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About Tachyon

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  1. “I Want to Be a Lion Tamer” Joint Log by Captain Chirakis and Commander Coleridge -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The captain stood staring at the door to her office as it closed behind Lt. Kenyon. She remained there a moment, as though contemplating her next move. “Where do we go from here?” she asked rhetorically as she turned to face the commander. “Here we are—an engineer and an assassin—in command of a starbase that is essentially on the edge of nowhere, and we are preparing to decide the future of a young man. We are not trained for this, Commander. At least I am not.” She gestured slightly. “Give me an SI-5 team and an objective, and I know exactly what to do.” Her fist gave the desktop a good shake. “Give me a young man who has made a mistake, and….?” A sardonic grin accompanied a slight head shake as she settled into her chair and flicked open her slate. “The irony of it all? If he had not asked for an investigation we would not have scrutinized Nei'rrh's flight recording, and we would not have known that he left his post. So, Commander, where do we go from here?” She turned her slate in his direction. “We have the rules. The regulations. Everything needed for the process, step by step. But there is no decision. That, unfortunately, is left to us.” Scott listened carefully. This wasn’t a side of Chirakis he was used to seeing. He was accustomed to the cool, unflappable, slightly-scary-in-that-knows-how-to-kill-you-with-her-thumb-kind-of-way captain. Usually he was the one talking about not being trained for this. As you moved further up the chain of command, he was learning, the burdens didn’t get any easier—and you just got to share in more of them. “We need to consider all the facts,” Scott said, “not just what happened on the Nei’rrh. Kenyon’s performance so far on the station has been exemplary. He shows both initiative and the ability to follow directions. This was his first away mission, and it was a stressful one.” “Indeed it was stressful, Commander. He is also a Junior Lieutenant, newly aboard Aegis and newly promoted. He was sent aboard an unusual shuttle craft to which he was not accustomed—in fact, most are not. He was not familiar with this area of space, he was sent on a mission that should not have been search and rescue, but turned out to be. I could go on for several hours, I suppose, but believe that is sufficient for now. I get your point, Commander.” “It’s safe to say that we agree a court martial is an extreme measure, all things considered, yes?” “Yes,” she responded, drumming her fingers on the desk, as if in thought. “The other measures available to us are also somewhat extreme, unless we make them less extreme. What are the options?” Scott listed them off on his fingers. “Demote him to ensign. Restrict him to his quarters for up to 30 days. Limit his access to areas of the station. Formal reprimand.” He added, “I don’t think we need to make an example of him, per se. This was a mistake, not deliberate insubordination.” “Agreed.” She nodded. “It should be done privately and should not be divulged to others, not even his commanding officer—unless it is deemed necessary in the future. Throwing oil on the fire exacerbates the problem rather than quelling it.” “Good point,” Scott said. “His relationship with Nijil is already somewhat strained. By the way, when I was interviewing Mr. tr’Korjata I did mention that some more … sensitivity … towards how his sense of humour might be construed would be prudent in the future. So,” he leaned forward. “A reprimand and some advice?” “Agreed. Only that, and in private. As far as anyone else is concerned, the investigation is closed, and nothing more.” Trust in an intelligence operative to find a way to organize an off-book form of punishment, Scott mused. “Well, that wasn’t so hard, now was it? Maybe we’re better at this than we thought.” It took a second or two before she responded thoughtfully, “Commander, anything that would affect the future of our personnel is a hard choice. Every step we take affects them in some way. Every word we speak affects them somehow. We are in charge of their safety and security, in every way. That we must never forget.”
  2. Memorandum From: Cdr. Coleridge, XO Aegis To: All personnel Subject: Workplace safety reminder -------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is just a blanket reminder of the importance of remaining aware of your surroundings while on duty. Even in a setting with no obvious safety hazards, ordinary equipment might be dangerous when operated or handled incorrectly. This includes PADDs, tricorders, hyperspanners, etc. For members of species capable of "daydreaming," remember that distraction while on duty can pose a risk to yourself and others. Please take steps to limit such activities. If you find yourself incapable of remaining focused, refer yourself to the medical department for appropriate remedies. Be aware that continual daydreaming, or related distracted activities, can be grounds for being placed on performance management targets at your next review. All Starfleet and allied personnel are expected to abide by Federation Health & Safety Standards, with particular emphasis on sections 38-53 and section 87, subsection alpha. Thank you for your cooperation in this matter. -Cdr. Coleridge
  3. “The First Rule of First Contact Club” Scott Coleridge ---------------------------------------------------- “The first thing you need to know about first contact is simple: don’t do it.” Scott’s professor paused. He might have sworn it was for dramatic effect, and he might have sworn the voice carried with it a tinge of world-weary disdain, were it not for the fact that his professor was Vulcan. She stood still at the front of the room, hands clasped behind her back, no need to pace or gesticulate. Her voice carried to the entire theatre of cadets. “Avoid, if at all possible, having to make first contact. Because you will make a mistake, and then others who are far more qualified will have to be called in to fix it. “First contact is the most difficult and challenging type of mission you will ever face in the field. It is more difficult than combat against a superior adversary. It is more difficult than charting a multiplexing subspace anomaly. I’m not employing hyperbole, as some of your human instructors are so fond of doing. I speak entirely from experience and evidence. The best Starfleet captains have struggled with first contact scenarios, and none of you, at least not yet, measure up to any of them.” Scott blinked and stifled a yawn. He was having trouble staying awake for these 08:00 lectures, and the dry style and subject matter did little to encourage him. All the upperclassmen had told the first-years that First Contact Protocols was an easy class--dry, yes, a little dull, but by far one of the easier upper-year electives to take and round out your second term. So Scott shifted position and continued to listen. “Remember that first contact is far more than just establishing intelligible two-way communication. Yet it is also much less than establishing lasting trust. First contact is about laying the groundwork for eventual trust, and perhaps even a relationship, between the Federation and the species you’re contacting.” The professor touched a control, and a hologram of the Phoenix appeared. A few of the cadets in the first rows leaned forward, obviously excited. Keeners. “First contact with humanity could have gone very poorly had either species reacted even slightly differently. Fortunately, Vulcans had a great deal of experience with first contact scenarios by this point, and even contact with such a primitive species proved no more challenging than usual. While integrating humanity into the wider interstellar group of civilizations proved a long, slow process, it did gradually happen. “Which brings me to my topic for this first lecture: first contact is not a single event. It is a process, one that might span…” Scott started to zone out. He wondered if this was a mistake--when was he ever going to need to know this, anyway? If all went according to plan, he was just going to be a starship engineer, and engineers seldom went on away missions to uncontacted planets. That’s just not done. In what foreseeable universe would Scott Coleridge be responsible, in any capacity, for a first contact situation? Scott answered a few messages on his PADD. Scott jolted upright, wiped some drool from the side of his face, and glanced around to see if anyone noticed that he had slept through some of the lecture. “... will conclude with a reminder that your first assignment deadline approaches. I expect no fewer than 5 sources of information for your paper analyzing proper adherence to first contact protocols. Furthermore, and I don’t know why I always seem to have to reiterate this, but any captains of starships named Enterprise are not considered reliable sources for this assignment. “I am aware that it’s common practice among the upperclassmen to recommend this course to first year cadets as a ‘practical joke.’ Rest assured, regardless of your intentions for taking this course, I will hold all of you to the same standards as expected of Starfleet Academy cadets. One day, you may be representing the entire Federation in front of a species new and foreign to us. This is not a responsibility I will allow you to take lightly.” # Scott walked out of the meeting, his mind turning over those moments earlier on the CnC, when he stood in front of an alien and did his best to represent humanity. Well, as far as he could tell, he hadn’t started a war—point Coleridge? And it seemed like this species, while interested now in communicating, was just so different from them—not just in terms of communication, but in culture and perspective of time and space—that establishing a rapport was going to be a gradual process indeed. It was unusual for a station to be involved in a first contact scenario. Aegis wasn’t going anywhere; as long as the alien starship lurked nearby, Aegis was responsible for representing the Federation. Unlike a starship, it couldn’t move on or cede its mission to a new vessel. Fortunately for him, Scott wasn’t doing this alone. That moment on the CnC had been one of staggering, sobering responsibility—but now, that hurdle cleared, they were entering an exciting part of the process, the part full of discoveries. It would mean more hard work for everyone involved, but it would also be rewarding. It wasn’t a responsibility to take lightly, but it was also a responsibility Scott could share with a dedicated, motivated crew.
