ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/Archives/963

Internet Message Format | 1995-05-16 | 38KB

Path: usenet.ee.pdx.edu!cs.uoregon.edu!reuter.cse.ogi.edu!uwm.edu!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!gatech!news.sprintlink.net!uunet!not-for-mail
From: [e-mail] (james vassilakos)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: STORY: ST-PBeM Turn #34 - Running Scared
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: 15 May 1995 13:43:44 -0400
Organization: University of California, Riverside (Dept. of CS)
Lines: 769
Sender: [e-mail]
Approved: [e-mail]
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <3p83sg$[e-mail]>
NNTP-Posting-Host: rodan.uu.net

*******************************************************************************
                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #34
                                Running Scared
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
*******************************************************************************


  Cast & Crew
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  ST-PBeM GameMaster       Jim Vassilakos      [e-mail]
  Lt. T'lar                Ronnie Simonds      [e-mail]
  Lt. Morchainte           Brian Chrisman      [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. Duran          Tony Hayes          [e-mail]
  Lt. St. James            John Brengman       [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. de la Sangre   Carlos Jensen       [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. Hawkins        Tony Hayes          [e-mail]
  2nd Lt. Xelha            Dave Shue           [e-mail]
  Dr. Bannister            Jason Stripinis     [e-mail]
  Lt. K'tar                Steve Mays          [e-mail]
  Lt. Soroc                Jeff Ellis          [e-mail]


Stardate 6003.28 at 1120 Hours: USS Phobos, Main Engineering
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"That'll do her," Hawkins grins. "I'd say that's 'bout a good a first estimate
as we're gonna git. Now all we have to do is wait for the sims to finish an'
the computer to make the final adjustments."

"Yeah, and after that, just plug in the new geometry and away we go. How long
do you think it'll take the computer to fine tune the numbers?"

"A coupla hours at least." Hawk stretches and hustles up yet another cup of
coffee, getting some more for Woods on the way.

She smiles at the unexpected refill. "You trying to tell me something, Chief?"

"Who me?" He grins before regrouping with Blacksmith. "I'm gonna go ta the
bridge an' hang out for a bit. See what's what. Call me if ya need me."

"Will do."

Hawkins heads off to the bridge. About half way there he stops, cocks his head
to one side then drops to his knees, planting his hand firmly on the deck
plates, much to the bewilderment of the passers-by. "Damn, damn, damn," he
curses as he runs to a comm-port, "Hawkins ta engineering!"

"Woods here, we know, Chief, we're taking the mains off-line."

"How long?"

"Thirty minutes, an hour at most."

"I'll tell the bossman. Then I'll be down. Hawkins out."

Hawkins enters the bridge and braces himself for the barrage of questions, "Why
are the mains off-line? When will they be back? What was the problem? Is there
any danger?" Etc... etc...

"Ok, listen up! There is no danger. This is jus' the first time the engines
have been up ta normal power since the repairs started. All we had was a minor
warp misalignment between the port and starboard nacelles. We'll have 'em back
online inside of two hours."

Pacal looks completely unconvinced. "Isn't there a danger of the ship being
damaged or destroyed by the shear forces generated when the two warp drives are
misaligned?"

Hawkins grins, "You know far too much about engineerin' for a navigator! Yeah,
that's why we dropped outta warp so quick. This is normal for shake down
cruises. It's no big deal, an' we'll be back online afor ya know it." With that
he makes for the turbolift, avoiding the follow-up questions that he knows he
could spend the next hour answering if he were so inclined.


Stardate 6003.28 at 1200 Hours: USS Phobos, Bridge
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vince stays in his center seat, even though the ship isn't going anywhere. He
prefers it to the chair in his office. It has the sort of regal coziness one
only finds in seats of authority. But at the same time, it feels strangely
imposing, even to him, as through the responsibility which the chair symbolizes
is ill-accustomed to the man sitting in it, and vice-versa. He stares about,
listening to Ensign Trozena give the play-by-play account of the repair efforts
in engineering. Tsandzia, meanwhile, perches on her seat at the science
console, trying on her new seat belt, strapping it and unstrapping it in
continuous succession hoping to find the perfect position where the belt
doesn't interfere with that green goop's permanent place of residence on her
shoulder. Finally, Trozena stops mid-sentence and looks back over his shoulder.

