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******************************************************************************* Star Trek: Play by E-Mail The Forbidden Years Campaign Write-up =============================================================================== Adventure #2 A Matter of Policy ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Turn #12 Left Turn at Albuquerque =============================================================================== Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved ******************************************************************************* Cast & Crew ---------------------------------------------------------------- ST-PBeM GameMaster Jim Vassilakos jimv@cs.ucr.edu Lt. Bellasario Alan Ward myleslee@wam.umd.edu Lt. T'lar Ronnie Simonds nicholas@wam.umd.edu 2nd Lt. Morchainte Brian Chrisman incubus@netcom.com 2nd Lt. Khemsa Tony Hayes hayes@ll.mit.edu Ensign Arloch Steve Hyatt shyatt@ra.uvic.ca Administrivia: ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Albuquerque Fueling/Repair Station: * * *** 1: Control * *********** * 2: Computer Core ******************* 3: Weapons Ring * ******* * 4: Newcomers' Plaza ***** 5: Docking Moors Alpha ******* 6: Docking Moors Beta ***** 7: Docking Moors Gamma ******* 8: Docking Moors Delta ***** 9: Docking Moors Epsilon ******* 10: Docking Moors Zeta ***** 11: Docking Moors Eta ******* 12: Docking Moors Theta *************** 13: Market Ring * ********************* * 14: Forward Engineering ***************************** 15: Engineering Hub * ********************* * 16: Aft Engineering *************** 17: Cargo 1 *********** 18: Cargo 2 ** *** ** 19: Thrusters 1: Control - Bridge, Conference Rooms, Sensors, Communications. 2: Computer Core - Computer, Officers Quarters and Mess. 3: Weapons Ring 1 - 4 Phasers, 2 Tri-torps, Attitude Thrusters, General Quarters and Mess. 4: Newcomers' Plaza - Sickbay, Brig, Transporter Rooms 1-8, Science Labs, Cargo Transporter and Drop-lifters. 5: DM Alpha - Staterooms 6: DM Beta - Staterooms, Cargo 7: DM Gamma - Maintenance and Repair Facility 8: DM Delta - Internal Hangers 9: DM Epsilon - Staterooms, Cargo 10: DM Zeta - Cargo 11: DM Eta - Cargo 12: DM Theta - Staterooms, Surreal Park. 13: Market Ring - Shops, Entertainment, Recreation, Pool, Null Courts, Surreal Park. 14: Forward Engineering - A/M Containment, Deflector Control, Tractor Beam, Capacitor Banks, Twin Flagons (Star Fleet Pub). 15: Engineering Hub - A/M Containment, 2 Phasers, 2 Tri-torps, 8 Energy Transfer Stations, Primary Reactor, Solar-Fusion Particle Charge-Reversal Processing Facility. 16: Aft Engineering - A/M Containment, Life support, Fabrication Services, General Maintenance Shop, Robotics Lab. 17: Cargo 1 18: Cargo 2 19: Thrusters - Primary Sublight Thrusters 1.87 million cubic meters displacement. 269 meters in overall height. 163 meters maximum diameter. Each of the 19 rings is composed of five separate decks. Guarded by two Halifax class defense-boats, the Spiten and the Graz. Senior Crew: Commodore David Ash Station Commander Captain Tanar Witika (Joridian) Chief of Staff Commander Irma Blacharski Engineering Lt. Cmdr. Emilio Toquero Medical Lt. Cmdr. Gthizt (Kaferian) Sciences Lt. Cmdr. Lorraine McReynolds Port Inspector Lt. Istari Melisanoth (Cygnian) Computer SysAdmin Commander Dale Silverman Captain, USS Spiten Commander Oliver Drake Captain, USS Graz Stardate 6003.18 at 1415 hours: USS Excalibur, Bridge ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lt. Khemsa enters the bridge. As expected, Bellasario is there at his station, just as Dr. O'Neil had predicted. The security chief desperately tries to maintain posture and a straight face, but Khemsa can see him gritting his teeth between breaths, a sign of obvious pain. The Andorian smiles wickedly as he slaps Gunner on the back, "Chief, it is good to see you back in action!! How are you feeling?" "Never been better." Gunner grits his teeth and smiles. "Never been better." He certainly does not let on to the senior staff that he is experiencing any pain lest he end up back under the watchful eye of that vulture, O'Neil. "I suppose the good doctor sent you to tell me that my four hours are up?" "Four hours and one minute. Take a hike, sir. Doctor's orders." Gunner enters the turbolift and departs the bridge. Once it is between decks he lets out a scream of agony!! Though the sound echoes through the turbolift shaft, Gunner hopes he's escaped with his tough as nails reputation intact. Stardate 6003.19 at 2100 hours: USS Excalibur, Ten Forward ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gomez, Sha, and Khemsa look about as unremarkable as any trio situated in Ten- Forward: a human, a cheronian, and an andorian, all huddled around their table with a virtual poker deck lit upon its surface. "All I'm saying is that she might as well take a guest cabin if she's gonna be working here. I mean, I get sick and tired dropping out of warp every time she decides to go back and forth. Y'know?" Gomez smiles, "Raise you twenty." "You might want to bring the subject up with the quartermaster," Khemsa offers. Sha shakes his head, colored snow white on one half and oily black on the other. "And fill out a catalog of forms? She's gonna be here for what... another week?" "However long it takes up to reach Albuquerque," Gomez offers. "She can borrow the ambassadorial lounge. Nobody's using it." Khemsa shakes his head, "Not a good idea." "Why not?" "Raise you another twenty," Gomez interjects. "Because... the ambassadorial lounge is for the Captain's guests only." Khemsa draws the Andorian Crystal Stiletto (also known as a Rainbow Dagger), which he