  4. “Sand” Scott Coleridge -------------------------------------------- The mug was still too hot to the touch, so Scott left it on its tray and instead pointed at the Bolian in a Starfleet commander’s uniform three stalls down. “That’s one of them.” “No, he’s not,” his companion said. Scott scowled. “How do you know? You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” His companion pushed back her chair and, reclining, placed her feet up on the table across from Scott, resting her hands behind her head. “You’re talking about the mysterious investigators who probably arrived on the Mason. Which means he isn’t one of them, because that’s Commander Lonn, passing through on the Meitner. He’s harmless. Even more harmless than you. You really are bad at this, aren’t you?” “You’ve been on the station for all of fifteen hours! How do you already know all this? And how do you know about the Mason? That’s all classified.” “Uh-huh. Scotty, darling, on a station this size, you can classify things all you want, but the really juicy gossip doesn’t stay secret for long. Look, one of your big and powerful starships comes limping back into port after supposedly going on a science mission, and then a few days later, another ship arrives and starts calling interviews with members of Aegis’ crew? It doesn’t take a Vulcan Kolinahr master to put the pieces together.” Scott winced as he briefly checked the temperature of his tea against his tongue. Caddy was one of his oldest friends, practically a sister, even though they had drifted in an out of each other’s lives over the years as their respective interests brought them closer together or farther apart. Her most recent career had her travelling Federation space on behalf of some obscure shortselling firm, and it brought her to Aegis a few times a year. Caddy had had a lot of careers, but gathering information had always been a specialty. Which was why he was neither surprised nor pleased that she already knew as much as she did. “Well, I can’t tell you any more than that. What? It is classified. Especially for you.” “Spoilsport. Fine.” Caddy idly plucked at her jacket. “Want to talk about it, though?” “Oh goodness, yes.” “Worried about it?” “About what? This inquiry?” “No, about the crop reports on Bajor—yes, obviously.” “I don’t know.” Scott paused for a moment, watching the business of the passers-by on the Commerce Level, letting his thoughts collect. “This isn’t my first time. Well, sort of. It wasn’t really an inquiry into anyone’s conduct. But years back, before Aegis moved here, Captain Sorehl headed up an inquiry into whether or not we were still needed in orbit of Cardassia. I was very green back then.” Caddy gave him a look. “OK, I was much more green than I am now. “Anyway, at the time, I kind of just dodged most of the questions. I told him I didn’t really care about the politics of the situation—I was just there to fix things. To be a good engineer.” “But now you have to care, Mr. I’m the Station’s XO.” “Yes. No—I—I don’t know. Maybe I do care more now.” “So you’re worried you’re going to say something that screws things up and gets people reassigned or in trouble?” “I guess.” “Should any of them be in trouble?” Scott raised an eyebrow. “What? No. They were just doing their jobs, and they ran into an impossible situation, and they had to figure a way out of it, largely on their own.” “So there you have it. They didn’t do anything wrong. Why are you worried?” “It’s more complicated than that. There are … other factors at play.” “Right, the same factors that involve two silent Romulan warbirds camping out here and an entire crew of another warbird living on the station.” Caddy held up her hands, palms out, in response to Scott’s glare. “I don’t know anything, I swear. Just what I hear.” She swung her legs down, turned in her seat, and leaned forward against the table. “Scotty, you’re overthinking this. If those investigators have some ulterior motive, they’re going to pursue it no matter what you say. It’s called a ‘kangaroo court’, and no amount of clever manoeuvring on your part is going to affect their decision.” “But what if what I say makes it easier for them?” Caddy put her head in her hands. “I swear, it’s like talking to a wall sometimes with you. If you’re right about them, then they won’t care what you have to say. If you’re wrong, and this is just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill inquiry type deal, then you’re not going to get anyone into trouble who doesn’t deserve to be in trouble. Got it?” “I suppose.” “Good!” She reached across the table, seized his mug, and drained the tea in a long, satisfying-sounding gulp. Standing, she said, “Much better! Good talk! Now, where did Commander Lonn go … he owes me—” she glanced carefully at Scott, then added, “—latinum. He owes me latinum.” And she was off, carefully adjusting her jacket and tucking her hair behind her ears as she went. Scott looked down at his empty tea mug and swished around the small remnants of the leaves therein. He had known, of course, everything that Caddy had said to him. That was the way it always was with them, telling the other what they already knew. When it came to politics, and anything Scott had once considered “above his pay grade”, he had always just stuck his head in the sand, so to speak. It wasn’t his problem. Let other people deal with it, and he would keep the lights on. Except now, it kind of was his problem. And the trouble with sticking your head in the sand is that, if you do it long enough, you’re going to have to come up for air.
  5. "Never Say Never" Scott Coleridge ------------------------------------------------ "Above all else, remember this: you are not James T. Kirk. And that is a good thing." The instructor's voice reverberated across the lecture hall without aid or amplification, their attitude and poise perfected from years of delivery. Scott felt a small chill run down his spine. He licked his lips, glanced down at the blank PADD where he could have been recording notes. Suddenly aware that he was slouching, he straightened up in his seat. Was it cold in here, or was that just him? They were only twenty minutes into the three-hour class, "Advanced Command Ethics." Why had Scott taken this course, again? It was an elective, and he wasn’t on the command track. He didn’t need it. Then movement in his peripheral vision reminded him why: Ellis Navarro, a fellow fourth-year cadet. She was command track. She was also entirely out of Scott’s league. So, of course, when they had been chatting casually at the end of last year and she had asked if he had signed up for this course, which she would of course be taking, what had he done? Had he smiled ruefully and explained that, no, his full load of engineering and operations-specialist courses left no room in his schedule for a class that had no bearing on his future duties in the fleet? Of course not. He had nearly choked on his drink and mumbled an enthusiastic affirmative through a mouthful of bubbles. Ellis had laughed, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth, her eyes smiling at him. "Great! We can sit together and share notes." Scott had rushed back to his dorm to sign in to the Academy scheduling system and reconfigure his entire course load. "Kirk was an amazing explorer, of course. A very courageous, competent captain. One of the finest products of Starfleet's Golden Age, you might say," the instructor continued, their voice emulating, for a moment, the very cadence that Kirk was famous for in vids of his speeches. "But he was also a menace—to his own crew. "The average casualty rate on the Enterprise was 0.7 people per mission. That's over ten times the average rate for Starfleet at that time. It's an open secret that when Starfleet redesigned its uniforms near the close of the century, they switched the division colours of security and engineering with those of command and operations in part to shake the so-called 'redshirt curse' that loomed over the fleet's most famous starship. "But it wasn't a curse. It was a direct result of Captain Kirk's command style." Scott kept trying to look in Ellis' direction without actually looking. She listened with rapt attention to their instructor, who was themselves a decorated command veteran. Her