ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv2/turn25

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 38KB | 846 lines

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                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #25
                                 Shock & Drool
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
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  Cast & Crew
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
  ST-PBeM GameMaster       Jim Vassilakos      [e-mail]
  Lt. Bellasario           Alan Ward           [e-mail]
  Lt. T'lar                Ronnie Simonds      [e-mail]
  2nd 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]


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

Three new players appear in this turn (Dave, Jason, and Steve).


Stardate 6003.27 at 1800 hours: USS Phobos, Transporter Room #1
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lt. Xelha watches, as the view of the Albuquerque transporter room competes
with and is eventually overtaken by the view of the one aboard the Phobos. But
there's something odd, and as he looks around, he sees the problem. He isn't
even on the pads. The space stations transporters were doing all the work. They
might as well have beamed him directly to his new quarters. Xelha looks up,
spying a red-haired Tellarite behind the controls.

"Lt. Pacal Xelha, permission to board."

"Hold still," comes the terse retort. The Tellarite advances and runs a
tricorder over Pacal as two stony-faced security guards watch from the corner
of the room. Finally the Tellarite nods, seemingly satisfied, and the two
guards relax.

"I take it, I'm clean."

The Tellarite frowns, "You're a human. I didn't say you were clean."

Pacal bites his lip, "What's going on with your transporter?"

"What do you mean?"

Pacal grins, "I mean, why weren't you using it? Is it damaged?"

"Of course not. It works fine." The Tellarite seems somewhat insulted that
anybody would question the engineering on his boat. Pacal just nods. The
tellarites are an argumentative lot and usually best left to their own devices.

'Terrific. Just terrific,' he thinks to himself, after checking in. 'Not only
do I have to serve on the ultimate garbage scow of the Federation, but I
probably have to serve with a crew full of tellar-rinds. It's a politically
incorrect term for tellarites, in reference to their pig-like characteristics,
and one he'd never be caught saying aloud. At least, not on his first day
aboard the Phobos. He grits his teeth, just thinking about it. He was so angry
about the transfer orders that he could have literally strangled the computer
that spit them out.

The Phobos, a border crawler for Christ's sake. And now that he's seen it with
it's stern-quarters smashed open, his worst fears have come to full fruition.
It's quite possibly the most disgusting bucket of bolts he's ever laid eyes on.
Well, it figures. His assignment aboard the USS Tali hadn't exactly come off as
planned. Perhaps it had something to do with those viruses he tossed into the
ship's computer.

Pacal enters his quarters and drops his gear, including a box of isolinear
chips with essays ranging on such topics as navigation, computer systems, and
sensors. His entire life's work, basically, along with the life's work of
countless others, including one Academy instructor who'd told him that he had
the makings of a great Star Fleet officer, and that if he played his cards
right, he could even make captain someday.

'Captain. What a joke. I work my ass off, and they stick me where the sun don't
shine. Oh well. Time to find out if things are really as bad as they look.'

He clears his throat, "Computer. Er... computer, please respond."

Nothing happens.

'No voice access? Aww... man! This is unlivable. I wonder if the turbolifts can
talk?' Maybe not, but they at least know how to listen.

"Destination, main bridge."

Less than a minute later, he finds himself on the main bridge, or at least what
is currently being called the main bridge. Technicians are scattered like fleas
on a cow-pie, solid-state boards are getting flung around like frisbees, and
entire consoles are being publicly disemboweled. The main viewer has so much
static, one might think there's a snow-storm in space. 'Nasty,' Pacal thinks to
himself, 'really nasty.'

As he wanders around, trying to figure out who's in charge, he finally bumps
into an Ensign of all people, who just walking in, starts trying to regain some
semblance of order.

"Excuse me, Ensign. Who is in charge here?"

"Oh, you must be the person just transported from the station. My name's Vince.
Vince Trozena. Communications Officer." He extends his hand for a shake, then
withdraws it, seeing that Xelha isn't quite in the mood. "Uh... the Captain is
currently attending to some pressing business. I'm sure that you'll be briefed
at her earliest convenience, sir."

"Who is the Captain?"

