Tachyon

I have not been able to find Bridge commander anywhere. :P

I really liked the Elite Force series, and Star Trek: Armada I and II are also good if you like more strategy-based games.

Another site's favicon took over STSF's in my bookmarks. It's truly bizarre. :D

“We Skipped That Day of Diplomacy 101” Stardate 0607.09 Lieutenant Arthur Dent and Ensign M'vess “Left Ear” JoN's ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- “... I want to you escort Ambassador Sidega to the Brig,” Dent's voice came through JoN's' combadge, clear and disturbing. Left Ear tilted her head to one side, as if trying to decide if she really heard what she heard. She glanced over at the large Gorn Ambassador before tapping her badge to answer. “Lt. Dent...escort him to the brig? Charges? Reason?” Dent looked down at his console where the Gorn ship was still in a tractor beam. He said, "His ship just tried to leave the station without authorisation; his crew has been transported to the brig and Commander Hawke wants the ambassador to join them.” The Caitian responded, a tone of disbelief in her purring voice. “I understand...but will these actions we take cause any diplomatic fall out?” She moved a bit farther away from the bar area, but still kept an eye on Sidega. At mention of this, the tired operations officer winced. His mind immediately began to swim with thoughts of “diplomatic immunity”, “diplomatic incident”, “diplomatic insult”, and other “d.i.” words that did not bode well. “Why yes, yes they probably will.” JoN's had to ask. “Sir, I am in a bit of a bind here. Sidega is large, annoyed, and he has the term 'Diplomatic Immunity' swirling in a halo around his green scaled head...” She trailed off, and then continued speaking her train of thought. “Sir, I think we have a right as well as no right to take action against the Ambassador.” It appeared that while Dent and JoN's were following the same tracks, they clearly weren't on the same train. “Explain further, Ensign.” With a sigh, Left Ear lowered her voice again, ensuring that the conversation was kept between the two Aegis officers. “Yes, the Gorn ambassadorial crew attempted to clear mooring without authorization, and station under lockdown, probably under Sidegas orders. But, if the Ambassador is manhandled—excuse me, escorted to the brig along with the rest of his crew...that will not bode well for us and the station. Sidega will use the incident for leverage.” For a moment, the Caitian got a look on her face that projected, “Am I arguing with a superior officer?” “I hate that word and its connotations,” Dent sighed, “but I see what you're saying.” They were all stressed right now, fatigued and exhausted and confused after the attack on Captain Ayers. Prone to irrational, unwise actions—it would be best if they could all calm down and sort things out of the chaos and uncertainty that gripped the station. “Do you have an alternative?” asked Dent. Ensign JoN's smiled, even though Dent could not see her. “Aye sir. Sidegas crew is going nowhere, detained in the brig correct? And I am guessing thier ship is tractored until further notice. So...we do the same to Sidega, just not overtly. I stay with him for now, as a security escort, until this immediate situation is resolved.” Massaging his forehead as he attempted to get a grip, Dent blinked and considered her solution. It sounded as effective as imprisonment without the downside of causing a major diplomatic incident, which Dent knew would probably be rather inconvenient after this entire situation had unfolded to its conclusion. He replied, “Very well. Stick close, try to keep him calm—or as calm as he'll be right now—and keep him out of any restricted areas. Especially the control tower.” Ambassador or no, it was Dent's opinion that Sidega and the other diplomats should not be allowed access to the control tower whenever they please. He was already distracted enough by rude Rixians who knifed captains and other series of unfortunate events. Left Ear nodded, satisfied. “Aye, And in the process I wont become a furry wall hanging courtesy of the Ambassador...and Lieutenant, I was not trying to argue with you sir. Just wanted to make that plain.” The security officer continued, “And, if there is any fallout due to our decision or indecisions...I'll take responsibility for my part of it.” Left Ear flashed “a look” toward a bar patron who had gotten too interested in her muffled conversation. “Don't worry, Ensign. We've all been uptight for the past few hours. I'm glad that some of us are still managing to think clearly,” said Dent. “Anything else?” Left Ear breathed a sigh of relief, the tightness and constricted muscles in her chest from all the craziness beginning to ease a bit, and responded to Dent over the comm badge, “No sir. Thanks.” “You're welcome, Ensign. Dent out.” Dent stared down at his console and wondered how to explain this all to Commanders Hawke, Muon, and Admiral Goran....

“Treachery of Tratos” July 9, 2156 Dr. Tratos ------------------------------------------------- The rain came down in torrents, and the stars were blotted out by the ominous black clouds that hung low over the city. Tratos stood beneath the overhang of the building, cursing and shivering and wondering why shady figures always chose bad weather in which to meet. As usual, they approached silently and spooked him out of his wits. A single human male, as featureless as the generic street on which they stood, stopped near Tratos. He did not look at the doctor, instead choosing to scan the street. Then he spoke. “Doctor,” he said, his voice a low whisper that the shrieks and rumbles of the storm nearly obliterated. “You have been busy. I trust that you did not forget our little . . . arrangement?” Tratos sniffled. “Of course not. I am yours—that's the deal.” “Good. I never did like loose ends, and this is no exception. I have been looking into your work, and that of your friends—Doctors Grey and McCellan? Very interesting. I see that you have been dabbling in genetics again, Dr. Tratos. As I recall, that didn't end well the first time.” Tratos shivered. The two men always gave him the creeps—he knew that they worked for some sort of secret organisation, something that an ordinary citizen would never know about. But he had seen demonstrations of their power and their influence, and knew that they would stop at nothing to fulfil their aims. The doctor said, “It isn't that simple.” “Doctor, in my line of work, nothing is simple. So spare me the pedantic chatter and let's get on with this. You and your associates have gone too far. You cannot continue your research—we will not let you continue your research.” “But a woman's life is at stake! I—” The man raised his voice—not in anger, but to emphasis his next words. “We had a deal, doctor! We got you out of jail, and in return you carried out certain tasks for us. Are you saying that you would like to back out of that deal now?” The lump in Tratos' throat grew larger and more uncomfortable. “Backing out”, he knew, would not be something from which he escaped with his life. The doctor was in between a rock and a hard place. He winced, because he knew what was coming next. The man who represented the minority who preserved the fragile hopes of a species stared out into the storm and saw not a downpour but a gathering front. He saw it as his duty to contain this situation before it got further out of hand. “With Enterprise's Augment debacle, the difficulties in the Klingon Empire, and now this, my superiors are unsettlingly reminded of the Eugenics War. I don't need to remind you, Doctor, how that one nearly ended.” Tratos' voice was a desperate whimper. “Please . . . don't.” “It's too late for pleases and don'ts, Doctor Tratos. You should have thought of that a long time ago. But a man can no more change than his species can,” said the man. “The girl dies.” His face was passive. “The girl dies, or you do.”

