ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/startrek/adv2/turn42

Text File | 1994-09-10 | 30KB | 701 lines

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                           Star Trek: Play by E-Mail
                              The Forbidden Years
                               Campaign Write-up
===============================================================================
                                 Adventure #2
                              A Matter of Policy
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
                                   Turn #42
                               The Assassination
===============================================================================
              Copyright 1994 Jim Vassilakos / All Rights Reserved
*******************************************************************************


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


Stardate 6003.28 at 1820 Hours: USS Phobos, Bridge
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oein stares up at the Tricani after giving the order for a full surrender over
the PA. "Happy?"

Max grimaces, "First let's see how loyal your crew is. Connect main viewer to
the security camera in cargo one."

A moment later, they see flares being tossed in the cargo bay, a scene of
confusion as Kris points her weapon at anything that moves.

"Watch and learn," Max smiles.

Suddenly the figures on the crates are beamed out, and just as suddenly,
Kristin's war-party is running for their lives.

"Oh shit! The lift is stuck! We're trapped!"

They all try get out through the lift's ceiling hatch, hoping to re-create Nien
and T'lar's get-away in their brief confrontation with the Borg, but with all
of them crammed in there like sardines, there isn't room to breath much less
climb to safety. Only Kris is staying out of the debacle, bounding from box to
box, searching for her quarry. She finally reaches her hand down into a crack
between two boxes, stretching for all she's worth. Apparently, it just isn't
enough.

The jolt rumbles through the ship like an earthquake, the sound of the
explosion clear though distant. Oein blinks, blood surging in rage. "You..."

"Yes?"

"You... killed her. You killed them all."

"Yes," the Tricani agrees. "Well, what did you expect? Mercy? This is the SFIC
you're dealing with. Not some two-bit, shoe-shine outfit." Max breathes rather
heavily on his knuckles. "I think we've waited long enough for compliance.
Tham, are you prepared to open the airlocks on two through six?"

"Teams B and C have secured their areas and rendered them airtight, sir. Ready
to open the locks on your order."

"Wait!" Oein looks to the Tricani. "Stop it, Max! Stratic remblastar
poniaebant!"

"You'll give me what I want? Oh joy," Max laughs. "No thanks, but I think I'll
just take it instead."

Oein scowls, "You're no fucking SFIC. You're a fucking terrorist."

"Well, at least I'm fucking... as opposed to being fucked which is what is
currently happening to you." Max smiles for emphasis.

"Look, damnit. I know how the data transfer will be accomplished," Oein lies
through his Romulan teeth. "I've known Sarin since I left the Romulan Empire.
He confided his deepest secrets in me. But I'll only talk if you spare the
crew!"

Max looks toward Sarin, half-expecting a nod of confirmation. "Is this true?"

Sarin confirms the only part of the statement he honestly can. "I have known
Oein since he left his people."

"And you trusted him with the details of your mission???"

Sarin keeps a steady face, "I knew that should I fail... someone would have to
finish it."

The Tricani stares, dumbfounded, finally motioning two of his soldiers to
unfasten Oein's cuffs. "We'll be in the ready room. If *anything* happens, you
have my permission to start blowing airlocks."

Once the door closes, Oein finds himself being eyed expectantly by the ship's
new de facto captain, violent urges welling within him, begging him to grab the
Tricani and rip out his wind pipe. He blinks and turns, clutching at the air
with tense fingers.

"Who the _HELL_ are you?! No SFIC agent or group of agents would kill innocents
to reach their objective. Or has the SFIC gone soft and started recruiting
murderers?"

Max sighs, "I don't have time for argument. Either you tell me what I wish to
know, or I'll vaporize you here and now."

A cold quiet descends in the dimly lit chamber, Oein gauging his chances of
disarming the other man. Not good, he figures, watching the way Max holds the
phaser, close to his chest and steady, like he's pulled a thousand triggers in
a thousand days, and this one is not so very different.