"Lt. T'lar is the acting-Captain."

Pacal blinks, "A *lieutenant* is acting-captain? What's that make me? First
officer?"

"Uh... I suppose that's about the size of it, sir. Can I get you some coffee
and show you around? By the way, I don't think I got your name."

"It's Xelha." He pronounces is a second time, slowly. "Shell-ha. And I'll pass
on the coffee. I've already had several cups of espresso."

"Very good, sir," Trozena nods. "I can show you around if..."

"I'll pass on the tour, also. I already spent the last several days looking at
deckplans of this vessel. I must say, it looks like you're doing some serious
renovation."

"Well, we have our hands full."

"I can see that. I'll be taking control of the repairs on the bridge. Please
inform the acting-captain of my arrival and get whoever is in charge of
engineering up here on the double, that is IF there is anyone in charge of
engineering! Got it?"

"Right away, sir!" With that comment, Trozena does an abrupt about-face and
departs into the unchartered bowels of the Phobos.

Instantly, five people surround Pacal and start asking him questions about
specific repairs. Realizing that he has to either kill the state of chaos or
succumb to death-by-smothering, he stands on top of one of the electrical
crates and starts shouting, "May I have your ATTENTION!" It's not a question.

Almost instantly, a dozen of the workers stop and look at him, and after half a
minute, all voices have stopped and he has everyone's undivided attention.

"My name is Lieutenant Xelha. I'm taking command of the bridge until further
notice. Please send representatives from each repair team to meet with me right
away! All questions must be handled by your team leaders. Thank you."

"Team leaders?" Somebody from the back of the room looks a bit confused.

"You guys have team leaders, don't you?"

"Sir, we don't even have teams."


Stardate 6003.27 at 1815 hours: Albuquerque Station, Newcomers' Plaza
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dr. Jakob Andrew Bannister stares around at the crowds of people. There seem to
be hundreds. All varieties of aliens he could possibly imagine. All of them
talking gibberish. Some screaming. Some whistling. Some just plain mumbling in
tones so low that their voices are more felt than heard.

"Excuse me. Can you tell me where the nearest transporter room is? Transporter?
Trans-port-er?"

The blue headed alien regards him curiously before passing on.

"Aren't there any humans around here?"

He turns around a gives his copious baggage a tug, when suddenly he bumps face
first into something large. 'Ah, a Star Fleet uniform. Good. My lucky day.' He
looks skyward, only to see the chest continue to rise somewhere into the
stratosphere, finally ending in a dark, bearded face, with bone ridges rising
along the forehead like subdermal razors and dark beady eyes recessed deep
within the skull.

Bone ridges?!!

Jake blinks as he suddenly realizes that he's looking directly at an Imperial
Klingon. In Star Fleet uniform, no less. Either this is a cruel hoax, or it's
klingon-halloween!!

"Er..." he backs up a step or two, starting to wonder if this really is a Star
Fleet officer. Any normal Klingon would have ripped his head off by now. "Ah...
maybe you can help me. I need to find the transporters in order to get to my
ship."

"I am not an information booth," replies the Klingon.

'You're just as large as one,' thinks Jake. "Well, be that as it may, I still
need to get to the transporters to report to the Phobos. Please, if you could
just point me in the right direction."

Jake notices that the Klingon's eyes bulge out just a tad, as though something
he just said were of great significance. Then the creature's withering glare
softens. "Excuse me, but I am to understand that in human society, it is
usually considered polite to introduce oneself BEFORE attempting to run someone
over. I am Lt. K'tar, combat systems engineering specialist just assigned to
the USS Phobos. And you are?"

'This monster is going to be one of my crewmates?' Jake shudders. "Er... Lt.
Bannister, medical doctor, damn glad to meet you."

The Klingon bends down and picks up two of the doctor's bags. "Do not worry. I
am not claiming possession of your belongings. If I were intending that, I
would have killed you first."

"Oh... well, that's good to know," Jake pats his forehead with a handkerchief.