“Wormholes Suck” Stardate 0607.02 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran ------------------------------------------ Wormhole physics 101: after something passes the event horizon of a wormhole, it is quite hard to turn around. The wormhole's gravitational attraction will pull anything moving short of lightspeed deeper into its aperture, forcing it through the space-time tunnel that connects the two ends. Of course, nothing in the Bajoran wormhole is “normal”, since it is an artificial construct of alien entities, and weird things—such as the suspension of time, destruction of an entire Dominion fleet, et cetera—had been known to happen. Overall though, it did function as a wormhole. And for the second time in a century it had become the most strategic piece of real estate this side of the Delta Quadrant. Thus Tandaris was not surprised to learn that the enemy had made a move—perhaps. They had “lost contact” with Idran and New Bajor. That was just a pretty euphemism, however, for losing control of an already unattractive situation. The wormhole was one situation that you did not want to lose control of, of course, and now they risked losing contact with the Alpha Quadrant. What a fine mess. The Federation had seemingly been drawn into a conflict not of its own making—none of its business, in fact, yet here it was, fighting alongside Klingon and Romulan and Dominion against a shadowy force that threatened them all. It was truly evidence of how the Federation stood up for the ideals it so fiercely promulgated, that it was willing to risk so much and fight alongside such disparate species of checkered pasts. But the time for checkers was over, and the time for chess had reared its head once again. The wormhole was going to be a staging ground for something, Tandaris was sure of it. And when the blue vortex opened, it would open on a new chapter for the Gamma Quadrant races one and all.

“When I Got the Call” Stardate 0607.02 Lieutenant Arthur Dent ---------------------------------------- When Dent got the call, he was in his quarters, taking a shower. He had just gotten off duty and was anxious to scrub away the day and start the next one anew. There was a new holonovel idea floating in his head, and it felt like a good time to try developing his skills again. But then the security lockdown happened, and Dent found himself dressing in a hurry so that he could head back to the control tower. He, of course, had no idea what the situation was, but he could not be of any help from his quarters. All he knew was that with ambassadors on board and some sort of refugee requesting asylum, the chances of something going horribly, catastrophically wrong were so high as to be quite likely, in his opinion. As Dent struggled with his jacket, he hopped out of his quarters on one foot and into the turbolift. He was just about to say, “Control Tower,” when a voice said, “And where do you think you're going, dressed like that?” Dent turned around to see an irate bald man looking at him as if he were completely naked. “Er . . . control tower?” The turbolift started to move again. “I think you should finish getting dressed first. Honestly, youth these days—you care nothing for your appearance! I groom myself twice a day—shave and a haircut, two bits!” “Right. Um,” hesitated Dent, who was nearly finished with the jacket. “Well, I'm in a bit of a hurry—we're in the middle of an emergency, and they might need me to take some calls or something.” The irate bald man puffed up his chest as he breathed inward, soaking in his own self-absorbed importance. Any more ego and he would need a wig to contain it. “Young'un, you need someone to teach you some manners.” “I'll be sure to schedule some lessons, right after this emergency.” “And that's another thing! You're always so pedantic, so placating. In my day, we'd stand up to a Nausicaan, even if it meant getting stabbed in the heart! Nowadays all you can do is say, 'Sorry', and 'Pardon me, sir, but that is my aorta you're holding.'” Dent's aorta was as constricted as it could be right now, and he was glad when the turbolift doors opened. He stepped out, grateful to be free of the man's ranting. “What the!” Dent exclaimed. He was not on the control tower—somehow the turbolift had decided to deposit him on Level 17. But it was all immaterial, since Dent finally finished doing up his jacket. Much more composed, he stood in front of the turbolift doors and waited. He hoped no one was hurt or anything.

Welcome to Aegis. Stay clear of that Arthur Dent guy, I hear he's trouble. He likes to dock ships or something. I mean, that's like Oatmeal Crisp, man. It's just not right. :P

