ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv2/turn14

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 43KB | 930 lines

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                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #14
                              Red Sky in Morning
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
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  Cast & Crew
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  ST-PBeM GameMaster       Jim Vassilakos      [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. tr'Remas       Jeremy Lakatos      [e-mail]
  Lt. Cmdr. Duran          Tony Hayes          [e-mail]
  Lt. T'lar                Ronnie Simonds      [e-mail]
  2nd Lt. Morchainte       Brian Chrisman      [e-mail]


Administrivia:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The info on "triceraphon" was copied from a mailing-list article by Dennis
Campbell ([e-mail]).


Stardate 6003.26 at 2000 hours: USS Excalibur, Captain's Lounge
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Commodore Ash raises the glass of sherry to his lips and ventures a tentative
sip. "Ahh... as smooth as Arachnian silk. Captain LeBonk, I must offer my
apologies. You are truly a woman of exquisite taste."

Jenifer smiles. Though usually not one to drink, she'd been saving the bottle
for a special occasion. Actually, she'd been saving it ever since Frank
Jacobson had sent it to her three years ago, upon her graduation from Command
School. She'd decided to share it with him upon their next encounter, whenever
their paths might chance to cross... so hard to believe it was three years when
it seems more like three days.

"I'm sorry... did I say something wrong?"

"No," She shakes her head, committed to finishing off the bottle before
morning. "I was just thinking about a friend."

"Ah... an old drinking companion?"

"No... just a friend. If you don't mind, I'd really prefer not to talk about
it."

Ash nods, "I understand perfectly. You know, back when I used to command a
starship, sherry such as this was a cause of rejoice... but any drink, strong
or weak, so long as it was ingested in ample quantities, just as often led to
sorrow. How many times I'd numbed my mind for a moment's peace... you see, in
the old days, we had no distractions. Recreation was practically unheard of.
Port of calls were few and far between. All we had was our work and our bottle,
and the latter was a devil's hot pitchfork wrapped within the illusion of a
godsend. Oh, what I wouldn't have given for a holodeck, let me tell you."

Jenifer looks up, "I understand that you've been taking advantage of that
facility quite a bit lately."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Lt. Anderson, our rec-officer. He tells me that he's been having to bump
people out of their slots ever since you came on board. You know, some of those
people have been on the schedule for over a week now."

"Yes... well, as they say, rank hath its privileges."

"What sort of simulation are you running?"

Ash tries to look innocent, "Oh, the standard sort, I'd suppose."

*Beep*

"Enter."

The doors slide open to reveal Bellasario, T'lar, and Tsandzia. They shuffle
into the lounge one by one, trying to look as dignified in their intrusion as
possible. All except for Tsandzia, that is, as she cocks her blue head
sideways, makes a big wide-eyed smile, and intones: "Hello."

'Put that girl in the recruitment office, and she'll work wonders,' Ash thinks
to himself. "So, how goes the investigation?"

Bellasario makes a face, "Well sir, we have some good news and some bad news."

"Good news first."

"We've traced the gothmogs to an Orion Free Merchant, the Cassiopeia. The
Captain is one Sydney Narciscus, a Tiburon. We have strong reason to believe
that Narciscus fabricated phony Outer Rim Passports for the gothmogs."

"So all we have to do in haul his butt in. What's the bad news?"

"The Cassiopeia is currently on its way to Gamma Rigel III... Oviedo, Sir."

"Yes, I know the place well enough."

"Sir, according to departure records, the Cassiopeia left port on the 24th at
noon. That only gives Narciscus two and a half days head start. Scanner logs
show him stepping up to warp 8, his maximum cruising velocity, immediately
after take-off. That gives him twenty light-years on us. And he's staying along
the border."

"Then we should still be able to see him with the scanner buoys," LeBonk
interjects.

"The logs show the Cassiopeia mysteriously disappearing about an hour after
departure. My guess is that the ship has a cloaking device. But he was
definitely making for the Rigel cluster. Assuming that we can simply extend his
course vector to its obvious conclusion, he'll reach Oviedo in about two
months. But sir, if he's cloaked, he can't use his long range scanners, and he
probably can't maintain his maximum speed. My guess is that if we go after this
guy at warp 10, emergency speed, we can overtake him in a few days. Further, if
it's a Klingon cloaking device..."

Bellasario lets the thought trail off. The Klingon's have already revealed most
of the secrets of their particular brand of cloaking devices, rendering them
largely ineffective at close ranges, at least to the highly sensitive scanners
aboard the Excalibur. Considering that this is an Orion ship, it's probably
using outdated technology to begin with. It's enough to sneak past sensor
outposts at low velocities and long ranges. It's even enough to slip by pirates
lurking in the Orion Outskirts, ever-hopeful of seizing wealth from the
merchants who trade between the Federation and Rigel. But it's not nearly
enough to fend off a ship like the Excalibur.