"Sir, priority one communique from Albuquerque Station."

"In my office," Vince gets up and enters his office, switching on the desk
console. Considering that they're less than a light year from port, he imagines
that Ash could have made the transmission an instantaneous one via omega-waves.
Instead he chose to use normal subspace, resulting in a delay of nearly a half
hour. Probably just another measure to not draw any undue attention. Vince hits
the play button, the aged commodore's face appearing a moment later.

"About that incident on the border, apparently the Typhoon was _attacked_ by
one of the Romulan vessels when Captain Jacobson insisted upon escorting them
into neutral space. He returned fire... as did the other Romulan vessel." He
pauses, allowing the notion of one Romulan ship firing upon another to sink in.
Such behavior is expected of Klingons, but not of Romulans. It contradicts
everything Star Fleet knows about the species. "The Romulan ship which provoked
the attack was apparently destroyed. Of course, I say 'apparently' because I
have my doubts that the entire skirmish wasn't staged so that the instigating
vessel could return to our space. It seems that the explosion may have been
just enough to create a temporary white-out for purposes of encloaking. There
was not enough mass in the remaining debris to indicate that an entire warbird
had, in fact, been destroyed. The Excalibur is currently at the scene of the
conflict, searching for evidence to back our theories as to what actually
happened there. Meanwhile, the Typhoon has proceeded into the triangle with the
remaining Romulan vessel. What this means, Vince, is that there may very well
be a Romulan warbird out there less than a single light year from your current
position. Just thought you'd like to know."

Vince takes a gulp of stale starship-air as Ash's face fades from the monitor.
A moment later, he's back on the bridge, nervously eyeing the profile of his
first officer.

"Lt. Cmdr. tr'Remas, may I have a word with you in my office? It is rather
urgent."

Oein enters the office, which has been entirely cleared of boxes over the night
shift. Though several swivel-chairs are scattered about, Oein seems to prefer
standing, uncertain of what's to be required of him.

Vince calls the romulan's service record to his desk-monitor. "Do you know
there has been an altercation near the border, involving two of your ships and
the USS Typhoon?"

"Two of _my_ ships, sir?"

"Two Romulan ships. The two warbirds which had 'inadvertently' found their way
into Federation space... 'accidentally' depositing that team of chameleon
assassins at the station.

Oein holds his expression constant. "What sort of altercation?"

"The USS Typhoon was attacked. Ash feels that one of the warbirds may be back
in Federation space. Within a single light year of our current position, Oein.
You know what that means, don't you?"

"I know exactly what it means, sir. What I don't understand is the accusatorial
tone in your voice."

Vince sighs. "Look, Oein. What I'm getting at is that I need to know on who's
side your loyalties are. If we get in trouble with a Romulan craft, for
example, will I be able to trust you, and more importantly, should I trust you?

"I understand your concerns, Captain. But I would remind you that you yourself
invited me on this expedition. If you did not trust me then, than I see no
reason why you should have done so."

"I got this latest news just this minute, Oein. I was not actually expecting
that we might have to face Romulans in battle. But now that I am..." Vince
takes a deep breath. "It's nothing personal, you see. I'd have the same
questions about that klingon, if we had gotten into a conflict with his kind,
but with this Typhoon incident, your loyalties have become more important than
ever. Do you have anything to say that may help me make up my mind?"

"I would remind you that Captain LeBonk offered me command of this expedition."

"And you turned her down."

"I did not feel it proper for her to make the offer. But that is not to say
that I would not have accepted had the Commodore made me the same offer."

"Perhaps he doesn't trust you."

"Were that the case, he would not have allowed me aboard in the first place.
The fact is, _Captain_, that he does trust me, as does Captain LeBonk, and not
just in a general way... but with this expedition in particular. I was put on
this vessel not in spite of the fact that we might face Romulan WarBirds in
battle... but because of it. If that does not _change_ your mind, I honestly
don't know what will."