keeps strapped to his right forearm. The stiletto, composed of a crystalline mineral much like diamond is entirely non-metallic. Hence, it generally refuses to register on most weapon detection systems. As he stirs his drink with it, a sparkling rainbow of colors refract through the clear crystal, dancing across the table. "My guess is you are too... interested... in Lt. Morchainte." "I'm just trying to be efficient." "Another forty," Gomez decides. "You're bluffing." "Maybe I just feel lucky. Is anybody gonna call me, or do we get to go around again?" Suddenly, from the corner of the room, the three security officers hear a loud cheer as one crewman in an engineer's jersey jumps on top of the bar counter and begins dancing a "strip-tango" along its surface. "Quick, call or fold." Khemsa doesn't stick around to see how the game turns out, however, instead rushing toward the bar and tackling the half-naked crewman to the floor. Another cheer rises as a struggle ensues, and in another moment, Sha and Gomez are there backing him up. "Christ... his breath smells like the inside of a petrol drum!" "Jus wanna dance, guyz!" The trip to the brig is a short one, with people clearing out of the way as a half-naked guy is carried, drooling and slurring, to the nearest turbolift. A quick scan of his glass indicated a mixture of vodka and gargle-blaster, a bit too little of the former and definitely too much of the latter. "Who put you up to this?" "Hee hee... soowiiing batter." By the time they get him behind a force-field, a bunch of his buddies in engineering have arrived, a semi-snickering, semi-subdued pack of off-duty rowdies. "He'll be fine, won't he?" "Who are you," Khemsa inquires. "Gardner. Warrant Officer. I'm more or less responsible." Sha nods, "He should be okay after we pump his blood though a filter." Gardner sighs, apparently relieved. "I... uh... I tried to talk him out of it." "Yeah, tell it to the judge," Gomez advises with a smirk. "Cum'ere kitty-kitty-kitty." "No, Steev. There's no cat. Steev. Steev!" "Ho, Gardner... didja hear 'em cheer? Wasn't I great up there?" "No, Steev. You forgot the most important thing." "What's that?" "You forgot... it takes two to tango." Steev goes back to enticing the invisible kitty which only he can see. Sometime later, from a dream perhaps, Khemsa thinks he remembers a distinct "meow" but discounts it as effects from the gargle-blaster fumes. As for Steev, he recovers quite well, but remembers nothing save for the image of the white kitten, its green eyes frightened and confused. Stardate 6003.20 at 1700 hours: USS Excalibur, Sickbay ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sneaking into sickbay while O'Neil is off-duty strikes Gunner as a stroke of genius. He's had enough of lying awake in bed, unable to sleep due to the pain in his chest. And as long as Iris in on-duty... "Here are the pain killers. Let me just note it in the logs h..." "Did anyone ever tell you that you have very beautiful eyes, Iris. They sort of bring a sparkle to the dull fluorescence in this place." She looks up, her drab grey eyes falling in and out of focus. "What?!" "Your eyes!! Now don't be modest. I'm sure all your gentlemen friends complement you on your eyes." "No, actually, you are the first." "That really is a surprise, now! You know, they were the first things I noticed about you when we first met. They just lightened up the room!" "Thanks... I guess." "See you around crewmen, and I know with eyes like that, I'll definitely see you first." Gunner does his best T'lar impersonation, raising his eyebrows as he makes a hasty departure from sickbay. With luck, he hopes, she'll have totally forgotten to log the prescription, and Dr. O'Neil will be no more the wiser. Stardate 6003.26 at 1130 hours: USS Excalibur, Bridge ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Some six days later, the Excalibur finds itself fast approaching its destination. "USS Excalibur, NCC-2200, calling Albuquerque Station. Please come in Albuquerque." "Excellent time, Excalibur. You're more than six hours ahead of schedule." Bellasario smiles, pushing out his chest with only the most mild discomfort, "We do our best, Albuquerque. Requesting permission for tri-corner docking pattern." "Granted. Oh, and tell the Phobos... welcome home." Stardate 6003.26 at 1200 hours: Albuquerque Station, Newcomers' Plaza ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Albuquerque Station is a bustle of activity and racial diversity. Just in Newcomers' Plaza, Gunner sees more non-humans than he can shake a stick at, most of them Federation members, but many are from across the neutral zone, including a pair of the nearly extinct Gothmogs (a race which, according to current rumors, the Federation is helping to extinguish). Gunner finds it hard to believe that two such creatures could be walking about so brazenly aboard the Star Fleet Station. For all anybody knows, they could be terrorists seeking to avenge their race. As he begins making his way toward them for a closer look, he spies T'lar and Tsandzia pressing toward him through the crowd. "I see you're feeling better, Lieutenant." T'lar jibes, straight-faced and proper. "Where did you get that?" Gunner stares at the blob of green goop of Tsandzia's shoulder. "Oh, he's my new friend." "He?" "She, it... whatever." Bellasario winces, taking a gulp to swallow his pride. "Ah... lieutenants, I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude for helping us through our ordeal with the Borg. I'm only sorry I couldn't have been of more help myself. You served well, though, going well beyond the bounds of your positions to assure the safety of the crew