ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv2/turn29

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 31KB | 764 lines

*******************************************************************************
                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #29
                               Rescuing Histlin
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
*******************************************************************************


  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]
  Lt. Soroc                Jeff Ellis          [e-mail]


Stardate 6003.27 at 2100 hours: USS Phobos, Bridge
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Overbearing creep?" Johnson looks confused. "Now you couldn't be referring to
Commander de la Sangre, could you?"

"Why not?"

"Cause he's an overbearing creep _with_ an attitude. You forget the _attitude_
part, and you're missing the quintessence of overbearing creepiness."

Tsandzia laughs, "Forgive me, I didn't know that... well, I guess you know our
esteemed commanding officer then?"

"Know him? I'm practically married to the SOB." He glances toward the scanner
console as a beeping sound ensues, one that occurs every time the romulans
transmit their little signal, or whatever it is. "What's going on over there?"

"The Romulans appear to be transmitting something. They're up to no good, I'm
sure. I just wish we could do something about it."

"Jam 'em."

"Can't. Mr. Overbearing-Creepiness-with-Attitude doesn't want to draw
attention."

"Why not?"

Tsandzia bites her lip, realizing that Johnson knows nothing about Sarin being
onboard. "Uh... I'm sure he has his reasons." She winces.

"By the way," Trozena pipes-up from the communications console, "how was the
party?" He grins.

"Next time you tell me there's a party for me when there isn't, I'm gonna do
rude things with your electrical polarity."

He laughs, tossing a game of 'Kill the Klingons' on her screen. Tsandzia
regards it with a smirk.

"You know, with Lt. K'tar roaming around, that's not a very smart thing to have
in your account."

"Nonsense. We can have him play the Klingons and inject some realism into the
game. Or better yet, we could reprogram it with genuine Klingon tactics." He
takes a brief swipe at her Federation Cruiser, a tacit "come and get me" they'd
developed over the past couple years.

"Hey, I wanna play," Johnson announces.

"Take the new security console. No passkeys have been set up yet."

He scurries over, logging in as "operator", and for the next several minutes,
Tsandzia, Trozena, and Johnson are engaged in the mother of all wars, only
pausing the game every time the turbolift doors swoosh open. Finally, however,
their fun is interrupted.

"Uh... Tsandzia? Uh damn... nice shot. I got a call for you from Albuquerque.
Apparently your presence is requested."

"By who?"

"Commodore Ash."

"Eh, let him wait."

She stays long enough to toast Johnson and Trozena twice more, finally exiting
with a grin. "Good thing for you guys we weren't betting money."

"Well, if we were," Trozena smiles, "I wouldn't have let you win."

"Uh-huh." She makes her way to the transporter room.


Stardate 6003.27 at 2100 hours: USS Phobos, Computer Core
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Making his way back into the computer core, Pacal is once again tempted to
request a transfer. 'Geez, what kind of chicken-shit command staff is this? The
Captain not telling anyone what kind of mission we're on?'

"So how was the meeting?" Tyran looks up when he sees the fuming lieutenant.

"Fine. Any progress here?"

"You kidding?"

And Tyran isn't exaggerating. The situation is much as he left it. Something
funky with core diagnostics. Something very funky and utterly reclusive. After
several hours of trying to track down the bug that is preventing the core
diagnostics from completing, Pacal begins to show signs of fraying at the
edges. 'I can't believe this stupid piece of shit. I can't believe this
computer was actually functioning before the Borg attack.'

Pacal begins searching the maintenance logs on the computer trying to find some
bit of information that will make the puzzle fit together. He finally finds
something written by a crewman about two years earlier.

   5811.03.0400: Crewman Egapex. Various errors from core diagnostics,
   nothing seems to work. Inadvertently hit the core panels. Problem gone.
   Seems to be related to micro-oxidation of the 2SM contacts. I'll
   run them through a thorough scrub tomorrow.

After studying the other surrounding entries for a few minutes he gets the
picture. Crewman Egapex was working on the same type of problem two years ago.
Everyone was putting pressure on him. He worked for forty-eight hours solid
with no progress what-so-ever. Finally, in frustration, he kicked the core
panels and the problem seemed to disappear. It was never a software problem at
all. It wasn't even a hardware problem that the diagnostics was intelligent
enough to look for. It was some friggin' contacts burping their packets.