Vince sighs, detecting an undercurrent of hostility in Oein's voice. "Ah, but
with this latest news, would they have lent you the same trust? I understand
your point. I myself wanted you aboard because I thought we might have to dodge
a few Romulan ships, but now..." Vince shakes his head. "It's nothing personal.
You are, after all, my First Officer, and as you say, you had the option to
take command of this mission. I, personally, would like to trust you, and I
would if it was up to me. But I am responsible for the lives and well-being of
the rest of the crew, and there is no room for my personal opinions. Do you
understand me Oein?"

"I understand you better than you think, Captain. But you must understand this.
I did not agree to accompany this expedition in order to wage battle against my
own kin. I came, at Ambassador Sarin's bequest, to prevent that from happening,
not only for today, but in the years to come. If you question my motives, then
question them no longer, for those, sir, are my motives, and I will not waver
from them in the slightest."

"I do not question your motives for joining us, nor the fact that you would not
harm the ambassador. I am fully aware of that. The thing is that if anything
happens to me, you will become the acting-captain, and _you_ will be
responsible for carrying out our mission. Would you be able to lead this ship
in battle against your own kin, Oein?"

Oein stands blank-faced for a moment as he absorbs the notion, and for that
moment he is unable to think, much less speak. Finally, he takes a deep breath.
"That, Captain, is my greatest fear."

"So I figured, but that doesn't answer my question. If it comes down to a
military confrontation, are you ready?"

"I am a Star Fleet officer. I have sworn allegiance to the United Federation of
Planets."

"Yes, just as you were a career officer in the Romulan Star Navy, and just as
you pledged your allegiance to them. Now answer the question. Are you ready?
Yes or no."

Oein takes a slow draw of air, as though working through some horrendous mental
block. "I am ready," he finally states. "If I must fight, then I shall. But
with more reluctance than any warrior of any war."

"Good. That's what I wanted to hear. I know it is tough for you, Oein, but I
hope you understand that the question had to be asked. I will have to think
about the situation for a while, and let's all pray that we avoid trouble. That
will be all."

Vince leans back in his chair, a million thoughts swirling around in his head
as the door hisses shut behind the departing romulan. Oein has proven himself a
fine officer, or so his record would indicate, but against his own kin? Vince
tries to imagine what it would be like if their roles where reversed, but with
a shudder he gives up. "I should have kept that cushy job back on the Graz."
With a sigh, he gets up and heads toward engineering and Lt. Cmdr. Hawkins.


Stardate 6003.28 at 1230 Hours: USS Phobos, Computer Core
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Typing steadily on his keyboard various erudite particles of code, Tyran almost
doesn't notice when the watchdog flag pops up. He regards it with a curious
stare. "Say warning on watchdog."

"Job 2816 has been running for ten hours."

Tyran hits a few keys, bringing up the job's stats. "Owner... a Lt. Soroc.
Title... 3d chess simulation?" Tyran takes a deep breath, hitting a key which
okays the job. Meanwhile, only three meters from his desk, Soroc's program
continues to chug away inside the bowels of the Phobos' main computer,
searching the userfile for easily guessable passwords. Soroc checks the results
so far from the security of his quarters.

   Ensign Blacksmith, password = WarpRules
   Crewman Ekstrom, password = 123456
   Lt. Khemsa, password = Nienna
   Crewman Kreis, password = qwerty
   Lt. Tsandzia arul Morchiante, password = blobby
   Crewman Katsuko Shiomi, password = Reginald

The vulcan's eyes narrow, scanning this list of names. Lt. Khemsa is there.
After the way he smart-mouthed St. James while dripping with a towel around his
waist (the story is fast becoming a legend among the security staffers), Soroc
wonders how she could have the idiocy to make that andorian her #2. Probably
because he's loud and pushy. Soroc types a few more keys, realizing that what
it takes to get ahead on the Phobos is to be a non-Vulcan... like T'lar for
instance. Now there's a sell-out if he ever saw one. Yet is it selling out, or
is she simply taking the most logical route in a human-dominated society? Soroc
hits a few more keys, directing his second program into action from the
relative safety of Shiomi's account. His second program, so lovingly
crafted. Yes, lovingly. He loves that program more than life itself, for it
represents all that he has learned, and hence all that he is. A most logical
love, it would seem, and a most diabolical program, all-intrusive in its gaze.