of the Phobos. I appreciate your efforts." Over-rehearsed, T'lar thinks to herself, mentally adding 'bad acting' to Bellasario's list of accomplishments. Either that, or he has his mind on something else at the moment. She looks over her shoulder, in the direction of his stare. The Gothmogs are plainly visible, 'spineless Klingons' some call them for their lack of a head-crest, though 'crossbreeds' or 'fusions' could be a more correct term. The term 'Gothmog' was originally a Klingon word referring collectively to the Klingo-fusion species. They were used extensively as battle-thralls, combat slave, by the Klingons in their various wars against alien nations, most notably the Federation and the Romulan Star Empire. However, with the wars now over, and with the race on the verge of extinction due to Klingon policies toward cleansing the empire of these dishonorable relics of the past, the Gothmogs have as much legal right to wander about unchecked as any member of at least a dozen other species. The Federation isn't at odds with them currently, unless one counts aiding the Klingons in their extinction along their neutral zone, and even that only applies to groups operating as pirates, not to individuals wandering around like tourists. Why these two are here, however, sticking out like a pair of sore-thumbs, is beyond T'lar's imagination. Tourists, indeed. "What do you make of those two," Gunner inquires. T'Lar studies them openly, "They appear to be gothmogs, Lieutenant." "Very astute, T'lar." Gunner bites his upper lip until it bleeds for being so stupid as to open himself up for that one. This is a Vulcan he's talking to, after all. "Would you care to speculate what they are doing at this particular facility. Not their usual stomping grounds." He looks over at Tsandzia with a look that could kill, hopefully stifling any similarly *witty* comeback she might devise. "Any ideas Tsandzia??" She shrugs, "They're probably just traders passing through." She wonders. Considering how close these two are to Romulan space, it seems not so surprising that they are klingon-romulan fusions, not the more common klingon-human variety. Their ancestors were genetically designed to kill and enslave romulans, not humans. Of course, the fact that they were designed to kill and enslave any race turns Tsandzia's stomach. They could be renegades, though Tsandzia doesn't bother to mention the obvious thought. Even though the Klingon Empire has signed innumerable peace treaties with the Federation over the past several decades, seeing a pair such as this at a Federation outpost is strange indeed. They could be here for any reason. Tsandzia imagines that plain-clothes security people are probably close-by, watching their every move. "Pay them no mind," she finally decides. T'lar nods in concurrence, "If you feel reason to be suspicious, sir, I could go ask one politely if I might perform a mind meld to determine if he's planning to blow up the station." "No such tactics are necessary," Gunner intones in a harsh whisper. "I simply find it unusual to see them here. That's all, Lieutenant. Call it my paranoid instincts, but it's not every day Gothmogs show up in Federation space. Even now, they don't exactly harbor warm feelings toward us after we nearly wiped them out as a race." "They would have done the same to us, given the opportunity. As you humans say... all's fair in love and war... and this isn't love." Stardate 6003.26 at 1215 hours: Albuquerque Station, Newcomers' Plaza ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Khemsa spots the gothmogs as well, as he wades through the crowds, eyes scanning the people and shops. Soon his eyes set upon the "Blue Lagoon", an Andorian franchise noted for its wide selection of exotic liquors and wide selection of entertainments. He enters the dark, smokey bar and makes his way toward a secluded corner table. An Orion Green-woman (no doubt an escaped slave turned prostitute) dances seductively on stage. Finally a waitress arrives. "D'rakah and 'quatia." "Sir, the importation of Romulan Ale is prohibited!" "I do not ask for Romulan Ale. I ask for 'quatia. Now bring my order." He slips some credits into her palm. She glances at it, "Right away, sir." Khemsa smiles, quickly munching down the raw Andorian eel with its tropical, green, fruit sauce. He then settles back to enjoy the 'quatia. A young Andorian girl approaches, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Hey, Sailor... want some company?" "Maybe later," he cranks out the obligatory smile, returning to his drink. "1800 hours, Duran," she whispers. "Surreal Park... over the gravitic pond. Don't keep me waiting." Then she's gone, leaving Khemsa with a dry lump in his throat where a sip of his beverage used to be. He quickly finishes his drink and wanders out back into the throng of travelers. A small disturbance catches his attention. A couple of enlisted men are becoming a little too friendly with a local, basically pinning her against a wall as they take turns feeling her up. Khemsa slips behind them. "You gentlemen need help?" The crewmen, both obviously intoxicated, turn to face him. "No sir, we're doin' fine." They separate slightly, trying to get on either side of Khemsa as he studies their faces, finally deciding that they're probably from one of the local defense boats. It's typical in such ports for the local defenders to claim a certain right of territoriality, but pushing themselves on the citizenry is well outside of protocol. Whoever is managing this station must not give a damn. "Perhaps you should return to your ship. Sleep off your drink." Khemsa steps forward between them and turns around, placing