Crash Calestorm

Please note: the official launch date of September 25 has been moved to October 2 for the USS Comanche Creek. September 25 will now be an Out Of Character, Comanche Creek Question and Answer Session hosted by the Command Staff, starting at 9 PM EST. October 2 will now be the official start of the new sim, with an In Character Sim Launch cocktail party prior to the actual ship launch. Both the Q&A session as well as the IC Cocktail Launch Party will be open to all STSFers who wish to attend the events. ~ Captain Calestorm

Please note: the official launch date of September 25 has been moved to October 2 for the USS Comanche Creek. September 25 will now be an Out Of Character, Comanche Creek Question and Answer Session hosted by the Command Staff, starting at 9 PM EST. October 2 will now be the official start of the new sim, with an In Character Sim Launch cocktail party prior to the actual ship launch. Both the Q&A session as well as the IC Cocktail Launch Party will be open to all STSFers who wish to attend the events. ~ Captain Calestorm

Find a planet that is currently in the rainy season for one of it's hemispheres. If you can, replicate a gun carriage or have the greasemonkeys build one...a cargo crate weighted down with some supplies can work as an alternative. Tie the reprobate officer to the object in question, and leave 'em grounded there in the rainy hemisphere for a good few hours. Tied to a gun carriage and left out in the rain. Mm Hmm.

Now, that's what I call a load of bullshot.

Release the Hounds! Mark September 25 on your calendars and stop by the chat, as we will be running with an In Character cocktail party to commemorate the new ship and it's protection mission. All STSFers are welcome to stop by and mingle. Apply to Personnel, hop on board our new adventure and grab an assignment posting! Available positions are shown in the Comanche Creek Primer under our Briefings and Logs. To request a USS Comanche Creek Application, send an email to [email protected] Let's rock out with some New TOS Old School and break out the Command Gold, Sciences Blue and Operations Red. Buckle Up!

All STSFers are welcome to attend the September 25 launch sim: we will be running an In Character cocktail party prior to the ship launch. Come by and mingle with the Crew as we celebrate the new ship and our new mission! Requests for a USS Comanche Creek Application should be sent to [email protected] for those Players who are interested in joining the Launch Crew.

Mine. Perhaps the surfing turtle will show up and liven the delay up a bit. The Shark Twelve Step Program anyone? Fish are our friends...

I'm sure you're in good company with the anticipation T'Aaral: I'm having to be peeled down from the ceiling panels every few days now. That double TOS Era siggy looks pretty darn cool as well there Nurse...

Welcome Joker. Challenger, Excalibur, and Agincourt show Marine slots/departments per the Rosters located under the "Briefings and Logs" for each ship section. I come from starfighter jock stock personally. Prefer to keep my rear end up in the atmosphere. At least when something shoots at me, I have a couple ton fighter craft between me and whatever It is and I ain't a moving ground target. Just sayin' is all. Good luck finding a home, Ground Pounder. ~ Cale

Soon - keep an eye on the boards for more upcoming announcements!

Star Trek, no matter the timeline or era, is always going to have possibilities for a creative on line RP Player to work with. An Alternate/New TOS Nurse? Nice one T'Aral! Looking forward to the Bio. :wacko:

The ‘chemical learning’ concept was first introduced in the novel Spocks World (1988) by Diane Duane. This pre-Launch character background story takes place in the year 2242, in between Cale’s (who is a Lieutenant Commander during this time period) instructor assignment at the Fleet Academy and prior to her taking on the posting of Second Officer for the USS San Pablo according to the classified information showing within the service section of her main biography. = = = = It had been just under six months since Commander Shauna Walking Coyote had taken on the Agent Extraction divisional program for the Intelligence department of Starfleet Command, and true to form, the auburn haired half Comanche human female had comported herself well as the programs lead officer. Currently, the Commander found herself mingling with other officers based at Fleet command for various departments or functions as well as officer instructors who had taught classes at the Fleet academy; the yearly semester had just come to a conclusion, and Admiral Komack usually had an end of semester get together at the main command building for the staff and instructors. Shauna smirked gently to herself as she gazed at her good friend and comrade, Ashton Marie Calestorm, from across the room. Cale was speaking in a quiet conversation with some of the other instructors, and had already gained a reputation among the student body at large as the teacher that the cadets hope they didn’t get, but there was probably no one else on the current helm and piloting instruction curriculum that could give the kids choosing to major in the disciplines a better education. If she happened to be a little tough on the kids with the assignments and workload, then so be it. Coyote finished her drink, placed the glass on the tray of a passing server, and then began making her goodbyes and exit from the low key cocktail party, getting Cale’s attention in the process. After a series of fare thee well and pardon us as we take our leave directed at the other attendees from the two women, Commander Coyote and Lieutenant Commander Calestorm retired from the little get together in order to retreat to the relative safe haven of the Commander’s office under the pretense to ‘catch up on some old times’. In reality, Ash knew that Coyote was going to go over the specifics of an assignment that she had asked the lieutenant commander to take the lead role on. Coyote had made it a habit of tapping old fellow officers and comrades that she had served with over the years when she needed a lead officer for a particular assignment, and Cale really couldn’t fault her friend for this practice; by recruiting people that she trusted and knew previously for these current assignments, Coyote knew full well the type of person that she was sending on the missions, and therefore could expect a margin of success. Cale didn’t necessarily trust Fleet Intel, but she did trust in Shauna and her work. Once Coyote had settled in behind her desk, with Calestorm planting it in one of the guest desk chairs located directly across the desk from the commander, the slightly younger blond haired officer started the conversation ball rolling with a direct question at her auburn haired superior officer. “So, where am I traveling to Shauna, and what exactly does this Intel assignment entail?” “This mission shouldn’t take any longer then two weeks duration, or however long it takes you to complete the assignment. It’s an extraction mission to Idiri K Five, a colony planet and outpost located on the fringe of the Mutara sector. Specifically, you’ll be working a territory on the Idiri surface known by the locals as Hang Tree Flats.” A pause in conversation; that name was a new one on Ashton, yippee. “You send me to such nice vacation spots Commander Coyote." Shauna just smirked and gave her friend a good natured wink. “Your extract target is one Lieutenant McQueen. He’s been undercover for us on K Five for the past eight months, posing as a local ruffian working for one of the livestock ranches. Idiri is one of the key bread basket production planets for the Federation at large. We’ve had some problems with raiders swooping down on the planet and rustling the local livestock and supplies scheduled for shipment, hence the need for agents inserted at various outposts, ranches and towns across the planet in an attempt to gather information on who the rustlers might be.” Calestorm interrupted. “…It had better not be sheep. You know I can’t stand the buggers Shauna.” Coyote waved a long fingered and strong hand through the air vaguely and smirked. “…not sheep, so don’t get yourself all worked up Ashton.” “Has your Lieutenant McQueen gone rogue?” “It’s nothing as dramatic as that, although it might make things a lot easier if we were dealing with an agent who was full on aware of what they were doing.” Shauna ran a hand through her auburn brown hair and continued with the background explanation. “Like some, not all, of our agents in the Insertion and Intel gathering programs, in addition to straight on data research, he also took some chemical learning courses and hypos prior to shipping out on his assignment, to familiarize himself with the life and various duties that a hired ranch hand might carry out. We’re speculating he either overdosed while on the job with some supplemental hypos, or it just took all this time for the chemicals to interact with his system and he can’t handle the chemical buildup.” The blond haired senior officer cocked her head to one side. “So you’re telling me I’m supposed to go pick up a Chem Head?” “He’s not that fully gone yet, just confused and dropping out of the original mission parameters. His last transmittal report update was over three months ago, and it was a bit disjointed. The Intel doctors have dealt with the condition enough to recognize the pre-signs, and that was one of them. The Lieutenant missed his last check in, and it’s been over a month now. Now that I’m sure that he needs a pull out, I have the authorization to send someone in after him. That’s where you come in Crash.” “So he overdosed. Any chance he compromised your Idiri mission at large?” “This incident isn’t nearly that far reaching, and McQueen hasn’t been undercover long enough to cause any sort of serious repercussions if he’s pulled out, because the ranch workers come and go regularly anyway with the seasonal work; we’ll just insert a secondary officer in another few months. Yes, we’re speculating that he overdosed, and got in a bit too deep. Good junior agent, I’m not faulting him for the havoc the chemicals are causing with his system, I only wish our doctors caught it either prior to him being inserted or earlier then this. Go in, track him, and get him out Cale. Obviously, the whole situation gets a bit tricky since you can’t blow his cover or any of the other agents that he’s had contact with.” Coyote reached over to the side, opened a drawer set flush into a filing cabinet sitting next to the desk, and fished a red hued data slate to hand it over to Calestorm. “Your insertion cover will be as a contract bounty hunter sent to collect the Lieutenant, who is known as Randy Dillon to the Hang Tree locals, on some sort of grand theft charges that we’ll sprinkle about the local and galactic police networks. The step by step details and information are all contained on that slate that I just gave you…” Ashton put a finger up in the air in a mild protest on her free hand as she took the data device with the other hand. “Now wait a minute Shauna -- you know I’m no bounty hunter.” “I know. But what I do know is that you have training on how to ride a horse, can use a ballistic weapon for defense, and have experience with tracking and camping out, and all of these skills will serve you well on the Hangtree…” “…okay, that name really doesn’t conjure up happy thoughts you know…” “…mission. Idiri Five is far removed from the main cargo lanes, and is very much a throwback to the classic frontier concept. The atmosphere has some ionization that can play havoc with most modern equipment, so there’s that need for adaptation. The locals rely on either hover flitter vehicles or Earth horses to move about most of the planetary surface or a local saddle animal called a Raptor: a big two legged flightless bird, pretty much looks like a parrot and a hawk got together, did the nasty, and had a kid.” Ashton gave a chuckle at that one and favored Shauna with a smile. “Okay, that’s a mental image I did not need, but thank you for the information on that particular species of saddle animal Commander. What exactly do I do once I track down this man?” “No matter how far gone the Lieutenant is, his safe words are Katinga Alpha Five. Say ‘em out loud to him, in that sequence, and he’ll completely snap back into reality. All our chemical agents are required to have a safe phrase for implementation in case of a situation like this.” “…and these safe words’ll make it all better? What if he doesn’t quote, snap back into reality and come along all quietly?” “It’s the chemicals, not him. If the code doesn’t work, then jab him with the counter toxic hypo we give you. Bring McQueen home anyway you can Crash, relatively unharmed and protected, so we can debrief and detoxify him.” Ashton Calestorm gave a precise nod of her head towards her now commanding officer, and then said, “Aye Commander. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” = = = = The next two weeks were a maelstrom of activity as the plans for the extraction operation were set in motion and Calestorm prepped and got ready for her upcoming mission to the Mutara sector. From the little details on up through the so called important details, a working cover that Ash could use to her advantage was all fleshed out and then put into place within the information networks. She worked, ate and was with Coyote constantly during the preparation phase, and the two of them began to joke about the possibility of sleeping together since they were spending so much time together. Regardless, bawdy joking aside, there was work to be done in order for the extraction assignment to work out as smoothly as possible for all of the officers involved with the field work. The one thing that surprised Cale the most was the use of her real name -- Ashton Marie Calestorm -- and most of her background, including her call sign, Crash, for her biography dossier that would be distributed on the networks along with all of the other planted information. She canted a curious eyebrow towards her friend and used that gesture as a silent question. “It wouldn’t be unusual for a Starfleet officer with your background to go into this sort of work: working for the local galactic law, yet also on your own as a freelancer. Sometimes, the closer to the truth that the details are, the easier it is for the agent being inserted to work. With Lieutenant McQueen slash Dillon, we didn’t have that option, as he needed a completely new personality and background so to speak in order to blend into the local rough and ready Idiri frontier culture. But with you Ash we can pretty much use you as you are.” And so, Cale was to be a former Fleet officer turned freelance contract bounty hunter sometimes employed by the local sector police forces to track down various criminals and perps that had skipped out on bail. As long as she played her cards right and immersed herself fully into the contract bounty hunter cover that Coyote had put in place for her over the communications wireless network, this extraction job promised to be easy going and a total milk run. = = = = One week later, Ashton had arrived at Idiri Five by courier shuttle, and after procuring a room at a local boarding establishment located within the main town square, had immediately set about the best way to find and locate McQueen. She made contact with the outpost’s local sheriff as soon as she could, and told him of her intentions to apprehend Lieutenant McQueen, or as he was known on Idiri, Randy Dillon. Hang Tree Flats had been established a few years ago after the nearest main city had been built and squared away; over the intervening years, the camp had become less a camp and more a layover point for any workers and travelers who were heading out to either dilithium mining camps, farms, or livestock ranches scattered across the lush surface of the world. This so called ‘First Camp’ was about ten miles outside of the main city and boasted about thirty or so residences, businesses, a small hospital, equipment rental and purchase stores, and entertainment and drinking establishments that compromised an area equivalent to a twenty block city sector grid, and the buildings were one to four or five stories