The Lights are Moving

[Crash Calestorm 0]

Note: The following is a Captain's Table log entry for Calestorm, set during our current TBS and our supply run/diplomatic mission to the colonies of Primos Major and Minor. And remember, the first round is free with a story…

 

It was a pleasant night on Primos Minor, with a comfortable chill in the air along with the smell of sweet grass being carried on the gentle night wind. Various bars and taverns, eateries, and one or two dance clubs were enjoying some weekend business from the locals as well as travelers passing through the sector either on business or pleasure, such as Calestorm.

 

With her personal shuttle, the Pappy Boyington, stowed at the landing platform park located at the edge of town, Captain Calestorm was doing one last informal foot patrol about the Rabbit Falls outpost before retiring for the night at the motel room she had booked. The outpost was one of the larger ones scattered across the planet, with a population of about eight hundred settlers year round; Rabbit Falls was a stopover point as well, and those population numbers tended to inflate when recruits traveling to the Fleet Academy at San Francisco, Earth would layover at the planetary shuttle docking ports, or ranchers, farmers, and ranch hands would come in town in order to spend their seasonal wages and gather supplies and such. She and her senior officers had scattered across both Primos Major and Minor in order to provide diplomatic relations, a reassuring visual presence to the locals, as well as to oversee the distribution of the foodstuffs, general supplies, medical supplies, and livestock that the USS Comanche Creek had been tasked with transporting and offloading to the colony worlds.

 

The whole operation was a challenge, but the 'Creeks were up to the task.

 

She had gotten some minor hemming and hawing regarding her striking out on a solo recon run on Minor, mainly from some of the senior staff. She had employed "The Eyebrow" and all was well once again. Her Eyebrow was not as devastating as say a Vulcan Eyebrow on maim mode (The Doc was very good at that sort of look), but it got the job done.

 

With both Major and Minor primarily agriculture and livestock production based, the captain couldn't say that she'd recommend the Primos worlds as a shore leave destination. Nevertheless, the various town and small city communities scattered throughout the territorial grids on the two worlds were modern enough: bars, hotels, some shopping, entertainment, and supply stores suited the needs of both the established settlers as well as any travelers or ships crews that decided to make port.

 

Calestorm had booked a room at the Embassy; it was a big name for a little hotel that catered to local travelers, vacuum jockeys, or junior cadets passing through on their way to permanent assignments or jobs. The important thing was that she, like her officers and crew, was dirt side and providing an assuring presence to the local colonists. For her part, she had spoken to several ranchers and farmers as well as volunteers at a satellite patrol outpost located along the upper northern grid area. The informal diplomatic outreach had gone well overall, and she had even fielded a few questions from youngsters in their teens who were considering enrolling at the Fleet academy once they came of age.

 

The C.O.W.'s and the P.O.O.'s had the right idea: protect the colonists of Primos and jump start the supply lines again. Time would tell if the groups were successful, though the Confederation of Outer Worlds had a much better chance of becoming the long term colonial political presence in the sector.

 

For the most part -- and this was Cale's personal opinion -- the Primos (Major) Operational Organization, while impressive from the outset, was staffed by nothing more then fly by night thugs who went from trouble spot to trouble spot across the galaxy, hiring out their guns to the highest bidder. Crash liked to refer to this as the "range war mentality", and the lot of 'em would all scamper off as soon as they could once the situation changed and their particular 'services' were no longer needed.

 

The Primos Minor colonists, at least the few that she had spoken to, did not care as a whole for the Primos Operation Organization and seemed more inclined to wing their support over towards the C.O.W.s, which seemed to be emerging as the more stable of the organizations to represent the two colony worlds.

 

Crash was starting to complete the last section grid of her foot patrol, working her way back towards the center of town as her black combat duty boots clomped on the plasti-crete sidewalk. The tall and lanky female captain had worn her standard duty uniform of gold command tunic and black trousers, but instead of sporting the formal charcoal gray colored away team duty jacket, she had decided to go a bit more casual and wore the leather jacket that had been issued to all senior line officers and crew, regardless if they had trained as pilots or not; they were all 214 Black Sheep serving on the Comanche Creek, after all.