When they finally reach the transporter chamber, they hand over their IDs for
processing. Meanwhile, K'tar looks out a porthole at his new ship. Battle scars
run the length of the hull, and the shuttle bay looks like it's been completely
blown out. Even worse, however, is a strange inconsistency in the hull texture.
It looks like the walls around the bridge are newer than the rest of the ship.
Jake comes alongside the Klingon and takes a look.

"Oh my goodness."

K'tar doesn't even blink. "I was not aware that you humans stacked shit in the
shape of starships."

"Now really, I'd think that you'd be impressed. This is a ship which has seen
combat."

K'tar nods, "Yes. And obviously, it was the loser."

They reclaim their IDs and ascend the transporter pads, Jake arranging his
baggage in a cluster around his feet.

"Albuquerque Station Transport Pad #41-D to Phobos. Two to beam over. Dr.
Jakob Bannister and Lt. K'tar."

"Pad 41-D, you may begin transport."

"Energizing now."

As the glow of the transport beams wash over them, Jake and K'tar feel the
usual sense of disorientation that accompanies transporter travel. Then their
view fades to black, only to be replaced by the transporter room aboard the USS
Phobos. A Tellarite and two security people are there, none of them looking
particularly happy to have the newcomers aboard.

"Dr. Bannister reporting as ordered and requesting permission to come aboard."

"Hold still."

The Tellarite checks the two of them out with the tricorder. "Okay, this one's
fine." Turak moves over to the Klingon. "You are Lt. K'tar, I presume?"

"That would be presumptuous for you to presume," he growls. "But yes, I am."

"Why would it be presumptuous?"

Typical Tellarite. They all love to argue. Even with Klingons, when they get
the chance. Jake groans. "Lt. K'tar, would you mind helping me with my bags?"

"Very well, but I must report for duty as soon as possible. From the shape this
vessel is in, I can see that my services will be required immediately."

When they finally enter a turbolift, K'tar looks toward the ceiling. "Computer,
what is the current state of repairs? Grr.. Computer, answer query immediately!
Computer??!?!? GRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrr..." K'tar punches the lift's wall, leaving a
sizable dent. Jake, meanwhile, backs into a corner and tries to hide in
shadows, not that there are any in a turbolift.

They finally arrive at deck 4, and Jake climbs out of the lift with his bags.
"Oh, could you hand me that duffle-bag? Oooph! Thanks. Well, I hope you manage
to get that damage report."

K'tar groans, "May Bak-TAH give me the strength to battle this ship.
Destination, bridge."

The lift doors close, and before entering his quarters, Jake takes a notepad
out of his briefcase and jots down a quick reminder. "No testosterone
supplements for K'tar."


Stardate 6003.27 at 1830 hours: USS Phobos, Bridge
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All work immediately comes to a grinding halt when the bridge personnel see a
Klingon step out of the lift. Even Lt. Xelha, who'd been dictating instructions
to one of the technicians, can't help but lose his train of thought. The
Klingon looks about himself with an imperious glare, then steps down toward the
command chair, his extra-extra-large uniform gripping to his shoulders and
chest like a spandex bikini, and his coal-black hair cascading down his
shoulders and back like a tumbling river.

"Lt. K'tar, combat systems engineering, reporting for duty, as ordered, SIR!"

Pacal stares at Lt. K'tar as a million thoughts race through his skull. 'How
much coffee did I REALLY drink this morning? Is this a dream? What in god's
name is a Klingon doing in a Star Fleet uniform? Oh my god, this Klingon
outranks me!!!"

Lt. K'tar grows impatient, and everyone on the bridge feels it.

"Why, yes, uh, welcome to the Phobos, Lt. K'tar." More seconds pass as Pacal
figures out what to do. 'Christ, how can this be happening? Okay, I must first
calm down. Right, okay. Well, that didn't work.'

Pacal finally remembers his training from the Academy.

"Sir, regulations dictate that you should be in control of the bridge." Pacal
gulps before his next phrase. "Sir, I relinquish command of the bridge to you.
What are your orders?"

There are a few startled gasps from the technicians as K'tar, equally
dumbfounded, finally notices Pacal's badge. Here he'd thought that the guy in
the center seat was of command grade, and it turns out he's only a lowly,
fodderous 2nd lieutenant. K'tar blushes in shame over his oversight.