“No Lemons Were Harmed During the Making of this Log” June 28, 2154 Lieutenant Dave Grey ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Man, he felt like a woman. He had trouble shaking the feeling even now; it clung to him like a second skin, a second identity. He had been in the Orion slave girl disguise for so long that the motif had sunk into him. It was not that he missed it—oh no, Dave was quite glad to be rid of the disguise—but that he could notice the difference so acutely. Being able to wear more clothes was nice though. Not surprisingly, Enterprise looked a lot like Challenger. Its science lab was a bit more existent than Challenger's, and its protein resequencer managed tea better than Challenger's ever could Grey had broken—er, helped to repair—it almost two years ago. The ride was smooth and rather uneventful so far, and for that, Grey was grateful. After all that they had been through in the past weeks, he was glad to return to Challenger and finally resume “life”. He wondered how Robin had fared in her tasks—successfully, no doubt; he had absolute confidence in his cousin. He wondered what had become of Captain Moore and his important mission to the Klingon homeworld. So much had happened that Grey would welcome a chance to just catch up, but for all he knew Starfleet had another mission lined up for them and ready to go. Grey sat in Enterprise's science lab. It was a good place to sit, because it reminded him of Challenger, more home to him than any set of quarters could be. The familiar hum of the science lab symphony orchestra was soothing. The lighting was never too high nor too low, but just the right level to relax. “I don't know,” he said aloud. “I just don't know.” Enterprise had a movie night, and he wanted to go watch, so he got up and hit the button to open the door. When he crossed the threshold, however, Grey lost his footing and suddenly his face had a rendezvous with the floor. Stunned, he sat up and looked down at the floor just in front of the lab door. There was a lemon sitting right there. Grey said, “Well, that was unexpected,” and picked up the lemon with half-hearted interest. He stood up—no permanent damage—and headed down the corridor. He considered detouring to the galley. How did one peel a lemon anyway? Grey had never been good at it—for some reason lemons were not very peelable to him. He just failed at the part of life that involves peeling lemons. But hey, at least he had read Agatha Christie.

“You There. Fix This.” Stardate 0606.28 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran -------------------------------------------- Well, here we are again. It had been roughly a year, a year and a bit since he had first come aboard Excalibur, and no, it had not been what he had expected by any stretch of the delusional misconceptions that had inhibited his mind at the time. The truth of the matter had been so different in fact as to cause doubts to his sanity. Here they were again. The ship had been abused. Pulverized by multiple weapons, barraged and battered by energy salvos until the hull was a wreck and the systems were pushed beyond their wildest limits. Yet what did they ask? For the engineers to repair her, because that's what the engineers did. Then they broke her again, because that's what everyone else did, or at least it seemed that way. The only reason they bothered repairing Excalibur was so that she could be sent out to get in another fight, get damaged again, need repairs. . . . So, here they were again. Here we are again, finishing the repairs that would allow the vicious cycle to continue on, and on, and on, until one of those days they would not return. But it's necessary to look at it in perspective, Tandaris supposed. He ran an isometric scanner over a set of relays and then entered the results into the database. They were above average. This was good. After all, it was very important that he repaired these relays, because if he didn't, then they would not be able to blow out again during the next power surge in a battle. It was necessary, he mused, to look at the big picture. They were dealing with an enemy who actually posed a threat to the entire quadrant, one on whom intelligence was still scanty. It would require a lot more repairs before their job would be finished, if ever. The scanner beeped. “Uh oh,” Tandaris muttered. He had absolutely no clue why the scanner was beeping—he had not even known that the scanner could beep. Yet beeping it was. So in a fit of inspiration (and a furtive glance in either direction) he hit the scanner hard on the bulkhead above the relays. It stopped beeping.

“Rixian Ramifications” Stardate 0606.28 Lieutenant Arthur Dent ---------------------------------------------- With the arrival of a Rixian seeking asylum, the control tower had gotten very busy very fast. One of the ambassadors had arrived to observe, Captain Ayers and Commander Hawke appeared, and security and medical were alerted. The entire station went into a response mode that by now had become familiar to Dent, and everyone worked as a practiced team. Even now as Dent ran scans of the Rixian's vessel he was still in that reactionary mode. He wondered why the man had been chased—his ship nearly destroyed—and who was trying to stop him from contacting the Federation. Could it possibly have something to do with the plague that had concerned the Rixians' visit to Aegis before? Dent hoped he would find that out. The scans of the man's ship outlined the damaged areas in various happy colours. The red areas were the ones with the most damage—over half of the vessel was in some sort of red—and the green areas would be sections with no damage—in this case, there was very little green at all. However, the vessel could be fixed, as would its occupant. That irritating part of Dent's mind, the imaginative part that had “original” thoughts wondered if there could be a connection between the Rixian and the diplomats. More specifically, it wondered if the Rixian's arrival contemporaneously to that of the diplomats' presence on Aegis was more coincidence, or something more illicit. It was not really his concern though. He was just the guy who told people where to park (or in the case of Pakleds, broke down the instructions into very simple colour-coded steps). When it came to dealing with asylum-seekers, that was the job of security and command staff. And he didn't envy them in the slightest. Well, maybe a little bit. But he would never tell.