LeBonk shakes her head, "I appreciate the work you've done, Lieutenant, but we
have more important business than chasing after petty crooks. I just received a
communique from the USS Typhoon. They're bringing an important diplomat bound
for the Rigel Cluster, an Ambassador Sarin."

T'lar looks up, somewhat bug-eyed. "Sarin? Of the House of Thrisanna?"

"You know him, Lieutenant?"

T'lar looks down, "Yes sir."

"Well, the Typhoon is dropping by for some antimatter, and he's expressed an
interest in meeting with you and Tsandzia and Nien... and Tyran, where is he
anyway?"

"Then let them stay," Bellasario interjects. "That doesn't mean we have to."

"But we are going to. He has expressed some hope that we'd provide additional
escort for his voyage. I may have to turn him down, however, as we're also
expected to arrive at Beta Draco II sometime in the next few weeks to pick up
Laeraloth ev Prax."

"Who's that?"

"This ship's chief architect, not to mention being the key expert behind the
transwarp-12 system."

"Let him take a warp shuttle."

"Lieutenant... Star Fleet makes the priorities here, not you. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir."

LeBonk looks around the room, "Is that it, or is there anything else?"

"Just one thing," Tsandzia perks up. "Commodore, has Albuquerque security
turned up anything about the Andorian woman who was killed?"

"No... they've been all over that with a fine-toothed comb, and it's a dead
end. Trust me."

'He's lying' T'lar thinks, her eyes narrowing. 'He's lying, and he knows it.'

Tsandzia nods to the Commodore, "Well, no offense to your security people, but
perhaps _we_ can figure something out about her. I'm particularly interested in
what ship she might have come in on. I would even go so far as to suggest that
she might have been a lure to trap Khemsa, for whatever that might accomplish.
I'm sure a gene test or some security logs would help us."

Ash leans back, "I can assure you that Lt. Cmdr. McReynolds, our chief security
officer on the station, has already investigated these possibilities. However,
if you wish to confer with her as to her findings, you are more than welcome.
She'll be back on duty at 0800 tomorrow morning."


Stardate 6003.27 at 0500 hours: Somewhere in Dreamland
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He watches, anxious and giddy, as his fingers drop to the floor one by one for
the eighth time that night. They remind Duran of little blue worms, wiggling,
crawling and burrowing their way into the soft tan carpet as the Klingon's wire
approaches steadily toward his neck. Only this time, he has no dagger to save
himself. He has only the inevitable feeling of suffocation as his spine is
severed, his body falling limp and lifeless while his eyes, still blinking,
watch the Klingon laugh out loud.

In that precise moment, however, the players are suddenly reversed. Instead of
being killed, it is Duran himself doing the killing. Koth eth Zokar, a klingon
warrior ten times his equal, is dying now for the eighth time that night. And
yet, even as the warrior's head slides soundlessly off his shoulders, the deep
brown eyes show life. They dart toward his attacker, studying the Andorian's
face even as they succumb to the coldest sleep. And in Duran's head, he hears
Koth's voice.

     "You who do not let me die in battle, my enemy, my tormenter, I
     shall remember your face. When next we meet our places reversed,
     death's cold shadow shall grip your mind, fear's cold hand shall
     grip your heart. You shall die the coward's death, and I shall
     remember your face."

The room is pitch black as his awakes, breathless and cold with an ominous itch
at the base of his antenna. Outside his quarters, the corridors are lit in a
dim purple. Only when he reaches 10-Forward does the starship take on some
semblance of activity. This is a place that never sleeps.

Duran makes his way to the end of the bar and stares out at the space station
spinning ever so slowly.

"G'devening, Lieutenant. The usual?"

"Yeah, thanks. Oh, and can you bring a straw?"

The bartender looks back and smiles, "No problem."

Duran looks around, a little embarrassed by his request. A man's got to have a
drink now and then, he figures, then suddenly realizes that that's how he got
into this mess in the first place. Duran sips at it for several minutes,
watching the newcomers out of the corner of his eye. Sha is not hard to
distinguish as he comes inside. As any cheronian, he stands out in a crowd, one
side of his face coal black, the other side snow white. He takes a seat beside
the assistant chief, ordering a glass of Betelgeuxian Bourbon.

"What are you doing up this early?"

Duran fakes a smiles, "I could ask you the same question."

