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C.T. Caine

Civil Unrest: Part I

Note: This is an off-Plot log set in the Mirror Universe of the ISS Agincourt

 

Civil Unrest

 

"I don't care if you hate each other, love each other, fight with each other, sleep with each other, or both at once. I do care how you present yourselves in public." She stared at each in turn for a long moment. "I expect my senior officers to at least pretend to civility in front of the crew. Kill each other on your own time -- and in private." - Colonel C.E. "Medusa" Harper, Commanding Officer, ISS Agincourt.

 

= = = =

 

The Blue Bulldog was a very popular nightclub that had been established on Alpha One Space Station, an Imperial Fleet base on the edge of the quadrant, right at the Outer Rim borders. Alpha was a destination for Starfleet Marines, Naval Fleeters, and civilians alike, and the patrons to the club usually came from a variety of backgrounds; whenever a ship made port for a shore leave or a layover, it was a sure bet that at least half of the crew would end up at the Bulldog at least once.

 

Commander Kansas 'Will' JoNs, like most of the crew of the ISS Agincourt, found herself on the space station for some well-earned shore leave. The Agincourt had lately been busy searching the quadrant for an Alliance-class scout frigate that the resistance had supposedly gotten their hands on, and had stopped for a break at Alpha One's doors. The felinoid’s establishment of choice was of course the famous Bulldog, and she noted that quite a few of the Agincourt crew were already scattered throughout the crowd.

 

It was a rather impressive place, structurally. There were three main tiers; the upper tier was designated as the quieter main restaurant area, serviced by a regular-sized bar. The middle tier accommodated larger groups of partygoers and boasted an impressive bar that ran half the size of the tier floor area, with a live band which riffed on the latest music from the Andorian pop scene to which a few of the patrons gyrated out on the dance floor. The lowest tier sported various gaming suites, holosuites, and pool tables. All of the tiers overlooked the main lobby area, which was decorated with lavish leather seating, with a few waterfalls emptying into an artificial lagoon at the center. Completing the aquatic vibe, large fish tanks were embedded in the walls on all levels.

 

JoNs stood in the main lobby area for a few moments, taking in the atmosphere. The leonine Cait blended nicely with the party crowd; she had chosen to wear a simple pair of black slacks and a deep green blouse with a plunging neckline, contrasting nicely with her gold fur and green eyes. A tall and lanky Bajoran waiter took her drink order and returned with the beverage; she sipped at the drink as she made her way up to the third tier by way of the neon staircase that intersected the three sections of the club.

 

After a few minutes of dodging patrons, the commander spotted her party: Lt. Commander Sarritt Ssib’Ley of the Agincourt shuttle pilots. The big tiger-Kzinti had already snagged a table.

 

He waved a huge paw in the air, beckoning her over. The two felines had planned a dinner with some of JoNs's professional mercenary contacts who were in the sector and temporarily docked at the station; she noted that her former colleagues had not yet arrived. She and Sarritt contented themselves with small talk, for once not speaking of ships business.

 

****

 

Some minutes later, the doors of the club swung open again, and Lieutenant Caine's tall, lean form stepped through, her durasteel-hard grey eyes and Vulcan hearing taking in the headache-inducing lights and sounds of the various bar tiers with an uninterested air. She could see a few members of the Agincourt's crew here, and a few locals attempting to attract her attention, but she ignored them with the focus she brought to everything; she was here for one purpose and one alone. Saurian brandy.

 

Caine was in a bad mood. The last few hours had centered on a call to her contacts at Starfleet Intel, a call she had expected to proceed without incident. The names she (it was in her mind already only her) had retrieved from the Stiletto merc vessel had implicated several Terran officers in a drug ring operating outside Imperial control. It was information she expected her contacts would find extremely valuable -- and more to the point, it was crucial that these activities contrary to the benefit of the Empire were halted...immediately and with force.

 

However, she had been surprised and thoroughly frustrated to find that not only was there no enthusiasm in the response she received, but it had been emphatically suggested to her that she would do well to keep well clear of the whole business. Caine knew their intention had been to make her believe that they had other, more important work for her and that they would take care of the mercenary question as they saw fit; she was not fooled. This question went deeper, clearly, than just the few names on the Stiletto list – and her hands were tied.

 

It was enough to make anyone seek out the nearest available bar, and Caine was no exception. Having satisfactorily cased the place with her eyes, she set course immediately for the Bulldog's upper level, where she quickly secured a table with her back to a wall, ordered something large and potent, and settled in to wait out the time till Agincourt began moving again. In the morning she would determine her plan of action.