“(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction” Stardate 0606.21 Lieutenant Arthur Dent and Hestral t'Oryla ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Lieutenant Arthur Dent From: Hestral t'Oryla Subject: Unsatisfactory quarters Honoured Mister Dent, I regret to inform you that some of the accommodations made for Ambassador tr'Aeolix will be unacceptable. Several of the choices made for interior decorating are of the wrong types for the esteemed ambassador. Would you care for me to outline the weak points that I have discovered? Yours, Hestral t'Oryla Chief of Staff, Romulan Embassy, Sky Harbor Aegis ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Hestral t'Oryla From: Lieutenant Arthur Dent Subject: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters Hestral t'Oryla, Thank you for bringing your concerns to me. If you would care to forward a summary of the dissatisfactory portions of your ambassador's accommodations at your leisure, I will attend to each specific point forthwith. Thanks, Lieutenant Arthur Dent, Operations Officer ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Lieutenant Arthur Dent From: Hestral t'Oryla Subject: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters Lieutenant Dent, Thank you for your interest. We of the Romulan Embassy appreciate your assistance in making our transition an easy one. I shall outline briefly, one per memo, the complaints I have regarding the decor of the esteemed ambassador's quarters. First of all, the carpeting choice for the quarters is a shocking black. Offering no calming values, nor any properties to ward against staining, it has nothing to recommend it whatsoever. Assiduously, Hestral t'Oryla, Chief of Staff, Romulan Embassy, Sky Harbor Aegis ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Hestral t'Oryla From: Lieutenant Arthur Dent Subject: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters Black carpeting is the standard colour for all quarters on Aegis. However, as it is not to your liking, I have certitude that we can replace it with another colour of your choice. Perhaps you could recommend the particular colour, as well as any other properties that you desire, so that we can quickly and efficiently effect a satisfactory rectification of the present carpet-colouring situation? Thoughtfully, Lieutenant Arthur Dent, Operations Officer ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Lieutenant Arthur Dent From: Hestral t'Oryla Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters Lieutenant Dent, I would recommend a shade of blue. Peaceful and tranquilizing, it would also hearken to the oceans of ch'Rihan, which also would put one at ease after a hard day of work. Thankfully, Hestral t'Oryla Chief of Staff, Romulan Embassy, Sky Harbor Aegis ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Hestral t'Oryla From: Lieutenant Arthur Dent Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters As per your request, the quarters of the ambassador and staff have been outfitted with a shade of medium blue. I trust that they now meet your satisfactions. If not, please do not hesitate to reply to this memorandum with a detailed description of the qualities that it lacks. Reliably, Lieutenant Arthur Dent, Operations Officer ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Lieutenant Arthur Dent From: Hestral t'Oryla Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters Thank you, Mister Dent. The carpeting is now acceptable per modern psychological colour-stress relationship studies. Now, as per the other points. I would like to address the replicators within the room. While they have been programmed with all necessary sustenance required for Romulans, I would like to have them redesigned to allow for experimentation in food production, to allow for an easy outlet for creative energies. As I understand it, such usage of the replication units at this time is not available. I trust that you can rectify this situation. Faithfully, Hestral t'Oryla Chief of Staff, Romulan Embassy, Sky Harbor Aegis ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Hestral t'Oryla From: Lieutenant Arthur Dent Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters If you are looking for a way to both relax and utilise one's creative energies, I would recommend one of our numerous holodecks available for your usage. They offer superior entertainment and recreational resources than the replicators could. However, as you desire, I will book an engineering team to make the necessary modifications to your replication units within the next two days. Earnestly, Lieutenant Arthur Dent, Operations Officer ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Lieutenant Arthur Dent From: Hestral t'Oryla Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters Very well. I shall have the aides look into the recreational facilities you have mentioned. On another note, is there nothing better than the cool grey colour that seems to permeate every inch of the station? Again, this does not seem particularly conducive to a relaxing environment. As you undoubtedly will ask for my assistance in a new colour choice, I shall anticipate your request and provide you with a few options. Might I suggest a pale cream, highlighted with a cool shade of green? It would coordinate nicely with the carpeting choice selected, as well as add to the friendly atmosphere I have been working towards. Most thankfully, t'Oryla ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Hestral t'Oryla From: Lieutenant Arthur Dent Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters Er . . . I will see what I can do regarding the colour scheme of the rooms. Perhaps an adjustment to the lighting would make them more tolerable without having to delay things further by redecorating the entire room. Diligently, Dent ------------------------------------------------------------ Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Memorandum To: Lieutenant Arthur Dent From: Hestral t'Oryla Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Unsatisfactory quarters I understand that you have done a fair job of leading this project, and I do offer my thanks for that. However, please note that even if the final decorating choices do not rest well with the most esteemed ambassador, I will do my best to placate him. I do believe that the quarters will offer a marginal air of comfort for the ambassador. On behalf of the Romulan Empire, Hestral t'Oryla Chief of Staff, Romulan Embassy, Sky Harbor Aegis

“A Numbers Game” Stardate 0606.10 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran ------------------------------------------------ Tandaris could hardly believe it. They had actually emerged from the battle unscathed with the help of . . . the Hundred. It was the sort of cliché-invoking event that happened once in a blue dwarf star, the sort of improbable circumstance that could turn the tide of a battle. At the same time he could not help but reflect on the negative consequences. In the smoking aftermath of plasma fires and SIF instabilities, the Federation Statistics Task Force went to work compiling the dreaded digits of doom—war was a numbers game. Soon the lists of MIA, WIA, KIA, and any other sort of -IA that was available in the alphabet would be posted throughout the fleet and make its way inexorably to the Federation News Service. Across the quadrants, loved ones would gather around LCARS screens to watch the names of the missing, wounded, or dead scroll down the monitor, holding their breath lest they spot the name of their one special person. It was a victory in a way, but that did not change the fact that families and friends would grieve, and the war would go on. Ships, once lovingly captained on missions of exploration and peace, now drifting dead in space. People, once laughing and joking with friends on that last special night of shore leave before catching a courier back to the call of duty, now cold corpses organised by serial number in the morgue. Crews, once bound together by a feeling of fellowship, now separated by the distances of death and reassignment. The fudge was safe for another day. But as Tandaris looked at the numbers, the percentages, the statistics and ratios, it just did not add up. They had known what they were getting into . . . but it was really still unfair. It was just stupid, that two species could go to war over such idiotic things, and that good men, women, and indeterminate genders had to die because of a squabble over territory. The universe is big. Hugely big. Mind-bogglingly hugely bigly huge. Yet with all of that huge bigly mind-bogglingness, it seems that there is still not enough room. Out of all the millions of galaxies, the trillions upon trillions of stars, the uncharted territories of the final frontier . . . there is still not enough room for two small, insignificant species to coexist. One would think that the galaxy itself is big enough, but nooo—the Scorpiads and the Dominion had to fight it out for an entire quarter of it. (What Tandaris does not know is that this is precisely the reason that the universe, while so big, has so much room in the first place. In comparison to other universes, it is rather low-priced real estate, mostly due to the internal squabbles of its constituent species. The species from other universes tend to leave it alone, except when they need to hide ancient apocalyptic doomsday devices or have to earn a degree in meddling with corporeal life-forms.) The Reliant had taken a lot of damage to its power matrix, especially its starboard power coupling. As it stood, she could limp back home, but she would need some time to recover before the next battle. That was how things worked. One battle after another, and another, and another. Until soldiers from both sides were dead and the remaining people realized that they had forgotten what they were fighting about anyway. At least—that was the way it was supposed to work. Tandaris was starting to realize that the Gamma Quadrant was somewhat of an anomaly in this regard, in the sense that the Scorpiads and the Dominion had a tangled past but shared the same general attributes: a tendency to annex other species' territories and being able to hold a very, very long grudge. After six lifetimes, Tandaris had given up on grudges. He had also given up on feeling bitter about things behind his control, such as war. His attitude would stay positive, focusing on what he could change. He was an engineer—a healer of ships. He would repair them in hopes of better times, heal them in hopes of greater goals, and above all, he would keep flying. All other numbers beside, that was a 100% guarantee.