"If by some strange act of fate you are indeed acting on orders of SFIC, you
will NOT live to see your next paycheck!" Oein grits his teeth, "If you kill
us, ANY of us OR ALL of us, Commodore Ash with have so many ships tracking you
down that you will have no chance of escape. Not even the SFIC will protect
you."

"You have five seconds to live. Enjoy them."

"Go ahead, asshole, shoot me."

"Four."

"Another will take my place."

"Three."

"There is a combined effort...

"Two."

"...accomplish the technology transfer."

"One."

Oein watches, totally impotent, as the Tricani levels his phaser. "Okay, you
win. Don't shoot." He pauses for a split second, half expecting to be
vaporized.

"What combined effort?"

Oein takes a deep breath, conjuring as many fragments of pure bullshit as he
can, grabbing bits and pieces and matching them together as the opportunity
warrants. "A few years ago, my mentor in cavitronic field theory, Dr. David
Brin, mentioned in some correspondence that he was going to be transferred to
work on the Genesis project. They needed his expertise to determine whether
there would be subspace atmospheric disturbance when the Genesis technology was
used."

"So?"

"So last year, when I was on leave, I met with Dr. Brin. In that meeting he
informed me under the strictest confidence that he had been recruited by SFIC
to transfer the technology to the Klingon empire."

Oein pauses to let the lie sink in, hoping the Tricani will buy it. From the
look on his face, it's just wild enough to be believed.

"That... is utterly... ludicrous."

Oein shrugs, "That's what I thought at the time. But apparently, somebody in
your organization thought it was a good idea. What I don't understand is why
SFIC is now trying to stop it."

"Who was Brin working for?"

"Are you kidding? I don't have names."

"You don't have names because you're lying."

"Believe whatever you want. But the bottom line is that there is absolutely
nothing that you can do to stop this transfer. Even if you kill Sarin. Even if
you kill everyone on this ship, the technology will still be transferred."

Max bites his lip, weighing the new data he's just been given against the
obvious unreliability of its source. "It is an interesting theory, Commander
tr'Remas... one you can be certain I'll explore with your friend, Dr. Brin.
Pity you will not be there to learn that he has lied to you. SFIC is not at
odds with itself. It is all in your twisted imagination. And now, my friend, it
is time for you to die."

Suddenly the door opens, and one of the Iotians is standing there looking
somewhat confused.

"Not now, can't you see I'm busy?!"

The Iotian waits until the door swooshes shut behind him. "I don't think you're
too busy for this." He draws a phaser and fires on the Tricani, reducing his
commanding officer to a stunned pile of useless, quivering flesh. Oein quietly
thanks all the gods of space for disabled alarms, blinking in confusion until
the "Iotian" morphs into none other than Histlin.


Stardate 6003.28 at 1820 Hours: USS Phobos, Sickbay, Quarantine Chamber
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hawkins looks around the room, "Dr. Bannister, do you have any oxygen tanks? Ya
know, fer your patients?"

Jake points into the vacuum beyond the medical quarantine chamber. He, Hawkins,
K'tar, and Turak all had the presence of mind to scuttle into it before their
lungs were entirely devoid of air, and with its own atmosphere supplementation
system, it had literally saved their lives.

"Well, they ain't gonna do us much good out there, are they." Hawkins continues
to look around the room. "Ahhh...." he climbs up on the table and manages to
remove a ceiling panel with some amount of effort. "Good!" He climbs all the
way INTO the ceiling, "Oh. Oh, yes. This'll do jus' fine." He pokes his head
out, "Um, K'tar, can ya come up here a bit?" When K'tar climbs onto the table,
Hawkins continues, "Look, sickbay has special access panels 'cause of all the
equipment they had to install during construction. If we cut right here with
yer phaser, we should be able ta break inta the access way beneath the deck
above us. It's worth a try, don'tcha think?"

K'tar growls, pulling out his phaser and opening fire just inches above the
country boy's left shoulder. It leaves a gaping hole in the floor of the deck
directly above.

A few moments later, they're up and out, auxiliary control looking about as
dead as dead can be.

"According to these readings, the airlocks on seven were opened by direct
command of the bridge through the main computer."

"How about command override?" Jake proposes.