As it chugs away, he thinks back to T'lar. Her displays of emotion seem to have
gotten far worse since he first served with her many years ago. He wonders what
must have unhinged her. A lack of understanding of what she is? Has she been so
long away from Vulcan that she's forgotten what it means to be vulcan? Perhaps
she has simply forgotten the dangers of emotion. The self-destructiveness of
it. The wasted mental energy. And the counter-productive in-fighting which it
entails. In-fighting. Much akin to what he is doing now.

Ten slender fingers pause above the keyboard as Soroc ponders the question his
sense of self-criticism has just raised. Then, a moment later, they resume
typing, as though the question had never existed at all. No, logic never
stopped in-fighting. Not really. It merely lent it more intricate forms. It
lent the warrior a shape, a purpose, and above all else, a rationale. A reason
aside from the mere desire for revenge. Aside from the lust of blood that runs
in every Vulcan's veins. Aside from the putrid stride of hate, and aside from
all that emotion dictates.

No, it was not the in-fighting itself that was anti-logical. It was its
mindlessness. That is was Surak had renounced as the heart of barbarism. The
mindlessness which threatened the entire vulcan race with the prospect of
mutual extinction. But the fighting had never really ended. It had merely
changed its form to something more acceptable, and just as often, more
clandestine. To fight in any other manner would have been illogical.

But so too is it illogical not to protect oneself. So too is it illogical to
trust in the providence of divine fate (as humans might call it). And what is
most illogical, even stupid, is to be given the opportunity to infiltrate an
entire computer system, and then to choose not to do it, whether due to fear or
loyalty or even respect for one's fellow sophonts. None of those emotions will
carry a person very far in Star Fleet, so what is the use in their pretense?

Soroc can't manage to suppress a blink as the console beeps at him, displaying
several lines of information. Very important and very useful information. Those
idiots. They have a hole leading directly to root. Soroc actually smiles,
though it is only a small smile, and one which he would never admit to. He
begins to analyze the process in more detail.

It seems that somebody in systems management has imported a rather lesser-known
virtual text editor by the name of Cuckoo. Though freeware, it actually appears
to be a most interesting program, capable of sophisticated formatting
techniques as well as diction- and punctuation-correction to a level bordering
on artificial intelligence. Numerous languages and localized dialects are
supported, as well as various styles for each, and a high-level program manager
is even incorporated, allowing the user to swap sections of code, restylize,
and even convert between various popular algorithmic languages. And to top it
all off is a mailer. Oh, but what a beautiful piece of work is the mailer. Not
only does it send files from one user to another, quickly, easily, and with
unfathomable certainty, but it doesn't even bother to check for write
permissions. Soroc shakes his head, wondering what person, so technically
competent, yet so ridiculously trusting, could have come up with such a
program. No, this piece of work was probably written by a computer, at least in
part. Nobody else could be so foolish as to leave such a glaring hole. It's
almost too glaring. A trap perhaps?

Well, there's only one way to find out.

Soroc writes a program gifting Shiomi (at this one specific login) with root
powers. Of course, he cannot execute it himself. He must get root to do that
for him. A most simple matter. He sends the file to the root account via
Cuckoo's little bug, slapping it with the name of a often frequented system
daemon. A few minutes later, the computer finds the program, checks the
ownership (finding it to belong to root), and then executes it with full
superuser privileges. A mircosecond later, Soroc is root. Now his time is
limited. Who knows how often Tyran checks who is online? Once he sees that
Shiomi has elevated herself to root, the game will be over and done with, and
Soroc will likely find himself in the brig, no doubt a permanent reassignment.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, as he contemplates his next move. Copy the
"setuid root" program to some innocuous directory, and hope he isn't noticed by
the watchdog? 'Go for it,' part of him says. But it's a risk. Anything he does
is a risk. Without knowing their security protocols in intimate detail, he
can't assure himself that he won't get caught. It is not that he's afraid of
getting caught. He's simply not sure that the risk is logical. And there may be
less risky methods of achieving his goals.