“Midnight Shivers” Stardate 0605.27 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran -------------------------------------------------------- From Ardent to Reliant, Tandaris was certainly spending a lot of time not on Excalibur. One thing about transferring to another Defiant-class ship, however, was that at least he was already familiar with the controls. That was important considering that in less than two days they would probably be neck-deep in some sort of terrifying battle the likes of which had not been seen since the Dominion War. Considering this notion, it is perfectly understandable for Tandaris to be reading a Betazoid classic at the moment. After he had boarded the Reliant, he took his time to look around. Really though, it was a Defiant. There is not much to see. That was the most striking difference from Excalibur, which, as a Sovereign-class vessel, was huge compared to the Defiant. It was possible to walk down a corridor and see nary a soul, even though there were over a thousand people around. On the Reliant, it was hard to find much privacy. Even quarters had to be shared, spartan bunks instead of roomy cabins. Tandaris was not going to complain. Considering the days up ahead, and the difficulties that they were likely to encounter, he was going to count himself lucky if he was still alive three days, a week, a month from now. If he was alive though, he would probably look back at this as the definitive moment that the conflict started. They were not just reconnoitring anymore. This was not just defense. They were sallying out to strike a blow against the encroaching enemy, all the while hoping that this move would not throw their forces wildly off balance. Tandaris' greatest worry was that they were still in the dark as to what they were up against. He felt as if the power these aliens had shown was only a small glimpse at what they could accomplish, and that sent shivers down his spine. Oh well. Tally-ho.

“The Bonds We Share” Robin Rawel May 24, 2156 -------------------------------------------------------- The hospital was bright, and far more lively at night than she would have wanted. The receptionist on duty took one look at Robin and pointed dourly in the direction of the lift. Robin muttered a hasty thank-you and slipped inside the lift, directing it to the right floor. She wanted to get this over with. The floor to which she went was eerier than the main lobby, although still quite bright. There were less people, but more of them wore the blue smocks that one associates with medical personnel. In fact, statistics show that most of the people are not medical personnel, but infiltrators attempting to disguise themselves as medical personnel. A recent study done by Useless Polling Corp. reveals up to 72% of the blue-smock-wearing people on a floor may not actually be medical personnel. Robin was not aware of this statistic as she crossed the smooth, newly waxed floor, looking up and down the corridor for the office which she sought. It was a corner office, more of a janitor's closet than anything, but eventually she found it tucked between what appeared to be a surgical bay and a tennis court. It was a very good hospital. She did not bother to knock; he was expecting her. He said, “Close the door behind you,” and Robin closed the door before she sat down across from him. “Stand up,” he said, his back still turned to her. “Er . . .” “I said, stand up.” Shrugging, Robin clambered to her feet and stood there, her unease increasing as the particles in the room slowly decayed into entropy, releasing smaller particles that collided to produce minuscule amounts of energy that entered her body in the form of radiation in a never-ending process some people have mistakenly labelled the Universe. The man—doctor, Robin corrected herself—now swivelled his chair around so that he faced her. “I'm Dr. Tratos,” he said. “Please, sit down.” “But you just said—” “I know what I said,” Tratos replied. “I taped it, in case I forgot.” He pressed a button on his desk console, and their brief conversation played back. “I asked you to stand up so that I could ask you to sit down again. It's the polite thing to do, but rather hard to do with you already sitting.” More confused than before, Robin nevertheless sat down and waited for him to begin. Instead, Tratos began to avidly munch on a cheeseburger, apparently oblivious to her presence. Only when she coughed again did he say, “Oh, you're still here? Well then. Have you made the preparations that your cousin requested?” “Yes,” said Robin, wondering how this doctor had managed to obtain his medical credentials. “His letter took me by surprise. I've tried contacting him, but Starfleet communications says that Challenger is currently 'unavailable'.” Tratos shrugged. “Yes, well, perhaps they're on some sort of deep undercover mission to infiltrate the Klingon High Command using awkward disguises and thinly-veiled technobabble. But how would I know?” “Ri-ght. Anyway, I have obtained some of what we need. Other things will be harder—Starfleet has cracked down on the smuggling since the Terra Prime incident. I will need more time to get in touch with my contacts.” “Time is not on our said, Ms Rawel. Harriet is stable for now, yes, but do not mistake her coma for stasis—her condition continues to deteriorate, albeit more slowly than before. She has less than a year. And if we try this procedure and it fails, it may be less than that.” “I'm working as fast as I can! But bringing in this sort of equipment is highly conspicuous if I do it at once. I have to work through different channels, making sure that no one can connect one thing to another.” “I understand your difficulties—I was just making you aware of Harriet's grave condition. Cheeseburger?” Tratos offered her one. Shaking her head, Robin said, “No thanks. Do you . . . do you think this will work?” “Of course it will work, Ms Rawel,” said Tratos, reclining back in his chair. “Just trust me. I'm a doctor!”