PADD was already brimming with notes, and the lecture hadn't really even started yet, their instructor still waxing poetic about why they had it out for Kirk. "These days it's tempting to see only the story we've created about Kirk and not the man himself. He was a visionary and a leader, yes. I don't question his contributions to the Federation, or to the galaxy as a whole—these things are indisputable. Yet his legacy should not be one-sided. The galaxy is not the 'wild West' that it was in Kirk's day—in fact, it wasn't even a 'wild West' in his day, but that was the attitude of the time. "Kirk was a dashing, daring commander. He took risks. He got lucky. The risks often paid off. But when they didn't, they cost the lives of so many of his crew. Kirk routinely flaunted the protocols and procedures codified in Starfleet Rules of Operations—and he was seldom called on it, often commended for it, because it worked. "But those rules exist for a reason. And this class exists for a reason. All of you are sitting here because one day, you want to be in that command chair—" Fat chance of that, Scott thought. "—and you're all young. Some of you are thinking you'd like to replicate Kirk's feat of making captain by the time you're 30. Some of you can't wait to be in that chair, an entire starship yours to command. Some of you fancy yourselves Kirks in the making." If I were Kirk, Scott thought, I would at least be a little more successful with Ellis Navarro. "But I say again: you are not James T. Kirk. Kirk was reckless; Kirk was a hot-head. If you take command of a starship today and you use Captain Kirk as your template for a good commander, you will get a lot of good people killed. "I am here to save you from that fate. In this course, we will examine, dissect, critique, and codify what it means to be a good commander. In doing so, we will remember that at all times you have a responsibility to safeguard the lives of the people under your command." Ellis' hand shot up. If the room could have become any quieter, it would have. The instructor, clearly not anticipating an interruption, stumbled over their next sentence. Then they said, "Yes, Cadet Navarro?" "Sir, isn't it true, though, that a captain often has to order members of their crew into dangerous, perhaps deadly situations, for the greater good? Isn't it true that a captain has to be willing to sacrifice themselves and their entire ship?" The entire class was staring in their direction. Scott willed himself to become invisible. "A proposition!" said the instructor. "I'll entertain comments from the floor. Anyone care to respond to Cadet Navarro?" About ten seconds went by, and no one hazarded a response, so the instructor continued, "Very well, I'll just choose someone—" Oh no. Please no, Scott thought. Please please please… "—Cadet Coleridge." Of course. Scott looked from the instructor to Ellis. Both had expectant looks on their faces. Ellis seemed confident he would back her up. He wanted to. But to be honest, he had no idea how to respond. He didn't want to command; he wasn't built for command. The idea of having the lives of hundreds of people on his shoulders terrified him. He just wanted to fix things, to make those sleek and beautiful starships run as good and pure as he possibly could, all while seeing the most wondrous sights the stars could offer. Wasn't that enough? "I would say that Cadet Navarro is correct, that captains have to be prepared for the worst case scenario. But that's a last resort. And part of our duty as commanding officers is to manage a situation in such a way as to avoid that last resort whenever possible. The way I understand it, sir, you're not saying we need to minimize all risk, or nursemaid our crew. You're saying we need to recognize that our crew have unquantifiable intrinsic value, and as such, should be managed with care." That's what he would have said, in hindsight, hours after this class was over and he was sitting in bed reliving the entire experience in excruciating detail. "I think sometimes … captains make … hard choices. And, uh, sometimes captains will lose people, sure. But, um, we shouldn't, uh, go in guns blazing, right? Sir?" To say that the instructor was unimpressed with such a response would have been a generous assessment. They did their best not to betray any such emotions, but the flat affect in their voice as they replied was enough. "Perhaps, cadet, you'd care to re-read this week's assigned chapters, and compose for me a 1000-word essay on the responsibilities of a commanding officer." "Very good, sir," Scott replied. He almost didn't look at Ellis. But he did, and what he saw was worse than the remedial essay he'd just been assigned. It wasn't anger or dismay … it was a look of such pure, unvarnished disappointment. As if he had let her down, not by failing to come to her aid, but by failing to provide any kind of intelligent response. It was the I thought you'd be ready for this look. Scott just gave her an apologetic smile, then he fixed his gaze on his PADD and didn’t look up for the rest of the lecture. The instructor went on to present several case studies from the Enterprise's original five-year mission, explaining that in the next class, they would be breaking into working groups to analyze and critique the studies from various angles. Scott tried to pay attention, but something told him that Ellis wasn't going to be looking for him to be in her group next week…. In the end, he passed the course, just barely. The instructor's comment on the final report was along the lines of, "Should perhaps rethink command aspirations." Which was fair. Nothing about the experience had changed Scott's mind. When was he ever going to need this knowledge, anyway? His first posting was going to be as a grunt engineer somewhere, and his last posting would probably be, if he was lucky, maybe as chief engineer on a support vessel. But probably as the leader of a maintenance crew on a starbase, or maybe the engineer on a remote listening post. The idea that he, Scott Coleridge, would one day sit in the command chair of a starship, with people reporting to him, on some kind of mission into the unknown … it was ludicrous. It was almost as crazy as his idea that he had a shot with Ellis Navarro. So when she had showed up at his dorm that night, while he was still up obsessing over his abject freeze-up, maybe that should have set alarm bells ringing in whichever part of the cortex is responsible for warning of ironic twists of fate. When she explained that she had initially been planning to offer to tutor him, but that this was actually just a clever ruse to get her in the door, and that really she just wanted to ask him out, because she thought he was kind of cute, and she didn't care too much that he wasn't great at command stuff … perhaps Scott should have known, at that moment, that his life was not going to be straightforward and quiet and predictable. When they dated for the rest of the year, splitting up only after their first posts put them at opposite ends of Federation space, maybe Scott should have paid more attention. Improbable, nigh-on impossible things were already happening to him, and would continue to happen after his postings to Endeavor and Aegis. When would he learn to never say never? # "We're approaching p-Kappa 198, Captain Coleridge," Ensign Jackson said. The bridge of Aegean hummed with activity. It was different from the buzz in the Aegis CnC, more constrained in its chatter. Tightly focused. Fewer donuts. Scott sat in the captain's chair, one hand tapping a command into the panel next to him, the other holding a cup of coffee. He acknowledged a few reports that needed his eye, left the rest for Commander Lawliet. "Very good, Mr. Jackson. Once we're in range, drop us out of warp at the edge of the system. Let's get a nice, careful look before we get any closer." He sipped his coffee and looked around. Alpha shift had just come on duty, scheduled to coincide with their arrival. His crew. His mission. "Ellis Navarro," Scott said under his breath, shaking his head. Never say never. Jackson turned back, a quizzical look on his face. "I didn't quite catch that, sir." "Nothing," Scott said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "As you were."