"I'm getting on duty in three hours. I just use this time to... prepare myself
for the ordeal."

"You drink for three hours before getting on duty?"

"I've found that the time passes faster when I'm half-drunk."

Duran nods, "Well, don't let the chief smell your breath or you'll be out of a
job but quick. Tell me something, Sha... you ever feel like you're... missing
something?"

"Missing something? Like fingers?"

"No, like... do you ever feel like there's something you ought to realize, and
it's just out of reach? Like something you're trying to remember, but you
can't."

"An old cheronian philosopher once said that all we have are memories, our
memories, shared memories, memories of our ancestors, the collective memories
of our society. When we learn something, realize something, think we've
discovered something new... all we're really doing is remembering." He sips his
bourbon. "I suppose that's how the Borg must feel."

Duran smiles a bit self-consciously. He wasn't asking for a philosophical
discussion. All he wants is the answer. "What I'm asking is... what do you do
when you feel like you're... forgetting something."

"What are you trying to remember?"

"If I knew that... besides, it's personal."

Sha chuckles slightly, taking another sip, "What you need is a 'grep' on your
brain." He means a way of scanning through everything and picking up
occurrences of a keyword, in essence, finding the location of the information
by creating your own personal index. Even security grunts are allowed some
measure of computer training.

"The point is, how do you know what to 'grep' for? Did your cheronian
philosopher tell you that part or did he just leave it vague?"

"It was left vague, as is all great philosophy."

"Well," Duran slides his glass away, "that's very helpful."

Outside, the stars glimmer, as though chuckling faintly at his plight.

"If they told you the answers, there would be nothing to think about, and then
what would be the point?"

"The point is that you wouldn't have to think about it. You'd have the answer."
Duran shuffles off his bar stool. "Thanks anyway."

"Lieutenant," Sha turns around on his stool, "it's personal, you say?"

"More or less?"

"How do you know, if you can't recall what it is?"

Duran smiles, "It's just a feeling, I guess."

"When I'm trying to figure things out... personal things, I mean, and I'm not
really sure what it is I'm trying to figure out, you know what I do?"

"What?"

"I go down to the filter fans in life support services, and I just sit down
next to the air conduits and let the wind blow on me for about an hour."

"How does that help?"

"It gets your mind off your work. All the air hitting your body, it makes you
think you're in some sort of hurricane or something. Your mind just..."

Duran blinks, "What did you say?"

"What? It makes you feel like you're inside a hurricane?"

Duran gulps, "Sha, you're a genius."

"Huh? What'd I say?"

Duran sprints for his quarters, numerous heads turning as he goes by. Once
inside, "Computer, secure door."

"........Door secure."

"Stealth login, Lt. Cmdr. Duran, first name: Tarkine, clan: Andron.
Pass-phrase: solo-gambit-alpha three-two-one-zero alpha."

"........Pass-phrase and voice authentication confirmed."

"Access project Blackblade."

"........Voice authentication confirmed."

"Access Federation ship databases here and on the fueling station via secure
link. Query: What kind of ship is the USS Typhoon, who is the current
commanding officer?"

"........The USS Typhoon, NCC-4762, is a Baker Class Destroyer. The current
commanding officer of the Typhoon is Captain Frank Jacobson."

"How long has he been in command?"

"........Five months."

"What was his previous assignment?"

"........First Officer, USS Midway."

Duran shakes his head, "What was the Typhoon's last port of call and when?"

"........Starbase 49 on 6003.07."

"What is its best and typical speed?"

"........Emergency speed, warp 9. Typical cruising speed, warp 4."

"When was Sarin taken aboard?"

"........Stardate 6003.07."

"At SB-49. Okay, has Sarin ever been on the Typhoon before this date?"

"........Negative."

"Has he ever been on any ship commanded by Captain Jacobson?"

"........Negative."

"Broaden parameters. Cross reference all of the current top command personnel
of the Typhoon with Sarin. State any previous interactions, especially extended
interactions or interactions in or around Klingon space."

"........No correlations on file."

Duran grits his teeth. He knows there's something odd about the Typhoon. He
just can't put his finger on it (no pun intended). He picks up his empty coffee
cup between two wrists, knowing he should get some more rest, but he also knows
that he can't go to sleep without facing another dream. Halfway across the room
he stops, the cup dropping to the floor. He looks down at the cup and just
stares.

'Duran,' he thinks to himself, 'mistakes like this get people like you killed!
Too many identities, too many histories. You've got to be more careful!' He
thinks back to his briefing files.

     Sister: Warrant Officer Eris Khemsa, Sensor Modulation Specialist,
     USS TYPHOON!

