when one questions the validity of their actions, wonders what their true purpose is, wonders if what they are doing is the right thing. You know the routine.” He nodded. “I’d lost too many patients, too many friends, seen too many civilizations die in the name of what one or two people called justice or peace. Nede Prime was deja vu, and when Dr. Sloan was captured it was the proverbial blessing and curse. The blessing was that we now had someone on the inside. The curse was that he might lose his life.” Jami stood and began to pace. “We were planning our strategy, sitting calmly in the conference room talking as if he was . . . some kind of asset, something to be manipulated. We discussed the people on the planet as though they were no more than obstacles in our path. I finally realized what had been nagging at me since I joined covert operations, what I had pushed to the back of my mind because I honestly believed we were making a meaningful difference in the galaxy. “Hell, Mitch. We were dealing with living, breathing sentient beings. Not objects. Not conglomerates. Planets are populated with beings.” Her palms slammed the desk as she stopped to brace against it. “Governments are groups of beings. And ships’ crews are beings. And Elaine Jaffe, along with countless others, had lost track of the fact that Manticore was not an entity, but a ship loaded with sentient beings whose psyche can be… was being… deeply marred by directives such as she had just dealt out, and whose lives can be lost in more ways than one.” She slumped into her chair and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “It took me over ten years to figure that out, Mitch. Ten frackin’ years of deception, death, and destruction. I had to leave. I had to leave.” Jami sat for a long time staring out the window, looking past the construction site, beyond the waning sunset, beyond everything. When she turned around Mitch was gone. It had been an arduous journey, and she had thought it was finally over. And yet, she had been drawn back into it. The lure of deep space? The call of duty? Her love for Atragon? All three? Janis waited patiently by her side as the memory played itself out. She had her father’s eyes, his quiet manner, his patience. “Though I could recommend treatment, any treatment I would recommend I am sure would be the same you have already tried.” Jami’s smile came out as flat, but she counted it an improvement. “The nanites of Iota-18 conjured an experience that was Nede Prime ten times over, Janis. I doubt there is any going back this time. One thing is certain: I am no asset to the crew in my present state of mind. I’ve decided the best treatment is time. Time to realize it was a fabrication. Time to understand it as such and move beyond. Time to enjoy life and not worry about a future over which I have no control.” Her daughter’s expression turned totally Vulcan and Jami half expected her to say, Worrying about the future is illogical, but what came out was, “I am here, if for no other purpose than to support you in your recovery.” “I know,” Jami replied. “And I thank you.”

=/= USS MANTICORE BRIEFING #704, STARDATE 51203.26 =/= The entire "reality" since leaving Iota-18 was actually a shared hallucination produced by the nanites in our infected bodies generating an experience to make us more pliant so they could complete their takeover of us. In actuality, Starfleet found the ship and the crew has been in SF Medical being treated for the infection. This is what caused the huge "battle" and the physical traumas that accompanied it. Now we recuperate in San Francisco in the springtime - there are worse fates. 120326.txt

We go up against the meteors destined to destroy Earth and we win - but at what cost? The ship is destroyed and the crew is killed. The awards for best supporting simmers in a dramatic death scene go to McFly for his True-To-Trek sumersault, Jami for breaking our main viewscreen - with her body, and Kyle for... uggh, you're just gonna have to read it! So we're all dead and the ship is destroyed... or not! ~Admiral Atragon-9 120319.txt

The latest from Shore Leave 34:

Science wants to pepper the meteors with probes so the matter compactor will compress them into nothing. Engineering wants to eject the second warp core and blow it up, like a gigantic mine field. Security wants to blow a hole in the field of rocks and attack it from the ship and the fighters. Medical wants to know why so many people suddenly suffered headaches, blurred vision, seizures, shortness of breath or fainting - and why others were unaffected; then everyone got better! The meteor field will reach us in 90 minutes, TBS is 70 minutes. Here . We . Go!! 120312.txt

=/= USS MANTICORE BRIEFING #701, STARDATE 51203.05 =/= The Manticore has gone back in time to face Earth's enemy and stop them before they can attack our homeworld. Just outside the solar system, we engaged the gigantic conical ship filled with asteroids that was heading to Earth. The matter compactor destroyed the ship, but not it's payload. The Manticore, Wyvern and Griffin are trying to destroy or deflect hundreds of asteroids, some of which are displaying unusual properties in direction and velocity. 120305.txt

Please put (if short enough): I have one job on this ship... so I'm gonna do it! Okay?

=/\= USS MANTICORE BRIEFING #700, STARDATE 51202.27 =/\= The Manticore has gone back in time to face Earth's enemy and stop them before they can attack our homeworld. Just outside the solar system, we found a gigantic conical ship filled with asteroids and heading to Earth. It's showtime! 120227.txt

=/\= USS MANTICORE BRIEFING #699, STARDATE 51202.20 =/\= Thanks to a secret component of our already secretive new weapon, the Manticore has gone back in time to face Earth's enemy and stop them before they can attack our homeworld. The time jump was effortless, how easy will it be to stop an enemy who nearly destroyed a planet just as easily? 120220.txt