"Status," K'tar reluctantly assumes the conn.

"Aye sir. I've been trying to get a coherent status report since I arrived
here. From what I've been able to learn, the most critical damage from the Borg
attack has been repaired. That includes numerous hull breaches, loss of the
bridge..."

K'tar growls, "Just tell me what *isn't* working, Lieutenant."

"Aye sir. Main computer's 2nd stage memory, core diagnostics, and
super-processing, our primary quantum t-buffer, the tractor beam generator, the
materials fabrication facility, and the omegaon relay capture and maintenance
bay."

"Omegaon relay bay?"

"Formerly the shuttle bay, sir. There are also some systems which are past due
for maintenance. And, as you can see, we're still working on getting the bridge
in order. All brand new equipment, sir." Pacal smiles, somewhat pleased with
his report. He quickly glances toward the forward viewer. At least it's finally
clear of static, and the bridge looks semi-orderly if not tidy. Then he drops
his smile and kicks himself. 'Hey, this is a Klingon I'm talking to. I sure
hope this is somebody's idea of a joke.'

K'tar quickly types a few keystrokes on the PADD embedded in the chair, and
Pacal sees his service record pop to the screen.

"I see that you are somewhat of a computer expert, Mr. Xelha."

"Uh... yessir."

"Then you can go fix the computers. Now!"

"Aye sir!"

'Well,' Pacal thinks to himself, heading out of the bridge, 'in the first half-
hour I've been on the Phobos, I've taken command of the bridge, reorganized the
repairs on the ship, restored order amidst a sea of chaos, and then
relinquished command to a Klingon! At this rate, I'll probably end up
befriending a friggin' Romulan!'


Stardate 6003.27 at 1845 hours: USS Excalibur, Random Corridor
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Computer, where is Lt. Bellasario?"

"........ Lt. Bellasario is on deck twelve."

T'lar heads toward a turbolift, cursing her unfamiliarity with the Excalibur.
When she finally arrives on twelve, she discovers it to be mainly for enlisted
quarters. Various crewmembers are walking about now that the general quarters
alert has been called off, however, there are still teams of security guards
positioned at the turbolifts and stairwells, just in case.

She stops to let one scan her over with a tricorder, then steps down a side
corridor. "Computer, where is Lt. Bellasario now?"

"........ Lt. Bellasario is in room EQ12-318."

"Identify function of that room."

"........Room serves as quarters of Crewman Thomas Parker."

T'lar nods, silently. He's probably packing up his friend's stuff, or worse,
crying his eyes out. Though more relaxed than most of her kind, T'lar takes no
delight in observing the emotional displays of others. Deciding to avoid the
scene altogether, she starts back toward the turbolift when she hears Gunner's
voice.

"Baker, I don't want anyone cleaning out Tom's room. I'll take care of it
myself."

"No problem, Chief. Where you heading now?"

"Where the hell do you think I'm heading? Destination: Brig."

T'lar hears the swish of turbolift doors, her eyes narrowing as she cuts back
around the corner. When she finally arrives at the brig, however, Gunner is
nowhere is sight. "Is he is the cellblock?"

"Who? Lt. Bellasario?" The guard points a scanner at her face.

"Who do you think?"

"Yeah, he's in there. He didn't say anything about expecting company though."

"I doubt that he is."

T'lar heads into the cellblock to see Gunner unholstering his phaser and
switching off the forcefield on cell #2. Instead of breaking out into a
stampede, however, she simply *ahems* loudly enough to make him aware that he's
being observed.

He glances over, a stern crevice to his jaw-line. "Go away, T'lar."

She raises her classic eyebrow in response. "You have personal business with
our prisoner?"

"This piece of shit killed my friend. I think that makes it personal."

"And are you willing to shoot your career as well? Even if harming a
quarantined prisoner doesn't do it, might I note that you'll have to shoot a
Star Fleet lieutenant as well. Logically, it is not worth it."