Pacal runs to the core panel and not only relieves his frustration by kicking
the panels as hard as he can with his shoes, but he hits them with his fists as
well.

Tyran comes in, somewhat bewildered. "Ohmigod, he's gone off the deep end." He
reaches for a comm-port to call security.

"No, I'm fine. Go back and check it now."

A minute later, Tyran's waging his head from side to side in utter disbelief.
"I don't know what the hell you did, but it's purring like a kitty."

Pacal sighs, leans back, and begins rubbing his knuckles.

"Uh... so tell me... what exactly did you do?"

"Oh, it was just something I learned at school."

"Which school was this?"

Pacal smiles, "The school of hard knocks, of course."


Stardate 6003.27 at 2030 hours: USS Excalibur, Random Corridor
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'Maybe that damn vulcan was right all along.'

Gunner wanders down a corridor, barely acknowledging the various security
personal he comes across. His mind is more adrift than it has been for a long
time, and he absently wonders if the mixture of drugs in his system has
anything to do with it.

'Damnit. I totally broke the regs. What the hell was I thinking? Ah... screw
the regs. What'd they ever do for me... or Tom? I ought to just strap on a
sling of proton grenades and pay those Romulan bastards a little visit. Yeah.'

"Hey chief."

"Bug off... Mathison."

"Aye sir."

He feels like slugging a wall, but then finds himself entering the bridge, his
feet somehow taking him back to his post without any mental effort on his part.

'Well, that's just great. I get to resume duty. Hmmm...'

He enters the captain's ready room. She's there, sure enough, working late.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Am I interrupting anything, sir?"

"Would it matter if you were?"

He smiles and shakes his head.

"Have a seat."

"If you don't mind, sir, I'd rather stand."

She shrugs, "Your feet, not mine. What do you have to report? Learn anything
new from our... prisoner?"

"Actually, no." Gunner rubs his shoulder, still stiff from the pinch. "T'Lar
felt it necessary to bring in an expert on the species to get further in the
investigation. Though initially skeptical, I did agree."

"She nerve-pinched you to shut you up."

"How did you know?"

"Lieutenant, there's not much that goes on that I don't eventually hear about."

"Captain, I..." Gunner is speechless as he realizes that LeBonk probably
authorized the action while Gunner was busy trying to pound Histlin's head into
the floor. Even if she didn't, she probably would have. The look on her face
says that much pretty plain. But there's also a touch of sympathy.

"Lieutenant, I've been in your shoes before. I know how it is to see a friend
die and feel powerless to do anything about it. You want to explode from
inside. You would do anything for revenge. But the bottom line, Lieutenant, is
that risk comes with the territory. We are professionals, and we must go on.
You are a fine security officer, but if there is any more interrogating to do,
it will be best handled by those two vulcans. Understood?"

Even if Gunner agrees, his countenance does not show it.

"Your silence speaks volumes."

Suddenly, for the first time since this whole incident began, Gunner realizes
something. For the past few hours since he found out about Tom Parker's death,
he had reverted back to the old him. His actions were not those of the
responsible Star Fleet officer he was today, but of the wild and undisciplined
freelancer who earned the nickname "Gunner" years ago. He'd tried very hard to
forget that time in his life. He was not at all proud of it. But here, when he
was under pressure, the old him had reemerged with a vengeance. It was rather
disquieting. "Sir, I believe I..."

"Apology accepted. I don't believe we need anything more formal than that.
You'll do your friend's memory more service if you refocus and help us with
Sarin."

"Yes, Captain, that's actually why I am here." Slowly and inexorably, the rigid
disciplined security chief begins to re-emerge. "I wish to hold a memorial
service for Crewman Parker. I feel it is the least we can do for him."

"Certainly, Lieutenant, you may coordinate. As soon as we have successfully
dispatched the Phobos and seen the Romulans back home we will..."

"No... sir. I... I was hoping we could assemble a service ASAP."

"Lieutenant, I know your connection to Crewman Parker, but surely you must
realize..."

"Captain, I realize that, but I believe we owe Tom this. We should memorialize
him as we would any other crewman who died while on duty. I have the very
unpleasant task of informing his family, and I'd like for them to know he
received full honors. Perhaps it will help to in some way ease the pain. It may
even be helpful to lift the spirits of our crew if we can eulogize him in such
a way to inspire the group assembled. At least then, Tom's death isn't
completely worthless. I believe he would've wanted that. Will you allow it?"

