Yo Daddy! (Cale Log)

[Crash Calestorm 0]

Not that she went around telling people constantly about it, but Crash Calestorm had spent many a summer afternoon during her Earth Southern childhood and teen years skulking (against parental wishes) in the local county junkyards.

 

The yards had been an adventurous place to play hide and seek, defend the star base against Klingon attacks, or search for interesting treasures. That childhood innocence had given way to more teen oriented scenarios: scrounging for car parts to soup up old-style automobiles to race - ahem, illegally - along the old, pre-World War III highway infrastructure system.

 

There were the so called more mature activities as older teens: a salvaged backseat hauled from a Plymouth Fury had been large enough and correctly contoured for the nocturnal activities of hormonal teens under the stars, don’t you know? And there’d been many a Saturday night where pyramids of cheap beer cans were arranged in interesting monuments to the rebellion of youth.

 

Growing up rural, even with the convenience of modern tech, the kids still made their own amusement.

 

This was not Yo Daddy’s junkyard, however….

 

The area just beyond the enigmatic Gygax Barrier contained metallic refuse, hundreds of junkyard quality rust buckets. Satellites. Probes such as the one launched and presumed lost from the ‘Creek; forgotten hulks of vessels ranging from shuttles and scout ships to large carrier-style behemoths. Some of the technology had familiar design lines, while other ships and objects could not even be visually tagged as belonging to any of the current quadrant powers or alliances.

 

No one said a word as every officer on the bridge checked out the imaging on the main bridge view screen as it was relayed internally throughout the ship. Only the bleep of consoles disturbed the tentative quiet that had settled; the SCI, TAC, Helm and NAV programs were going crazy as the active sensors picked up on all the metallic pings.

 

Calestorm’s tone cut through the silence: calm, cool, and surprisingly matter of fact. Join Starfleet, See the Universe, Encounter Ghost Ship Junkyards…sure, why not? She stood directly behind the Helm and NAV control consoles, bracing her hands on the back of the officers’ chairs.

 

“Mister Shalin, Mister Granger. If any of our transponder sensor or tracker programs tag a ship out there registered as the USS Sulaco? Stay the hell away from it.”

 

“Sir?” It was Shalin who ventured to speak. Granger opted for the usual ‘Marine eyebrow on query’.

 

“Trust me.”