tall. There were also a bunch of sturdy canvas and plexi frame tents scattered about the perimeter as well. The layout and buildings of the larger campsite, even though it was thoroughly modern, evoked memories of a frontier culture. Ashton wore the typical garb of a frontier planet denizen: blue jeans, comfortable work boots, long sleeved work shirt, camel colored canvas jacket for protection from the elements. She had opted for a non descript baseball cap for further protection, but had chosen a cap rather then the typical cowboy hat that some of the Idiri locals used because, to be honest, Cale didn’t want to look like a refugee cowgirl or something. For the most part, the town residents, and the local marshal or sheriff or police chief or whatever you wanted to call him, Hunter Willis, had accepted her as she appeared and apparently the sight of some sort of bounty hunter or police representative arriving within the Hang Tree territory or one of the other areas of Idiri wasn’t an unusual occurrence what with the local culture sometimes attracting the seedier galactic element who might be on the run from the law. Not all, but in some cases this was the truth. She currently sat in a guest chair directly across from the local lawman, who sat behind his pitted and scarred stainless steel desk on the office’s only other desk chair. The office was the typical establishment of a frontier lawman: wanted posters, both hardcopy and holographic wanted posters and alerts were hung on a bulletin board along one plasti-steel wall, and a modern computer sat on a spare desk towards the back of the office. The two were enjoying a mug of coffee with one another, and Ashton had to admit, the dark skinned make sheriff made a good cup of java. “I suggest you stay right here in town Ms. Calestorm instead of traipsing all across the known country side; you have good timing, as the Chevron Ranch workers, and probably Dillon, are due in end of this week.” He looked at her, his keen blue eyes showing the intelligence of one who had worked within the protection services most of his life. “You want some backup when you go for this Randy Dillon?” “Thank you Sheriff, but I’ll pass on the assistance. I think it’s best if I go in and grab him myself. I will ask though that you post some of your assistants about the town perimeter, you know, in case a few of his buddies get a notion?” The less people involved with the actual extraction, the better. Oh sure, you couldn’t account for every factor and situation, but a field agent could do their best to minimize exposure and any unforeseen problems. That meant that Sheriff Willis would either make this very, very easy for her, or if he were the territorial sort of local protection officer, very, very hard. As it stood, this Willis was of the very, very easy sort, and he agreed to let Cale take the lead point on the sting operation in his town. “Will do. You have my word that myself and my deputies won’t interfere with your operation.” She raised her coffee mug in salute. “Thank you Mister Willis. The co-operation is very much appreciated. = = = = Ashton had hung around the main outpost for a little under a week, biding her time and playing her role as the contract bounty hunter to the letter. Most of her time was spent in what amounted to the local saloon and gaming house, gathering information and keeping tabs on the local goings on while she wiled away the hour’s playing cards or three dee video games and the like. She had no idea if anyone else was a fellow Fleet officer or not, planted in the town, and that was the way that Fleet Intel worked things. The less you knew, the better for the overall picture that concerned your end of the assignment or mission would work out. Eventually, her patience paid off and her extraction target arrived in town and made a bee line for the saloon, unconsciously playing out his assigned role as a young hell raiser to the letter just as Cale was consciously playing out her bounty hunter role. She even managed to get into a pick up card game with him and a few other hands and workers from the ranch where he had been hired/inserted before all the young bucks retired upstairs to the rooms for a romp with the various ‘ladies and men of the saloon’ that were employed on site for the purpose of lovemaking. There were still some so called unrespectable joints out there who employed the real thing rather then holographic prostitutes. But then again, Ashton was not there to judge. She was there to do her job. She waited a good two hours or so for the boys (and a few girls as well, mind you) from the Chevron ranch to get settled into a stupor both from the alcohol and their partners for the evening. Once she was completely sure and confident that the time was right, she made her move. Calestorm crept down the corridor, moving quietly past the locked and closed doorways that led into the rooms located on the upper level of the establishment. Her ballistic weapon was out and cocked, but the gun was loaded with blanks, and really, Ash had not gone into this mission with the intention of shooting anyone if it could be completely avoided. Just because you were hip deep in a futuristic town version of the Old West, that was no reason to lose your head and go off half cocked and such. She arrived at G7 (she had slipped the bartender a couple of credits to find out what room McQueen/Dillon had been assigned to along with his girl) and lightly pressed an ear to the door; the unmistakable sounds of two people in the throes of lovemaking drifted out from within. “Ohhh….Mister Dillon…” She muttered under her breath, “Oh, this won’t be embarrassing at all.” She lifted up her booted foot and then slammed it full on into the locking mechanism on the entryway door, shattering the keypad and swinging the door open. The lanky and athletic undercover officer ducked into the room and was greeted by the sight of McQueen/Dillon and his girl for the night, both completely naked and sprawled out on the bed. “Mister Dillon, pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, I need you to be a good boy and come with me. We have an appointed with the Katinga Alpha Five outpost police department.” She saw a blank look and then comprehension fall across Lieutenant McQueen’s rugged features; he slipped a furtive look laced with some concern (as in, how in the hell did I end up in bed with her?!) to his current bed partner, who was completely confused and staring at Calestorm with equal parts anger and confusion warring on her pretty and young features. “And as for you, Miss…wait, don’t tell me: your name is Miss Kitty, right sweetie? I suggest you remove yourself from the immediate area for right …” For a ‘lady of the night’, ‘Miss Kitty’ had a pretty good right cross and she moved like a damn cat: Cale never knew what hit her. Miss Kitty was off the bed and rushing Cale with no warning whatsoever, despite the Lieutenant calling out a frantic “No wait! Trixie!” at the leaping female. The shorter woman rammed into Cale and sent her flying back out into the corridor to slam into the far wall. Before Ashton could recover, Trixie’s fist impacted square on with Ashton’s lower lip. The pain exploded from the now split lip, and then she tasted coppery blood. As she was completely unprepared for the hit when it came, the blow knocked her flat, and another pain to contend with exploded from her tailbone on up when her rump hit the flooring. Her weapon flew somewhere off to the right and she thought she heard clattering as it bounced down the staircase, discharging a few blanks here and there as it bounced and the hair trigger was, well, triggered. Somewhere, within a section of her brain that wasn’t occupied with the current situation as it played out all around her, came a detached thought of: Stun capsules. Definitely stun capsules next time. No, no, scratch that; there will be no next time, thank you very flippin’ much. Ashton tried to stumble upright, but Psycho Whore threw either an empty bottle or a lamp or something blunt at her which impacted with her shoulder and sent her sprawling down again. The little so and so went for a sawed off concealed in one if the bedside nightstands, rushed out into the corridor again, cocked the shotgun as she ran, and then unloaded the first and second barrels in quick succession in Cale’s general direction; the rock salt (thank you, dear God, minus the projectile bullets) ripped through her jacket and shirt and a good bit of the pellets caught her square on in her left side (Um…that would be a big owie) and Cale went down again with a pained yelp. The scene had degraded into chaos, and Ashton’s visions of riding in on said white horse and saving the day and doing a smooth extract job pretty much disintegrated on the air. By now though, a few of McQueen/Dillon’s worker ‘buddies’ from the Chevron were trying (surprisingly) to contain the situation thanks to shouted directions from the undercover El Tee; McQueen had obviously realized from Cale’s presence that the two of them had to pull out, and the best way to do that was to stay in character as much as possible so as to avoid tipping off any of the townies or ranch workers. One of the other ranch workers, a young and gawky blond haired kid with a goatee, was talking some sense into the irate girl Trixie and had managed to get her calmed down to a dull roar. Well, at least he had got the saloon employee calmed down to the point where she didn’t want to take anymore chunks out of Crash’s hide. Ashton knew that the whole situation had further degraded into a minor cluster frell when the local ruffians had started going all concerned and saying things to her such as ‘you really should get that lip looked at’ and ‘get those injuries tended to’. And, to add insult to literal injury, Lieutenant McQueen, who had been her responsibility and whole reason for this undercover extraction operation, had gotten her off the floor and was now pretty much helping Cale stand upright. Embarrassing, totally embarrassing. Sheriff Willis had finally arrived on the scene, no doubt after staying away long enough to allow Calestorm time to do her work…such as it was and had panned out. With what remained of her dignity, bleeding lip and various bruises and contusions aside, she looked right at him, playing out the extraction plan to the letter, and said, “I’m taking this man into my custody.” The local sheriff of Hang Tree Flats paused for a couple beats, looking from the relatively unharmed McQueen/Dillon to the most definitely ripped up Ashton, and couldn’t help commenting and getting a bit of a good natured dig in. “Miss, are you sure you’re taking him in? Looks to me that he’s the one holding you upright right now …” From somewhere within the crowd that had gathered on the main floor of the saloon, a young though confident voice rang out, “Sheriff Willis! I can explain part of what happened tonight! I got a little carried away…” He waved a gentle hand towards the saloon employee. “Trixie, we can handle …” Calestorm practically leaped out of her raw and abused skin, causing Lieutenant McQueen/Dillon to hold onto her a bit tighter. “Oh Dear Lord! Get her away from me! Is she armed!? Rocksalt?! Take any blunt objects away from her!” = = = = Within twenty four hours, Calestorm and her extraction officer charge had posted payment and gotten seats on an outbound courier shuttle flight where they would catch a straight run shuttle flight back to Federation space and eventually Fleet headquarters. She was far from a happy camper however when communications contact had been established with Commander Coyote, and the commander practically spewed out the mouthful of coffee she had been drinking when she caught sight of Calestorm on her desktop video monitor. Ashton had a split lower lip, a lurid purple bruise stretching across her cheek and left eye, and wore a sports bra in deference to her abraded and bandaged side…and these were the visible bruises. “Oh my God. Crash, what happened to you?” Cale growled. Yes. Growled. “Commander Shauna Meredith Walking Coyote. I was attacked and punched out by a who -- lady of the night, shot by said lady with rock salt, and had to deal with McQueen over here who is decidedly not a medical officer as he patched me up. You and I will be having words about this little assignment once he and I return. We’ll be back in main Federation space in two days time. Lieutenant Commander Calestorm, out.” And with no further explanation, the visual and audio communications link from Ashton’s end went dead as her fellow officer cut the wireless signal from her end, leaving Coyote staring at a blank computer screen backlit by the Starfleet symbol. “Oh dear…”