 

The jacket, still referred to as the A-1, could trace its roots back to the Old Earth United States military forces. Though the fabrics that comprised the jacket material had changed over the years, and the integration of most Earth military forces into the Federation Starfleet had brought on more design options, the basics of the jacket had remained simple: high grade faux or synthesized (save the cows, mooooo) leather as well as the real thing, front cargo pockets with side slits. It was true when folks said that you just can't mess with a classic.

 

The Starfleet Command patch was affixed to the right chest, while the patch for the USS Comanche Creek was displayed on the left shoulder area. The patch symbol for the 214 Black Sheep was located on the right shoulder opposite. The left breast area contained a Border Patrol designation as well as patches that displayed her name, rank and call sign in simple block lettering.

 

A distinguishing feature on the garment was a badge pin also affixed to the left chest area that denoted the specific ships department or class of the wearer: crossed phasers for Security, crossed phaser rifles for MACOs, the caduceus staff for Medical, a graph compass with an arrow for Navigation, wings for Pilots/Helm, crossed hammers for Engineers, lightning bolts for Communications, and an atom starburst for Sciences specialties.

 

Calestorm sported a command wing pin, denoting her as a now command rank former full time pilot. Admiral Coyote wanted a noticeable and reassuring Starfleet presence showing in the Primos sector? Well, nothing said noticeable like a Starfleet captain in full Fleet Border Patrol regalia. Granted, the term 'Walking Target' also came to mind…but anyway, one crisis at a time.

 

The captain exchanged pleasant nods, and even shook a few hands here and there with colonists out for a twilight stroll. She didn't have to do much fast talking either: most of the settlers realized that the Starfleet was doing what it could to protect the outer colonies in the aftermath of the Nero attacks, and that would be an interesting factoid to be reported back to 'Frisco Command.

 

Her foot patrol circuit eventually had her wander past a structure that at first glance, appeared to be empty and in darkness; then she heard faint laughter and voices drifting out from within the two story building. Was it some sort of tavern? Calestorm really hadn't noticed if she had passed the structure earlier, when she had started out on the patrol.

 

The tavern had no identifying sign, it was just…there. It was a uniform structural design, using the same design layout and combination of pre-fab and local materials as the other colony settlement buildings. Stain glass panes on the entry door as well as a large picture window of the same pane pattern obstructed her view inside.

 

She'd checked out a topographical map of the settlement prior to heading out on her flight run, and she really couldn't recall the structure on the survey grid…though it was possible that the business was a new addition to the town commercial district and the local map wireless recordings hadn't been updated as of yet.

 

She went so far as to pull her iComanche communicator out of a jacket pocket, double checking the digitized map display as well as the GPS map buoys located in stationary orbits above the planet; nope, the bar wasn't showing on the recorded planetary grid maps. With a frown, she replaced the communicator in a pocket and eyed the entry door, contemplating her next move. She struck a relaxed pose, hands tucked into her jacket pockets.

 

Well, this was damn peculiar.

 

It was a hopeless situation, considering her curiosity was now peaked and there was no turning back once she got an idea in her head; Calestorm entered the building, pushing open the dark wood door and figuratively jumping head first into whatever situation awaited in the interior.

 

Curiosity might have killed the cat, but last time Crash checked her reflection out in the Mirror, she wasn't a Caitian.

 

The typical sights and sounds of any number of taverns and bars across the sectors assaulted her senses, yet the atmosphere was immediately pleasing to her. Cale stayed where she was, just inside the doorway, and surveyed the immediate layout of the area.

 

The patrons of the bar were representatives of different times and eras that managed to intersect here at the establishment, but everyone had one thing in common: all held the equivalent rank of captain and maintained command of a vessel. The ships were large and small, independent or attached to a Fleet, and anywhere in between. Calestorm didn't know how she knew this information…but somehow she knew.

 

Admiral William "Husker" Adama of the Galactica and Captain Kara "Starbuck" Thrace of the Demetrius sat at the raised 'island' table that was set in the middle area of the main bar floor, directly in front of and set back from the bar. The older male had graying dark hair and olive toned skin and a craggy face; his calm, outward personality hinted at a seasoned veteran. The younger female was light skinned and sported blond hair and in contrast to her elder companion, radiated with an obvious devil may care 'let the gods sort them out' attitude.