'Damn, Sethon's sister is on her way here. No doubt, she'll be looking for her
dead brother when she gets here, and all she's going to find is me!'

Indeed, Bakahna Sethon Khemsa was once a real live andorian. He'd served in the
Blue Fleet (the Andorian division of Star Fleet), being stationed for ten years
on the USS Grok, the very same ship on which Duran had undertaken his cadet
cruise. Hence, it was expected that Duran would be able to perform convincingly
as Lt. Sethon Khemsa, going so far as to answer questions about his last post
if necessary. However, since the Grok was a member of the Blue Fleet, it was
thought that very few people aboard the Excalibur would, themselves, be
familiar with either the Grok or its crew. All in all, the perfect cover.

However, Duran's gain had been Sethon's loss. It had been a training exercise.
An emergency pressure door had malfunctioned, crushing his rib cage and
collapsing his lungs. In the official record, he'd beamed to Star Base medical,
and had barely recovered. In reality, he'd died of a mixture of internal
bleeding and suffocation on a Star Base operating table.

As is typical in such assignments, Eris, his sister, and the crew of the Grok
were all kept ignorant as to his death, believing that he'd recovered from the
episode and had been transferred to the Excalibur. Meanwhile, his body was
stored for a future burial to be scheduled after the completion of Duran's
assignment. Duran's facial structure, nose, and hair had all been surgically
altered to match the deceased, and the Excalibur's computer was programmed to
recognize Duran's voice as Khemsa's even though the voice pattern file was
never changed. Likewise with optic and fingerprint security checks. The entire
thing was administered through file pointers executed via Level-6 access,
superseding the system administrator, Lt. Bellasario, and even the Captain.

With such open access to information, gone are the days where the government
can simply manufacture identities. Intelligence Operatives have to use real
ones, and with using real identities, there are some real risks.

"Computer, priority request: I want a complete file on Second Lieutenant
Bakahna Sethon Khemsa. Include all available personal information. Then I
want a similar file on Warrant Officer Bakahna Eris Khemsa."

Duran nervously thinks back to his Intelligence School training. The cosmetic
surgery is pretty good. It *might* fool her. But his voice... his manner of
speaking... not to mention the things he ought to know. In short, it's
generally held to be impossible to fool family. Better to keep them at a
distance or avoid them entirely.

"Computer, what is our current scheduled departure time?"

"........Departure time has not been set."

Duran takes an hour reviewing all of the data about Sethon and his sister (of
which the computer has precious little). The most valuable articles are
Sethon's personal logs which were transferred to the Excalibur when Duran first
came aboard.

He'd viewed some of them, but at the time, the whole business had seemed
dreadfully dull. After all, he wasn't expecting to meet anyone who actualy knew
Khemsa. Why waste time practicing all the vocal nuances and mannerisms? The
man's history alone had been boring enough. Sethon Khemsa had been stationed
aboard the USS Grok since he was an Ensign just out of the Academy, and he'd
stayed there for a good ten years, occasionally exchanging correspondence with
his sister. As a security officer, he was often involved in boarding
operations, looking for contraband coming into Andorian space.

The only incident of particular note concerned a cargo of Triceraphon he'd
managed to locate. It had been stowed inside a specially designed capsule
*inside* a freighter's antimatter containment chamber. 'Triceraphon?!' Duran
thinks to himself.

Triceraphon was a particularly nasty designer drug popular along the frontier
worlds and mining settlements. The initial effect hyper-stimulated the brain's
pleasure, sensory, and intellectual centers. Rumor had it, with a healthy dose
of triceraphon in your veins, you could see a fly on the moon in broad
daylight, hear it buzzing around, remember everything you ever heard about
flies, the moon, or anything else for that matter, but you'd be too high to
care about any of it. Problem was, after a time the drug started eating away
those areas of the brain it stimulated, except for the intellect. Users quickly
found themselves in complete sensory deprivation; they could still think and
remember, but had no way of communicating. The brain could no longer receive or
process sensory input. According to the media, a splinter faction of the
Warriors of Andor, an underground organization Duran's father had once joined,
were mass producing the drug and smuggling it abroad in order to finance their
cause.

Duran shudders at the thought, thinking that it's too bad that Khemsa got
himself killed in such an idiotic manner. He was a fine security officer in his
own way. At least, he paid close attention to detail which is more than Duran
can say for himself at times.

Duran stands and stretches. His fingers hurt, a good sign, but pain is pain,
and he can't help but wince, thinking how he'd been acting like a caged animal
ever since the incident. His nerves are on edge, and between the trauma of his
wounds, his poor sleep, and the new revelation of Sethon's sister's arrival,
Duran is downright grouchy!