- - - - Despite the orders from Admiral Mkory, no matter how well worded the message transmittals were, it was obvious that the Jackrabbit and her crew were being sent off on a milk run mission to pick up Marine reinforcement fire teams. And Captain Ashton ‘Crash’ Calestorm couldn’t be happier. The change in orders was obviously a thinly veiled attempt to put some temporary distance between Cale’s and Harper’s crews due to the mounting tensions, but, hey, no complaints would be forthcoming from the Jackrabbit’s commander. Her ‘Rabbit crew was busy setting about the pre-departure flight checklist, while Ashton and her XO, Commander Lucas McCall, were sampling a bit of the local alcoholic brew within the confines of her ready room. Calestorm sat in the chair located behind her desk, while Lucas McCall sat in one of the two guest chairs facing towards the desk. Ashton Calestorm might have had a prickly personality, but her office and desk area was impeccably neat. Cale knocked back the last of her shot and damn near choked herself to death. “Where in the…::cough:: ::hack:: Blue Sun ::cough:: did you get that fire ::hack:: whiskey, McCall? Jay H. Christmas!” “A local miner. Makes the stuff, sells it for a decent price, so I grabbed a bottle and contributed to the local Corianis economy.” He saluted his captain with his own half filled shot glass and then took a drink of the whiskey. Cale grimaced and chose not to go for seconds, placing her now empty whiskey glass off to one side. “We can use that stuff to power a fusion reactor or something.” Then, adventurous forays into the art of alcoholic drink aside, she got right down to the business at hand as she passed along the orders from Admiral Mkory to her executive officer. “So, we’re off to grab replacement and backup troops. Word came on down from Mkory himself – the Agincourt is to implement martial law on Corianis.” “That’s a bit of a blunt edged order, even for Fleet Command.” “Aye, it is. I admit, I was a bit surprised. But, ya know Lucas, we’re at war. The Soltans are out there, and these Fleet ships need dilithium to protect the borders and the inner planets, and these dilithium workers in the sectors need to produce, that’s the bottom line.” Calestorm stretched a painful kink out of her knee and groaned slightly, vocalizing the discomfort she felt; McCall was one of the few officers that she didn’t mind showing this sort of weakness to. “…you planning on going to see the Doc and get an injection for that knee? It’s been playing more hell then usual with you since we started this Corianis business.” “Hush up. Anyway, Corianis ain’t our problem now; it’s up to Harper and her people to deal with the implementation, and I’m not just sure they’ll even be up to the task of implementing the martial law. You need a crew that can be stone cold bastards in order to pull something like this off.” Crash waved a hand through the air in derision as she continued her assessment regarding the ‘Court crew, her Earth Southern action thickening a bit as she let her full on annoyed opinion come to the forefront. “‘Cept for the gropo in charge, they’re all a bunch o’ pansies anyway, judging by the Agincourt ground teams assigned to the Corianis surface that we dealt with. So, those ‘Courters’ll all be safer maintaining orbit over Corianis while we go fetch the backup battalion. Although, now that I think on it, Harper’s prolly slipped a bit herself, gettin’ soft since takin’ on command of the ship…a Marine in starship command? You know if it ain’t dirt, they go all stupid-fied, and Devil Dogs can’t comprehend three dee ship maneuvers at all. Hell, it’s a wonder she hasn’t crashed the dang ship into an orbital moon or sumthin’” The two senior staff members sat in a quiet and easy silence for a few moments, both thinking of the new mission ahead. Then, Lucas finished the rest of his drink, placed the empty shot glass on the corner edge of the desk, and then stood. “I’m off Captain. I’ll do a deck by deck and make sure the crew is all set to go.” “Sounds good. Send Chief Barrons up when you spot her down in main engineering, will ya? I gotta talk with her about those two young bucks of hers that damn near tore apart the main lounge the other day…all that fuss over a card game…” “Will do sir.” McCall offered a jaunty salute, and then quickly exited the ready room office area, leaving Calestorm alone with her thoughts.