“Frozen Masks and Forlorn Tasks” Stardate 0605.10 Lieutenant Dave Grey ---------------------------------- With their little adventure on Rago's ship over, it looked like things were getting back on track—if one considered being practically stranded on an inhospitable station surgically altered to look like an Orion female as “on track”, of course. Grey looked around the station. It was reminiscent of fiction he had read before that depicted these shady environments where underhanded transactions take place as a matter of course. The station had an atmosphere of tension overlying a sense of deception and complicity. Honest people did not come here; they had no place in this station's society. It was not anarchical, though. On the surface it seemed disorderly, but Grey perceived an underlying current of fear. The denizens of this circle of hell were all afraid. And so they should be. In their world, they always had to remain on top—they had to keep their guard up, because if they didn't, then someone bigger, stronger, and smarter would come along and steal their niche. It was a world of competition, competition that was as far from fair as fair is from foul, where lying and murdering are considered common after-tea-time social activities. It was strange. Even now, Grey did not feel afraid. He had felt afraid in any number of—in comparison—absurd situations. But now he felt calm, resolute, collected. A switch in his head had flipped and rid him of any worries. He felt ready for what was coming next. It was strange, because Grey was very sure he had not consumed any alcohol in a long, long time. So he wondered what the heck was wrong with him. Perhaps the pheromones were to blame. Or maybe it was just the milieu—maybe he was blocking out all of the tension and building himself a fortress of solitude. That must be it—a mask for his fear, nothing more. All he wanted now was to be back on Challenger with a good book. He wanted to be able to send that letter to his cousin, the one that would tell her what he needed. Harriet . . . Harriet was lying in a coma in some hospital, attended by a cheeseburger-vending quack who was better with barbecues than brains. They were a long way from Kansas now, and Grey had yet to find any ruby-red slippers to send him home. He sighed and returned to the Orion ship, hoping that their little mission would unfold as neatly as it had been so far.

“We Do it for the Fudge” Stardate 0605.10 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran ---------------------------------------------- Their mission in the Ardent had finally borne fruit, but what sort of fruit was it? The lack of information, the uncertainty that surrounded this new enemy like a shroud of deceit and protection, unnerved him. As an engineer, he was used to the physicality of his problems. As a computer programmer, he was used to a logical solution to everything. As an experienced Trill, he was aware that engineers and computer programmers were usually deprived of the more illogical portions of society anyway. The Ardent had another Vorta on board now—which was rather weird, since normally it would be the objective to subtract from, not add to, the sum total number of Vorta aboard one's ship. Taenix, however, was not just a regular Vorta. She was an ancient Vorta, one who apparently knew what she was doing. It was strange that they were placing so much trust in a species of clones. But maybe it was a testament to the Federation and Dominion's relationship too. Tandaris looked over the half-baked ideas relating to defence from the Scorpiad technology. He almost wished for another encounter with the species, if only so that they would have more data to examine. So far it looked like they were able to generate tremendous energy, control it, and focus it. Their ships were marvels of engineering, and Tandaris felt a twinge of admiration. For such an old and experienced species to have survived this long, and stayed hidden . . . well, it was an achievement. He hoped the Federation would last that long. No matter how far they came or how fast they could travel, it felt as if the Federation had plateaued. Prior to the Dominion War, most of the Federation had been complacent in their sense of collective enlightenment, enjoying their free time to contemplate the wonders of the universe, the peculiarity of Tellarites, and the fifty-five thousand different flavours of fudge on Carthag Prime. To an extent, the Dominion War had changed that. The fudge shops on Carthag Prime were closed after the Dominion overran the planet (although lately they had reopened, boasting the fifty thousandth and one flavour); the Tellarites became less peculiar as they joined the Federation in the war effort; and the universe always seems less wondrous when it is doing its best to kill you. That plateau was back after things had returned to status quo. Sure, some relationships may have changed, and the balance of power might have shifted, but were they really any the wiser? No. Nothing new has been learned from it. Tandaris could not shake off the dreadful feeling that they were about to be repeating their mistake from seven years ago. . . . It was a confusing situation. If they moved forward into this trap they would be flying blind, in uncharted territory with a strange species and technology that they had never dreamed of before. But if they did nothing, if they stopped now . . . the Federation and the Alpha Quadrant might suffer more. They are the front lines, the risk-takers. A Starfleet officer is someone who puts his, her, or its life on the line every day to maintain that “complacent enlightenment” that Federation citizens so cherish. A Starfleet officer upholds the principles upon which 55,001 flavours of fudge have been built. A Starfleet officer takes the plunge off the precipice in order to rescue civilization from the mud into which it sinks and restore order to the chaos. For all those reasons—all the right reasons—they had to move forward and confront this challenge. It would just be enough, perhaps, to get things moving once again.