himself against the wall, and pushing the girl out of the way. One of them chuckles in response, "And perhaps you should mind you own fuckin' business!" With that he swings wildly, impacting his fist with the portion of the wall where Khemsa's head used to be. The other one, however, seems slightly more coordinated than his friend, lodging a foot in Khemsa's groin which causes the Andorian to double-over in pain, clutching his crotch. The girl, of course, bolts, but the two crewmen no longer seem to care. "Hah... piece of Andorian trash. C'mon, you pansy. Get up!" In space, however, "up" is a relative term. It can refer to any number of positions with respect to the observer, or it can refer to a direction in which the observer/victim suddenly finds himself propelled. In this situation the latter case is demonstrated, and the crewman responsible for Khemsa's "downfall" suddenly finds himself lifted a full foot off the deck by an unwelcome boot between his own legs. After he falls to the deck, screaming in agony, the other crewman turns to face the attacker. It's none other the Jimmy- Joe Hawkins, a mischievous grin stuccoed to the engineer's face. "You boys ought to know better then to go assaulting officers." "That alien piece of shit started it!" "Yeah? Well now I'm gonna finish it," he dives and tackles the drunken crewman, grabbing the man's already bruised fist and twisting his arm backward. "Let go o' me, gaw-dammit!" "Yeah, right. Unless you want me to break this clean off, yer gonna hafta calm down just a tad." Hawkins increases the angle of the arm, forcing the man's limb to its breaking point. He finally stops struggling, resigned to the pain. "Good. Now we can do this one of two ways. You can return to your ship peacefully, or we can all wait around here for the port authority to show up, which may not be too long." By this time, a small crowd has gathered. "Personally, I'd like to see you try to explain why you assaulted an officer at your court marshall hearing, but... that would mean that I'd have to wade though a stack of forms, and frankly, son, you just ain't worth the headache." He bounces the crewman's face off the deck to emphasize the point, the words sinking tempestuously through a drunken fog. Hawkins lifts the crewman up and throws him toward his fallen comrade. Meanwhile, Khemsa is slowly regaining motor control, cursing himself for not wearing a cup. "You okay, Lieutenant?" "I will be... in a couple hours." Stardate 6003.26 at 1600 hours: Albuquerque Station, Space Terrace ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "So I trust you find the station to your liking, Captain?" "It's not exactly what I expected." Commodore Ash smiles, his withered face wrinkling like a white-haired prune. "We give the merchants a free rein. In return, they provide us with income." "Income?" "Star Fleet's budget isn't quite what it used to be, what with the creation of the Space Rangers and Outworld Militia." Jenifer sighs. She's heard such complaints before, but never directly from the mouth of a Commodore. The antechamber portal opens, enabling Tyran, T'lar and Tsandzia to enter the space terrace. For a moment, the three officers are taken aback by the view. Protected only by a micro-thin forcefield, they can see the entire canopy of shimmering starlight stretching out through the great vacuum of space. It is as though they were walking upon the surface of an asteroid without so much as a spacesuit to protect them. "Quite a view, wouldn't you say?" "Commodore, this is Lt. T'lar, 2nd Lt. Tsandzia arul Morchainte, and Ensign Tyran Arloch." The three officers mumble their greetings, still somewhat taken aback, not only by the starscape but also by the rank of officer they are pressing the flesh with. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Come. Sit down. Relax. From what I've been told, it seems to me that you all deserve a vacation." For a moment, a confused glimmer crosses his blue eyes. "Wasn't there supposed to be another?" Jenifer nods, about to say something as the turbolift doors open a second time. "Lt. Bellasario, reporting as requested, sir!" Gunner, like the others, is decked out in full dress uniform. Some idiot in the laundry department had sent him one several sizes too small, so he had to go to fabrication services and procure a new one made to order. The end result are threads as new as can be. The Commodore seems almost mesmerized by the spectacle. "The resemblance... it's uncanny." "Sir?" "Have you had any relatives in the service, Lieutenant?" Gunner stiffens a bit as a somber scowl crosses his face. "My father served Star Fleet, Commodore. Perhaps you've heard of Admiral James Bellasario?" Ash smiles, seemingly perplexed. "James never told me..." "You knew my father, sir?" "Knew him? I served as his first officer for five years. That was aboard the Potemkin... finest ship in the fleet. We'd kept in touch all the way until... well... until the very end." The Commodore's eyes suddenly gloss over, as though in deep contemplation. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. He never mentioned that you had entered the service." Then he smiles, "Imagine that. James Bellasario's boy. It's a pleasure to have you aboard, son." "Thank you, sir," Bellasario says, taking a seat at the table as a black-coated butler pours him a tall glass of sweet lemon tea. He doesn't realize how thirsty he is until he takes his first sip. After that, it's a study in willpower just to refrain from chugging the whole glass. "I trust my choice in beverages meets with your approval?" Gunner smiles, "It's very good." "Compliments of one of the local merchants." "It's real?" "It shouldn't surprise you. I once even had it analyzed by the science department, but our synthesizers make such a mockery of consumables. That's one of things I've always hated about shipboard duty, though I must admit that the technology has improved remarkably in my lifetime. Why, I can remember a time when we didn't even have food. All we had were these awful blocks of vegetable matter... cibumorphs they were called. Came in little cubes and pyramids mostly. Everything was brightly colored, as though color could substitute for flavor, of which they had little if any. Oh... the horrors. And if you wanted something better, you had to use food cards... and even then, it wasn't exactly food you were getting. More like a rough facsimile." "The Excalibur does a decent job." "Decent? For morning oatmeal, decent is more than acceptable. For a meal of liver and spinach, decent might suffice. However, try replicating something as simple as a tomato. Until you've tasted the real thing, ripe off the vine, you haven't really lived. It's a bit like that famed holodeck you have aboard the Excalibur. I think you'll find that no matter how rigorous the simulation, it will be no substitute for cold, hard reality." "Oh, I don't know about that," Captain LeBonk interjects. "The difference is more perceptual. If you can convince yourself that something is real, than it is real... for all practical purposes. And even if you're sure it isn't, you can still learn from it. Just as an example, I've learned a great deal from tactical simulations in Command School. I see no reason why the holodeck couldn't be used in a similar capacity, only at a personal level rather than ship-to-ship. As for real tomatoes... it's sometimes better not to indulge the palette." Commodore Ash tilts his head back and laughs. "You know... somebody at Star Fleet Command once made the exact same statement... only with reference to deltans." "The oath of celibacy?" "Right. I was asking him why that damn thing even exists. This was long ago... in my youth when life was but one long series of experiments. He said, and I quote, that it's for our protection, not theirs, that it is better not to indulge the palette with such tastes, lest all others fall short. Oh, but how I laughed at that. And still do. Nothing is waste that makes a memory, Captain. Nothing at all. Incidentally, I understand you have a deltan first officer?" "Yes. Commander Elineva." LeBonk pauses, not adding anything to the statement. "Don't worry, Captain. I wouldn't dare ask for an evaluation in front of subordinate officers. Though... the lack of an invitation tells so much." LeBonk smiles, "They aren't my subordinates, Commodore. And the only reason she isn't here is because somebody has to mind the store while I'm gone." "Of course, of course... might I interest anyone in seconds on the tea?" Bellasario looks up, "I really shouldn't." "Oh, please. It's good for the digestion. And it's naturally fortified with vitamin C." Ash smiles toward LeBonk as he motions the butler forward. "You know, Captain. You should really consider changing your views. As an ancient philosopher once said... it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." Jenifer smiles, "Opinion logged and noted, Commodore." Ash chuckles, "Logged and noted. How you captains love those two words. If I had a brownie point for every time one of my opinions was quote-unquote logged and noted, while actually being neither logged nor noted nor even honestly considered, I'd of been promoted to Admiral years ago... kicking and screaming all the way to Star Fleet Command itself. By Jove, what a horror that would be. But, fortunately, I wasn't placed on this station to log and note my opinions, not that I have many of them these days. No, I was put here to keep my eyes and ears wide open, lest anything of significance should pass by my general vicinity. And right now, these four officers are the most significant object of attention I've had in a long, long time. Tell me... what was it like?" Tsandzia starts softly, "Well, sir, we were dragged into a no win situation in which the security of the Federation could easily have been compromised if we made the wrong move." "Yes... Captain LeBonk has briefed me on all the particulars... but what was is *like*? What was it like standing nose to nose against a ship four kilometers on a side!?" "Far beyond spectacular," Tsandzia offers. "Compared to them, we were no more than a bug. They could have simply... squashed us... at any moment." Tsandzia sighs, "And there we were in a Loknar, where just about the only thing we had going for us were a bunch of even smaller bugs... the nanites. The encounter had its dismal moments to say the least." "Lost hope, did you?" "No sir." "Thought you'd never make it back?" "It's better not to dwell on such matters when in that sort of predicament. We all knew our chances were slim, but no situation is hopeless. Not even the Koboyashi Maru." Tsandzia smiles, letting the famous quote sink-in, though unsure as to who first said it. The Commodore would probably know. "I see you've been well-indoctrinated, Lieutenant." "Sir?" "Star Fleet Academy has taught you well." "All of us, sir." "Yes," he surmises dolefully, "isn't that the truth." But before he can expound on the thought, the door opens again. The butler is there, a rather agitated look on his face. "What is it, Jeeves." "Sir, I hate to intrude, but Lt. Morchainte's _pet_ is becoming rather restless." "Pet?" "Uh-oh," Tsandzia intones. "If you'll please excuse me." When she gets to the door, she sees that Blobby is rolling his container end over end like a fat rat in a plastic ball. Somehow, he's managed