He prepares an email, as root, and fires it off to Kris. If nothing else, they
will have to acknowledge his ability. It could earn him a place where he'll be
able to learn all about the ship's computer security. Perhaps, with time, he
might even control it. Soroc logs out, satisfied with his latest excursion.


Stardate 6003.28 at 1230 Hours: USS Phobos, Main Engineering
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Nice job everybody!" Hawkins complements, once the warp engines are again
purring smoothly in perfect realignment. "Hope this is the last little surprise
we have waitin' for us!"

"I'm afraid not," Vince says, stepping up the chief engineer. He glances from
side-to-side, as the various engineers wonder if they're due for an inspection.
"Is there a place we can talk? Privately?"

Hawk leads Vince into the office, "What's up... sir."

"We just got a communique from Albuquerque. Turns out that the Typhoon was
attacked on the border this morning."

"The Romulans?"

"One of them got away under cloak, or so we think. It's less than a light year
from our current position."

"They couldn't possibly know that we're carrying Sarin."

"I don't know what they know. I only know what I've been told, and what I've
been told isn't good." Vince pauses for a moment, looking out the office
window. "We're going to have to find a way to disguise the ship, just in case."

"I've already been working on it," Hawkins states, rotating the desk terminal
until it faces the captain. "We have basically three inclusive options. The
first one, which I strongly recommend, is that we modulate the engine power
emissions. That alone could make us look like a large merchant vessel on other
ships' long range scanners. We'd be effectively disguised to any sensor
platform outside of a couple light days."

Vince nods, "Sounds good. But how long will it take?"

"About twelve hours, and we'd have to drop out of warp to do it."

"And the other two?"

"Well, we could reconfigure our deflector shield grid. But, like I said, inside
of a couple light days, nobody can see that anyway. But medium range scanners
will pick it up. The only problem is that it could end up reducing our shield
efficiency by as much as 50%"

"I see," Vince sounds less enthusiastic about that idea. "What else?"

"We might want to consider installing some field baffles around the subspace
emitter coil. It'll reduce the range of exo-comm, but at least we'd be able to
send subspace signals without giving away what type of ship we are."

"Well, I think the first step is to go with plan 'A', modulating the warp
emissions. We can worry about the shields and the emitter coil after that."
Vince sighs, "The only problem is that we're in the middle of empty space. We
can't just disappear one day and pop up the next as a merchant ship. That would
be too obvious."

"We'd have to be inside a star system."

"But if we're inside a star system, we'll be under the scans of whatever ships
or bases are in the system. Unless..." Vince's lips form a thin smile,
"...unless we can somehow fake an explosion."

"Fake an explosion?" Hawkins looks mystified.

"Yes, a big explosion. The bigger the better." He hits a few keys on the
terminal, bringing up a local starmap. "Here," he points. "The Dilithium
Cracking Station at Kappa Ithilia. They ought to have a little traffic. We go
there, spit out some antimatter into an asteroid, and simultaneously crank our
engines up to warp 8 and duck into this gas giant. We can hang out, make the
necessary warp modulations, and pop out a free trader only a day later."

Hawkins shakes his head, "It could work, but it's beggin' a lot of unknowns,
Capt'n."

"Well, we'd have the get the timing right."

"Or we'd be spacedust," Hawkins notes. "There's also no assurance they wouldn't
notice this 'leap' at warp 8."

Vince shrugs, "I've worked on plenty of scanner systems. I can tell you. A
large enough blast, and the whole area would look like a blur on medium range
sensors. We call it scanner-fuzz."

"Well, maybe. But there's also the question of being able to hide in the gas
giant when our people come around to take scans."

"That shouldn't be too hard. They'll be focusing on the asteroid debris, not
the gas giant."

"True, but taking off at warp eight would leave a trail of enriched
venterium-cortenide isotopes."

"Would they notice?"