  6. Name: Caitlin Townshend Species: Human Age: 28 Height: 160 cm Hair: Blonde Eyes: Brown Identifying features: Scar along her upper left forearm. Tattoo of a small bird on her right ankle. Rank: Lieutenant, Junior Grade Current Assignment: USS Challenger, Acting Chief Science Officer Last Assignment: USS Brisbane, Assistant Science Officer Service History: Entered Starfleet Academy Graduated academy with honours Posted to USS Galway as assistant exobiologist Leave of absence (3 months), request to transfer Transferred to USS Brisbane as assistant science officer Promoted to Lieutenant, Junior Grade Transferred to USS Challenger as chief science officer (acting) Interests and Qualifications: Degrees in exobiology (with a specialist in biomedical systems), bioethics, and linguistics. Certified Instructor in Vulcan Meditation Earth classical music, Vulcan classical music, contemporary classical composition Amateur solo athletics including track and field, gymnastics, etc. Visual arts, particularly painting and printmaking Family: Mother: Deborah Townshend Father: Gabriel Deschamps (estranged) Stepfather: Vijay Dalal Brothers: Clark, Christopher Biographical Information Caitlin is what is colloquially known as a "Starfleet brat". Her parents met aboard a starship posting. After deciding to start a family, they transferred to Starbase 11. When Caitlin was 8, her family transferred to Vulcan, where she spent her formative years of schooling among predominantly Vulcan peers. This instilled in her a knowledge and respect for Vulcan culture and tradition that informs much of her adult worldview. When Caitlin was 12, her parents separated and later divorced, with her father transferring to a deep space research vessel. She has since fallen out of touch with him. Caitlin excelled in both sciences and the arts, and her heart was always set on joining Starfleet and following in the footsteps of her parents. Originally planning to enter the Academy at 18, Caitlin deferred for three years to study first meditation and then linguistics and bioethics at the Vulcan Science Academy. She finally entered the Academy at 22, older but with a better awareness of her strengths and skills. Caitlin retained a somewhat jack-of-all-trades approach to her studies, often devoting inordinate time to esoteric fields. As a result, while she maintained high grades and a place on the honour roll, she never made a mark on any one particular field. However, Caitlin continued to gravitate towards scientific specialization. Her first posting was aboard the USS Galway, where she served as an exobiologist. She distinguished herself during a first contact mission with the Strathcori. One of the Strathcori delegation took ill while visiting the ship, and Caitlin played a significant role in reviving and stabilizing the delegation member. However, Caitlin and her superior officer did not often see eye-to-eye, and after several months of ongoing conflict, she took a leave of absence and then requested a transfer. Posted next to the USS Brisbane, Caitlin soon flourished among her new crew. Along with the transfer in ship came a transfer in department--the Brisbane's personnel disposition placed her under the wing of the science department, and Caitlin quickly felt at home. She soon earned a promotion and participated in a variety of scientific and exploratory missions. After nearly two years aboard the Brisbane, Caitlin was transferred somewhat abruptly to the USS Challenger to take over its beleaguered science department.
  7. Dear Michael, How do should I begin? “I hope you’re well” seems so insincere. I mean, I do hope you’re well. But isn’t that what everyone says in letters to their ex-spouse? I know we haven’t spoken since we separated. That’s on both of us—it’s not like either of us is exactly hard to find. I guess we still think the other needs time. I know I did, and said, things that hurt you. I wish I could just keep saying “sorry” until it would fix things between us. I know nothing I do can fix things between us. But as I sit here, about to tender my resignation, the only person I want to tell is you. The only person I think could understand, even if you don’t care any more, is you. My research, my reputation, my husband … Starfleet has taken it all from me. Everything except my life itself, and even that has been in question too many times to count. I’ve never been an enthusiastic explorer. Like so many others, I joined Starfleet because of the promise of a stable career path, of connections that would help me become a better researcher and join more interesting teams to solve the open problems of this era. I dreamed of reaching new heights in the field of cybernetics. The Academy was a chore, yes, but a bearable one. My posting to Jupiter Station was the type of sedate assignment I preferred. My transfer to Challenger was … well, a mistake. Not a mistake, not really, not where mother was involved … but that seemed like lifetimes ago. I hated it at first. Then some more. I kept wanting to leave, to escape the cavalcade of diplomats and subspace anomalies and pirates and Romulans. This wasn’t science! Science was sitting alone in a dark room listening to depressing music and wondering why your latest experiment had ended in failure. Science was laughing and chatting with your colleagues, who were also your friends, while solving the mysteries of neural networks. Science was not having your life threatened by strange creatures or hostile humanoids. Then my husband made the obnoxiously sweet gesture of closing his practice and enlisting in Starfleet just to serve alongside me. Having you aboard Challenger began to turn things around. For a time, I was genuinely content. I thought I had everything I wanted: a good ship, a good companion, a good career. But when things fall apart, they don’t always do so in a dramatic and obvious way. They don’t always fall apart in order, either. When the opportunity arrived to head up a new cybernetics project, I grabbed it. I said goodbye to Challenger, if not eager to leave any more then certainly not disappointed by the prospect. This was the project of a lifetime for me, and my colleagues were some of the best and brightest. I still don’t know, looking back, when I lost you. It’s a timeless story. We drift apart. We feel separate. The things we once said out of meaning soon become things we said out of habit, and then things we didn’t say at all. In the end, there was nothing to say. I drifted, and I lost focus. Starfleet shut down my project. I still don’t know why. They packed me off to Challenger like I had only been on temporary secondment. We all knew it was a farce, but since I was the actor and not the writer I could only play my part. Challenger was the same, yet different. Some of the same people. Some new faces, too. Whispers, when I didn’t return with you in tow, and then when I started acting … more flexibly … along certain dimensions. What can I say? I’ve grown tired of trying to be the good girl, the model scientist, the level-headed thinker with the fearsome work ethic and equitable demeanour. It was time I started learning how to fight for myself. At least, that seemed like a good solution at the time. Obviously it wasn’t, because here I am. This ship keeps trying to kill me. And this time, like so many other times, it almost succeeded. The difference now is that, in addition to the near-death experience I’m now going to have to recount to a counselor somewhere, I am also complicit in multiple illegal and unethical activities. I to—well, you don’t need to know the details. It was bad This is not the Starfleet I signed up for. This is not the Starfleet I want to serve. It’s not the fault of Challenger; it’s not the fault of the ship any more. It’s the uniform. It has blood on it, and not even a new one could possibly be clean. My only option then, it seems, is to resign. This probably sounds cliché, but I’m going to miss my crewmates. They are so … loyal. Even when I messed up, especially all the times I messed up, they never doubted me. Always there for me. I wish I could have always been there for them. I’m not a very good friend. This is not about them, though, or about me. It’s about what happened on that ship, and what Starfleet chose to do about it. I cannot, in good conscience, continue as Lieutenant Anastasia Poldara, chief science officer of USS Challenger. So, like a big girl, I’m going to run away. I don’t know where, whether I should stay on Earth, or maybe head out to Alpha Centauri. I hear the Daystrom Institute always wants new applicants. Or maybe I won’t even go into science as a civilian. I could get a job piloting long-haul shuttles out in the Kuiper Belt. Become a tour guide in the Vulcan Forge. Check out those beautiful cityscapes on Tellar that Hok always goes on about given half a chance. I don’t know where I’m going to end up or what I’m going to do. But here’s the thing: I might sound bitter now—I should sound bitter, because I am. This isn’t a sad moment, though, because I’m finally going to be free. I will make my own choices, and then I can live with those consequences. You look good. Family life suits you, Michael. I hope you’ve found something you were looking for. Maybe, one day, I’ll find it too. Yours, Anastasia Poldara OOC PS: For those not at the last sim, this is Anastasia's bow and my own. Challenger is a lovely place despite my character’s negativity—but my real life schedule makes it hard to keep attending. Aside from a leave of absence when I was living in the UK, I have been aboard Challenger since its inception. Being able to shape the sim from the beginning was a tremendous honour, and I have had so much fun aboard it with so many great players. I have no plans to leave Aegis or Excalibur. See you there!
