Captains & Commanders

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The following log takes place during our 48 Hour TBS...

 

STSF_Scooter -> Have you ever been unable to help someone you loved, Crash?

Capt Calestorm -> No. I haven't. Never been in that sort of situation, thank God.

STSF_Scooter -> Then you have no idea what I'm going through.

Capt Calestorm -> No I don't, but if you head off, try and rescue Tifa, you put us all at risk out here. We'll get her, and the Doc, you just have to trust me. Scooter, yer not thinking with yer head, you're thinking with your pheremones girl.

STSF_Scooter -> ::turns around quickly, the right hook blindsiding Crash, knocking her Southern derriere to the deck in a cloud of dust, both ship and planet::

• 09.12.11 Comanche Creek Sim
  

Spock: Striking a fellow officer is a court-martial offense.

 

Capt. Kirk: Well, if we're both in the brig, who's gonna build the subsonic transmitter? ...

• Star Trek: The Original Series, This Side of Paradise (1966)
  

 

During the recon of the planet T'tooine, several teams had gathered pertinent information on the movements and whereabouts of the Black Kris cartel faction. One tidbit in particular had been of major interest – The Maze.

 

It had started as a frontier colony planet, official designation Nova AC-01. Originally settled by Orions, other settlers soon found their way there. The Maze functioned as a primary base of ops for the Black Kris. Litasha and Mareena could be found on the planet regularly, though there had been some rumors per the Intel that the Mother Mareena didn't care for what her late husband's pet project, and disliked even less that her daughter was carrying on the tradition.

 

The Maze stood for the ultimate sporting thrill - hunting.

 

The main colony city offered homes, businesses, stores, and some private schooling. The general population had been estimated at five hundred thousand, with another four thousand scattered across the planet at the outpost settlements. Honest residents disliked the Maze, yet were too afraid of the Black Kris to say anything.

 

The Maze was located on the outskirts of Nova City, within the industrial sector, and had previously been a shipment facility. The structure was bought (read: taken over) some years ago by the Black Kris, namely Romo, Litasha's late father, and then converted for the hunting games.

 

The facility held five sections geared for the hunts: urban, jungle, desert, woodland, cold climate. All were wedge shaped and ended in a central processing point for the living…as well as the dead. Hunters, freelancers, mercenaries and those addicted to blood sport would pay for the pleasure of hunting live bait.

 

Humans. Caitians, Tellerites, Centaurans and Andorians. The occasional Klingon or rare Vulcan. Romulans were considered a big prize. Dozens of other species had also been 'processed'.

 

Anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped needed to stay alive in order to be released. Hopefully the wiser for not crossing the Black Kris, or refusing to pay them money, but this wasn't always the case. Some folks just completely disappeared. Other 'contestants' were usually caught by slavers and rogues to be sold for profit to the Maze.

 

Rumors had swirled around Starfleet Command that the Federation vessel the SS Beagle* had gone missing in the area, but there'd never been enough evidence to pursue the matter.

 

Calestorm read the compiled field reports with revulsion and interest, thumb gently scrolling the display on the flat digital slate. The Maze would be a prime tactical target, and seemed the best area to hunt – pardon the expression – for Litasha and the missing officers.

 

She stretched and then ruefully rubbed at her jaw; Wesley had a good right hook. Dammit.

 

A chime indicated that she had a visitor.

 

The captain threw a glance towards the entryway to her quarters and ran a palm across a security sensor mounted on the desk. "Come on in, door's open."

 

Commander K. Vacer JoNs slipped over the threshold into the main living space to stand in front of the desk. Calestorm had noted that the Caitian didn't walk on all four paws as her cousin Ensign Honor-Scar seemed to prefer. JoNs had also dyed her fur a darker color for the undercover mission, though it was a slightly lighter shade then the ensign's dye job.

 

"Captain." JoNs offered a curt dip of the chin. "I have an update report on crew readiness. We're resupplied, and Imperious systems check out all across the green. All personnel will be ready to move out within the next two shifts."

 

Crash nodded, pleased with the news. "Good."

 

"Is our intended destination Nova AC?" The felinoids tone came out clipped and precise.

 

"Yes it is Commander."

 

"I'll inform the Navigation and Helm officers."

 

JoNs might have dyed her fur and wore the gear of a merc, but she still spoke 'Starfleet' formal. Calestorm frowned, but just didn't have the energy to remind the SEAL* officer to chill out and enjoy being a temporary mercenary.

 

The felinoid cocked her head to one side at the frown, misinterpreting the true reason behind the middle aged Humans expression. "Captain?"

 

"Commander?"

 

"I know you're angry at Commander Wesley."

 

Calestorm leaned back in the desk chair and raised an eyebrow by way of a silent question.