Let's go with the default winners for this round, considering they are the only two posters. JJ Lexi is the winner with the sk8ter techno babble blurb. Mreh Khal is runner up.

Star Trek with no Vulcans is like peanut butter without jelly. Vulcans are welcome within the Comanche sim storyline, but the planet of Vulcan will remain ka-boomed.

The following log is a Calestorm and Coyote Pre-Launch Log Production... 2258 USS Comanche Creek NCC-214 Main Hanger Deck Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote had needed a few moments alone after a particularly busy work day within the FTR offices. The line officer had wandered the corridors and sections and areas of the Comanche Creek for the last hour or so, subconsciously allowing herself to be drawn to the area that she had felt most comfortable in during her younger officer days -- the hanger deck. She had intended to change the scenery a little bit, and finish up on this last report somewhere other then her hectic offices, but her red hued data slate device sat unused and in idle mode where she had left it on the decking behind her and within the interior of the darkened shuttle. The launch for the FTR’s line ship was a scant few days away, and most of the last minute equipment preparation and vehicle off loading had been completed with all the necessary hardware towed and loaded on board the vessel. Coyote had found herself a nice comfortable entry ramp leading up into the interior of one of the new shuttles, and proceeded to plant it down on the portion of the upper ramp; she was directly across from a collection of the Goshawk class star fighters, all stacked nice and neat in upper and lower berths off to one side of the hanger deck. After a little while, she was aware of another presence, mostly due to the clump clump clump sound of booted feet as they approached her from the aft position. And thankfully, Shauna was able to sense that this particular visitor was very much alive. “You still sit on the shuttle’s hydraulic entry lift and read reports? Skipper, you do have a very nice admiral’s office now. It has carpeting and everything. That’s where you’re supposed to do your report stuff.” Coyote didn’t acknowledge the new arrival, and just scooted over a spot to allow Captain Ashton Calestorm a place to sit down and unfold her lanky frame. The blond and silvered haired female captain planted her arse down on the top of the entry plank next to her friend and favored her commanding admiral with a silent look that said it all – the classic ‘what’s up?’. Like Shauna, Ashton wore the gray colored uniform away team jacket over her regular golden duty tunic; the environmental systems were operating at low power, and the landing party jackets were to ward off the chill of deep space that was creeping through the corridors. And then again, maybe the admiral was wearing the jacket to try and ward off a different sort of chill creeping down her neck. “There are ghosts about tonight.” Calestorm had known for years that Coyote had always been a touch sensitive. Sixth sense, a Seer, Medium, whatever the culture called the ability to sense or see the afterlife, Shauna had the gift. Then again, the so called gift was sometimes considered a curse. It wasn’t as if she could communicate with the beyond, it was nothing as prominent or dramatic as that. But, when some *thing* set her hackles off, it was usually something substantial. Shauna had had the episodes frequently as a child, and then as she had grown into puberty and then her adult years, the sensing episodes had started to continually dissipate to random encounters as she continued to get older. And then, every once in a while such as this night, she got that God awful eerie feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Not on my ship Admiral Coyote. We have a no spook rule here.” Ashton tried to make light of the situation with the little joke, but Shauna didn’t even crack a smile; her attention remained on some distant point across the expanse of the hanger deck. “Talk to me Skipper. What’s the word?” “Excuse me Sirs? Everything alright here?” A voice echoed off the bulkheads within the wide expanse of the deserted hanger deck. The lone speaker was Chief Petty Officer Edwards, of Earth Orbital Starbase security. The base security personnel had been patrolling the corridors and decks regularly prior to the ships maiden launch per standard procedures. Cale took the initiative and politely answered the NCO. “No worries Chief. The Admiral and I are just going over the last few specifications of our plan to take over the Starfleet when the Comanche launches tomorrow.” The square jawed man looked a bit stunned“…Uh, Captain? Calestorm? Ma’am” Some people just didn’t have a sense of humor. Admiral Coyote chose to intervene then, just in the nick of time. “Carry on Chief. We won’t be here for very much longer. As the Captain mentioned, we are going over some details, but nothing involving galactic domination.” The man left the immediate area with a rather puzzled look planted across his mug, and when the two women were alone again,Shauna turned her attention to her line captain and canted a semi-tolerant and amused eyebrow towards her. “You really haven’t changed over the years Ash.” “Hell no Admiral. And neither have you.” Calestorm winked and smiled a good natured leer. “True. But, I think it’s fair to say that we’ve both come a long way …remember that shore leave at the Leonis 4 Starbase? It’s funny how old memories become ghosts…and the people that inhabit the memories are like wraiths frozen in your memory of the time …” 2226 USS Warlock NCC-509 Main Hanger Deck Lieutenant Shauna Walking Coyote, call sign Skipper, had staked out a spot off to one side of the still busy, even though half the crew was on leave, hanger deck. She sat on one of the entry ramps used to clamp onto and attach to the Type 1 shuttles, her long legs dangling off the side and a couple inches from the scuffed gray decking. The pilot barracks was way too noisy at this time of night, and she wanted to finish the last chapter of the book that had caught her interest during shore leave. Although, really, things weren’t that much quieter down here either; a few of the younger and recently transferred midshipman and ensign pilots were all fired up and enjoying the few days leave left that had been granted to the crew of the USS Warlock. Typical junior officers on what amounted to their first leave as a regular member of the crew, it appeared that a few of them had gone beyond the bounds of normal celebrating though, and definitely alcohol was involved if Shauna was any judge of the smell wafting off the lot of them: about five or so of them sported the symbol of the Fleet Starfighter Corp on a shoulder. Shauna Coyote just didn’t get it. Then again, maybe that was why she chose not to defile her skin with ink. A cry of happiness rose from the group then, and the Lieutenant turned her attention back to the rambunctious cubs; one of them had clearly one the ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ contest: Ensign junior grade Calestorm had pulled up her right trouser leg and was currently showing off the tattoo coup de grace of the night, which was a rather lurid and nasty looking skeleton that stretched from her knee to ankle, clear down the side of her calf. It was some sort of fantasy ghoul, robed, casting some fireball or some such thing. Coyote could just make out the 24th Archmages lettering wrapping about the design. Sure, a tattoo celebrating the Warlock air wing was all well and good…but what if you transferred off ship? Eh? A shouted statement wrenched her out of her private thoughts just then. “Yo! Skipper! I got something else to show you!” And with that statement reverberating across the hanger deck, Ashton ‘Crash’ Calestorm, proceeded to drop her uniform trousers, adjust her undergarment, turn around, and moon the Lieutenant in all her lily white glory. There were just a few things that you didn’t do in the Starfleet: invert the navigation control couplings in main Engineering, stick a tribble down an important tube or pipe, ‘cause that was just plain cruel, putting aside the mechanical ramifications. Or say, mooning the El Tee pilot who happened to be your squad leader. Little things like that tended to, well, get you in trouble. The gathered pilots were stunned -- including of course Coyote -- and then the junior officers busted out laughing as a group. Once the auburn haired native Indian Lieutenant recovered her senses though, she literally saw red, and descended on the ensign. “What is the matter with you Ensign Calestorm? Are you bucking for a write up?” Standard procedure, of course, and Shauna intended to follow this situation through to the letter. She felt her neck muscles tighten in response to her level of anger, and she was so wire tight it was a wonder she didn’t pop right there. Ashton had managed to pull her underwear back into position, but chose to leave her trousers pooling about her booted ankles as her anger took control and blocked out any sort of embarrassed decency. “Are you bucking for a personality Lieutenant Coyote?” The six foot Coyote was about an inch or two taller then Cale and had about fifteen pounds on the junior pilot, but Ashton didn’t care right then about the physical odds -- she just wanted to take a chunk out of someone this night, and the pilot el tee pretty much qualified perfectly. “What’s the matter Ice Lady? I get under your skin and in your veins? Afraid you’ll be contaminated by me? You play just like you fly -- ice cold. I bet you didn’t even leave the ship during our entire leave time Hell, I have half a mind to shove those by the book rules and tactics you love so much right up your ass. Have a little fun every once … “ Coyote threw the first punch, throwing the still pants down Calestorm further off balance; then she and Coyote went down in a tangle of legs and arms and some random profanity. Everything started moving very fast then. 2258 USS Comanche Creek NCC-214 Main Hanger Deck Cale rubbed at the spot on her jaw where that long ago fist had impacted ruefully. “I deserved that.” “No duh Sherlock.” 2226 USS Warlock NCC-509 Secondary Hanger Deck Things had gone very fast, indeed. More like degraded into a cluster frell. Several of the pilots had tried to break apart the two women, but to no avail. Cale and Coyote had gone at it like two wolf mothers fighting over a last scrap of food for their respective cubs. All the animosity and competition that had existed between the two women pilots came crashing out, literally, as they pummeled one another into a joint submission. Eventually though, the situation and brawl was brought to a screeching halt. Now, both Calestorm and Coyote stood at stiff attention, blood dribbling from noses, knuckles, lips, hair disheveled, clothing rumpled and ripped. The CAG of the air wing roared, his face going beet red and contrasting sharply with the white blond hair that he wore in a severe and regulation crew cut style. “I don’t care what happened! I don’t care why you, Lieutenant Coyote got mixed up in this, and Ensign Calestorm, I really don’t even want to know why your trousers are down around your ankles…” 2258 USS Comanche Creek NCC-214 Main Hanger Deck Crash and Skipper were cracking up, their giggles and laughs reverberating across the empty hanger deck of the Comanche. “I should have mooned Mister Flat Top Haircut while I had the chance! Hell, we were already in trouble!” “No way! He never would have been able to handle it! We would’ve had to emergency comm Doctor Franklin to come down and revive our CAG! The man was even more straight laced then I was then! Worse even!” The two female senior line officers roared with laughter, helpless with it while the jocularity ran its infective course. 2226 USS Warlock NCC-509 Secondary Hanger Deck Any and all pilots within the general area of the hanger deck had pretty well scattered to a somewhat safer area on the ship once the ships CAG had arrived on the scene, so the Lieutenant Commander had his two current resident miscreants all to himself. With no audience other then a handful of NCO service techs who were snickering from the relative “safe zone” area behind a couple of the heavy recon star fighters, Lieutenant Commander Bryan ‘Booker’ Banner had no qualms about telling his two pilots exactly how he felt about this little incident and tearing the two wildcats a new one in the process. “Both of you rejects get cleaned up! You’re both off leave as of now and on the Five AM patrol run. So that gives you ladies -- and I use that term loosely! -- four hours to clean up, get some sack time, head out on your lovely patrol run so you’re both out of my freakin’ hair for a few hours, and then I want you both back here scrubbing the alert five star fighters until I can see myself in the aft compartment housings!” 2258 USS Comanche Creek NCC-214 Main Hanger Deck “Lieutenant Commander Banner was a tough one, but he was a good CAG. We learned a lot from him.” Shauna sighed in agreement with Cale, and then spoke out loud. “Booker, Slim, Jay Jay, Relay, Captain Cross, Commander Jackson, Doctor U’badin, the Sigmus Colony guys, those few Intel guys we lost…they’re all out and about tonight Crash, all around us … “ “You know Skips…I believe you. I’ve no doubt that those ghosts are out there roaming tonight. But, I think ya just got yourself all worked up. Since the Comanche’ll be your first ship for the FTR program, and I’m your first line captain, and we’re heading out tomorrow for parts unknown, you’re just goin’ down memory lane back to our first assignment together. That’s all.” “I know Crash. It’s just hard to escape them sometimes. The ghosts. Our decisions. What we did. Everyone who didn’t come home.” The two settled into the sort of silence old soldiers usually settle into, the kind of silence that isn’t deafening, but just companionable, where no one needed to say anything more. Then, after the appropriate amount of respectful time had passed, Calestorm broke the companionable silence with her particular brand of humor. “Is ol’ Iron Pants Booker around here? ….If I flip the Warlock CAG the bird, think he’ll haunt me? The gesture might get rid of him too, you know, like a crucifix but different?” And then, things started happening, very fast. Lord help any security officer coming through the expansive hanger deck on patrol now, for they’d be treated to the sight of a mildly irate yet amused admiral running full tilt and chasing down her equally amused line captain who was only about three steps ahead, yet valiantly diving for the access door and exit from the deck to try and attempt a clean getaway. And both of the old broads could still haul it and move pretty darn quick when they wanted to.