She pauses for a moment, "Under normal circumstances, I would say no."

"But?"

"But... for the sake of appearances... it's important that the Romulans not
believe that we are acting out of the ordinary. Go ahead and organize the
memorial service."

"Thank you, sir."


Stardate 6003.27 at 2030 hours: USS Excalibur, Sickbay
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The place is quiet, even for a ship's hospital, and as T'lar enters, O'Neil
is there waiting for her, right in the reception area, his face ashen by the
knowledge of something terrible.

"Come with me, Lieutenant. I want you to be prepared for this," he takes her
hand. "Tanara is dead."

T'lar blinks, about as stunned as a Vulcan can get. "What happened?"

The doctor shakes his head, "We'd beamed her directly from the brig to the
secure ward where we were running scans. We'd found that device in her neck
that you'd mentioned, and when we told her about it," O'Neil shrugs, "she
became rather upset... kept saying 'those bastards, I've got to see T'lar...
your ship is in danger.'" He takes a deep breath and leads her through another
door. Tani is there, her neck split open in a thousand different places, bits
of blood staining the walls and ceiling.

"We'd just taken her out the secure ward, past the protonic field, so that we
could use the foreign matter ejector on that device in her neck. To get it out.
I figure it must have been some sort of," he shakes his head, "some sort of
bomb. The Captain tells me they'd observed a low-frequency transmission coming
from one of the Romulan ships. We figure that it must have set it off. That's
why it didn't set-off until we took her outside the protonic field. The field
included comm-suppression. It was blocking the transmission which set off the
device." He grits his teeth, unsure whether or not he's making any sense.
T'lar, meanwhile, can only stare into the horror-filled eyes of the chameleon,
her neck almost entirely severed from rest of her body.

T'lar turns, wordless, and strides out of sickbay, entering the brig only
minutes later. Histlin, is there, as expected, and seems more paranoid than
ever. "It's Tanara... isn't it?! What did your doctors do to her?!"

"The Romulans killed her... some kind of broadcast that only works outside the
protonic fields." T'lar flicks off the cell's field and walks Histlin over to
the main entrance.

"Where are you taking me, you bitch!"

"I can only assume that you don't believe me. If you wish to test my claim, you
may do so. On the other side of this field... you would have your head blown
from your body by the device implanted in your neck... the device which the
Romulans put there."

"What?"

"Or you can let us set up a field in our sickbay, beam you in, and remove the
device. The choice is yours. Myself? I have seen too many dead here today."

"You are lying. This is a Federation trick."

"Need I remind you that I am a Vulcan, Histlin? Is it not infinitely more
likely that you have been put in the gravest danger by a Romulan trick?"


Stardate 6003.27 at 2100 hours: USS Excalibur, Sickbay
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Amidst a crowd of spectators, Dr. O'Neil makes the final adjustments on the
foreign matter ejection unit. "Okay, chameleon. Hold still."

'I don't seem to have much of a choice,' she thinks to herself, her head
strapped down to the table. A few moments later, it's over, the hum of finely
tuned transporter waves taking the device out of her neck and depositing it
inside a thick polymer jar. The jar jolts quite suddenly, even though it too is
strapped down, pieces of the device snaking into the clear polymer, but none of
them cutting through.

Histlin gets up from the table, after she's unstrapped, to have a look at the
thing that was meant to kill her, though now it is no more than bits of metal
shrapnel.

"So much for studying it," someone in the crowd observes after a short fit of
clapping dies down.

"It must have been sensing for FME waves as well," O'Neil announces rather
drily. "You're rather lucky, chameleon. This unit ties into the ship's pattern
buffer. Most others wouldn't be able to compensate for an exploding object."

She stands there, slightly dazed, staring at the thousand tiny specks of
shrapnel all embedded into the insides of the jar. T'lar sneaks up from behind
as only a vulcan can. "I've arranged slightly more hospitable accommodations,
as the proton field around you is no longer necessary. You may go there or back
to the brig."

One of the guards eyes her somewhat menacingly, "You have clearance? From
Bellasario?"

"All that I'll ever need. Talk to him yourself if you have a problem with it."

"I intend to."

T'lar looks back toward Histlin. "The choice is yours... as it always was. I'll
escort you when you've decided."

"I want to see Tani."