“The Truth Will Set You Free” Stardate 0604.19 Lieutenant Arthur Dent ------------------------------------------------------ They ate at the Very Nice Looking restaurant. Dent chose an unpalatable pizza with strange toppings; Nathan selected some form of seafood that Dent could not identify. They ate in silence first, and then they made some small talk, before Nathan finally broached the issue that he had been trying to discuss ever since he arrived on Aegis weeks ago. Dent's distractions from assignments, investigations, and his own fears had made it hard for Nathan to divulge this story, but it was finally time. “How much do you know about tovanengitis?” Nathan asked between bites of seafood, food that was still wriggling. Dent raised an eyebrow. “'Tovanengitis'? Never heard of it, why?” “Because it is basically your entire raison d'etre, more or less. You are what you are because of tovanengitis. You see, the disease is quite interesting. It has two 'types', but I'll only focus on the first one because it's the one that matters. The first type is a neurological condition caused by severe brain trauma. It inhibits the production of certain neurotransmitters, causing severe neurological damage that can lead to death if not treated.” “What's the treatment?” asked Dent. Nathan replied, “I'm getting to that. Eat your pizza! Anyway, like I said, it is a terminal condition. The victim suffers excruciating pain and debilitation that increases until they eventually die, unless treated. Treatments were discovered in the mid-22nd century, but they did not become medically acceptable practices until the late 23rd century.” Dent restrained himself from strangling Nathan as he prattled on, eventually getting to the treatment. When Nathan announced what the treatment was, his eyebrows went up again. “The treatment,” said Nathan, “involves gene therapy to repair damaged neurons and their DNA. By tweaking the codons, the—” Waving his hand, Dent cut Nathan off. “Please, I'm a bureaucrat, not a med student. I'm a bit more interested in the story about me, if you understand.” “What? Oh, yes, yes. Sorry, I was getting to that. Your mother, Arthur, contracted tovanengitis while she was pregnant with you. It was a freak accident; she was spelunking and did not even know that she was pregnant. The fall nearly paralysed her, and it's pure chance that she did not lose you.” Dent did not know how to react this news. He waited for Nathan to go on. The uncle had paused to eat more of his seafood. Dent bit into his pizza, but its taste had become even more salty than before. “The treatment was available, of course, and she followed a regimen. Unfortunately . . .” Nathan stopped. Dent leaned forward, determined to hear him out. “What?” he prodded. “You see um . . . it's hard to say this, so I guess I should just say it outright. The physician was incompetent.”

While I like the idea of new management, I'm not so sure I like this idea of rehashing what has already been done by looking back at the younger adventures of Kirk and Spock, especially since this "new management" hasn't proved itself yet. But I will keep an open mind and reserve judgement for now, since it is good to hear some news, and it could turn out well.

“Ripening Fruits of Our Forgotten Labours” Stardate 0604.19 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran -------------------------------------------------------------- The rubble separated them with a resounding crash, and in that instant, Commander Corizon was gone. Tandaris was left with Commander Pilot, Ensign Craven, and Weyoun, whom he did not trust for a moment. Together they needed to locate the commander, and if that proved impossible, they had to somehow fulfill their mission without him. It didn't occur until this moment how much Corizon had insinuated himself into the lives of the Excalibur crew. While he had maintained a certain distance, inevitably amplified by the fact that Tandaris was a more junior officer who hid down in engineering all day, Corizon evidently had his hands—or claws—on every thread of the ship. Only when he disappeared did Tandaris actually perceive how much he affected through his presence. This entire mission was a bad idea, though. Admiran could not help shake a bad feeling, a premonition of worse things to come. Six lifetimes meant that he had a good sense of when something bad would happen from supposedly innocuous circumstances. Tandaris' hand tightened on his phaser, hoping that he would not have to use it. He hoped that they would get of of this without bloodshed, with their lives and with Corizon, safe and sound. How much longer would they be safe and sound? These scorpion aliens intrigued and frightened Tandaris. He was not even sure that the Federation had any business interfering in this, aside from his own compassion for helping those in need. Perhaps retreat through the wormhole was the best option. Then again, he was not in command, that was what the brass soldiers at Starfleet Command did for a living. He was the Trill on the front lines, the eyes and ears and muscle, the cannon fodder. But he was awfully good at being cannon fodder.

“Going That Extra Distance” April 19, 2156 Lieutenant Dave Grey --------------------------------------- It was a bit chilly. Dave was not accustomed to wearing so little clothing; the clothing was tight too. But it did not matter so much. In a few minutes they would have utter control of the environmental systems; maybe then he could tweak the temperature. He looked at the console with minor irritation. Orion was not his strong suit, obviously, but he could interpret the layout easily enough. Now they would have to use his scanner to override the access codes. From his experience with the locking mechanism in their suite, this ship was certainly not 'top-of-the-line', and it was clear that the security systems could use improvement. That would cost money, however! The plan was simple: subdue the entire crew of Orion males using the synthetic pheromone previously prepared by Doctors McCellan, Marlin, and himself. It made sense, and Grey hoped it would work. If not, then he hoped that the others fared better in their attempts at taking the bridge. Grey fingered the vial of pheromones gingerly as he waited for environmental systems to bend to their will. It would be just a matter of time. . . .

“Where No Man Has Gone Before” March 14, 2156 Lieutenant Dave Grey --------------------------------------------- Grey watched in horror as the Orion guard seized Commander Cole. In an instant, their best laid plans had gone awry! The Orions had betrayed them—typical. The science nerds had to unlock the door—typical. But what it all boiled down to was that Grey was a woman on an alien starship in an unfriendly part of the galaxy. How much more atypical, he wondered, would it get before he was safe and sound back on Challenger? His mind tried to think of ways to help, but it was as frozen as his feet. He could only hope that the pheromones would take effect, that the guard would loosen his grip and be subdued. If it came down to a physical altercation, Grey was confident that they could take out just one guard together. But that big guy had even bigger friends. . . . Their mission had barely begun and this was the result. Grey hoped that in the future Starfleet would have better covert plans created before they sent their officers into these situations. Maybe even send in a specialised team—he supposed that Neptune was their version of a “specialist”, which just proved how out of touch with reality the Starfleet brass was. Grey felt a pang of regret too. They were out here, supposedly, to “explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no one has gone before.” Split infinitives aside, Grey wondered what infiltrating another species had to do with exploration. Time and again he had waited for the wonder, the amazement, the awe of seeing the new and uncharted regions of space. But so far all he had seen was danger and intrigue. It was quite discourteous of every second species they met to try and blow them out of the sky. Nevertheless they had more pressing matters at hand than idealism. Grey pushed his impractical concerns off to one side and focussed on th single issue that was of importance: the fact that their mission was falling apart. He still saw no way to positively contribute, but he waited, and watched for an opportunity.