  8. “Command School: Lesson Zero” Scott Coleridge ------------------------------------------- The air on the bridge was acrid, scrubbers working overtime to erase the stench of overloaded components and strained ODN relays. A distant shudder passed through the spine of the ship as something—the port impulse engine?—finally gave out. “Captain, they’re coming around for another volley. Our shields will not hold!” There was a grim note of panic in the tactical officer’s voice. Despite being an experienced veteran, he clearly was not ready to face death. “The Ventar ambassador is still insisting we’re in violation of their space, Captain. She is refusing to call off the attack vessels unless we retreat.” “You must get to the planet and rescue our people! As a representative from the Federation Council, that’s a direct order!” The pompous but no-less-imposing Federation Ambassador was red in the face from bellowing orders. “What are your orders, Captain? Captain Coleridge? Captain? Captain, we need your orders...” The ship shuddered again, this time in reaction to more weapons fire from the Ventari cruiser. Alarms went off as the shields collapsed and the warp core overloaded. Everything flashed a horrible, final white … … and then the holodeck reset itself, the bridge emptied of crew. Scott collapsed into the command chair, his pose one of resigned defeat. “You are really terrible at this, you know that, right?” The voice came from the only other person on the simulated bridge—though “person” was a misnomer. The nondescript middle-aged human male was a hologram like everything else around Scott. But this hologram had attitude. “Hey, I tried. Isn’t the whole point of the Kobayashi Maru test supposed to be character or whatever?” “This isn’t the Kobayashi Maru simulation. This one is supposed to be solvable! You’ve tried it nine times now, and each time you’ve actually done worse than the last. You’re regressing.” “So what would you suggest I do? Give up?” Part of Scott wondered if that was even an option. The hologram gave a little “harrumph.” “Me? Give up? I will have you know—” “Uh-oh. Here we go.” “—I am the premier Distance Command School Training Hologram. I was created by the—” “—the best and brightest, yes, I’ve heard—” “—best and brightest holo-engineers Starfleet could find; my algorithms were trained on the decisions made by Pike, Kirk, Garrett, Picard, and even a few captains of ships not named Enterprise. I am the training program of choice for officers on long tours of duty away from the Academy.” “I know. You’ve already given me that speech. Twice.” “Be. That. As. It. May.” Scott could almost swear he saw the hologram gritting its teeth with each word. “Suffice it to say that you might be my most challenging student. I have literally seen cadets perform better than you. But you will not be my last student. If there is any training program that could possibly forge you into even a mediocre commanding officer, it’s me.” Scott hopped out of the command chair and paced the bridge. “I just don’t think I’m cut out to be ‘command material,’ Napoleon.” “Napoleon?” “You need a name. It will make you more approachable.” “I’m not here to be approachable. I’m here to teach you how to lead.” “Maybe I’m not meant to lead, hmm? Like you said, nine tries, nine failures. And that’s just this simulation. We tried those easier ones first, and even those were difficult.” Scott stopped at this bridge’s engineering station. He ran his fingers along the console and its frozen read-outs. “How did you ever manage to command the engineering department with that attitude?” “Hmm?” Scott looked up. “Oh. I don’t know. I didn’t really ‘command’ it. People did things, and I signed off if it looked reasonable, or suggested alternatives if it didn’t. But they were really responsible for any success.” Napoleon narrowed his eyes. “I want to say you’re being modest, but the last two hours suggest otherwise.” He brought a hand up to his chin. “Why are you so set on being a command officer, then, if you are so dismally unsuitable for such a position?” “Oh I’m not. I just sort of … stumbled into the job.” “Stumbled … oh, please. Don’t tell me I’m trapped on one of those Starfleet vessels that got stranded halfway across the galaxy. You’re not going to keep me running all day until I develop strange ideas about holographic rights and liberation, are you?” Napoleon began to get a slightly desperate look on his face. “One uppity hologram is enough for the fleet, don’t you think?” “Whoa, whoa,” Scott held up a hand. “Slow down, Nappy. We haven’t gone full Voyager, no. But Aegis is … unique. Ramson could have imported an XO from somewhere else, but I guess she feels that no one she could get would be as good a ‘fit’ for the station as I am. Mind you, I think at this point she might be restarting her search.” Napoleon mumbled something about how that would be a prudent course of action but didn’t repeat it at an audible level. Instead he said, “So you are a reluctant XO.” “You could say that.” “Fine. Get over it, then.” “Excuse me?” The hologram pointed to the turbolift door with one hand, and then to the command chair with the other. “There’s the exit; there’s your chair. Which will it be?” “I don’t follow.” “Look, you’re in Starfleet, not the Super Happy Funtime Space Exploration Scouts. You’re a Commander in Starfleet. Commanding is your job. And if you don’t want to do your job, then you can either shut up and do it anyway, or you can resign. “Now, if you take the latter option, I can’t help you,” Napoleon continued. “But if and when you decide you want to stick around, sit in that chair and shut up, and we’ll start talking about how you can be a good XO.” Scott sat in the damned chair. And shut up. “OK, we’re going all the way back to Lesson Zero here. Don’t worry, I’ll speak slowly and use small words….”
  9. “Dear Mom and Dad” Scott Coleridge ------------------------------------- I got promoted again. I don’t know what I did wrong. Well, I have an inkling. Captain Ramson said something about being familiar with Aegis. Truth is, I’ve just been here for so long now I guess I’m a bit of a fixture. I had hoped that if I kept my head down and just rattled around engineering they’d leave me be. All I want to do is fix things, build things. Well, that and research more applications of Kalubi-Yau geometry to subspace transporter technology. You know. The usual. But I screwed up. See, I’m not really a good manager of people. That’s why I avoided taking over the engineering department in the first place. I’m all right in a crunch, but day-to-day, I have trouble delegating. I tend to get caught up, start micro-managing, and before you know it, I’m off somewhere in the lower decks. But the deal was that Jorahl could still deal with a lot of the management side while also being king of the shipyard. I should have known that would be too good to be true at the time, but what other choice did I have? The good thing about station engineering is that the department structure here is a lot looser than on a starship. Out there, in deep space, with anomalies and enemies nipping at your heels, everything has to run smoothly and—well, ship-shape. Here, it’s more like a rolling schedule of replacing the thing most likely to break next. Now combine that atmosphere with a larger proportion of enlisted personnel, as well on Aegis as a small corps of Romulan volunteers, and you get something very different from the hierarchy aboard a starship. Surprisingly, this actually worked in my favour. Everyone has their specialties; I just had to make sure people showed up on time and kept everything running. Truth is, I discovered that the less I managed, the more we all got done. Where was I? Right, the screw-up. My mistake was trying to distance myself from anything that felt like being chief engineer. That light touch ultimately did me in. Instead, I should have made myself so indispensable, made the smooth running of the department depend on my presence there. Then Ramson would have had no choice but to pass me over and … I don’t know. There must be someone else on Aegis better qualified than me for this position. Mimi was in command while we were off skulking around a mining planet. Then again, she’s probably the only one less interested in such a promotion than me. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. Literally, I don’t know. Being executive officer has always seemed like a chore: all those reports, personnel tasks, etc. Maybe Dad can recommend some of those biographies of great leaders he’s always reading. Or biographies of great managers, hmm? Well, if you excuse me, I need to sneak into my old office. I have to retrieve my personal effects before Nijil clues into the fact I left him all the paperwork that accumulated while we were away and booby-traps it or something.