"I don't think you'll like what you'll see."

"I want to see what they did to her with my own eyes... so I never forget."

O'Neil takes the two of them into the mortuary. So far, most of the sliding
coffins are occupied by bodies of the Borg, however, Tanara is there also,
being preserved for the time being. O'Neil slides her little six by three by
two box out, and lets the top flap open automatically. Histlin just stares at
her for a long moment.

"Do you want to be left alone."

"No. I've seen enough." Histlin turns toward T'lar. "She did everything they
asked of her, and this is how they repaid her. You had every reason to kill
her, yet you tried to save her. And me."

"We know that what you did, you did because they coerced you. You and Tani were
never our enemies. And we were never yours."

"Then I regret to inform you... there are numerous bombs planted on your ship.
We intended to use them in case we were caught."

"How are they activated."

"By chronometer. They will not explode until midnight. The Romulans wanted them
to be on instant remote detonation as well, however... we neglected to make the
proper connections... just in case."

T'lar nods, "A wise precaution, it seems. Do you know where all of these bombs
are? I fear we have little time."

"I'll take you to them, if you wish."

"Yes, I think that would be in order."

T'lar gathers some security people and sets off in search of these "time-bombs"
which the chameleons have set, Histlin in the lead. "Your third companion is
probably in grave danger, as well... although I'm not sure how they keep
learning whether you've been captured or not."

"Karameth is no doubt in contact with them. When they lost contact with us,
they must have assumed we'd been captured."

T'lar sighs, "We will have to work very delicately and get her into a proton
field as rapidly as possible before the Romulans again learn, and activate the
device... though I fear that was their plan for all of you, all along. For a
mission of such great magnitude, any leftover agents could be... inconvenient.
I suspect this was the last mission for you three, one way or the other."

"You may be right... in more ways than you even know."

T'lar regards her with a curious stare.

"It's like this, Vulcan. When they have discovered my treachery, they may well
assign it to my entire kind. We would become less than useless to them. A
species fit for extermination."

"Then," T'lar decides, "we will have to make sure that doesn't happen."

Gunner rounds a corner, "What's going on?"

"Oh no, not him again."

"Histlin is showing us some time-bombs."

"Which she and her cohorts planted," Bellasario observes. "I'm organizing a
memorial service for the man you killed, chameleon. Would you care to attend?"

"I'll take a rain check."

Gunner grits his teeth, but maintains enough cool to keep from slamming her
into a bulkhead.

"GUNNER!" snaps T'lar. "You are OUT OF LINE. Histlin has just discovered that
the Romulans had *bombs* planted in all the chameleon agents. Tanara is already
dead. You don't need to demonstrate that humans are callous overblown idiots as
well."

"What the hell?! I'm asking her to attend a memorial service! That is unless
she has plans on killing anyone else. Then I'll just hold off until she's done
and we can hold all the services at once."

"We all have lost friends," Soroc interjects. "You have to stay in control to
keep from loosing more."

"Believe me, I intend to."

"Then you will honor your friend's memory by acting your rank and removing the
bombs planted on the ship. Since you are the security chief, you apparently see
fit to blame yourself for not covering all security holes. None of us can think
of everything. But keeping one's temper in check does help."

"What... are you trying to say my temper killed Tom?!" Gunner looks ready to
slug him.

"I'm saying that it may detract from your future performance, which may,
consequentially, kill others."

"Then don't walk around with this chameleon like she's suddenly your best
friend. It detracts from my performance."

Soroc doesn't even crack a smile. "You would do well to notice this phaser,
previously hidden from view. We are still guarding the prisoner. Please come
along and help. This is your ship, after all."

"Believe me, as long as this chameleon is out of her cell, I intend to stick to
her like glue." He takes hold of her arm, somewhat to T'lar's annoyance.

"Gunner, The Romulans are responsible for this. If your father were captured,
shown to you with a gun held against his head, would *you* hesitate to betray
the Federation? Tell me, Gunner! Look in my eyes... and tell me you wouldn't
sell us all to hell for your family." T'lar stares at him, eyes burning, daring
him to deny it. And, for once, he has nothing to say.

"Well, at least you're honest. Now either get out of our way, or help us
deactivate these damn things."

Gunner nods, "Okay. But don't think that this will earn you favorable
treatment, chameleon. The Romulans are going to pay for what they did... but so
are you. I promise you that."