"There you go spouting off about logic again!! Is it logical that Tom's body
has been reduced to microscopic ash?? Is it logical that I have to call his
daughter and tell her that her father is dead??! Where is the logic in that,
T'Lar?! She doesn't even have a body to bury, for Christ's sake!!" Gunner, who
was visibly shaken before, is now on the verge of tears as he thinks about the
girl. "I'm going to question these two just as I would any criminals who
murdered a man in cold blood."

"With all due respect, if there is any interrogating to be done, it should be
done by someone less emotionally involved. I could quote regulations if you
would like."

Gunner re-establishes the forcefield and steps back a bit, keeping his voice
down. "T'Lar, nobody quotes regulations better than you. But don't you
understand? I have a personal stake in this. My best friend on this ship was
butchered by these... these things."

"Exactly my point."

"Look, I know my job. As much as I would personally love to burn a hole through
that creature's forehead, I can assure you no harm will come to him... her...
it... whatever."

"Somehow that doesn't sound very reassuring, particularly with the amount of
sheer rage I can't help but detect."

"What the hell do you want, T'lar!" Gunner grinds his teeth in frustration.
"That _thing_ killed Tom!"

T'lar exhales slowly, and wonders when she started holding her breath.
'Probably when the phaser turned my way.' "If you must feel a need to hate,
Gunner... hate the enemy, not the soldier. These people believe in what the
Romulans are doing about as much as you do, from what I understand."

"Tell that to Tom."

"Personal grudges do not make for the fighting of an effective battle."

Gunner turns around and starts heading back to the cells. "They're all I've
got, T'lar. Unless you want to try convincing the Romulan captain to beam
aboard and give himself up."

"I try my best not to attempt to out-think Romulans," T'lar replies drily.
"It's generally unproductive, and it makes my head hurt. Just do anything they
don't seem to like, and hope for the best."

"I'll keep that in mind when I'm beating the hell out of their two favorite
assassins." He lowers his voice, "Don't worry, I won't do any permanent damage.
And if I do, so what?"

He steps back over to the cell and cuts the forcefield, pointing his phaser at
the brig's newest captive.

"You don't frighten me," she responds.

"Then you're a fool."

"I am to understand that the Federation Star Fleet does not subscribe to
torture."

"Don't believe everything you see on three-vee." He pops her with a burst of
stun, leaving her flopping on the floor. By the time she regains her wits, he
has his knee on her spine, applying moderate pressure, her arms extended behind
her like two branches ready to snap.

"Okay. Now that I've sharpened your memory, tell me who the third assassin is?"

All that Gunner receives, however, is a defiant scowl.

"I think it a simple question, but perhaps the universal translator is
malfunctioning. Let me see if I can fix it; WHO IS THE THIRD ASSASSIN??!!" He
begins applying more pressure on her arms.

"I could kill you so easily," she hisses.

"Oh sure, give me an excuse..." Gunner thinks somewhat audibly. He increases
the tension on her arms and glances back over at T'Lar.

"Gunner, watch out!"

As he returns his gaze to his captive, however, he sees that her arms are no
longer so brittle and thin, but are now coated with course hair, and muscular
beyond belief.

"Oh... terrific," he lets go just in time to keep his arm from being
dislocated, then jumps back to avoid a swarm of claws, before phasering her
once again in the chest.

"I'm re-engaging the forcefield."

"Good idea," T'lar observes. "You shouldn't have lowered in the first place."

When the chameleon finally gets up again, it is in her original form. Lithe,
dark skinned, and strangely beautiful.

"Is that your real form, or do you simply use it in the hope that I won't kill
you?"

"Try to kill me and see what happens."

Gunner scowls, "Look, what are you, some mindless automaton programmed to do
the Romulans bidding?! Can't you see your only hope is to cooperate? Are you
trying to be a martyr or something?! What can you possibly hope to gain by
holding out?"

"My masters have been known to reward discipline... even in the face of death.
And to punish the lack thereof. If you think I seek to save myself..."

"You're protecting loved ones," T'lar announces. "Tanara has already told me."

"Where is she?"

"In sickbay, Dr. O'Neil is very interested in your species."