 

The two officers, in service to the Colonial Fleet of the Thirteen Colonies, knew one another and passed the time watching a galactic sports match on one of the view screen monitors; throughout the bar, representatives of other galactic star fleet's and independent faction organizations were also enjoying some leave time and intermingling with one another, enjoying the shared camaraderie that only those who commanded a vessel of the Black -- or of the sea in some cases -- understood on an emotional level.

 

The bar and grill was your typical sports and beer dive: well kept, clean, good food and drink, and catering to the thirsty traveler. The modern design was comfortable without being edgy. It reminded Cale of a little place that she knew tucked back in a corner of the Marriott orbital docks, actually. She knew it couldn't be the same place, as it was light years away, but even the decorating scheme was similar to the Hunt Valley Bar and Grill: dark wood alternating with lighter toned wood flooring and colorful rug patterns. Soft Asian inspired lighting hung at intervals from darkened ceiling struts, and black tables and chairs with a splashes of back support coloring picked up the colored rug patterns. Bench seating located along the faux brick walls and paired with the table and chairs completed the modern yet cozy design of the place.

 

The bar itself and the seating surrounding the bar was a wide area, and three huge flat screen viewers were secured to mountings and dominated the space above the bar. A rainbow array of liquors was spread across about five tiers of shelves behind the bar. Captain Malcolm Reed of the Intrepid sat at the bar, perched on one of the low backed stools and was clearly enjoying the Galactic Cup match of astro soccer between the teams from New Spain and New Germany. What the Hell?

 

She recognized Reed, more so then the other patrons because of her history lessons in grade school, and later when she studied his tactics as part of the advanced tactical curriculum classes at the Starfleet academy. She tried to make sense of Reed being at the bar, right at this moment, considering that he had been an active duty officer in the United Earth Fleet -- a precursor to the Starfleet -- some one hundred years ago.

 

And…according to the enlistment records on file, he hadn't ever been promoted to the rank of Captain, and he looked very good for a man of his supposed age. Maybe this man was a grandson of his?

 

One crisis at a time Crash, one crisis at a time…she turned her attention back on the tavern and the patrons in general, and willed her body to relax so she could start to enjoy herself and take in some of the local atmosphere; as of oh nineteen hundred, she had officially gone off duty.

 

Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to make some sense out of this…weirdness. The captain eventually made her way over towards the main bar area, and as soon as she came within earshot, the bartender offered a friendly smile and started speaking directly to her.

 

"My name's Cap, welcome to my place. Don't worry; most of you folks who eventually wander in here always have that same look on your faces. Word of advice is to just enjoy yourself Captain Calestorm. And just so you know, the price of the first round is a story, and I'm sure you've already figured out that the requirement is that you hold command of a vessel." He winked. "Now what'll you have?"

 

Calestorm made note of the requirement and then ordered her poison of choice: an Appletini. Crash definitely did not look like the sort of officer who would drink an Appletini -- she had more of the hard and straight whiskey or beer look about her. Nevertheless, Cap had been bartending for years, and knew enough to never question a patron's choice in drinks no matter how out of character it seemed.

 

She shot an eyebrows up expression at the man, and reiterated what he had just said. "So…I tell a story, and the round is free?"

 

Cap nodded at the blond haired captain, and noted the silver streaks through her hair. She'd been vetted in service through the years, and that was always good because the veterans usually had some pretty good stories. Anyone under forty five standard years of age could get a little iffy at times with their story content, but thankfully a Captain's Table Tale had never bombed on his watch.

 

"Yes ma'am. A Captain's Story in exchange for the drinks."

 

"Any particular sort of story?"

 

"Yeah, a good one." A blue skinned Andorian captain called out from a table set off to the side of the bar. The statement was met with a round of applause, and Calestorm couldn't help but smile. She wasn't much of a story teller, but if a story was the required entertainment and the price for the drinks, she could handle that.