He quickly changes into sweats and steps out for a jog, recalling the path he
found that covers nearly five miles and never uses the same corridor twice. As
he runs, Duran lets his mind drift into a state of free association. He's been
told that the unfocused mind will make connections and reveal information that
a concentrated, focused mind will sometimes miss. His run takes him past many
seldom visited parts of the ship. Finally he reaches the end of the course, the
fatigue drawing the tension and agitation from his body and mind. He leans
against a bulkhead to catch his breath.

"Lieutenant, are you okay?"

The voice catches Duran by surprise, and he looks up, startled, only to see a
deltan woman standing several feet away. Not just any deltan woman. It's the
Commander! Duran blinks a few times to shake the sweat from his eyes.

"I'm fine," he pants. "Just running off some tension." He tries to think of
something else to say, but his tongue deftly ties itself into a firm knot.

"It seems we share the same preoccupation."

"Running?"

"Running... tension... you mind if I tag along? I'm so out of shape, I'm having
trouble keeping a steady pace."

Duran blinks again, making his best effort not to openly gape. It's the first
time he's seen the commander in shorts, and boy are they ever short. At least
they seem that way at the moment.

"Sir..." Duran pauses, "Ma'am... Commander. Though your shape looks fine to me
(gulp!), I'd be happy to... pace you." Duran wonders if the deltan first
officer can see his blue skin darkening (the andorian equivalent of a blush).
"I was just heading back to my quarters for a shower and some breakfast. Would
you care to join me?"

Nien flashes him a quizzical grin.

Duran gulps, "Ah... for breakfast, I mean." He feels his skin turn a deeper
shade of blue, antennae twitching back and forth like flagpoles in the wind.
"Just let me know if I'm going too fast... er... I mean, running too fast."
Duran sighs forcefully.

"Don't worry. I can keep up with you."

"Oh, you wanna bet?"

"Stop bragging and just run." Nien crouches down into a starter's stance.

"Okay, but just remember. You asked for this." With that Duran makes for one of
the wide corridors along the ship's spine and breaks into a full sprint,
pumping his legs up and down with the full intention of impressing Nien even if
he can't leave her eating his dust. As they run, whatever pheromone
suppressants she's wearing are completely over-powered by her rate of
perspiration. A fortunate number of the crew not only get a visual treat as she
zooms by, but are also are left with an olfactory one in her wake. Duran,
however, being almost neck and neck with her, and breathing as deeply as his
lungs will allow, cannot help but catch more than his fair share. When they
finally come to a halt outside his quarters, he feels himself start to become
overwhelmed by such thoughts that could easily get him court-martialed if he
dared to act upon them.

As the door closes behind them, he leans against the wall, once again gasping
for air. Meanwhile, she plants herself on a corner of the floor, fishing her
legs into a cannonball position until her chin is resting between her knees.
Though long and sleek, her legs feel rubbery and useless, and for the moment,
she can't focus on much of anything except catching her breath.

"Who won?"

"I dunno," Duran pants. "Call it a tie." He bends over and puts his hands on
his knees. Staring straight at her, he can't help but watch the way her chest
heaves hypnotically up and down, and for a moment, he finds himself mentally
yanking off her grey sweat shirt, imagining for a split instant that she has
nothing on underneath.

"That's too bad," she finally sighs. "Now I won't be able to collect on the
bet."

"We didn't bet anything."

"Oh? Well," she shrugs and climbs back to her feet, "maybe next time then. You
gonna take that shower now or you want me to go first?"

Duran stares into Nien's eyes for a long moment, "You're in charge here,
Commander, how would you like to proceed?" His heart is pounding so hard, he
can feel it clear through to his toes, and he finds it impossible to hide his
desire. Certain that she understands the meaning of his question, he waits,
motionless, trembling with anticipation and desire.

She nods thoughtfully, "Well, since you're leaving it up to me... I guess I'll
shower first." She makes for the shower at a brisk pace, making sure to lock
the door behind her.

Duran's gaze lingers on the locked door. He gets up and digs out a bottle of
Scotch (Real Scotch) and pours himself a drink. 'Duran, you need to get back in
control of yourself.' Despite his self-admonishment, however, he just can't
help himself. He walks over to the door and raps, "Do you need anything in
there? Anything I can get you?"

He hears the water drizzle down on the shower floor, and sounds of Nien soaping
herself leak from underneath the crack where the door meets the tile.

"Umm... what's that?"

"If you need anything, just let me know!" He bites his lip, wishing he'd let
her take her shower in peace.