Histlin scowls, "What are you doing to her, Vulcan?"

"She has not been harmed. They're simply running scans. We want to know more
about your people and why they serve the Romulans."

Gunner draws his phaser again, slightly increasing the setting this time. "This
conversation has been growing increasingly pointless since I allowed you to
enter it, T'lar. Chameleon, we seek specific information, and we don't have
time to screw around. Help us find this third chameleon... and I'll try to
forgive you the murder of my friend. Continue you defiance, however, and you
might wind up getting seriously injured."

"Gunner, no."

"Shut-up, T'lar."

"This isn't the way."

He lowers the forcefield again and aims his phaser, only to feel a sudden and
sharp application of pressure on his shoulder as T'lar pinches her fingers into
it. Her face is a poorly controlled mask of rage as he falls to the floor.
"My... apologies," she finally whispers, though whether it is to Gunner or the
chameleon is uncertain.

She quickly re-establishes the field. "Has he caused any severe damage to you?
I fear we know little of how your anatomy functions."

"I am undamaged."

"Good." She looks down at Gunner, wondering what she's going to do with his
unconscious body. Better that he not wake up for some time. She takes out her
communicator. "Sickbay, can you send over some tranquilizers? Our prisoner
is... terribly agitated." She pockets the communicator. "Well, you are, aren't
you?"


Stardate 6003.27 at 1830 hours: USS Phobos, Bannister's Quarters
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After getting to his room and throwing his bags in a corner, Dr. Bannister
flops onto his rack to catch some shut-eye. But in the back of his mind is a
nagging thought, 'Where did all the battle damage come from?'

"Computer," Jake queries, before he remembers K'tar's lack of success. 'Damn
primitive thing.' He climbs off the rack and sits down at the terminal in the
corner, searching for information about the recent battle. The machine isn't
very cooperate, however. Intrigued yet still mystified, Jake sets off toward
sickbay.

The place is quiet as he enters, nobody at the main desk and nobody in the
front office. He walks into the main recuperation room, finding it dark and
vacant, however, there is somebody in the bio-lab. Through a window, he can see
her, a woman in a white lab coat, her dark brown hair woven into a tight bun.
He's about to walk in and say "Hi" when he suddenly notices that she's bent
over a table in such an odd position that Jake thinks she might be ill or
something. Then he notices that she isn't moving.

Dr. Bannister, rushes over to her side. "Nurse, corpsman!"

The woman suddenly awakens, blinking her eyes and looking around with a
frightened expression on her face. She quickly wipes away the string of drool
hanging from her lip.

"Er, are you all right? I though you were..." he blushes, trying to find a way
to explain.

She stares back, somewhat embarrassed herself. "Who are you?"

"Oh, the name is Lt. Bannister." He extends his hand for shake. "I'm the new
Chief Medical Officer on board. And who might you be?"

She just looks at his hand for a moment, seemingly even more perplexed than
before. "Er... ah... Crewman Conner, sir." She makes a bad attempt at standing
at attention. "Iris Conner. Nobody told me that you were coming aboard. If I
was expecting you... <blah, blah, whines, excuses>"

"Err... enough. ENOUGH! Are you on duty here?"

"Yes sir," she replies meekly.

"I don't ever want to see you or anyone else sleeping again on any watch. You
have seen combat and should know about the urgency of remaining awake. Now that
that is all behind us, what might your job be?"

"Bio-scanners, sir."

"I see. Well, nice to meet you and now on with your business. I want to have a
meeting of the medical staff at 0800 tomorrow morning here in sickbay. Please
inform the remainder of the staff to be here."

"Aye sir." Conner straightens her back and shoulders, watching as Jake makes
his way to the main office and vaguely hoping that he won't remember the
incident.

His main office is decked out in typical blue and green naugahyde. There's even
a pop-up console set into the desktop, and the walls are plastered over with
various anatomical charts, the shim-sheet variety, with direct link to the
medical computer. It isn't the nicest medical office he's ever seen, but to Dr.
Bannister, it looks like a golden castle, his shop to run as he sees fit.
Somehow that makes it all the more noteworthy.