  10. “We Never Go Out of Style” Anastasia Poldara -------------------------------------------- After the transmission from the Einstein ended and Ja’Lale and Rinax had disappeared into the Captain’s Ready Room, Anastasia slumped in the chair at the science station, hoping her initial reaction had gone unnoticed. It was just … she hadn’t expected to see him here, of all places. Anastasia thought back to the first time she saw Brett Kincaid… The man’s swagger entered the room before he did. When he offered her his hand, it was far too warm. She avoided grimacing as she shook it. “Kincaid,” he said, obviously turning on the charm. “Poldara.” “Ah, yes—the computer scientist.” “Cyberneticist, actually. BCI and quantum logic gates.” Kincaid shrugged. “Whatever. Look, I know these group assignments aren’t supposed to be competitive, but I’ve got a couple of wagers going with some of the other cadets. I want to win this. So do you know any real science that could help us out?” “Oh, you want real science? Hmm … I think I made a volcano using acetic acid and sodium bicarbonate once. Would that help?” They did go on to win the competition, naturally. Kincaid was a self-absorbed, offensive jerk, but he was the second-best scientist in their year. What the two of them produced was far ahead of the other groups, their instructors had to admit. And so it came as no surprise to anyone when she or Kincaid invariably topped the charts in one science class after another. Their alternation in the top spot was almost rhythmic, with Kincaid having an edge in the physical sciences and Anastasia’s highly analytical, statistical bent serving her well in other areas. Yet this was not the cool, intellectual rivalry Anastasia had known in her formative years. There was a more bitter edge to her interactions with Kincaid, and almost always that smug lack of respect for what Anastasia did. He didn’t just set out to beat her. It was as if he wanted to show her that she was no scientist at all. There was a hunger to him that poisoned their rivalry, because he knew she was better than him. Anastasia knew this, because she recognized that hunger. She had felt it herself, twice before, when she met people who were just better scientists than her: smarter, cleverer, more open-minded or thoughtful or any of the qualities one needed for success in such endeavours. Whatever it was, Kincaid had it—but Anastasia had more of it. This was borne out when she graduated top of the class, Kincaid a close but forever second. Of course, observers mistook their sparks for attraction. Many remarked that it was inevitable they should become a couple—opposites and all that. Anastasia was, for her part, relieved she had never felt it, and if Kincaid had, he had certainly never sent any signals to that effect. Theirs remained purely a rivalry, no romance, doomed or otherwise, included. Anastasia had that, at least, to be thankful for. After distractedly responding to a report from Matheson, Anastasia pondered the last time she had seen Brett Kincaid… “Poldara! Wait up!” Anastasia turned, saw Kincaid quickly closing the gap between them with long strides. An athlete, like her, though he had never seen fit to take her up on that offer to teach him anbo-jytsu. “What?” “Off so soon? A bunch of us are going down to the bar for drinks.” “I’ve work to do, Kincaid.” “What work? We just finished our last exam. We’ll be Ensigns next week. Come celebrate.” “Why?” “Why not?” “No, I mean, why celebrate with you? Why keep up this charade? You don’t have to pretend you like me.” Kincaid’s smile faltered. He never failed to insinuate, but that was a far cry from the confrontational tack Anastasia now took. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve always thought we challenged each other … made each other work harder, be better.” A snort escaped from her despite herself. “You, make me better? In your dreams. I would have been top of the class with or without you nipping at my heels.” “Is that so? Well, if you are such a hot scientist, why am I the one being posted to the Lexington while you go off to Jupiter Station, hmm? They’re about to embark on a six-month survey mission in Beta Quadrant.” “And Jupiter Station is doing cutting-edge work in the fields of nanotechnology and isolinear pathway engineering. I’m glad we’re both happy with where we’re going.” “But you’ll never make captain if you stay in the solar system all your life, Poldara.” “Why the hell would I want to be captain? So I can write reports instead of designing lab experiments? No, thanks. Climb the ladder all you want, Kincaid. I have more important things to do.” They didn’t stay in touch. Anastasia could vaguely recall hearing about his promotion to captain, his posting to the Einstein. But she hadn’t paid it much attention; Brett Kincaid was no longer a part of her life. So she had thought. Then she had rejoined Challenger, and despite it being a big galaxy, it obviously wasn’t big enough. Anastasia did the math. He was the same age as her, so he made captain extremely young. That was probably considered impressive. Mind you, captain of an Oberth-class vessel didn’t exactly have the same prestige as an Excelsior- or Constellation-class cruiser. It was barely a step up from a Miranda. But it was perfectly respectable for a science-track officer looking to command. Maybe he had changed, mellowed, become more tolerable. No, Anastasia had seen his demeanour on the viewscreen. That same smirk. Captain Brett Kincaid had not changed one bit. She could feel it, then, deep in her gut. The rumbling of the monster, the antithesis to Kincaid’s hunger. He made it easier, in some ways, because when she went up against him, she didn’t have to prove she was better than everyone else. He was better than everyone else, so by transitivity, all she had to do was best him, and QED. Hence the feeling, the exhilarating certainty. Every time they went head-to-head, every competition or collaboration. It didn’t matter how many times they settled the score in either’s favour: they always knew there would be another round. That’s the thing about rivalries. Even the ones that don’t end in romance are still like a candle flame: quick to gutter, but oh so difficult to extinguish.
  11. “The Dangers of Caring Too Little/Too Much” Scott Coleridge --------------------------------------------------------- The strangest thing about this place wasn’t the smell. Or rather, it was the smell, in that there wasn’t as much smell as one would expect. Existing almost entirely below ground in these impressively wrought cavernous chambers, the settlement must have relied on an equally impressive array of scrubbers to keep the air clean and breathable. As such, the ordinary scents that permeate a cosmopolitan mining settlement like this one weren’t so much in evidence, and it was beginning to get on Scott’s nerves. They lingered on Q street, worrying about Tarisa’s fate. He had bitten back a quick remark when Dacia offered that scanning device, half-remembered, well after it might have been useful in finding their missing companion. It was all he could do not to snap. But that wouldn’t have been fair to her. No, it wasn’t her fault that he had been hurled from a suborbital spacecraft, collided with the planet below, nearly broken two limbs, and now trekked through sand and stone to this desolate backwater excuse for a mine. And for what? So they could figure out why some Pakleds had been so excited to bring a bunch of rocks to Aegis? So they could figure out what a Horta was doing making the trip? Scott believed these questions were becoming increasingly academic. He was tired and hungry and very nearly broken. He had not come here to play the spy or the agent provocateur; despite all presentations to the contrary, he was not enthusiastic about this role he was trying to play. And now a member of their team was out there, alone and vulnerable, and that was partially his fault. In the dim artificial night it was hard to see very far down the length of Q street. Scott tried nevertheless, hoping that if he squinted he might somehow will Tarisa to round a corner and approach them. But it was not to be. What do you care, anyway, engineering man? a voice sneered inside him. It’s not like you took the time to get to know her, or even to say hello. Well, voice, that was probably true. Scott had never been the most outgoing of personalities, and lately his enthusiasm for getting to know the newest arrivals had diminished even further. Partly this was an effect of life on a space station. The stability that had drawn Scott to settle on Aegis concealed a fragility to the relationships aboard the station. Unlike a starship, which could be posted to deep space missions that might last the better part of a year or more without resupply or rendezvous, posting to Aegis could always be temporary and transitory. Even now, in its remote location, when it felt like Starfleet forgot about them in every other way, personnel regularly rotated. If you like Aegis like Scott did, then you could stay forever--but if you craved reassignment, getting out was not particularly difficult. So Scott was used to the comings-and-goings of engineers and other staff. He learned not to worry too much about remembering birthdays or names of children or partners. If they stayed, then they stayed, and he would get to know them--slowly, more gradually, but inevitably. If they went, well, then someone new, fresh-faced and on their first tour or dour and lined with the years of experience leading up to this one last assignment, would step in to fill the void. They called him “Sir,” and “Commander,” (at least to his face), and he called them by their rank, and life went on. So no, Scott had yet to get to know Tarisa as anything more than “that new Mithraan scientist.” They had exchanged few words outside conversation related to work. Now she was out there, attempting to recover their key to unlocking the mysteries of this place. And there was little he could do to help, except wait and hope for the best. Would she prevail and find her way back? Or was she already captured—or worse? The worry, which had begun as a complacent note of concern steadily throttling up towards hysteria was now a twisted knot in his gut. Scott thought he might be sick. Give him something broken. Give him something to be built, no matter what parts or time are available. He can do it; that was his thing. But to ask him to stand by and wait while someone else--someone he had barely taken the time to know--risked herself for them and the mission? Scott would never get used to that, not in all his years of service.