"Just one thing."

"Yeah!?" His heart leaps to his throat.

"You got anything clean I can wear?"

While it's technically "possible" to fabricate clothes on the personal food
terminals, nobody ever showed Duran how to do it. In fact, he's not even sure
that anybody on the ship knows how to aside from a few of the more learned
materials fabrication specialists.

As the air circulation system clears the air of the ambient pheromone, Duran
feels some measure of control returning to his frazzled mind.

"Yeah, maybe."

He rummages around his closet, deciding it would look bad to have her leave
wearing one of his uniforms, so he searches through his "civilian" clothes.
Unfortunately, all he has is a Romulan Tur'shin, a knee length robe-like
garment which was presented to him by one of his old flames, a Romulan girl by
the name of Apriss, as a remembrance. His mind drifts back to her as he steps
back to the bathroom door. Inside, the dryer shuts off with an audible
"swoosh".

"I'm afraid all I have is a Tur'shin... er... a robe."

The door opens slightly, and Nien peeks out, "Hmm... nice. Very nice." She
gently snatches it from his bandaged hands and closes the door, emerging a few
moments later. Unfortunately, the Tur'shin is a bit shorter on a full grown
woman, but suffices to cover the critical areas.

Duran smiles as Elineva admires the robe in front of the mirror, "Looks good
on you," he notes, mentally adding the query, 'but what doesn't?'.

"It's lovely. Where's it from?"

"D'Ravasasz."

The name means nothing to her. "Is that a Vulcan settlement or something?"

"Actually, it's... yes... it's a village somewhere on Vulcan, but I don't know
where."

"Hmm, perhaps T'lar will know."

"Doubtful," he smiles. "Uh... I guess it's my turn." Duran grabs a fresh
uniform and enters the shower room. He shuts the door but leaves it unlocked,
feeling safe that she won't barge in, and perhaps even hoping that she will.
"I'll be out in a minute," he calls, "then we can see about breakfast, if
you're still interested."

"Absolutely," he hears through the door, but if she added anything to it, the
sound of the pounding water quickly steals it from his ears. Back in the room,
Nien can't help notice the unusual vandalism Duran has committed on his own
furniture. His plastic work table has a hole in it, evidently cut by some form
of dagger. A very sharp one, Nien surmises. Probably the same one that saved
his life so recently. She looks about the room, seeing the weapon on his
nightstand before feeling a sudden twitch of pain from the sole of her foot. On
the floor is a small ROM chip, or rather, the parts thereof. 'Khemsa apparently
got angry at his portable,' Nien figures, scooping up the pieces of the chip
and tossing them into the waste tube. She then tosses her shoes, socks,
sweatshirt and panties into the laundry chute, confident that with ID tags on
them, they'll eventually find their way back to her cabin. Then, pulling her
shorts back on underneath the robe (just in case some goof-ball in life support
services should direct a steady breeze in her general direction), she makes for
the replication terminal.

"Replicator make: anymphohol, single application." The artificial variety isn't
as effective as the real stuff, but she's learned to take what she can get,
rubbing it on the areas of her anatomy that excrete the potent aphrodisiac. It
has become quite a nuisance over the course of her career. A nuisance and a
blessing, Nien thinks to herself, for on more than one occasion, having an edge
on the opposite sex has made a positive difference. On other occasions... well,
certain events are better left unremembered.

Outside, the traffic in the corridors is beginning to pick up as people scuttle
about, looking for breakfast. Some head toward ten-forward for a quick protein
shake; others opt for an actual meal at the mess hall. Still other are heading
to the transporters, hoping to catch a quick breakfast on the Albuquerque
before they report for duty.

"How much time do we have?" Duran looks around for a clock.

"Plenty... it's only about 0715." That leave forty-five minutes before the
middle shift, enough time to go just about anywhere within reason.

"Commander!"

Both Nien and Duran turn about to see Oein tr'Remas stepping swiftly toward
them. His face is a blank slate, however, his dark eyes seem to twinkle for a
moment as he notices the tur'shin she is wearing, ceremonial sigils scrolled
upon the hem praising the glory of Romulan conquest. The tur'shin is obviously
from D'ravasasz, a world on the far side of the Romulan Empire which is famous
for its archeological and religious significance. The Romulans believe that it
is the site of the D'ravsai, a superior race of ancient legend which they have
attempted to emulate in their "conquest of the stars". The entire world is
essentially one huge shrine, and no non-Romulan has ever been allowed to go
there, however, highly respected members of any race may be given such a robe
as this by a Romulan citizen, particularly a Romulan from one of the major
military, religious, or administrative households. However, wearing the robe
signifies at least an acceptance of the Romulan Way, something that even he has
given pause to questions. Oein can't imagine why a Star Fleet officer would
wear such a thing.