 

"You're a bit grumpy, even for an undercover mercenary." JoNs smiled slightly, one fang visible.

 

Again, the captain ruefully rubbed at her jaw, and indicated the seat opposite the desk with a wave of her hand to the Caitian officer. JoNs flipped an ear back at the invite and settled herself down into the chair.

 

"Speak plain Commander. What's on your mind?"

 

"This situation regarding our missing personnel – you're considering the abductions as a trap, am I right?"

 

"Yes, Ah'm aware that the situation is cloak and dagger, and it remains to be seen who is wearing the cloak and who handles the dagger. Ah hope that Tifa and TAral were taken to the Maze, and them we'll find her and Commander Wesley at the site."

 

"So you have no concerns regarding mission compromise, with two of your command crew kidnapped and your second in command going off on a rescue operation of passion?"

 

"Oh, ah do indeed have concerns Mister JoNs, but last I checked this is what disguises are for. The Kris want us. Morohtar wants Wesley. We want Litasha. I have faith that things will work themselves out for the best. Either way, it seems we're all on a collision course for Nova AC."

 

"Do you also have your faith that Commander Wesley will not join her mafia cousins?"

 

The emotions roiling behind the captains eyes were erratic. The Intel that Wesley, her reprobate brother Morohtar, and Litasha were blood cousins had been unsettling and she had no idea if Wesley was aware of the familial ties. Crash chose her next words carefully. "I trust that Audraya will remain true to her adoptive father, her Starfleet code of conduct, and her love for Tifa."

 

The felinoid officer wasn't necessarily satisfied with that response, but she didn't pursue the matter, instead asking, "What are your plans for the Commander. That is, if she succeeds and doesn't get herself killed?"

 

Crash paused and took a drink from her coffee mug before answering. "We'll get her back. We'll get all of them back. And I haven't decided yet."

 

JoNs growled in distaste, a low sound just under her normal purring. "Personally I'd file the formal paperwork to demote her to Lieutenant, remove her from the Exec position, assign her to your air wing as a junior pilot and cleaning the facilities when not on flight duty."

 

Crash herself could be pretty hardcore when it came to discipline, but she still looked askance at the SEAL officer, eyebrows going for the hairline. "Well, you must be fun to serve under. That's a little harsh Commander JoNs."

 

The younger officer purred, the trilling sound low. "With due respect, that's your opinion. Sir. Commander Wesley is the one that cold cocked you. Striking a fellow officer -- with your rank as commanding officer compounding the assault -- is a court martial offense. You'd be well within your rights to call an inquiry."

 

Crash took another slow pull from her coffee mug, the contents beginning to turn lukewarm. She decided not to respond directly to the statement. "You don't care for it when people don't act formal and proper, do you JoNs?"

 

"No, don't suppose I do Captain."

 

"It ever occur to you that sometimes, formal isn't the way to handle certain situations, Commander?"

 

"Rules and regulations keep things in perspective Captain."

 

"When," Calestorm placed an emphasis on the when, "we retrieve Commander Wesley, and Lieutenants Kvar and TAral, I'll handle Wesley and it won't necessarily be formal."

 

When Calestorm didn't elaborate on her last comment, the Cait decided it was best to be going; she stood and regarded her temporary commanding officer. "Permission to take my leave?"

 

"Dismissed Commander. Thank you for yer time, continue to see to the Nova launch prep work."

 

JoNs turned to leave, walking towards the doorway; the automatic sensors picked up on her body heat and the door obediently slid back into the interior of the bulkhead. The felinoid officer stopped and turned back towards the interior, one fore paw on the door jam, one hind paw planted on the corridor decking. "Oh, and Captain?"

 

"Yeah Commander?"

 

"Next time, learn how to duck." And then she ducked quickly outside, allowing the entry way door to whoosh close.

 

The comment had taken her by surprise, and Calestorm watched the now closed doorway where the felinoid had stood, a slow smile spreading across her face.

 

Will galactic wonders never cease! Commander JoNs did have a sense of humor after all!

 

----

*The SS Beagle is from the Star Trek: TOS episode "Bread and Circuses"

*SEAL – Sea Air & Land

[Gage Silver 0]

JoNs's reaction doesn't seem that harsh to me personally, given she's a SEAL. SEAL discipline is taken seriously; a few have been expelled for far lesser offenses (or, in the case of fiction/sims, would be in the real world). You don't do anything that will compromise the team: you don't complain (you're not the only one suffering in the heat/cold, mud, etc); if you can't set conflicts aside on mission, do what's expected of you or pull your weight, you don't belong. Different breed, different mind-set---as illustrated by your log---which, if I might be allowed, is a great log.

 

BTW, about that thing I asked for...

Edited September 15, 2011 by Gage Silver