  12. “Stranded Scott vs the Staring Sensors” Scott Coleridge ---------------------------------------------------- “Stop it. “Stop it! “I told you to stop staring at me!” Scott bounded across the barren, rocky landscape until he was mere centimetres away from its mocking, ever-smiling face. Its expression, locked into that horrible rictus, reminding him of the folly of his situation. “You think this is funny, huh? Commander Scott Coleridge can’t get sensors or communications working, hmm?” The Mark XV Hostile Terrain Complete Sensor Suite did not reply. It was the strong, silent type. Scott crossed his arms, the fabric of his jumpsuit crinkling in an unseemly fashion. “Fine. Be that way. In fact …” He reached down, picked up a rock. Scored a line clearly in the soil between him and the sensor package. “This is my side. That is your side. You stay on your side. I’ll stay on my side. Happy?” Scott was not happy. His arm hurt, for one thing. He thought it might be broken, but his tricorder wasn’t working. Maybe the wrist was sprained. That, combined with his headache, fatigue, hunger, and mild dehydration, and the incredible rudeness of his companion, and he was not having a good time. He kicked at another rock. There were a lot of them. So many--Scott shook his head. No good pursuing that train of thought--he was starting to sound like the Pakleds! He could see the appeal of this place to them though. Sitting down on another rock (this one larger and with a flatter, sheared surface), Scott took a few deep breaths. He began to meditate. The “landing,” if you could call it such, was mostly a blur. His last clear memory was off watching the rest of the team recede into the distance. He remembered trying to shout something over the comm, only for his words to be reflected back in his ear along with bursts of static. The ground hurtled towards him with frightening speed. He triggered his chute, but he wasn’t oriented properly, or his arm had been in the way, or something … there was a sharp pain, a tugging, and then his arm was free and the chute deployed and his feet soon had solid ground beneath them again. He glanced over at the sensor suite. It hadn’t moved. It just stared at him. The controls on the side facing him, the ones that looked like an ersatz smile, still showed an error readout. Damaged in the landing, or maybe during the jump. Typical. Scott had no idea where the rest of the team had landed. With his suit’s communications down, he had no way to contact them or Aegean. With the sensor package inoperable, he had no way to locate them. Fortunately, he had a plan. From the utility pocket on the leg of his suit, Scott produced his mini-spanner. Shielding it from the sensor suite’s field of view, he twisted the bottom of the spanner’s grip, felt its comforting weight and the hum of its servo mechanisms. Yes, it would do nicely as a murder weapon. Scott was almost certain the sensor suite suspected nothing. The whole “my side, your side” thing hopefully threw it off, lulled it into a false sense of security. It wouldn’t expect him to make the first move, and then--BAM. Too late, it would have no time to fight back. With the sensor package disabled, Scott would tear into its guts and find the power source, then trigger a short circuit in the capacitor grounding mechanism. Forty-six point five seconds later--plenty of time to get to a safe distance--and it would overload and discharge rather violently. The resulting explosion would be enough for Aegean or the team to detect his approximate position. It would also attract the attention of anyone else out there. But at this point, Scott just wanted to be rescued. Scott hefted the spanner in his hand. It was a shame the sensor suite would have to make this noble sacrifice. But it was either this, or they would both die out here. Scott wanted to live. He squeezed the fingers of his good hand around the spanner’s gripped, stood up, and turned to face the sensor package. “Look, maybe I was a little harsh earlier. Let me apologize…”
  13. “Return” Cdr. Tandaris Admiran -------------------------------- Tandaris trained the viewer on Camelot Station as soon as it was within range. He noted, with a twinge of regret, that a familiar Akira-class vessel was docked. Had it really been nearly a year since he had last been in the Gamma Quadrant? But he was back now, the Audacity ferrying him, his new Scorpiad bestie G’jj;k, and Admiral Northway. The two Starfleet officers left the Scorpiad in confinement as they went aboard the station. Northway and Tandaris had argued for nearly a month over the plan. He claimed he was all for Tandaris and G’jj;k going along, but that “more conservative elements” of the leadership were not keen on the idea. Tandaris recognized this hedging for what it was: neither he nor the Scorpiad were trustworthy enough to be sent. Alas, Starfleet had little choice. G’jj;k would not divulge the location of the hatchery, only lead them to it. And without its knowledge of perimeter defenses, they would not be able to sneak in. Tandaris--well, he wasn’t quite as essential, but G’jj;k refused to go unless Tandaris would accompany it. And his ship memories could perhaps be useful to the mission. It was crazy, what Tandaris had proposed. Steal a baby Scorpiad ship? Tandaris still had bad dreams about the time he and Marius tr’Lorin had been abducted by a Scorpiad shuttle they had … er … Tandaris had acquired Scorpiad ships had minds of their own--Tandaris of all people knew that now--and would not easily be stolen. There was a way, though. As a ship captain, G’jj;k had learned certain methods of taming a newborn ship and letting it imprint on new commanders. If they could infiltrate the hatchery, steal an egg about ready to be hatched, and hatch it themselves, then Starfleet would have its very own Scorpiad ship. The people Northway reported to--Tandaris doubted many of them were admirals, or even in Starfleet--were salivating over this prospect. It surprised Tandaris that G’jj;k was on board with this plan. “You realize,” he asked it one day, the feeds again “malfunctioning” while they conversed in private, “that even if we succeed with our plan and you escape, Starfleet still has a ship? Not a tame ship like they would like, but a ship nonetheless?” “Irrelevant.” It almost sounded like an insult. “One ship, an infant, is not going to help you bring my empire to its knees.” It also seemed undaunted by its long absence from the empire. This time, in a session with Northway, Tandaris asked, “You’ve been away for centuries. How do you know this hatchery is still there, or that you can get us past the defenses?” “Your ponderous questioning grows irksome. Clearly your memories of our time together have taught you little about my people. We do not abandon hatcheries lightly. The conditions required--stellar density, solar wind velocity, ambient temperature--are quite constraining. It will be there. And its defenses will be as they always were. Not even the Dominion managed to penetrate into a hatchery.” It had taken weeks, but eventually Northway had given the go-ahead. And so now they were back in the Gamma Quadrant, having one last meeting before embarking. As they walked through the corridors of the station, Northway briefed Tandaris on the political situation for the past year. He mentioned the upheaval among the Vorta upon learning that the Founders weren’t on sabbatical but actually gone. With the Dominion leadership so weakened, some worlds were beginning to chafe beneath the Jem’Hadar-enforced yolk. “And something,” Northway added, “has the Scorpiads worried.” “Oh?” “They’ve requested a meeting. Not just them--the Al-Ucard and the Eratians too. Highest level. And they specifically requested that Excalibur conduct the meeting.” “I see. Well, best of luck to them.” They stopped outside a meeting room door. “You’ll be joining them.” Tandaris blinked. “What? But the mission--” “It’s the perfect cover and the perfect opportunity. The meeting place is just inside Scorpiad space, within light-years of the hatchery if our information is accurate. And you know most of the crew of Excalibur already; you know what they can do. While the ship and some of the crew stay for the talks, you will take a smaller team to infiltrate the hatchery.” Mixed emotions flooded Tandaris. He had left Excalibur abruptly, hadn’t really even said goodbye to most people. It would be good to go back. Yet at the same time, how could he, knowing he planned to betray them all and help G’jj;k escape, at the cost of lives? “One more thing,” Northway said as they entered the room. “The Scorpiads didn’t just request Excalibur; they were very particular about who they wanted to conduct the talks.” The room was not empty. Rather, a familiar figure stood with his back to the entrance, staring out the window at the starfield beyond. His long, white hair cascaded down his shoulders. He wore a Starfleet uniform that was too new, that fit too perfectly, and he wore it with a mixture of confidence and second thoughts. Tandaris recognized that feeling, just as surely as he recognized Ah-Windu Corizon. Corizon deigned to turn around, his eyes briefly lighting up as he saw Tandaris, a small smirk creeping across his face. "Ah, Mister Admiran. Good to see I'm not the only one whose retirement was cut short." The End