 

More of the Agincourt's crew was up here; her eyes flicked from face to face, finally landing on JoNs, who was sitting with one of the other Caitian jacktahs a few tables away. Up to no good, no doubt... she thought irritably, staring over the top of her bottle and turning her aggravation on this new target, and in the off-duty dim light, with the weight of a civvie jacket rather than a uniform bearing on her shoulders, her gaze sparked with the dislike she usually made slightly more of an effort to mask.

 

*****

 

Like any good predator, both Caitians had noted the entrance of the Agincourt’s chief security officer, and when the XO’s personal communicator blipped with an incoming message, Ssib’Ley took the opportunity of the lull to observe the female half-Vulcan officer from a distance – Caine was staring daggers at JoNs’s back.

 

Will finished up her conversation over the secure communications device and turned her attention back to her on-again, off-again boyfriend. “My cousins are passing on the evening out. They just got a hot business lead and are following up while they’re still docked here at Alpha. Told us to enjoy the evening, and Tarressa would like to know why we aren’t married yet.” She smirked at her male companion.

 

Ssib’Ley deliberately finished chewing the appetizer shrimp before replying, sidestepping the question of betrothal and going for a more immediate…concern. “If looks could kill, you’d be dead right now.”

 

“If looks could kill, I would be dead a few dozen times over by now. Caine?”

 

The tiger-Kzin nodded and took a sip of his drink. “Yes. Same spot, middle table against the wall. Hasn’t moved, nursing some sort of hard liquor, more pissed off then usual. You want to switch seats so you can keep an eye on her?”

 

JoNs shook her head. “I have a better idea...“ She stood and quickly gathered their two empty glasses from the table top. “I’ll get us a refill, and ask her a couple of questions on my way to the bar.”

 

Sarritt gently grabbed her arm with a striped paw. “Don’t do anything stupid, Commander, sir.”

 

JoNs's eyes lit up and she smiled, exposing all of her fangs and giving her the look of the rogue. “Who, me?” She winked, and then turned around and started walking across the restaurant.

 

In the second that it took for JoNs to pivot, her expression went from happy-go-lucky to cold professional. The feline predator had been dialed back to a cutthroat business executive – serene, no-nonsense, down-to-business. 

 

There was an ongoing, though unwritten tradition in the Imperial Fleet: constant tension among the senior staff. Service to the Fleet was never boring, and one had to always be on their guard. Caine and JoNs had managed – through explicit orders from their commanding officer – for months to ‘play nice’ and pretend some professional civility towards one another. But Kansas would be damned if she was going to be stared at all night by a stiff-necked Vulcan safassashetora.  With a stride that spoke of confidence, she deliberately crossed to Caine's table, empty glasses in her paws as if she didn't have a care in the universe.

 

With a curt nod, the XO spoke to the line officer. "Caine. You've been staring for the last half hour or so. Is there something in particular I can help you with? Or are you a fan of my earrings or something?" Her purred tone came out with a slight growl, and she cocked her head to one side.

 

Caine, who had been lifting her bottle to pour, froze partway through the movement and set it down slowly with a heavy thunk. Of course, the kitten felt like talking, and would play dumb about their conflict -- though Caine would have no difficulty believing that she wasn't playing at all. "On the contrary, Commander," she said, her tone scrupulously even like fine-polished iron, masking a feeling of impatience which welled up in her like blood from a wound. "I was contemplating the gross unfairness of the universe of which I'm afraid you are of too little importance to be a central figure. Merely a footnote." Her Vulcan features twisted in a sneer.

 

Well, that was an interesting comment. JoNs assumed -- if her information was correct -- that Caine must’ve gotten some bad news from Imperial Command. JoNs herself had tried to get further information regarding the Stiletto and had been blocked. Considering that the data from the ship had named Fleet officers as part of the smuggling ring, it made sense that Command would be keen on keeping the whole thing quiet. An old comrade of JoNs's had hinted as much to the Cait in a secure wireless conversation; any and all inquiries into the incident would be politely blown off. Considering the Agincourt had been the ship to expose the smuggling ring, Caine had no doubt attempted to delve deeper still, and had gotten the long distance equivalent of a slapdown.

 

For the moment, instead of inquiring about the underlying tension that suffused Caine's words, the felinoid deliberately hedged and cracked wise to annoy the Vulcan officer; she quirked an eye whisker and favored Caine with a cocky look. “You mean I’m not the center of the universe? I’m so glad you’re here to inform me of these factoids, Lieutenant.”