Meet the Field Command Team and the Admiral in Charge. Think you'd like to hop on board the Comanche and serve alongside these lovely ladies as they dive head first into some adventure out along the Federation frontier to protect the galactic community? Rear Admiral Shauna Walking Coyote Human Female and Admiral Liaison in charge of the First Threat Response Program and line ship the USS Comanche Creek. At 58 standard years of age, Walking Coyote is a veteran of the pilot and navigator ranks, and came up through the senior command track ranks quickly. For two years, she worked on special projects for Starfleet Intelligence before mustering back into the mainstream service. The FTR Program is the culmination of several years of hard work for the Admiral, and the USS Comanche Creek is named in honor of the Comanche Creek colony; the colony was attacked by raiders some years ago, and Coyote lost several family members during the skirmish. As a result of the Comanche Colony legacy, Coyote has a vested interest in making sure the FTR program does what it is supposed to do: protect the galactic community from outside threats. She is a highly formidable and career oriented officer, and some would call her ruthless, while others refer to her as professionally driven. Captain Ashton Calestorm Human Female and Commanding Officer of the USS Comanche Creek. At 54 standard years of age, Calestorm is a career military and quarterdeck breed captain all the way and is most at home patrolling out along the galactic frontier. She has put in service time both in the cockpit, with ships and outposts and star bases, and wherever she was required or asked to do her part as a Starfleet officer. Though now suffering from a bum knee as the result of a shrapnel injury some years back, Calestorm can still take care of herself and should not be underestimated; she is of the “get the job done” mindset and while not a ruthless individual, she can have a single minded and stubborn quality that is difficult to penetrate especially if you get her hackles up. Commander Audraya Wesley: Orion Female and Executive Officer of the USS Comanche Creek. At 36 standard years of age, Commander Wesley has seen both the worst and the best that life has to offer. A survivor of the Orion slave market, Audraya enrolled in the Fleet Academy and her surname was taken to honor her academy sponsor, then LCDR Robert Wesley. Audraya went on to serve in a variety of postings, and put her time in with star fighter patrols and assignments out along the Outer Rim. She is content to let officers do their jobs, only stepping in when her direction or guidance is needed. She thinks on her feet and has at times let her fists do the talking. Commander Wesley is also one of the couple hundred survivors of the Battle of Vulcan; sponsor Commodore Robert Wesley was lost at the Vulcan skirmish.

You *can* ask the Rear Admiral that particular question Commander, but I disavow myself from any prior knowledge of the resulting unimaginable violence. ...Meep Meep.

Here we go:

Alrighty; pic'll be posted as soon as I grab a good one.

And Marina Sirtis and Denise Crosby had a very large constant puddle outside their trailers; they threw an inflatable pool float onto the puddle. .... after the 1st season I'm guessing that the TNG cast was moved off the "arse end" of the lot.

This Pre-Log is set on the bridge deck of the Comanche Creek, and the time frame is set just a few weeks prior to the ship’s official launch from the Earth Orbital Spacedock. For the moment, Captain Ashton Calestorm was alone. No yeoman, no aides, no personnel configurations and reconfigurations, no brass except for the one lone admiral who was due to meet her for an impromptu pow wow between old friends on a very special ship. The USS Comanche Creek was currently at station keeping in one of the berths at the Earth Orbital Space Platform. In a few short weeks, the ‘Creek would officially be released and pulling out on what would be her first official mission and maiden voyage for the Starfleet’s First Threat Response Program. The turbolift arrived at Ashton’s destination of choice -- the main bridge deck. Once the exit and entry way door wooshed open, Cale stepped off of the transport conveyance and onto the bridge decking, her boots making a satisfying thumping noise as the soles contacted with the dark gray decking. She began a slow walk about the bridge, enjoying the quiet of the moment as she became further acquainted with the ship that was to be officially hers. All the control equipment was now in place, and the corps of engineers were running the final check tests in order to declare the ship space worthy. It was all down to the wire now, and Calestorm had to admit that she felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of taking this bad boy ship out into the black. The bridge module layout of the Comanche was the standard console and layout configuration that the Kelvin class models had been for the last thirty years or so. But, like the modernized hull plating of the main saucer, secondary hull, and engine nacelle sections, the internal equipment and computers were all modern, updated and top of the line. In her thirty odd year career, taking command of a new ship was a treat, as all of her previous assignments and commands had been with a previously ‘broken in’ ship. It was kind of like getting hand me down toys and clothing from an older brother or sister, but on a much larger scale. The Comanche Creek was new, felt new, looked new, and smelled new: the smell of new decking materials, carpeting, furniture, computer wiring and various other equipment extensions permeated the entire ship, and it was downright intoxicating. It was possible that she was breathing in too deeply and was on a header from that ‘new car smell’, but Ashton had to freely admit to herself that it felt damn good to get first dibs on a line ship. The hard deck plating clanged under her booted feet as Ashton continued the slow walk around the first and second levels of the concentrated bridge area, pausing here and there to run a hand or finger over a darkened computer screen console or a section of one of the control stations. She lingered at the Helm console for a moment, and smiled to herself as she recalled her own duty stints as a Helm officer…it all seemed like a lifetime ago. Then, her inner thoughts warped back into the present and the modern concerns that she now faced as a Starfleet captain with the border patrol. The First Threat Response program had been in development for a good five years now, and project leader Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote had been with the program almost from day one. The admiral had chosen the Kelvin class ships -- originally employed as scientific survey ships -- as the template for the first FTR launch ship due to the nature of work that the border patrol ships would be needed to do. The Kelvin class had always been reliable, scrappy, and tough as nails, and therefore, the long lived survey hulls had been morphed and slotted into a bad ass border patrol frigate configuration. Her ship. Her responsibility. Her command. The USS Comanche Creek was not Ashtons first stint as a ships commanding officer. But, the command was unique as the ship and her crew were to be the lead examples for the successive line of FTR ships that were due to launch over the next few years according to the projected timetable. The program launch timetable had been hot listed after the Nero attacks, and now it was up to Cale and her crew to prove by example that the border protection program was viable in practice. She heard the repressed mechanizations coming from the transport tube as the main bridge turbolift returned to the command deck; a gentle swish of the entry and exit door indicated that the conveyance was in the process of disgorging its current occupant. Cale turned her head slightly without looking directly back at the new arrival. Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote, her dark hair pulled back into a regulation braid, cocked her head to one side and regarded her longtime friend and comrade with a good natured smirk plastered across her facial features. “Captain Calestorm. Permission to come aboard?” Her deep throated tone of voice was calm and sure, and held a bit of playful amusement that could not quite mask her genuine overall pride at the moment. Her sharp Old Americas Native Indian olive complexion and features were relaxed for a change, away from the hustle and bustle and paperwork of the main FTR control offices. As the project lead, Coyote was under an enormous amount of pressure, and the responsibility showed in the dark circles that had formed under her eyes from lack of sleep and stress. Calestorm was backlit by a few of the bridge consoles that were running at half power, and the light blue glow outlined her 36-24-36 frame. Like Coyote, she wore the female cut version of the regular duty uniform -- command gold tunic, black trousers, black combat boots. She still retained her athletic build from their piloting days. Tall for a woman at five foot nine inches, long and lean muscular build, wheat colored hair in a combat braid pattern and shot through with some sliver strands. Her lean face was still considered pretty, but the light colored skin had started to show the wear and tear of the command track these last few years, with crow’s feet forming at the corner of her eyes and a few faint age lines showing about the mouth. The way that Cale carried herself, which hadn’t changed much since her early twenties, was a tell tale sign though, and could be blatantly apparent to any sort of Starfleet recruiter worth their salt: Ashton held a quiet confidence within her, she was command material, the quarter deck breed, and the type of officer that Coyote needed to recruit in order to make the FTR project as a whole work. Now, Ashton turned slightly to regard the visitor with a smile, and caught site of the amber colored bottle Shauna held in one hand and the squat glasses she triple finger gripped in the other. “Permission granted for you, and your bourbon, to come aboard, Rear Admiral Coyote.” With an ease born of long practice, the two women settled down to have a quiet drink together, with Coyote sitting on the red backed and white/gray chair intended for the navigator officer and Cale ensconced on the chair right next to her, located at the Helm console partition of the main forward control consoles. Shauna popped, and Ashton poured. Ashton would not plant her rear end in the command chair, not until the official launch. Not so much a traditional reaction, but leaning more toward personal superstition and respect for her newly minted ship. Coyote understood, respected Ash’s decision, and therefore didn’t press the issue. They toasted the ship and the mission, and then settled in for a few quiet minutes of sipping at their drinks and alternately swirling the amber colored beverage in their respective glasses. Calestorm and Coyote were old friends and combat comrades, and could easily settle into the quiet type of silence where no one needs to fill a gap in the conversation. While Cale often enjoyed having a quiet drink with a friend, she was more often then not plagued by the so called ghosts of the past during these quiet moments, such as fallen comrades who were no longer of this world, but very much alive in your dreams, missions off the record and gone wrong, or regrets over paths not taken. She had learned to control these ghosts…somewhat. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, she ventured a question to her friend. “Do you miss piloting a starfighter Skipper?” “Every day when my chronometer alarm goes off and I wake up Crash.” “ … then why’d we leave the ranks Admiral?” “Because we look really pretty and fashionable in our command gold uniform tops with the extra command braids on the sleeve cuffs?” Calestorm smirked and raised her glass to her commanding admiral. “Smartass.” “Always. And I learned to be a smartass from you, Mister Calestorm, so remember that.” “You always were a smartass; I just refined you up to new heights of smart-assery … is that an actual word?” The two female flag officers continued to talk about old times as well as the new situations and adventures that the Comanche command might entail…and a hope for the future through protection and peace. Ashton liked to think that all missions were peaceful, but the reality from a lifetime of service showed that it could indeed be a rough universe out there. Admiral Coyote then sobered a bit, and regarded her lead line captain with a definitive expression cutting across her fine boned facial features. She was well aware that she would be sending one of her oldest friends out into the unknown. “Crash, you’re my first FTR Captain. I wouldn’t have chosen you if you didn’t have the qualifications, but just wanted to say again to you, that I also chose you because I know what you’re like, and what you stand for. Go forward boldly and protect our borders, Captain Calestorm.” Sensing that now was not the time for a usual wisecrack, and it would bode well overall to remain respectful and silent, Cale merely clinked glasses with her friend and commanding admiralty officer in response to the heartfelt statement and pep talk.