  14. “Intelligence” Cdr. Tandaris Admiran -------------------------------- “OK, Greg, let me see if I have this right.” Once again, Tandaris read back his notes to the hulking, arachnoid creature in the specially-constructed room on the unlisted starbase that was their prison. G’jj;k bristled--as much as a being with an exoskeletal carapace instead of fur could bristle--whenever Tandaris used the Anglicized moniker, but there was little the captive Scorpiad could do about it. “That is correct,” G’jj;k gave its assent. This had been their working relationship for the past six months. The Audacity had delivered its payload to this base, then Tandaris had bid goodbye to Abrams and her team in a not-so-teary farewell. Scientists poked and prodded G’jj;k to the very limits of its tolerance, but then they left it unharassed. Instead, Starfleet Intelligence seemed happy to let Tandaris handle the Scorpiad, in return for a steady stream of information. It was not easy, even with their little arrangement. G’jj;k was centuries out of date. It had no idea what the current structure of the Scorpiad Empire was like. When Tandaris had recounted the Federation’s contact with the Dominion and the subsequent quadrant-spanning war, it had scoffed at the idea that the Dominion could ever have grown so powerful. “They captured you,” Tandaris pointed out. That, the Scorpiad claimed, had been a tactical error on its part--the last it intended to make. Tandaris was no fool. He could see the way G’jj;k’s eyes scanned every detail of every bulkhead, looking for a way out. If it could find one, it would take it, regardless of its deal with Tandaris. Honour was a concept that existed for the Scorpiad, but it was a different concept. And memories of a ship or no, Tandaris understood he didn’t rate too highly in G’jj;k’s priorities. So for months, bit by bit, Tandaris gleaned as much knowledge as he could. He learned more about the Dominion base at where G’jj;k had been imprisoned. Together, they reconstructed basic schematics for some of the more simple Scorpiad ships and handheld weapons--in all these centuries, Scorpiad technology had not changed all that much. G’jj;k must not have thought the Federation such a threat if it was willing to hand this over to them. Its arrogance was astounding, would have been laughable in a being any smaller or any less imposing. But it was a Monday when G’jj;k dropped the ultimate bombshell. Tandaris could almost feel the bored ensign listening to the monitoring feed sit straight, suddenly alert. They weren’t even discussing any specific intelligence. Tandaris had, as was his habit, taken a break to ask G’jj;k some questions about their time together as captain and ship. The Scorpiad could fill the gaps in his memory and sharpen recollections that had been dulled by so much time limited to a single body of flesh. And during one of these conversations, G’jj;k casually remarked, “I was there when you were hatched. You were magnificent: the newest, sleekest of your kind.” “Did you just say you were there when I was hatched?” “Yes.” “Scorpiad ships are … hatched?” “How else would you construct an organic ship?” Well, when you put it that way. For the next hour and a half, G’jj;k described in detail the birthing process. Leptertus technicians harvest the genetic material from up to a dozen parent vessels, tweaking the DNA cocktail until they have arrived at the combination of strength, stealth, intelligence, and all the other factors they desired. The DNA was injected in an egg, which was then incubated on a moon specially designated as a hatchery. Along with hundreds of its siblings, the egg would grow larger and larger, until finally it was ready to be detached from the moon and towed into space. From there, it would naturally hatch over the course of several days, the warp limbs and weapons struts of the new vessel emerging gradually from the shell. “Greg …” said Tandaris, his voice unusually strained, “I don’t suppose you would happen to know where such a hatchery might be?” “Of course!” With those two words, Tandaris knew that somewhere in the depths of Starfleet Intelligence’s arcane bureaucracy, wheels of procedure had begun to spin faster than ever. And he was about to get his chance … his chance to do what, precisely, he still wasn’t sure.
  15. “Introductions” Cdr. Tandaris Admiran -------------------------------- The forcefield hummed at its particular frequency, the invisible barrier the only thing keeping the Scorpiad from lashing out and destroying both Tandaris and the marine posted as a guard. He didn’t argue when Tandaris ordered him out—he’s a good marine, trained to follow orders. Even unwise ones. The Scorpiad did not move the entire time Tandaris was with the guard, but once alone, it approached the forcefield. It raised a single limb in a way reminiscient of a benediction, but Tandaris recognized it for what it was: a challenge. Before Tandaris made any overture, he went to the control console. Disabling the security feeds was child’s play. Thus secured against eavesdropping, he turned back to the Scorpiad. “I know you can understand me, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t speak in scents and whispers,” Tandaris said. “I recognize you. What I want to know is if you recognize me.” A minute passed before the Scorpiad gave any indication it was going to reply. Finally, it said, “In the battle, your noises reminded me of something I knew once, long ago. But it’s not possible.” “Oh, it’s possible. More than that … it’s true.” Tandaris stepped closer, the forcefield just in front of his face now. And he added a single word, one difficult for a humanoid mouth to reproduce, but it comes from the effortless recall of memory, of identity. If it is possible for a Scorpiad to be surprised, then this one shows it. “I don’t believe you.” “I—it—was damaged. Centuries after you were captured. Another captain, a new crew. They died. It was dying. There are new powers at work in this quadrant. One of them found it, investigated—that’s what they do, they call it exploration but they are just as imperialist as us, as you, just nicer about it. Me, this individual, I was part of that team.” Tandaris pointed to his abdomen. “I have a symbiont, a creature with whom I share my body and my mind. It has memories of all its previous hosts. Somehow, when I began interacting with the ship’s systems, it discovered it could download its memories into my symbiont. “I remember everything. Meeting you. Feeling your mind through the link only captains have. Learning your habits. The battles. The hunts. The victory at Tervanian Prime.” Tandaris’ voice has taken on a steely edge, and his eyes seemed light-years away now. “You were my first captain.” “I still don’t understand.” “Then listen.” Hours passed as Tandaris began to tell his story. He started from the beginning, compressing decades into minutes as he described the history that he and the Scorpiad shared, establishing his identity beyond any shadow of doubt. Then he continued past their separation, bringing his captain up to speed on Gamma Quadrant history and recent events. “So I will remain a prisoner, and you are my jailor.” “In a sense,” Tandaris said. “But view it as an opportunity. At least you are no longer in stasis. In time, the Federation might decide to trade you for something it wants from the empire. Until then, you will be treated—we are soft in that way. They want whatever information you can provide.” “But if I say nothing, I will not be tortured?” “No. Although I should warn you, many will argue that you’re a security risk as it is. Already the commander of this vessel wants to terminate you. I am the only thing standing in her way.” “Ah, so this is the reason you are here. You want to impress upon me my dependence on you.” Tandaris shrugged. “I’m your ship. But I’m also not. I want—need—to learn from you, to better understand what’s happened to me. Beyond that, I don’t care what happens to you.” “I see. And what, exactly, will you do for me if I agree to cooperate?” Tandaris smiled. This was why he had disabled the security feeds. “Why, I will help you escape, of course.” “You would side with your former captain over your loyalty to these people?” “These people view me as almost as big a security risk as they view you. This condition, through no fault of my own, has made me unreliable. Suspect. And they have treated me unfairly as a result. I owe you nothing … and I owe them nothing. You have your cage. I have mine.” He pointed at the Starfleet insignia on his chest. The Scorpiad indicated its understanding by crossing its two uppermost limbs. “Very well. For the times we shared together, I will accept your proposal. But if you cross me, I will cut you down before you have time to second-guess your mistake.” “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m Admiran. Tandaris Admiran.” Tandaris knew the Scorpiad’s full name already, of course. The pattern of its owner’s mind was seared on his memory. But for humanoid mouths, the closest transcription was something like G’jj;k. And herein lay Tandaris’ advantage. After years together, Tandaris knew how G’jj;k thought, how it schemed and reasoned and acted. Admiran’s other memories, the blending of hosts, meant that Tandaris would remain largely a cipher to G’jj;k, unpredictable and erratic even though he was in other ways familiar. “Tell your commander that I will cooperate, provided you are my liaison.” And just like that, for the first time in a long time, Tandaris did not feel quite so alone.