Sky Harbor Aegis Internal Communique From: Lieutenant Arthur Dent To: Command Staff Subject: USS Archer Investigation (Final Report) -------------------------------------------------------------------- After conferring with the involved departments, I am ready to present the final conclusions on the disappearance and subsequent reappearance of the USS Archer. The events reconstructed here are based upon data obtained from salvaged components of the Archer. The wreckage has been confirmed as the Archer's through detailed hull analysis. These components are currently stored in cargo bay two pending appropriate disposal. The Archer disappeared about five years ago during a mission into Cardassian space to destroy a shipyard. Partially-salvaged sensor logs indicate that the Archer sustained heavy damage during the battle. The exact reason why it continued deeper into Cardassian space is unknown, although the most probable cause would be damage to its navigation systems. The Archer came under attack again by Cardassian-Dominion forces. Weapons signatures on the hull fragments match with Cardassian weaponry of the time. This attack was probably the cause of the Archer's demise. A three-second portion of a distress call was recovered and the time stamp confirms that the Archer was under attack in the Semphren system. It was most likely destroyed with all hands on board, as no evidence of escape pods has been found. After its destruction, the wreckage from the Archer drifted into orbit around a gas giant. This wreckage went unnoticed for several years. Quite recently, the wreckage's sensor profile increased, allowing passing starships to detect it. The increase is due to two factors: firstly, its orbit around the gas giant was beginning to decay, causing parts of the wreckage to incinerate in the gas giant's atmosphere. Secondly, unusual foreign biomatter built up on the wreckage. This biomatter is the waste byproduct of a common spaceborne microbe that flourished on the wreckage's hull. The microbe increased the hull's dimagnetic signature as it consumed deutrionic circuits, a result of the hull's older composite design. The engineering, medical, and security departments were invaluable during this investigation. Every department contributed resources and manpower toward analysing and interpreting the wreckage in an effort to unravel this mystery. There are still gaps in the mystery of the Archer's disappearance. However, after reviewing the data gathered, I recommend that the Archer's status be changed from “Missing in Action” to “Destroyed” now that the wreckage has been positively identified. The investigation can be closed.

“Discomfort” March 29, 2156 Lieutenant Davina Grey ------------------------------------- Grey was uncomfortable. And a bit confused. He/she had never really been good at anything that involved disguises. Although he/she enjoyed masquerade parties and such, if the theme involved concealment, he/she usually lost. Now Starfleet was sending him/her and most of Challenger's crew on an undercover mission . . . disguised as Orion slave girls. Somewhere out there, light-years away, in a cozy office in San Francisco, someone was getting a very good laugh out of this. This was what Grey knew of Orion slave women: they were green. Well, that was the most obvious thing. He/she wondered what it was like being green. Kermit the Frog seemed to pull it off nicely, but he was a frog—it came to him naturally. Human skin coloured could vary greatly, but green was not one of those natural shades. Then of course there was that small detail regarding gender. Grey had enough trouble dealing with other people as it was. He/she did not like the idea of having to interact while in disguise as an alien of a different gender. It was almost like he/she were in a science fiction world . . . a place set in the near future, a saga of exploration and trials and tribulations of humanity after its discovery of warp drive. He/she could just be a figment of someone's imagination. Seeing as how everything was predetermined anyway, he/she didn't really see much difference in this scenario from any other way the universe worked. So Grey went back to studying up on what they knew of the Orions. Because if his/her past experience with covert operations was any indication, he/she would need all the practice that he/she could get.

“Waiting in the Wings” Stardate 0603.29 Lieutenant Tandaris Admiran ---------------------------------------------- Tandaris was a bit bored, to put it frankly. Shore leave at Camelot did not interest him a lot, although he was grateful for the downtime. He explored most of the station and then eventually decided that a good book and maybe a holodeck adventure would be the best ways to spend his time. He caught up on the letters from his family and friends which had been pushed to the side by more pressing matters lately. Everyone seemed to be doing well, so Tandaris decided that he was the only one who was being threatened by a species of giant scorpions. Needless to say, this revelation was none too comforting. As the repairs to Excalibur continued at a steady pace, Tandaris kept checking in and making sure that things progressed smoothly. He also hoped that Camelot's medical staff—what was that toxicologist's name, Dr . . . Johnson?—could find an antidote to the toxin coursing through Commander Xavier's veins. In the Holy Grail now, one of Camelot's civilian establishments, Tandaris sat at a table and fiddled with the multi-quadratic Lissepian algebra puzzle that had distracted him for months. He felt so close to the solution, and now—drat, the entire puzzle just reset itself to the first problem. Oh well, back to the starting block. He idly wondered what would happen now. With Excalibur back on duty, how would Starfleet proceed in the face of these strange, hitherto unknown aliens? The aliens apparently had no qualms about attacking the Dominion. So Tandaris wondered what position Starfleet would take. Que sera, sera, he supposed. The worst thing that could happen was that he could die—and that was a possibility on any adventure in this galaxy. He just hoped it wouldn't be at the hands of those scorpions. Tandaris wasn't very fond of bugs.