 

She took a swig of the Appletini and cleared her throat; the ambient noise in the bar died down a bit, and soon Crash found most of the attention in the bar on her. It was of no matter as she had taught classes at the Starfleet academy; same premise, different setting.

 

"The following account takes place during my tenure as Executive officer, assigned to the USS Reflection. The ship was responsible for overseeing various sectors, providing support, escort, and patrol missions wherever our services were needed. I was posted to a field commission of acting captain following the death of our commanding officer…"

 

Cale trailed off, absently taking another swig of her Appletini while her hazel eyes clouded over with the memories that were evoked by the tale.

 

"…The Reflection had been dispatched to the colony planet designated as MD-0710 in order to show the Starfleet colors and mediate where necessary. The world, at the time, was a key mining production facility, and they had recently applied for Federation membership. The facility had long been a target for Klingon marauders, pirates with no sense of honor and the colonies claim to Federation pre-membership held no deterrent for them. The Reflection arrived to investigate, and one of these marauder ships was already in orbit attempting to extract payment from the settlers below…any mediation did not go well or as planned. We took defensive action in orbit with ship to ship combat, and offensive action down below on the planet's surface with ground teams.

 

A dozen of our people were wounded, and we lost fifteen, including our captain and second officer. Command of the ship fell squarely on my shoulders, though at the time I'd been dispatched off ship, taking command of our away teams…"

 

Crash took a hefty sip of a second Appletini, downing most of the remaining contents of the tall stemmed glass in one gulp. Magically, another drink appeared to replace it, and she shot Cap a questioning glance when she caught sight of the brand name.

 

"This is Black Sheep Ale, imported from the Towson Protectorate. Compliments of Captain Kara Thrace over there," he pointed towards the female officer in question, "– she and the Admiral noticed those wings on your jacket. It doesn't matter where you serve, all you pilots are an obsessively loyal bunch, I'll grant you that."

 

Cap smiled and placed the dark amber ale on the counter top, while Calestorm gave a two fingered forehead salute over towards Kara while including her drinking partner, Adama, in the friendly acknowledgement as well; Thrace held up a clear class of some amber liquid, returning the gesture while simultaneously giving a nod at the older captain to continue with her story; Adama divided his attention between the tale and the soccer game.

 

Crash took an experimental swig of the Black Sheep ale; the ale was dark and slightly bitter, but drinkable and went down smooth. Hey, it was a free drink, of course it was drinkable.

 

After swallowing the ale that she had chugged, she continued with her tale. "I had only been on board for a few weeks, assigned after the former first officer had retired. I knew Captain Banner from our flight days on the USS Warlock, but overall I was still getting to know most of the crew and they were getting to know me as well."

 

Cale subconsciously reached a hand back, removing a hunting knife from a black carbon fiber sheath tucked into her waistband at the small of her back. She began flipping it around one handed with the controlled motions that came with practice and use; the stainless steel blade glinted in the overhead light, and the forest camouflage pattern on the handle grip was still as detailed as it was when she had first received the knife at fourteen years of age, almost 40 odd years ago.

 

It was an old habit; some crowds could appreciate the knife, while other groups got nervous around the blade, so the captain was always mindful in what company she made the knife known in. She figured this group wouldn't mind a little flash of the blade.

 

The knife had been given to her by her father, and it had come in very handy a few times over the years when phasers hadn't cut it in ground missions that had gone from close ballistic energy combat to 'balls to the wall' hand to hand combat…such as the fighting that had exploded on the surface of MD-0710.

 

"The planetary atmo had a high concentration of ions, and our transporter operations were compromised. We were relying on shuttles and short range atmo hoppers for combat drops and personnel transportation and evacs where needed. I was dirt side, coordinating the combat movements and colonist evacs with most of our away team squads. We had several minor combat instances throughout the outer settlements, but the majority of the skirmish ended up taking place at the main colony settlement.

 

These Klingon pirates knew how to handle themselves and their weapons, and they preferred -- and still prefer -- hand to hand over energy weapons…in capable hands, a Klingon batleth sword is devastating to flesh. The ship to ship combat was pretty hectic, but over quickly after the Reflection blew off one of the marauder ships nacelles; the ship exploded in a fireball -- the teams dirt side saw the fireworks in the atmosphere -- but an energy cascade swept over the Reflection from the marauder blowout, shorting systems and causing damage; we lost our captain and second officer when the bridge got hit. With the majority of the ship's crew tied up with injuries and repairs, reinforcement personnel were on a lag drop time and those of us on the ground were up to our ears in pell mell for the immediate duration."