"An interesting choice of attire, Commander."

Duran glances at the tur'shin, then at Oein, "It was a gift from a friend.
Nien's just borrowing it for a bit."

"You think it's too short?"

"That is not for me to judge. I called you to discuss something other than your
clothing. However," he casts a furtive glance toward Duran, "I can see that you
are busy. This matter can wait until a more suitable moment."

Nien makes a puzzled face, suddenly intrigued by Oein's strange behavior.

"I must be losing my marbles. I haven't even introduced you two. Lieutenant,
this is Lt. Commander tr'Remas. Oein, this is Lt. Khemsa. We were just going to
breakfast. Would you care to join us?"

Oein looks toward Duran again, as though seeking some form of tacit approval.

Duran smiles, "Yes, please, Commander, do join us. We were just trying to
determine where we should go."

"Um. Yes, I think that I will join you, since you both offer. I would like to
hear the story of how you acquired this 'gift', Lieutenant. If you do not mind
telling it, of course."

Duran, still slightly dazed from his recent exposure to Nien's pheromones,
becomes suddenly reserved in his tone. "Commander tr'Remas, I would be happy to
relate to you that story but, alas, I'm not convinced that this is the time or
setting to speak of one's old... lover."

Nien looks up, "This should be an interesting story. But let's discuss what
we're going to discuss after we get some food in front of us? Okay?"

Duran pauses, "Well, 10-Forward is always an option but is probably gonna be
the most crowded place on the ship about now. What about going over to the
station?"

Nien looks at Duran and then his hands, "You feel okay with going back over
there?"

"Thank you for you concern, Commander, but while it is safer here on the
Excalibur, one doesn't get ahead in life by playing it safe."


Stardate 6003.27 at 0720 hours: Albuquerque Station, Port Authority's Office
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tsandzia looks around the floor somewhat bewildered by the level of activity.
She knew that McReynolds wouldn't be around until 0800 hours, but she decided
to drop by early and see if she could learn anything from the security grunts.
All she sees, however, are gobs of administrative personnel remotely
coordinating teams of custom inspectors. A young ensign finally spots her, a
human male with short-cropped red hair.

"You must be Lieutenant Morchainte," he says.

Tsandzia smiles "Yep, that's me... I was here to meet with the security chief,
partially on the request of Lt. Bellasario of the Excalibur." Tsandzia frowns
slightly, "Isn't it just a terrible world where a nice upstanding officer like
Lt. Khemsa is assaulted? At a Federation Starbase, no less, and explosives
going off too. It must be a terrible fright to have to try and screen these
things out."

The ensign nods, "Yes, well... we have a little saying on here on Albuquerque.
Shit happens. Nobody can stop that. But at least we can get to the bottom of
it... that is if we're not too prissy to dig deep. Commander McReynolds is
waiting for you in the security control room."

"She's already on duty?"

"Has been for over an hour. A little unexpected traffic. Follow me."

Tsandzia looks around the office as he leads her to the far end, her eyes
swiftly checking the monitors as she draws past them. Many show focused sensor
scans of a starship which appears to be steadily approaching the station, but
Tsandzia doesn't have enough time to examine the readings.

"Just one moment," she pauses in a short corridor, pulling out her communicator
and switching it to the pre-arranged channel.

"Tsandzia to T'lar. It looks like that meeting is going to be a little early."

Tsandzia smiles, putting the device away. "Just calling a friend."

The control room itself is illuminated only by a vast array of indicator lights
and monitors, many of them looking down various corridors, others showing scans
of nearby starships, and still others seemingly looking out into the darkness
of space. McReynolds is a tall woman, her hair sandy-blonde and eyes a very
light brown, almost tan. She motions Tsandzia toward an unoccupied seat with
the flick of her thumb, continuing to watch one of the seemingly blank monitors
with a fixed stare.

"You sure there's nothing?"

Somebody over an intercom channel sighs, "It's impossible to be one-hundred
percent certain, but... yes... there's nothing there. The Typhoon's approach
vector is as clean as ice."

"I want you to continue monitoring it and keep phaser crews on standby just in
case a drone uncloaks."

"Understood."

McReynolds leans back and looks toward Tsandzia, "So... you're here to see me
about that dead Andorian, right?"

Tsandzia nods, "Yes, Lt. Bellasario of the Excalibur was quite interested in
getting all the information available concerning the incident involving Lt.
Khemsa."

"Oh, I'm sure he is. So you're just his intermediary then?"