The following Pre-Log is set just after the medal and promotion ceremony seen in Star Trek XI, at Starfleet Command at San Francisco, Earth. I don’t own the characters of Captain Kirk and Admiral Pike, I just play in their universe. Copyright CBS Pictures. As the medal and passing of command commencement ceremony had come to an end, Captain Ashton Calestorm and Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote had retired to the upper balcony area that wrapped around and overlooked the auditorium room below, leaning on the protective barrier and watching as the last of the attendees, cadets, officers, and participants filed out of the room and off to their various assignments or duties. The medal award ceremony to newly minted Captain Kirk and the passing of the USS Enterprise command from now Admiral Pike to Kirk had gone relatively well. The surviving cadets and officers of the Starfleet, as well as the Larentia sector Fleet would now turn to the process of re-assignment and implementation of new assignments. Life moved on after the devastating events that had flash fired across the sectors. A lone and elderly male Vulcan stood on the opposite side of the balcony floor, silently watching the last of the ceremony attendants exit the below area as well. Calestorm assumed the man had been off Vulcan at the time of the planet’s destruction, which would account for most of the survivors at this point -- they had either been off planet, on assignment with the Fleet, or traveling across the sector territories. Not that she had been particularly studying him, but he seemed a bit distant in his mannerisms, as if he were part of the proceedings, but not really. Apparently sensing her scrutiny, he locked gazes with her across the room. Ashton merely nodded in a friendly greeting, and the Vulcan returned the nod solemnly. After a few more moments by himself, the man quietly departed through one of the side access ways that lead away from the upper balcony area. It had been a couple weeks since the incident with Nero, and for the most part, matters had settled to the point where the day to day operations of the Starfleet and Federation were moving forward. The re-establishment of a new Vulcan world was of course the foremost on any sane person’s mind, from the political sector through civilian populations and on up into the Federation council and the Starfleet command admirals. A good chunk of the Federation Starfleet forces had been decimated by the renegade Nero during the battle for Vulcan. Ashton had access to some of the confidential information, but not all. From what she had been able to ascertain with her captaincy level security clearances, Nero had been a Romulan ex-patriot from the future whose intentions had been to reap havoc within the past. There were plenty of rumors and hearsay regarding the “whys” behind his actions, but the fact remained that many lives had been lost due to one man’s bloodthirsty actions. Calestorm had been in command of the USS Vespine when most of the incidents with Nero had exploded within a short period of time. The Vespine had been station keeping with most the remaining Fleet stationed at the Larentia sector, and this secondary task force had not been able to mobilize in time to assist the ships that had been deployed from the Earth space dock in response to the attack on Vulcan. Regardless, the Romulan warlords warped goals had been achieved: several dozen Starfleet ships and their crews had been taken out, the planet of Vulcan obviously and tragically no longer existed, and the Vulcan people were now forced to scramble and re-establish a new colony world in an attempt to rebuild the race. Starfleet itself had rebooted for lack of a better term, and the lead Admiralty was in the process of pulling the most senior academy cadets to deploy onto the surviving ships. The First Threat Response border protection program had been accelerated from a defensive testing standpoint to a full offensive readiness alert and launch; the first line ship for the program, the USS Comanche Creek-- Cale’s brand new ship -- was due for launch in just under a month. The FTR program and the program support ships were all under the purview and guidance of Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote. Ashton admitted, she felt proud that Shauna’s program would move forward boldly now, although she did wish the circumstances were different and the catalyst had not been the carnage visited upon the Fleet as well as Vulcan. At this moment however, the two women were not discussion the semantics of the FTR program: they were discussing Captain James Tiberius Kirk, newly minted captain of the Federation flagship, the USS Enterprise. To put it diplomatically and succinctly, Calestorm was not thrilled overall with the Starfleet’s new Golden Boy. “Shauna, he was academically grounded for illegally mucking around with the Kobayashi Maru training module initially. Then, he compounds that little issue by sneaking on board the Enterprise thanks to the interference of one of the medical staff -- a fellow Southerner of all things but that’s a whole ‘nother rant of mine,” Coyote merely snorted at that, “and then bullied his way to take field command of the Enterprise by taking on the ships rightful commander in some dumb ass counter move to grab the captaincy. I’ve read the updates and reports that’ve been cleared for release to the general Fleet population, it’s all right there, and he gets a medal pinned to his chest and formal command of the Enterprise?” “Look, Cale, until the classified details are cleared for release among the command track officers, I can’t go into extreme detail. However, I can tell you that Kirk rescued Chris from Nero’s command ship. That’s worth something.” Ashton winged an unconvinced and irate eyebrow at her former starfighter pilot comrade in response to that one. “Mm. One good act doesn’t make up for the reprehensible ones Skipper. You know if we pulled half the crap back in the day that Kirk did, hellfire, we’d be tied to a gun carriage and left out in the rain.” “Chris Pike recruited Kirk, and then field commissioned him as the ships First Officer under Commander Spock, and you know Pike; he wouldn’t have made the effort unless he spotted some potential there. The man has a natural talent as a Fleet recruiter. “ “And Chris could’ve just as easily recruited him because Kirk is George Kirks son. You know Chris and I both served with Kirk Senior during our Kelvin days. Senior was a damn good XO.” “Oh, I don’t doubt that. But I’d also wager that Jim Kirk is his own man, and that’s what Chris spotted in young Kirk. Besides, with Kirk taking on the Fleets lead flagship and you taking on a lead line ship for the FTR, I still have to informally introduce you to him and then maybe we can all live happily ever after.” “Sure...doesn’t mean I have to like Mister Kirk though. Is Chris on his way? It’ll be nice to see him away from the pomp and circumstance, even if it’s just for a few minutes. It’ll be real good to see him out and about…nasty business he got into with that nutcase Nero.” “Aye; I grabbed him just after the ceremony and told him to stop up here to meet us. Chris looks pretty good as well, seems to be recovering quickly.” The two women continued talking in low and hushed tones for the next few minutes, mainly discussing non confidential Fleet business regarding the FTR program and waiting for the other two arrivals. Soon, Admiral Christopher Pike emerged from a turbo lift elevator set off to one side of the open balcony level and began to roll over to the area that Calestorm and Coyote had claimed for the informal meet and greet. Admiral Christopher Pike was currently confined to a wheelchair due to the injuries he sustained while held captive on Nero’s ship; whether or not he would fully recover the full use of his legs remained to be seen. He was a good looking man, light skin, rugged features, dark sandy hair with the temples starting to gray, and square jaw. He had an athletic body without being overly muscular. His overall health and fit makeup was probably what enabled him to survive the POW torture stint on the Narada at the hands of the Romulan. Calestorm spoke in an even lower tone to Coyote, so there was no chance that Pike would pick up on it. “If Chris hadn’t been injured by Nero, he’d have still been in command of the Enterprise – you know that Shauna. Pike deserved that ship, not Kirk.” The rear admiral reached over to place a gentle, though restraining hand, on