Stardate 6003.27 at 2105 hours: USS Phobos, Main Engineering
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Hawkins enters main engineering, he can't help but notice a blondish though
somewhat nondescript warrant officer pointing an engineering tricorder at the
A/M field generators. Hawkins takes a moment to place a name to the face.
'Gardner. Oh yes. Warrant Officer Gardner.' A fellow southerner, Hawkins
recalls the time he spent the better part of an evening discussing the
cross-spatial dynamics of storing a bottle of White Rapids Whiskey with the
young man. The only catch was that the whiskey was really sort of an anti-
whiskey, all the particles being reversed. They'd decided that the impurities
would probably break the system, but the discussion, for all its silliness, had
been rather elucidating. While Gardner knew how to do a variety of things in an
engine room, there was one area he knew better than anyone, AntiMatter
Containment Systems. And from the look on his face, he doesn't appear to be
finding any problems in this one.

"Mr. Gardner, what brings you over here to the Phobos?" Hawkins makes an
innocent smile.

"Oh... Hi Chief. Decided to come over and see if I could lend a hand with your
gizmo here. Only thing is... I can't seem to figure out what's wrong with it."

"Indeed." Hawkins takes the tricorder, "It's a transient problem."

"But that kind of condition..."

"Mr. Gardner, I appreciate your concern an' the offer of help from yourself an'
Carlile. I assume she sent ya."

"Actually, no."

"No? What is this? A volunteer effort?" Hawkins laughs, wondering if his staff
is getting bored.

"I had ulterior motives for wanting to get on board, but... they sort of
backfired."

"Ulterior motives?" Hawkins lays the tricorder on the bench and fetches two
cups of Java. "What ulterior motives could you possibly have for wantin' to
come aboard this ole lady?"

Gardner forces a grin, suddenly wishing he'd never raised the topic. "Well,
sir. It kinda hard to say."

"Let me guess." Hawkins grins. "You're trying to impress Lindsey." Carlile, he
means.

"Oh, you're close, Chief."

Hawkins hands a cup of the java to the young man. "Well, what are you gonna do,
make me stand here guess?" He finds himself a seat.

"Do I have your complete confidence?"

"No."

"Good. If you said yes, I'd of figured you're a liar." Gardner takes a sip. "It
has to do with a long-time friend of mine. She's sort of... how do I put this
delicately."

Hawkins slaps his knee, "Why bother."

"Good point. She's a flirt."

"Oh, my."

"No fault to it," Gardner shrugs. "That's just the way she is. Only problem is
that it sometimes attracts the wrong sort, if you know what I mean."

"The wrong sort? I dunno know, the flirty kind has been known to attract this
old dog, on occasion."

"Case in point."

Hawkins grins.

"Anyway, I heard she was on board, so I decided that I'd zip on over, take a
look at your antimatter system, and catch some dinner with her all at the same
time."

"And?"

"She was already having dinner... with some guy wearing a towel around his
waste and standing guard duty."

"Is that unusual?"

Gardner takes another sip. "Unusual? Well, now that you mention it, I think
it is, but that's not the point."

"What is the point?"

"He's acquired somewhat of a reputation on the Excalibur. Apparently he managed
to bust Lt. T'lar's lip in some argument they were having."

Hawkins blinks, "He hit her?"

"So the story goes. Did a real good job of it too. She was wandering around
with a bandage so big she could barely talk for half the day. Split her lip
like the wings of a birdy, all the way clear to her nose. Why, if it wasn't for
modern medical science, she'd be scarred for life."

Hawkins blinks again, recognizing exaggeration when he hears it. "Did you
inform your friend?"

"Damn straight, I told her. She was too damn pig-headed to listen."

"Pig-headed? She's not a Tellarite, is she?"

"No, she's... she's Deltan."

Hawkins blinks again, wondering how many Deltan females are on the Excalibur.
Offhand, he knows of only one.

"Commander Elineva? Who's the fella?"

"Lt. Khemsa."

"That big Andorian Security Guard?"

"That's the one."

"Well, I'll be. Humph. So you thinks he's trouble, huh?"

"I only know what I've heard, and it ain't pretty."

Hawkins shakes his head, "No, it ain't, but then this is the first I've heard
of any of this. I've only met the boy twice. The first time was on the station.
A couple of well lubricated boys were tryin' to have their way with a local,
an' he was tryin' to help her out."