Tsandzia considers the question for a moment, finding it hard to justify her
involvement as a science officer. "Informally, I suppose the answer is yes.
We're looking for any information you might have compiled on the girl, the
gothmogs, the type of explosives used, that type of stuff. We're finding it
hard to believe that the attempt was made in error, though all the evidence
seems to point in that direction. It's kind of like making a whole starbase,
only to have some minor material that is intrinsic to the hull integrity be
accidentally replaced with something like 'wood'. It just doesn't happen."

McReynolds makes a smirk, "You'd be surprised at some of the mistakes that are
made... some of them on purpose."

"On purpose?"

"The andorian woman's name was Fesala Meto of the clan Talkarn. According to
her boarding records, she was working as a prostitute."

"She wrote that on her boarding records?"

"It's not illegal here, Lieutenant. And yes, that's what she put. She'd even
been to the sickbay for her regular immunizations. We've done the usual asking
around, trying to find out who her customers were, but according to everyone
who could remember seeing her, she'd never actually taken any tricks. Everyone
had just thought she was independently wealthy or something."

"Did you check her stateroom?"

"With a fine-toothed comb. We found nothing there to suggest that prostitution
was her real profession."

"Then what was?"

"We found a number of small weapons, personal protection-type stuff. And there
was an isolinear chip taped about two feet down the laundry chute. If it wasn't
for a team with tricorders, we never would have found it."

"What was on it?"

McReynolds reaches gingerly into her pocket and produces a small isolinear
chip, its surface glinting in the dim light. "The Commodore gave me
authorization to show this to you, but on one condition. You can't tell
anyone."

"Why not?"

She pauses and glances toward a monitor, looking out into the black of space,
or more specifically, into the intended flight-path of the Typhoon. "Because
someone's life may depend on it."

"I understand. I'll keep it confidential."

The dim starlight catches McReynolds' tan-brown eyes as she looks back up,
sliding the chip into a personal display device about the size of a clipboard.
The picture is a haze until she types a short code onto the board's input. Then
it suddenly shuffles itself into the insignia for Star Fleet Intelligence
Command (SFIC). A computer-generated voice begins expounding. "Hello, Fesa. As
you can see, this packet contains a second chip, instructions for Agent Duran,
alias Lt. Khemsa, the Assistant Security Chief aboard the USS Excalibur which
will be arriving at Albuquerque Station on 6003.26 at 1800. The information is
double-encrypted: name of his father, then the name of his mother. You are to
make delivery. Henceafter, your status is upgraded from courier to assistant
operative. Whatever Agent Duran tells you to do, you will do it. No exceptions
whatsoever. If you are caught, the SFIC will deny involvement. If you are
successful, however, I will personally guarantee your entrance to the Academy
as well as to Intelligence School. Destroy these instruction now. And good
luck."

Tsandzia looks up from the screen. "I knew he was lying. How did you figure out
the code?"

"It was sitting on her table underneath a bowl of fruit."

Tsandzia shakes her head, "Rather clumsy."

"The Commodore is guessing that she intended to use the chip in her own
defense, banking on the possibility that she might be caught."

"Caught doing what?"

"Whatever the instructions told them to do. Since we haven't been able to find
this so-called second chip, we're assuming that this Agent Duran, your Lt.
Khemsa, already has it. Now, as you know Lieutenant, you are not under the
authority of Captain LeBonk. You're assignment is to the Phobos, which falls
under Albuquerque command since this is the ship's home port. Hence, you're
ultimately taking your orders from Ash. However, since you're already doing
research aboard the Excalibur, Ash wants you to keep an eye on Duran."

"You want me to find out what his mission is."

"We already have a good idea what his mission is." She looks again toward the
Typhoon, hitting a button. "No signs of drones?"

"Nothing, Commander."

"Okay, clear them for approach."

Tsandzia looks at the screen, "Who's on the Typhoon? And why are you worried
about it's arrival?"

"Federation Ambassador Sarin, envoy to the Klingons Empire. As you may have
heard, the Gothmogs are reportedly being systematically exterminated by the
Klingons... possibly with Federation assistance. We believe that Duran's
instructions are to protect the Ambassador, even if it means taking a
preemptive strike against suspected assassins."

"Why don't you just approach him directly... offer assistance?"

"The Commodore doesn't see that as an option, and I don't question his
judgement. However, if you want to discuss that idea with him, I don't mind.
Just know that he's placing you under my supervision. You are not to interfere
with Duran's assignment. You are not to expose your knowledge. But if he seems
to need help, render it. Just be sure to use your own judgement as to the how
and the when."


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

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