"Maybe, maybe not. They'd probably think it just an effect of the blast. But
then again, they might figure it out. We'd also have to be lucky just in terms
of exiting warp close enough to the gas giant not to be seen yet far enough
away not to end up disintegratin' in its atmosphere."

Vince bites his lip, "Well, so there's some risk involved. You have another
idea?"

"Hmm... I'm gonna have to think about this for a bit. First, let's just think
about the requirements. First of all, we want to appear to be a trader rather
than a Star Fleet Vessel. Second, we don't want to attract attention when we
make the change."

Vince grinds his teeth, "You have a wonderful grasp of the obvious."

"Bear with me. Instead of the DCS, let's go to Zeta Ithilia. It has no planets
and is under two parsecs distant. And it's a lot closer to our original course
than Kappa Ithilia which just steers us back around. We head over to Zeta, then
drop out of warp. It'll take twelve hours to make the changes. We can cruise at
impulse while we're doing the work. Then exit out the other side. What are the
odds that someone will be watching us that closely unless they have a good
reason to?"

"The Romulans will be. You can bank on that."

"Yes, but if we try to hide in a fake explosion, we're going to attract a lot
of attention. Not good. We want to just lay low. Slide in, do our thing, and
slide out. I think the odds are on our side. Anything we do to cover ourselves
is going to attract attention. If we just act like we're doing what we're
supposed to be doing instead of like we're hiding somethin', people will most
likely just ignore us!" Hawkins grins, "Even if they don't, it'll take them a
bit to figure out what's happening, and then they'll have to catch us."

Vince chews on this for a long moment. True, Zeta Ithilia has no planets, but
it having no planets means that there are probably no merchants there either.
Nobody to pretend to be when the Phobos re-enters warp. Then again, it's only
half a parsec from there to Gamma Ithilia, also known as Iovine, a nice, fat,
corporate-owned mining-colony.

"Wherever we return to warp space, we have to be in a well-travelled area.
Supposing we head toward Iovine at full impulse..."

"It's three days from Zeta," Hawkins states.

"I know. You think they'd see us coming in?"

"At sub-warp? I doubt it."

"Then that just leaves the Romulans."

"Given that they aren't tailing us too close..."

Vince snorts, "That's the big unknown. No, they must be on to us. Why else
would they return to federation space? They might not be sure we have Sarin,
but you can bet your ass they're not taking any chances on him getting away.
I'd give my last leg to be able to disappear into thin air."

"Or thin space," Hawkins smiles.

Vince chews his lower lip, turning things around in his mind. "Damned! If I
could just get my hands on one of their cloaking devices. Well, back in the
days of radar, all we'd have to do is make a bloody big aluminum balloon, and
it would be the perfect decoy." Vince sighs. "I suppose it's impossible to do
something like that to fool their scanners?"

"Hmm... a decoy. Might be possible if we had us a new high-quality warp shuttle
ta spare."

"I heard you brought one aboard."

Hawkins frowns, certain that he doesn't want to sacrifice his personal pride
and joy just to mislead some romulans who may not even be close enough to be
misled anyway. "Uh, you mean the Dixie? It's only a prototype design, sir. I
can't guarantee it would handle the stress, and our one other shuttle certainly
wouldn't last more than an hour."

"Well, couldn't you modify it or something?"

"Sure, just give me a month." Hawkins shrugs, "Sorry, I don't see any options,
but let me ponder the problem for a bit."

Vince looks at him for a long moment. "You ponder it fast, Chief. I know it's
a long shot, but it just might end up saving all our lives."

Hawkins shrugs, "Assuming that we are being followed just outside of medium
range scans, I agree. But if we are, they would have already attacked us."

"Unless they're waiting on reinforcements."

"And maybe you're just being paranoid." Hawkins shrugs and smiles, "Stresses of
command and all."