 

Calestorm ran her free hand through her silver blond hair. "We of course still had officers and crew on the surface, and the ground combat is what really cut into our hides…" She was starting to feel a buzz from her alcohol intake, and her gaze lit on a female Klingon captain who had taken a spot at the other end of the bar.

 

The Human captain's hazel eyes held a challenge in them and she directed her general animosity towards the other captain, not so much because the woman was Klingon but because she had had the genetic bad luck to be born as Klingon, the same as the marauders in the tale; the twirling knife motions, though subtle, now took on a whole new dangerous subtext of meaning.

 

If a fight broke out, Crash was ready for it, but as such she was just interested in just getting a reaction -- for now.

 

Captain Thrace sidled up beside her, the dark green BDU fatigues she wore blending in among the various working and formal uniforms scattered throughout the bar; the bleach blond haired ships commander ordered another round of something called Ambrosia for herself and her elder drinking companion.

 

The younger female spoke to Calestorm out of the corner of her mouth, keeping her gaze straight ahead and not making eye contact. "Don't do it, not worth it. Kinda want to hear the end of the story. Just sayin'."

 

That was the only comment that Captain Thrace offered on the matter, and soon she retrieved the drinks that she had ordered from Cap, left a tip, and walked back over to the island table to re-join Admiral Adama.

 

The ridged-forehead, dark skinned female, her black and brown uniform leathers crisp with the scent of oil, merely raised her pewter flagon of blood wine in a token salute and gave a nod for her fellow captain to continue with the story as well. Larissa of House Korloth was not frequenting the Captains Table to fight, but to partake in some excellent war stories and stories of a captain's mettle. If the Human starfleet captain continued to push the issue, then so be it. Larissa would be ready.

 

The hushed silence that had descended over the tavern was moving onto deafening quiet; her lean facial features had gone taut, and Calestorm's jaw worked as she tried to get her alcohol fueled mule-lishness under control. Her measuring and challenging gaze would not move away from the female Klingon…putting aside the fact that the heavier, younger, and more muscular female would probably kick Crash's ass clear back to the Comanche Creek.

 

A sudden 'plunk' on the bar top cut through the quiet and finally drew Cale's attention away from the other captain. Cap had placed an old fashioned wooden baseball bat on the countertop. The etched emblem on the item said 'Louisville Slugger'.

 

Cap leveled a miffed, though controlled, gaze at Crash and pointed a finger at the sports implement as he spoke. "I've only had to use this one other time during and since this bar was established to deflect a knucklehead from doing something stupid. I'd be disappointed if any poor judgment on your part, Captain, led to an unfortunate incident, and I really don't care that you're female."

 

The barkeep's tone remained mild, but his eyes told another story: the normally easy going Cap meant what he said, and there would be no brawling to debase the history of his bar.

 

A voice towards the back area of the main floor, at one of the corner tables, also interjected a comment and cut into the tense silence.

 

"I would be pleased to hear the remainder of the take before I die of old age; and considering I am Vulcan that would be quite the feat."

 

The bar crowd erupted into laughter; the jovial sound managed to break into her darker mood and Crash took a steadying breath, deciding to remove the blade from the equation. Through years of practice, Calestorm managed to replace the knife in its sheath by touch alone and without slicing through any skin; she was a fair hand with the bladed weapon, and knew how to handle herself with it.

 

She picked up the Ale bottle and saluted the female Klingon captain with it in response to the original gesture; Cap removed the bat and placed it securely under the bar again. With the posturing interlude taken care of by the threat of bum rush diplomacy on the part of the bartender, Calestorm finally continued on with her tale.