"Oh, I'll bet he was."

"The other time was on the Big-E when they were a huntin' for intruders. He
saved Capt'n Vince's ass. Aside from the rumors about hittin' T'Lar, what else
have ya heard about him?"

Gardner pauses, thinking back to the conversation that afternoon.

"What _else_ have I heard about him?"

Hawkins nods.

"You mean aside from decking a vulcan?"

Hawkins nods again, wishing he could have been there just to see the look on
her face.

"You think I'm makin' all this up, don't ya?"

"No, not at all. But unless you were there, it's only a rumor. All my dealings
with him have been okay. So I was wonderin' if ya had some other reasons."

"Personal reasons?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Gardner puts his cup down, wiping his lip with the back
of his sleeve. "Look, Chief. She's just a friend."

"Uh-huh."

"I don't give a rat's whiskery ass what you think. I just don't want to see her
get pounded by some andorian psychopath."

Hawkins bites his lip, "You think because he *might* have hit T'lar, that makes
him a psychopath? Lord knows there've been times-a-plenty that I've felt the
need to deck a Vulcan or two. The point is, much as you or I might want ta rush
to Nien's defense, we need somethin' ta go on. I can tell ya from experience,
it's hard enough ta tell a woman who ta see and who not to without some cold
hard facts in yer back pocket."

"Like I haven't figured that out for myself."

"Look, let's go talk ta T'lar. After we get her story, then we can decide how
ta proceed, fair 'nuff?"

Gardner picks up his cup again, taking a another sip as he glaces back toward
the A/M containment chamber. "That thing ain't broke an' you know it."

"Yeah, I know it, you know it, an' the Phobos A/M specialist knows it. Now
forget ya know it. Don't ask me 'bout it, don't talk 'bout it, don't think
'bout it. Got it?"

"Think about what?"

"I'm serious! That's an order."

Gardner downs the rest of his coffee, then leans a bit to the left, hitting a
comm-socket on the near wall. "Security, has T'lar checked in yet?"

"Negative. According to the logs, she's still on the Excalibur."

"Thanks." He cuts the channel. "C'mon, Chief. You've been cooped up for too
long. You need a road trip."

"I read you loud and clear," Hawkins gets to his feet. "Now lets get over ta
the Big-E and find that woman."


Stardate 6003.27 at 2110 hours: USS Phobos, Turbolift
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kris enters the turbolift, feeling rather disheveled. Not only is she carrying
the victim of two assassination attempts, but it's looking like with very
little effort on the part of the Romulans, the number of assassins could very
easily exceed the number of guards. Once the door swooshes shut behind her, she
lets herself fall back against the fall wall. "Deck four," she says.

At least Pesty didn't get around to marking territory yet. 'Thank heavens for
small favors,' Kris thinks, taking a seat at her desk and hitting the comm
port. "St. James to Crewman Sorrows."

"Sorrows here."

"You and Mr. Linanes will relieve Ekstrom and Turak at midnight. Report to me
before you do so. I'd suggest you both turn in and get some sleep before your
watch. Lt. Soroc and I will relieve you at 0400."

"Aye sir."

She cuts the channel and glances toward the clock. 'Might be able to sneak in a
few hours. But first, one small order of business.' Kris activates her desk
terminal and begins typing.

   - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
   From: Lt. St. James
   To: Lt. Khemsa
   Re: Asst. Security Chief Position

   I am giving you the job of Asst. Chief of Security to be
   effective as of 0800 hours on Stardate 6003.28. Our chief
   priority is to protect Ambassador Sarin. Hopefully our Captain
   will be able to obtain a few more men for our department, as I
   relayed my belief that we're too understaffed to fulfill our role
   in this mission. If our needs are met, we should be able to guard
   Sarin and keep surveillance throughout the ship.      -Kris
   - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Computer, lights off."

For once the damn thing works. Kris takes this as a sign of hope, undressing
in the darkness of her quarters and then slipping quietly into bed. As she
relaxes, she feels a familiar "pest" jump onto her feet and cautiously walk
atop her, searching as cats do for that perfect spot upon which to delicately
crash for the night.

"If you even think about marking territory..."

"Meow."

Kris sighs and draws him closer, petting him softly as she falls asleep to
the sound of Pesty's rhythmic purring.


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

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