 

"I am here to have a drink," Caine said coldly. "Any contact you might have with my evening's plans are, I assure you, entirely incidental." Pushing herself sharply to her feet, she stepped around the table, narrowly missing colliding with JoNs's shoulder as she moved back towards the bar. Addressing the bartender, she leaned her hands on the wood of the bartop and scowled. "Whatever you gave me, it's not Saurian brandy. I am not paying for watered down schut." She waited, and nodded in icy satisfaction as he began hastily rummaging into his stores.

 

Kansas, unperturbed, followed the Vulcan towards the bar, motioning for the bartender to refill her glasses as well, and then turned her attention back towards the ticked-off department chief. “So, what is it that’s really bugging you, Caine? I’m sure you got the same answer that I did when I inquired about the officers who were backing the Stiletto. In so many words, you were told to mind your own business, am I correct? And your status as an Intelligence agent didn’t mean anything with regard to cutting through that red tape.”

 

Caine kept her eyes on the bald top of the crouching bartender's head, but her fists clenched on the smooth polished wood. She focused on the clean, sharp pain of her nails in her palms, kept her breathing even with an effort that made her chest hurt. She would not give herself away in anger, not yet. JoNs knew more than was good for her (or could guess better than Caine would have expected from someone of her race). But it would do no good for Caine to admit to her own limits; such an admission only asked for...unnecessary difficulties. "You know nothing of my status as an Intelligence agent," she said, the words emerging like a hiss. "Or of what I can and cannot do. I could end careers based on what I found aboard the Stiletto." 

 

Again, the "I"...not "we"...this time jabbed like a knife, a sharp word into JoNs gut. What she said was not untrue, either...in a sense. Caine smiled faintly. She could indeed end careers...she was, however, not being allowed to. But now was not the time for that fact.

 

“Well, you are definitely a ray of hope this evening, Caine.” Will’s tone, while not heated, had taken on a spit-snarl effect as her patience started to thin; a couple of nearby patrons vacated the general area, picking up on the tension.

 

“That’s your problem, Caine, you know that?” JoNs went on. “You aren’t royalty, just because you sport that extra Intel pip. You’re a field soldier, just like the rest of us.”

 

Caine's nails tore into the skin of her palms and she turned sharply towards JoNs, her tension suddenly snapping. "A field soldier? I am far more than a simple yellow-collar cannon-fodder grunt, Commander. I am the face of the Empire's interests; I am the sword in the hand of the warrior." Her scarred jaw worked in an expression of derision. "More than I can say for you, Commander. The Colonel's pet you may be, but I know your true bearings and I will not chafe under your scorn as well as your authority. Now..." Her voice abruptly dropped, the closest thing to a growl she could muster and still be heard. "Kindly leave me to my business and you may return..." Her grey eyes flicked towards Sarritt and she smirked in disgust. "...to yours."

 

The Cait’s only response to that was a squint coupled with a curt nod of the head. She gathered her glasses silently and returned to her table. She kept her back towards Caine while deliberately setting the refilled glasses down on the surface, and then remained standing while she planted both of her forepaws on the table.

 

She flipped one ear back as she addressed her dinner date, her expression perfectly calm. “Sarritt, I’m about partake in a rather silly tactical move. I’ll have to ask that you not get involved, and it’d be best for you to make yourself scarce. Station security will be swarming all over shortly. I don’t want you compromised, as anyone remotely resembling a feline will be a suspect until this mess gets itself sorted out.” Her sharp eyed gaze flickered once about the general area. “Probably anyone of Vulcan descent as well, now that I think about it; station security tends to get rather tetchy here as I recall.”

 

Sssib’Ley smirked, and then placed his big paws on top of JoNs’s. “Commander, that’s what I like about you...honest, direct, and to the point…most of the time. About time you touched this off -- it’s been coming for a while.” His purred murmur barely carried. “What’s the status of the Caine-and-JoNs-go-batsh*t shipboard betting pool these days?”

 

“I believe the current take is a very handsome sum.”  

 

“If you win, I expect a cut of the profits.”

 

She raised an amused eye whisker. “Always…”

 

The two felinoid’s shared a muzzle on muzzle kiss…

 

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the crazy after-hours setting. Maybe it was the fact that there was no uniform, only civilian clothing that offered some freedom from the yoke of day-to-day operations.

 

Whatever the cause, something had snapped within the Commander, and she was tired of the glass-edged professional sparring with Caine. A decision had been made, and there was no going back.

 

She was So. Done. With. This. Histhl’shfasa Vulcan.

 

With no warning, Kansas turned and charged at Caine.

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