"Maybe I am. But remember. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they
aren't *really* out to get you." Vince smiles, and drops his smile just as
quickly. "No... instead of placing our faith in blind luck, let us take the
extra precaution. All we need is a small diversion. Enough to assure us that we
really are alone when we make the transition from fleet vessel to trader. If we
could just send out a shuttle on some predetermined path, making sure it looks
exactly like us on long range scans, we can drop out of warp and let the bad
guys follow the bait right past us. Then we make the transition, impulse over
to a traffic zone, and voila, re-emerge on their sensor scopes as a totally
different ship. Though the decoy would only last for about an hour, the
romulans would have no way of telling just where the switch occurred. Hell, we
could probably stay hidden for days if we stay out of warp. It's our best
chance."

Hawkins gives Vince a slight grin, "I think it will be a marginal advantage at
best, but I'll start on it right away."

"Good, then that's the plan. Let me know when everything's ready."


Stardate 6003.28 at 1300 Hours: USS Phobos, Shuttle Hanger B
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Okay, this is what the ole man wants. We're gonna take this shuttle and send
it off as a decoy. We're gonna overdrive the nacelles so it'll look like a
starship on LR scans."

Blacksmith leans against the wall of the hanger, his thick arm too preoccupied
with holding him steady to lift a power-wrench and go to work.

"What is it, Blacksmith?"

"I hate to be objectionable and all, but those nacelles can't withstand
overloading for more than an hour at best."

"I know, an' so does the man. He figgers any diversion will help. Seems
reasonable to me."

"Diversion from what?"

Hawkins' sweats for a moment, realizing that nobody in the room knows the
purpose of their mission aside from himself. "From whatever the Captain wants
diverted," he finally manages. "It's not our job to question his orders." He
looks around at the others, but Blacksmith still seems more than a tad
unconvinced. "Now what I want y'all ta do is rig it for a fixed course and set
the engines to overdrive. Then, I want y'all to get it to last at least three
hours!"

"How?" It's Shannon's turn to show resentment. "These old engines can't take
that much strain."

"I know what the books say, and I know what the specs say. I don't care. Let's
make it work! We'll start by replicating new injectors and a few other
components. We don't have time for a major refit, but if we can replace a few
key parts, we should be able to squeeze a little more out of the old girl! If
she's got it in her, I want it! Okay?"

"Okay. But I don't..."

"Now think positive! Okay. Let's git ta work."


Stardate 6003.28 at 1305 Hours: USS Phobos, Bridge
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vince enters the bridge, listening to the familiar monotone drone of the new
equipment, interrupted by only the most occasional pop and whistle to signal a
routine course correction, a micrometeoroid impact with the deflector grid, or
something even less ominous and foreboding. K'tar is there, looking rather
imperious in his warrior's sash. Tsandzia's too busy to notice, fiddling with
something at her station, perhaps an Ode to Blobby or something equally
innocuous. And Pacal is there also, manning the helm like he expects an
uninvited visitor to jump out at him from somewhere in the black of space.

"Set a new course, Mr. Xelha. Heading," Vince looks over his shoulder at the
long range scanner display, "seventy-eight port minus," he eyeballs it, "zee
thirty-something."

"Aye sir. Sir, this course does not intersect with any star..."

"I'm aware of that Mr. Xelha. We are simply heading somewhere between Gamma and
Zeta Ithilia. ETA?"

"At present velocity, forty-two hours. I'd be more precise, but localized
subspace variation is uncharted along this route. I should also warn you that
this will delay our arrival at Starbase 75." He turns around, "Sir, if I might
suggest something."

"What?"

"This course takes us toward Starbase 10. Perhaps, if there is a problem with
A/M containment, they could render assistance."

Vince sighs, wondering why his every order is being questioned. Nobody ever did
this to Drake. Or LeBonk for that matter. "Noted. Mr. Trozena, relay our new
ETA to Commander Hawkins."

Vince turns around, making sure that nobody else wants to give him a hard time.
At that moment, however, the turbolift doors open again, and Duran is standing
there is his penultimate blueness. "Captain, may I have a word with you?"

"Uh... sure, in my office."

A few moments later, Duran finds himself standing before Vince's desk, a
worried expression crossing his face as he wonders how long it'll take Kristin
to catch up. "Sir, it would seem that Lt. St. James and I are, how shall I put
it? Not working well together. Personality clash."