Jake begins wondering how he should re-furnish. A wall-to-wall hammock,
perhaps? Nah! Wouldn't set a good example. Then he thinks back to Dr. Ona at
the AASM. She'd went so far as to have a mud bath installed in her office and
then had the gall to write it off as a research expense. But she had one
advantage. She was the best in her niche, and being the best at the AASM meant
that you could get away with murder. Jake, on the other hand, had never been a
department head. He didn't have a single day of managerial training. And above
all else, he was no longer in the academia. This was a starship. An honest-to-
goodness starship.

Jake rubs his face, finally deciding to call up the personnel files from the
local computer. He spends the next hour reading about the six people under his
command, a motley assortment at best. Of the two possibilities for assistant
department head (assuming that he'll even appoint one), both are ensigns, one
with considerable experience and the other with considerable promise.

"Computer, open new Medical Officer's Log. Computer? Damn."

He finds a pack of black iso-chips in the desk and inserts one into the
terminal, typing out his request for the computer to make an audio log entry.

"........Working."

"Medical Officer's Log Entry, Stardate 6003.27, 1950 hours. The Phobos is
docked at Albuquerque Space Station undergoing repairs. I reported on board not
more than two hours ago. I beamed over with a Klingon of all beings. I suppose
I'll have to research Klingon medicine so that I may make some attempt at
treating him should it become necessary. I have just read over the records of
my staff and feel confident in all of them, well, almost all of them. The
sickbay looks immaculate and ready to stand an inspection other than one thing.
I caught one of my people asleep when I first arrived, but I am going to forget
the incident. I have the entire department meeting here tomorrow morning at
0800 in order to introduce myself and get to know them as people." He leans
back and looks toward the ceiling. "I can't believe that I finally made it to a
CMO position. Now is my chance to do what I know I want to do and to prove
myself. I'm so excited, I couldn't even get to sleep." He smiles, "I think I'll
go on a tour of the ship and see what I can find."


Stardate 6003.27 at 1845 hours: USS Phobos, Turbolift
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pacal heaves a sigh of relief as he enters the turbolift. 'I am sooo glad to be
out of the firing line up on the bridge. Not that I didn't handle the
pressure.'

He grins, 'Yes, I can almost see the promotion review board.' Pacal's vision
blurs slightly as he tries to see the scene in his mind more clearly. 'Pacal
has been cool under the most stressing of circumstances. Pacal was able to
outmaneuver the Romulans at every encounter. Pacal is a strong and able leader.
I vote that the board recommends promoting Pacal to the rank of Captain.'

"Sir? Are you going to stand there all day? We need to get this material to
Engineering."

Pacal suddenly snaps back to reality only to see two crewmen in front of him,
trying to edge him toward the back of the lift. When the lift finally arrives
at his deck, he has an interesting time squeezing between them. A few seconds
later, he's in his quarters, shuffling through his stuff.

'Let's see. Where'd that thing creep off to. Aha.' He pulls out a small,
isolinear chip. It's sticker designates it as "Pacal's chip of essential
programs and other obscure paraphernalia," a container of various utilities,
cracked-codes, favorite games, and at least one holodeck simulation (on the
off-chance that he'd ever get access to a holodeck). He even tried borrowing
some holographic equipment at one point to try to make his own holodeck (his
last assignment was really boring). Aside from being a useful tool for
practical jokes, however, he'd never made much use of it.

He pockets the chip and starts making his way to the computer core, trying to
get a handle of the maze. After getting lost only three times, he finally makes
it to the core. Much like the bridge, at first glance, the core is a complete
disaster. Various data segments are strewn across the floor, loose wires and
cables sticking out of most every nook and cranny. In the back of the room,
there's a blond lady screeching at the top of her high-pitched voice.

"I've never SEEN such INCOMPETENCE. You people don't know 2nd stage memory from
a SLUDGE-BURGER! For all I know you probably EAT the chips 'cause you can't
tell the damned DIFFERENCE! For the last time, we are looking for the 256-pin,
9-layer, isofabricated, cermelicon polymers. Does anybody have a problem with
that?!"