to put a crack in it, and is trying to seep out, bit by bit, onto the Commodore's expensive Orion rug. "I tried sweeping him up, but he started attacking the whiskbroom." "Bad Blobby!" The criticism doesn't deter the creature, however, as it squeezes out of its make-shift prison and bundles itself into a ball around Tsandzia's leg. She crackles electricity between her hands, enticing it to be held. Then, placing it on her shoulder, she re-enters the space terrace. The Commodore is suitably stunned, to say the least. "You've developed a growth, Lieutenant." "Sir, this is Blobby." "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Blobby. Would you like some tea?" "He doesn't speak, sir." "Such a shame. I'm sure that if he could, he would make a delightful conversationalist. Is he a good listener?" "Yes sir." "Ah... well, since listening is roughly half of conversation, he needn't feel excluded. Have a seat, Lieutenant, and you can be his voice as he tells me all about himself." Tsandzia smiles, resuming her seat. "Fair enough. We found him on the Borg vessel... or rather, he found me. It seems he has an affinity for electricity. I suppose I felt a certain kinship to the little thing on that account." "Indeed." T'lar perks up, "Lt. Morchainte was very defensive of the creature. I originally wanted to destroy it, as it was hindering our investigations, however, she devised a rather ingenious trap, and we were able to beam it aboard. We theorized that it might be some form of borg-symbiote which would protect them from electrical overload, however... we found no others, leading me to suspect that it might simply be a stow-away interested in the free electricity they had to offer." "It can survive in pure vacuum," Tsandzia adds. "Doesn't bother it one bit." "Fascinating," the Commodore states. "It lives purely off electricity?" "That's what we've been feeding it. It seems to be the only thing it's attracted to." She sets Blobby toward the center of the table and waits for it to return to her. However, instead of making a beeline back to Tsandzia, the creature moves toward Bellasario, tipping over his glass of tea and absorbing the sweet fluid. "Now that's interesting. We tried enticing it with food to no avail." "Artificial food," the Commodore smiles. "Such a sad commentary on our times when even a blob of slime has more taste than we do." It finishes most of what there is, leaving the left-overs as a small puddle in front of Lt. Bellasario as it makes its way back to the nearest available source of cheap electricity and TLC. "I understand," Ash continues, "that your boarding expedition wasn't merely a collection of unusual specimens and fast friendships." T'lar nods, "We lost... I lost two crewmen. I chose to leave Gibbs and Sullivan back where it was supposedly safe. Little did I know that I was effectively signing their death warrants." Ash takes a sip of tea, "Starship-interior combat is deadly, Lieutenant. Even when you're not specifically firing at hi-tech equipment, one stray shot can spell the doom of many. You were lucky enough to escape yourself... and, by the Captain's own account, you saved the Phobos from near-certain destruction." T'lar takes in what is said but offers nothing in response. Clearly, she doesn't feel she is in a position to accept congratulations, and Ash, aware that even vulcans have souls, decides to cut his speech short. "You did what you thought best, Lieutenant. Nothing more is asked." Tyran looks up, at this point all but left out of the conversation, and not entirely enthused about the direction it has taken. "Sir... I've been wondering... what exactly is going to become of the Phobos?" Ash looks over his youngest guest for late afternoon tea. An ensign barely out of the academy is a rare thing. One who has saved his ship and crew, who in all likelihood could be decorated for his quick thinking, is rarer still. "It is interesting that you should ask. I was conferring with our repair facility only an hour ago. It seems that the Phobos is not so badly damaged that it deserves to be scrapped and cannibalized. Nor will the ship be gutted and down-graded to a Halifax. After all, what justice would that be? No... the Phobos has been through a great deal as of late, and we have decided to keep her close to home. Consider it a reward for a job well done." "As a defense boat?" "No, not exactly. We've been having problems with the RT-network. Seems that it's only up a few weeks out of every year. We've been subcontracting the work, but Star Fleet doesn't feel that it's a good idea, what with all the sensitive communiques passing through the network." "Sir, the Phobos is a destroyer." "I agree, Ensign. The ship isn't ideally suited to the task of repairing omega- wave relay stations, but it can do it if properly equipped." "Milkrun duty." Ash smiles, "More or less. It'll take about a month for the vessel to be repaired and refit for the task. If, after that, the antimatter containment system proves too costly to maintain, we can always gut and downgrade. After all, another defense boat couldn't hurt us. The other advantage is that we won't have to requisition a new crew. Operating this close to its home port, the Phobos won't need nearly its full compliment. I project that we can work within the confines of the existing staff." Tyran sinks his shoulders in despair, the prospect of buzzing around repairing omega-wave relays striking him as a bad career move. "I take it that doesn't meet with your approval?" Ash casts the Ensign a wry smile. "Is there any possibility of getting a transfer?" "Why would you want a transfer?" "To tell you the truth, sir, I was hoping for a position