Ash’s upper arm, and the message was clear through the physical contact: cease and desist for now. She turned and favored Pike with a small smile as he came closer. Ashton’s attention now shot towards the general direction of Pike as he rolled up to the two women in his silver color toned wheelchair. The newly promoted admiralty officer stopped, mid roll, and regarded his former command track contemporary Ashton. “Whoa. Okay I haven’t seen that look since that one shore leave when we both landed -- yes yes, I know I threw the first punch -- in the local jail.” Obviously Cale’s displeasure with the Jim Kirk situation was clearly written all over her face, but that was unfair as Chris Pike certainly didn’t deserve to be the target of her ire. Yes, he was no longer in command of the Enterprise and had initially recruited Wonder Boy, but the fact remained that Pike would make a damn fine Admiral. He deserved the promotion and couldn’t be faulted for doing his job as a Fleet recruiter with the particular focus client of the conversation. Coyote smirked and walked the short distance over to where Chris stopped to shake his hand. “She’s just complaining about the new commander of the Enterprise.” Ashton chuckled, shaking off the darkest vestiges of her mood, and walked over and shook Pikes hand as well. “Didn’t mean to nail you with the command staff look on stun, my tempers just getting the better of me today. Congratulations on the promotion Chris. You deserve it, had it coming for about five years now.” Pike’s deep and easy voice rumbled. “And my congratulations on the Comanche command. Are you doing alright with the personnel recruiting? I have some more candidates to throw your way, if you’re interested?” “Aye, I was gonna ask you if there were any likely candidates among the senior cadet survivors? I’m fine with the XO question -- got a prime candidate all lined up to take the spot. The process to place all the department heads is goin’ pretty good as well.” Soon, the general talk of recruiting waned when the two Admirals and senior Captain made a collective note that Captain James Kirk had arrived on the upper balcony level as well, from the opposite side, and slowly made his way over to where the three line officers stood talking amongst themselves. He stopped just outside their personal perimeter, giving them space and waiting to be given the “go ahead” to continue forward. The new Captain of the Enterprise was young, yes, not yet out of his twenties. But he had hawk like eyes that took in everything around him, and the way he walked and carried himself spoke of an inner confidence. The young captain was in his prime: dark blond hair, blue eyes, wide shoulders and was the perfect poster boy for the Starfleet. If he had what it took to continue in a leadership position as well as he seemed to, he’d have success as a ships commander. Time would tell. Ashton continued to mentally size him up, and then spoke out the side of her mouth in a whisper to her two long time comrades. “…speak of the devil.” His back to where Kirk stood waiting and his actions therefore concealed, Pike wagged a finger at Calestorm. “Behave.” She gave Chris a brilliant smile, showing all her teeth in a predatory smile just shy of insane. “Don’t I always?” Her Earth Southern accent deepened a bit, putting a vocal emphasis on the I and always. Shauna waved Kirk on over, and then as the lead Admiralty line officer for the purposes of the off the record meeting, began to make the introductions among the senior command officers. “Captain Kirk, allow me to introduce Captain Ashton Calestorm. She’s due to take command of the USS Comanche Creek.” Just as Calestorm had sized up Kirk without thinking, Jim as well mentally took some notes on her. Good looking, but well into her early middle age years. Light blond, shot through with some silver. She was tall for a female, athletic and lean, probably a tomboy in her younger years. She came up through the ranks, worked for her positions, and was used to giving orders and having them followed, if he was any judge of her stance and carriage. Kirks eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Lead ship for the FTR program launch? My congratulations Captain.” He offered his hand for the customary hand shake to go along with the statement of congratulations. Ashton made no move to reciprocate the gesture. “Thank you Captain Kirk. I’m just hoping that my First Officer doesn’t jump me for my command after we launch out and get out in the middle of nowhere.” You could have heard a pin drop in the resulting silence. Admiral Pike merely pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in a silent response to Cale’s rather cutting statement to Kirk. Jim quirked an eyebrow in amusement, but didn’t dare crack a smile what with the tension that had settled on the group and the conversation. “Do you have a … problem with me, Captain Calestorm?” He deflected his hand, and pointed slightly at his chest with a thumb at the ‘me’ part of the sentence. Ashton lifted her chin slightly, not an aggressive gesture, but definitely one of defiance. “Yep. I think your command methods leave a lot to be desired, you should never had jumped up the command track as quickly as you did, your instincts and deflecting that crazy son of a b*tch Romulan aside.” Coyote was less demonstrative then Pike’s reaction, and chose to vocally intervene in the conversation, her friendship and past service with Ash not withstanding. “Captain Calestorm.” Her tone brooked no nonsense. Kirk put a preemptory finger up in the air, respectfully, to head off whatever else Coyote was about to say. “Admiral Coyote, with my respect, it’s fine. The Captain is entitled to her opinion, and I can respect that. Let’s just say I did what I thought was necessary … and leave it at that.” Matching Cale’s slight defiant gesture, both of Kirk’s hands dropped to rest on his waist, showing that Kirk was comfortable taking part in a war of the words and could hold his own if needed. Well now. His honesty and good grace was a surprise. I may not care for him, but one good turn deserves another. She cocked her head to one side as she continued to regard the younger male captain. “Honestly Kirk, I may not agree with the methods that got you where you’re standing today, but I wish you and your crew luck and Godspeed. And treat your Lady Enterprise with respect, Captain.” Captain Calestorm still held a displeased edge about her attractive and weather worn features, but her tone was now a positive offering of honesty rather then being full on blunt honest, and the younger Captain Kirk picked up on it. Now, it was Ashton who offered a hand for a shake, and Kirk returned the gesture with no further posturing from either captain. “Thank you Captain Calestorm. I intend to do just that.” Admiral Coyote cleared her throat, and her tone emerged with a brisk sarcasm interlaced with a business of the day tone, indicating that the conversation was moving forward. “Well, while I’d rather not interrupt this spitting in the wind contest between two of my line Captains, we do have some business to contend with.” The raven haired woman of Earth Comanche bloodline then turned her attention to the dark blond haired Kirk. “Mister Kirk with me please. I have an update briefing to go over with you on what the Enterprise’s next mission will be. If you’ll both excuse us, Admiral Pike, Captain Calestorm, and thank you for coming.” Watching and waiting until both Captain Kirk and Rear Admiral Coyote were out of earshot and had exited the upper balcony area, Pike turned his attention to his former lover and romantic interest, his eyes dancing with equal parts glee and exasperation; it may have been Pike who had threw the first punch and started that shore leave brawl those twenty odd years ago, but it had been Calestorm who initiated the start of the whole mess by leading with her heart, temper, and mouth. It was a good quality to have, that passion of hers, but on days like today -- and back then -- when she got her temper up and made her opinion known, it could cause some issues. “You always did know how to make friends, Crash Calestorm.”

Andorians aside, an Orion character would have been fun. ::points to the ships XO:: And, whoever else does choose to RP as an Orion among the Comanche crew? Yeah, I'm pretty sure Kirk won't be hiding under your bed ... if he is, have Security take care of him. :P

Lost Sheep, this is Bo Peep - Coltraine nabbed a Dunkin Donuts transport in the Hazzard speed trap.