Pacal absently wonders if it's too late to request a transfer, possibly to a
nice, boring, mining colony.


Stardate 6003.27 at 1900 hours: USS Typhoon, Bridge
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kris pauses as she enters the Typhoon's bridge. Captain Jacobson is there,
watching the forward viewer as his ship cautiously circles the two wounded
Romulan craft.

"They're hailing us again, Captain, and I detect numerous sensor suppression
fields in their engineering compartments."

Jacobson grins, "Get in closer. Do you think we can take out the sensor
suppression with a directed phaser burst."

"You do that, and you'll have a war on your hands."

Jacobson swivels around to the voice behind him. Kris stands there trying to
look official.

"Well well... if it isn't the security guard."

"Sir..."

"In my ready room, mister! Everson, take us out to fifty thousand c-secs and
hold position."

Kris follows her Captain to the ready room, realizing that she's about to be
given the proverbial boot to the head. As the door closes behind her, he turns
about, stern-jawed and fuming.

"It was a simple assignment, Lieutenant. Protect one man!" Jacobson stomps to
the back of the room, then points his finger at Kris as though he's
contemplating stabbing her with it. "One man!! All you have to do is watch him!
And what happens!? Within the same day, he ends up dead! Dead, Lieutenant! I am
to understand that you were nowhere near his quarters! Where the hell were you,
Lieutenant!"

"Sir..."

"No, don't bother answering! I don't need to hear your excuses! You'll be
pleased to note that while I am sending recommendation to Star Fleet for your
demotion, Commodore Ash will be requiring your services aboard the Albuquerque.
Apparently they have several hundred public latrines which need cleaning, and
their entire robotics staff is on vacation!"

"Sir, before you eat your entire leg, may I say something?"

Jacobson crosses his arms over his chest and glares. "Go ahead."

Kris brings out her tricorder and does a once over on Jacobson, just to make
sure he's not a commie-mutant-chameleon. The tricorder reads negative.

"Do you want to say something or just stand there and scan me?"

Kris pauses for a second before beginning. "Sir, it's true that I was not at
the ambassadorial suite when the ambassador was killed. I was attempting to get
information on who might have a sufficient motive to kill him. As it turns out,
both Commodore Ash and Ambassador Sarin anticipated that something might happen
aboard the Excalibur, so the two of them arranged a holographic trick.
Ambassador Sarin was hardly ever in his quarters. He was on the holodeck."

Jacobson's eyes bulge out slightly in surprise. "Let me get this straight.
You're telling me that Sarin's..."

"...not dead. After the attempt, we detained a romulan-hired chameleon who was
disguised as a Star Fleet officer. With that in mind, I made the recommendation
to Commodore Ash that the Excalibur be put on GQ4, and we started looking for
the other two chameleons. One of them turned out to be a security guard from
the Excalibur who was posted at Sarin's quarters. The other is still out
there."

Jacobson sits down, a bit flustered by the revelations. "Why was I kept out of
the loop?"

"Security precautions. I'm only confiding in you now because you _still_ are my
commanding officer. That is, unless you want to send me to the Albuquerque to
clean latrines for the next ten years."

The Captain grins, "Fifteen, actually. Look, I owe you an apology."

"Don't mention it."

"What are the plans now? Or am I still considered a security risk?"

"We're going to take Sarin aboard the Phobos and head toward his destination,
the Rigel Cluster. That's why Ash wants me transferred to his command."

"So he can reassign you to the Phobos."

"Right. With a smaller number of people to worry about, Sarin will be that much
safer. With him heading further away from the Romulan border, the other
chameleon will have to make his move soon if he ever wants to get home. I
wanted to tell you this personally, and in secrecy because you're about to get
the 'official' excuse from the Phobos, and I wanted you to know the truth. I
have been assigned the Chief of Security position aboard the Phobos if you
approve this transfer."

Jacobson leans back and takes a deep breath. "I'll tell Ash what I planned to
tell him in the first place. That you're fit for latrine duty. Farewell,
Lieutenant. And thanks for confiding in me."

Kris smiles, "Thank you, sir."


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

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