aboard the Excalibur. I think that with the computer facilities there, we could make better sense out of the Borg data." "How is the work coming along?" "Well, on Lt. Morchainte's suggestion, we ran an pattern-analysis between the Borg data and our sensor readings of omega-wave fluctuations from within the wormhole. We've managed to isolate particular data strains where a similar pattern is exhibited, and we're using this as our Rosetta stone to decipher the borg data. But it will take time, and we can use all the help we can get." Ash nods, "I understand, Lt. Morchainte, that you attempted to contact Dr. Gordon Van Dalen." "Yes sir. So far, I've only gotten an automatic reply stating something to the effect that all of Dr. Van Dalen's incoming correspondence is being screened by the psychiatric staff for possible trauma-inducing material. Considering the reason that he is being kept there, it's possible that a message about wormholes would be considered trauma-inducing." Ash grits his teeth, "So, in other words, we're being held-up by a bunch of shrinks." "To put it bluntly." "Don't worry, Lieutenant. I'll get him out of there. I'll get him out if I have to abduct him by force. But tell me more about these omega-wave fluctuations." "How much do you know about omega-waves in general?" "Ah... not a great deal." Tsandzia sighs. She's discovered over the past several days that very few of the seniors officers even have a firm grasp of what omega-waves are, and speaking about them in any detail demands some review of the basics. "Well, as you probably know, sir, omegaons travel in nullspace, and are, hence, detectable only indirectly. Subphotons, when directed perpendicularly to the direction of Omega propagation, are shifted down in wavelength, thus, to a higher frequency. This is how omega waves destabilize and interact with the universe." "Yes, but they also lose coherence, which is the reason that our real-time relay network is having such problems." "Right. Loss of coherence is one aspect of destabilization. But, in order to talk about states, you have to understand how omegaons are formed. Omega waves are normally created only when matter is transferred into energy or vice-versa. Stars generate considerable omega sources, however, the omega source of a star is non-coherent. It can't really be used for purposes of communication. Matter- antimatter reactions, however, if set up correctly, can cause nullspace displacements of significant amplitude so as to generate coherent omegaon patterns, the larger the absolute mass of the particle-antiparticle pair, the more coherent the pattern. The RT-relays are essentially toroids designed specifically for the purpose of particle acceleration which blast heavy protons together with heavy antiprotons in order to send real-time signals down the line to the next relay. Since nullspace cannot have mass or energy assigned to it, the waves propagate at infinite speed relative to real-space, the only attribute of particular importance being their coherence which disintegrates exponentially with respect to their number of subphoton interactions. That's why the relay stations need to be so tightly packed. Regardless of how fast they're going, the waves can never get very far. Anyway, the term we use is OASE which stands for Omega-wave Amplification through Stimulated Emission. In other words, a coherent, sinusoidal Omega source." Ash nods, somewhat dazed. "You lost me just after you said 'Right'. Oh, never mind. I get the picture. You discovered coherent steams of omegaons." "Dr. Van Dalen formulated the theory that if you took one of these relays and pumped it up to the point that you could get an incredibly coherent omega pattern, you could use it to actually rip the subspace perimeter of a black hole, thereby generating a wormhole. You see, nobody ever had any need for an incredibly coherent omega pattern. It wasn't cost effective to make such a wave, since it wouldn't project all that much farther than what we normally use. But if you were projecting over a short range, the difference in coherence would be very pronounced. It would be something you could use to turn theories on subspace and gravitation upside-down, and Van Dalen was the first to realize this. It was my guess that the Borg were using a similar technology... that they found a way to tear holes in subspace without the need of an intense gravitic field to make things easy for them. Hence, I figured that the key would be found in the omegaon readings. And what we found were some very strange fluctuations. I don't know if we'll be able to copy the technology, but at least it puts us on firm ground for analyzing the science behind this technology." Ash nods again, looking toward Bellasario who is just as mystified. "I take it, as the chief security officer on the scene, you were right on top of this from the very beginning. Right, Lieutenant?" Gunner grins, "Sir, I can't claim to be an expert on any of these high-tech subjects Tsandzia is flinging around. All I knew was that we weren't in Kansas anymore, and I didn't think that clicking my heels together three times and saying 'There's no place like home' would get us out of there. Believe me, I tried it, and it didn't work." Gunner glances at T'lar and Tsandzia, neither of whom understand the part about clinking heels and so forth. He finally shakes his head, "It's a joke. Oh... never mind!" Tsandzia looks up, an annoyed expression on her face. "Commodore, I hate to interject, but is Albuquerque security aware of the presence of two fairly conspicuous looking Gothmogs? I would be the last person to stereotype them in general, but being that Albuquerque is