 

"We weren't getting out of there without the losses, but I wanted to curtail that factor a bit. I decided to get a little sneaky. Some tacticians might frown on the practice, but I didn't and still don't care; it worked." She downed the remaining contents of the Black Sheep ale, but waved off a refill of booze; the lights above the bar had started to 'move' slightly in a back and forth pattern that only she perceived, and she figured she better stop imbibing so quickly and let what she had consumed settle or she'd end up flat on her butt.

 

"I had our snipers re-deploy outside the settlement, and start picking at the remaining Klingon marauders; not necessarily to kill, more so to keep them busy. We had the numbers, but they had the battle lust and wanted to go full on hand to hand combat. The Reflection ground teams were losing because we were fighting them on their own terms and losing ground; I wanted to throw the odds off a bit. While my snipers were carrying out their orders, myself and the remaining combat squad leaders redeployed our away teams and backswept the settlement, going from structure to structure and evacuating as many surviving colonists as we could and setting off sleepy gas grenades as we went…" Cale's mouth twisted into a leer, "the Klingons didn't know what hit 'em, they dropped, and we cut and run with the colonists who had stayed to defend the main town settlement with us."

 

"Did you order that they be killed while incapacitated?" A pudgy, pig nosed Tellerite at one of the front tables asked the question of Calestorm, his tone the usual belligerence for all members of his species as he interrupted his fellow captain. He wore the plain gun metal gray breeches and jacket of a merchant captain.

 

Her answer was prompt. "Nope; we trussed their sorry selves up, gagged them, and turned them over to the local Federation Colonial Patrol authorities for extradition back to their government. Bottom line is they lost the battle – I'd say the Klingon High Council prolly wasn't very happy with the loss, let alone the fact that we found out second hand that those pirates were operating independently of Council orders. The motion for MD 0710 to join the Federation was accepted, and those Klingon raiders never returned to the settlement after the beatin' we gave 'em."

 

"Why not kill them?" The female Klingon spoke up. Her deep and rich baritone voice held no animosity, but her dark eyed gaze pierced Cale with an intensity.

 

"Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but let's just say I was in a forgivin' mood that day."

 

"You denied them a death in battle."

 

Calestorm's hazel eyes flashed with certainty. "I denied them nothing. Like any warriors, they knew the risks -- as we did -- when they chose to take on the Reflection crew, the battle engagement did not go as they had planned, and we protected the settlers and the colony…"

 

"--Your tactics might be considered cowardly--"

 

"--what you consider cowardly Miss, I consider covert--" Crash managed to keep her tone even, but her Earth Southern accent had started to become more prominent.

 

Cap smoothly interjected into what could rapidly devolve into an argument…or worse. These two were like oil and water, Cap thought to himself. "Now now, you both know the rules. We aren't here to ask questions or debate tactics. We tell stories, that's it... Who's next! C'mon folks, let's keep it rolling along…"

 

The Klingon captain and Calestorm held each other's gaze silently for a few more moments, reaching some sort of non-verbal understanding that allowed them to agree to disagree -- tactics and battle and the opinions of individuals that commented on said battles were seldom a cut and dry situation -- while a Ferengi merchant captain was laying the verbal groundwork for his required Captains Tale. At the mention of "fanged tribbles", both Crash and the Klingon female tore their attention away from one another and shot a joint 'eyebrows up' gaze over towards the Ferengi captain.

 

Fanged tribbles on the rampage? Really?

 

Calestorm stayed for the Ferengi males tale -- and really, his story went more toward a light hearted adventure involving an illegal shipment of tribbles, fangs, and what happens when a slightly, ah, nuts, medical doctor tries to tweak the genetic makeup of the little fuzz balls, showing that any and all tales were welcome at the bar -- and finally retired to the Embassy hotel for the remainder of the Primos Minor night.

 

The next morning however, Crash did some further investigation into the general area. And there was absolutely no trace of the bar that she had frequented the night before...same structure…same outside design of the windows and entry door…and nothing else.

 

The property was completely vacant…

 

----

Author Notations:

Captain Thrace/Admiral Adama and the Galactica/Demetrius copyright (Re-Imagined) Battlestar Galactica

Captain Reed and the Intrepid copyright Star Trek Enterprise (Episode "Twilight")

What happens in Hunt Valley, stays in Hunt Valley: Shore Leave East July 9-11, 2010