"Are you here to file a complaint?" Vince fidgets in his seat, wondering if the
andorian SFIC agent has terminated his chief of security.

"No, sir. I would ask that you reassign me to some other duty."

"Well, as you know, we are a tad understaffed in the security section," Vince
chews the end of a lightpen. "What did you have in mind anyway?"

"Well, as you know, I am an SFIC Agent. And I asked to come along for the
expressed purpose of keeping an eye on the Ambassador."

"Yes?" Vince wonders where all this is leading.

"I would request that you make me a Special Investigator, reporting directly to
you. My task would be to try to determine why everyone is out to do in our
beloved Ambassador."

Vince coughs, "Everyone? I thought just the Romulans. Don't tell me the
Klingons have sent assassins too."

'No, just the Federation,' Duran thinks to himself. "Well, sir. They went to an
awful lot of trouble. Three assassins for one target. Seems a bit extreme if
you ask me."

Vince grumbles, "Well, I've been wondering about that myself. But, like I said,
we are critically short of security personnel. I'm sure that given half a
chance, you and Kris can work out your differences. Perhaps a good mud-
wrestling match to relieve some frustration... followed, of course, by some
post-workout working-out." Vince grins, considering the spectacle in his mind's
eye.

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't think the lieutenant would approve. In
fact, I _know_ that she wouldn't approve. If it were with a certain deltan
commander, on the other hand..."

"Harump!"

"Oh... sorry sir." Duran smiles, knowing that the mention of certain females is
still off-limits.

"I hope this problem you have with Kris doesn't stem from any duties she may
have held you to while you were hoping to do... other things."

Duran smirks, "Believe me, sir. I did everything I'd intended to do last night.
And more."

Vince glares at him, "You're bluffing."

"Andorians _never_ bluff."

"That would no doubt explain your ineptitude at the card game this morning,"
T'lar voices from the back of the room. She steps inside as the sliding doors
close behind her. "Sir, I just wanted to let you know that Lt. St. James is
waiting outside."

"Why didn't she just come in? Everyone else does."

"I'll suggest it to her, sir." T'lar makes a tidy exit.

Duran grits his teeth after he's gone. "That's another female that hates me."

"Looks like you're just stacking them up," Vince smiles, wondering if Nien has
been added to that stack. It wouldn't surprise him in the least, considering
the way things have apparently been going for the SFIC agent. "Anyway,
regarding your request... eh... what the heck? Consider yourself relieved of
duty as a member of the security department. But if a crisis should arise... I
want you back in line, and I want you to take Kris' orders. Got it?"

"Thank you, Sir. One more thing."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"I need to be able to meet with the Ambassador and the Chameleon with no one
else present. People are more likely to open up and talk, if there is only one
person present as opposed to a group."

"Well, it's a good point, but I can't say I like it much. I'll grant you the
permission on two conditions. First, a guard is to be at the door. And second,
you are fully responsible for their security while you are with them. Even if,
for some reason, they commit suicide while in your company, I'll personally
hang you, and that's a promise. Anything else?"

"No sir. Thank you, sir." Duran grins, 'Always be polite when you are asking
for something, especially if you are getting what you asked for.' Duran exits,
passing Kris on the way out. She doesn't even acknowledge his presence,
however, preferring to examine her tactical console until he's carried away by
the turbolift to some unknown destination.

Vince is there a moment later. "Lt. K'tar, a word with you in my my office if
you don't mind."

"Aye Sir!"

"Uh, sir..." Kris turns about. "If I could speak with you for a moment..."

"He's out of your department, Kris. I'll handle it personally from here."

A moment later, the door is closed, Kris cursing that she couldn't get a word
in edgewise. She's about to storm in anyway, before she hears an "Oh my" from
the navigator.

"What have you got?" T'lar says.

"I don't know. But whatever it is, it appears to be following us."


                      _   /|        Jim Vassilakos
                      \`o_O'        [e-mail]
                        ( )         [e-mail]
                         U          Riverside, California

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------
 This Star Trek PBeM is archived on ftp.cs.pdx.edu in pub/frp/stories/startrek
 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------