basically a military base, and strategically important... well, I don't mean any disrespect toward the Albuquerque station security. I guess that Borg invasion has me a bit on the suspicious side." Ash nods, "And rightly so, Lieutenant. We have a lot of strange types pass through here, and the station is rather vulnerable to terrorism. But rest assured, only cleared personal have access to critical areas, and ships which come here are boarded and inspected before being cleared for docking. Like I said before, too much of our budget comes from merchant fees and the sale of antimatter to free traders to start excluding people... even gothmogs. And besides... we aren't simply a military base. We're a symbol of and ambassadors for the federation. We'll simply have to keep an eye on the gothmogs and any other undesirables who chose to come here until a fortified trading output is constructed in this region to take over the merchant traffic. And if the gothmogs do cause trouble... we'll deal with them as we do all criminals. They'll have their day in court, and then we'll see how well they breathe vacuum." Stardate 6003.26 at 1800 hours: Albuquerque Station, Surreal Park ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As 1800 draws near, Lt. Khemsa makes his way to ring 13. Surreal Park rises from its base, extending upward ten full decks, all the way to the top of ring 12. Its centerpiece, the gravitic pond, is a virtual cacophony of voices and mesmerizing colors spinning gracefully as various sections are illuminated by multi-hued beams of light. People in swimsuits dance about, each wearing grav- belts to navigate their way from one side of the chamber to the other and back again. The andorian girl is floating toward the top, her antennae twitching with trepidation, while off to the sides, people are eating their lunches around large planters, looking skyward and enjoying the view. Khemsa throws on a belt and makes his way toward her, wary eyes searching the area. There are hundreds of people here. Not the perfect place for an ambush, at least not if the attacker has any hope of making a clean escape. "I didn't keep you waiting too long, did I?" She passes alongside him, not even making eye contact, moving toward one of the balconies overhanging the pond. "They've been following me all day. That's why I couldn't stay at the bar." "Who?" She looks back and forth, "The gothmogs. I don't know how they got their information." She hands him a small data-chip encased in a clear polymer sheath. "Your instructions. Double decryption. Name of your father... then the name of your mother. Good luck, Duran." She jumps off the balcony and begins floating away, however, no sooner than she gets ten meters does Khemsa hear a sudden explosion. The girl's been sawed nearly in half, globules of red liquid pouring out of what used to be her stomach. Somehow, somebody had stuck some form of bomb on her gravbelt. Khemsa's mind reels. A few seconds sooner, and he would have been caught in the explosion. For a moment, he considers jumping, but suddenly sees one of the gothmogs looking toward him with a sinister smile. Khemsa stares briefly at the half-breed. Then, in Klingon, he whispers the words "I shall remember your face", the Klingon oath of vengeance. People are turning toward the sound of the explosion, a few noticing the blood. There's a scream. Then another. Khemsa turns around, data chip in hand, bolting down the nearest corridor in what he hopes is the direction of the turbolifts. "He's going back to his ship." "Don't worry. I'm in position." When the turbolift doors open, Khemsa darts in, but before they can close behind him, he finds himself with an unexpected visitor, and a barbed kasha- wire wrapped around his throat. By clapping his hands together in front of his neck, Khemsa escapes sudden death, but only at the expense of several fingers as the kasha-wire begins to sever through his knuckles. "Tell me the names of your parents, and I will spare your worthless life!!" "You expect me to trust a coward who attacks from behind?!" Khemsa jerks one hand free, letting the last of its fingers drop to the floor as he catches his rainbow dagger between thumb and palm and, slicing backwards and up, cuts a wedge out of his attacker's jugular vein. The gothmog falls instantly, letting go of his kasha-wire and quickly bleeding to death on the turbolift floor. Meanwhile, Khemsa scoops the data chip between two thumbs, waiting impatiently for the turbolift to reach Newcomers' Plaza as his hands continue to spurt blood. When the door finally opens, he rushes out, several people screaming and backing out of his way. The other gothmog is just arriving as well and begins rushing toward him, a dura-plast blade in hand. Khemsa's seen such weapons scar hard steel. They can cleave through flesh and bone like a chainsaw cuts through warm butter. "Die, Assassin!" the gothmog screams. "Look who's talking." Khemsa dives for the creature's legs, beneath its dura- plast blade, effectively sending the gothmog crashing to the deck as Federation security people swarm in from all sides. Just as they home in with phasers, however, it takes its blade and rips open its own belly, refusing capture even at the cost of its own life. Khemsa, a bloody wreck, decides to remain put, all too aware that the transporters which were his goal are only meters away. _ /| Jim Vassilakos \`o_O' jimv@cs.ucr.edu ( ) jimv@wizards.com U Riverside, California ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- This Star Trek PBeM is archived on ftp.cs.pdx.edu in pub/frp/stories/startrek -----------------------------------------------------------------------------