"No, they'll have locked all remote command functions if they have any brains
at all. We try knocking and they'll know instantly where we are and what we're
up to."

"Then we must attack immediately," K'tar decides, testosterone pumping at the
prospect of battle.

"We'll be slaughtered," Turak warns. "They're trained professionals."

"Yes. But they have one distinct disadvantage. They are _not_ Klingon. They do
not have the blood of true warriors."

Suddenly there's a rumble across the deck eliciting a string of beeps and
buzzes from the various control panels. "What the hell?"

"Looks like a hull breach in 12. There must be a firefight in progress."

"Can you pull up the security displays?"

"Yeah. One second." After a moment of fumbling, all they can get is static.
"Looks like the camera's out of commission. Hull breach. No wonder."

K'tar growls, "We much engage them at once."

"I'm not sure there's anything left to engage," Turak counters.

Suddenly Hawkins' eyes light up. "Gentleman, I have a plan."

"God help us."

"Just listen. The bridge runs the ship through main computer core, and the
hostiles have both locations under control. We need ta re-gain control. With me
so far, o' ye faithful?"

K'tar grows weary, "Pah! You call this a plan?"

"No, my large, if dense, friend. We're on deck 6. The bridge is deck 1, and the
Computer Core is on deck 5."

"A most firm grasp of the obvious your species seems to have."

"Engineerin' is deck 9. ALL POWER is routed *through* main engineerin'. Since
the power is needed ABOVE us and comes from BELOW us..." Hawkins pauses, hoping
that the Klingon will get his drift."

"You have no auxiliary batteries?"

"Of course, but they're minimal, and we can sap their power right through the
same lines that feed them simply by reversing the polarity of the power
couplings. Inside of five minutes, we could have the entire..."

"They would most certainly realize and disengage..."

"Not unless they are suspecting it. They have no reason to be monitoring the
local batteries. And by the time they're drained, it'll be too damn late for
them to do anything about it."

Bannister nods, "It could work. But what about life support?"

"Not ta worry. They'll last for a few hours, probably even days, without
circulation. We'll have all the time in the world for part two of the plan."
Hawkins grins, "And this is where it gets good. We seal them up, cutting off
all access ways. Then we tie in our microframes to auxiliary control, and take
direct command of the ship. We don't need the damn bridge."

"And once we have control of the ship," Jake finishes for him, "we can retake
the upper decks at our leisure."

"Or we can simply space them, hence depriving them of the honor of death by
combat." K'tar grimaces at this most horrid of all fates.

Hawkins smiles, "Technically, it's no problem. We could even fabricate some
knock-out gas and pump it through their circulation system. The problems are
gonna be keepin' the hostiles from gainin' access ta this deck and regainin'
control and clearin' out the lower decks. When we cut power, the upper decks
will be pitch black, so they'll have quite the time just feeling their way
around unless they are VERY familiar with Loknars in general and the Phobos in
particular. Hopefully this'll give us the edge and the time we need ta regain
control." He looks at the others, waiting for any final objections before he
calls down to Engineering to set the plan in motion.


Stardate 6003.28 at 1830 Hours: USS Phobos, Captain's Ready Room
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oein sighs with untold relief, still unable to believe that the chameleon saved
his life by mere seconds. Perhaps less.

"Thank the Brothers, you couldn't have chosen a better time to arrive."

"Who are you?" she keeps her phaser leveled.

"Lt. Cmdr. tr'Remas. I'm the second in command."

She stares at him, unable to shake the rage from her eyes. "A Romulan? The Feds
crew their ships with Romulans?"

Oein shakes his head, "No, not many. The few of us who do serve are outcasts.
Look, we don't have a great deal of time, so help me, will you?" He pulls the
limp Tricani up by his shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to take him out to the bridge and cuff him."

"Do that and we'll both be dead," she doesn't lower the phaser.

Oein drops the body, "You mean you..."

"I had to assume the form of one of the prisoners in order to get in here. One
of the ex-prisoners, that is. I figured the best way to control the situation
would be to find out who's in charge and assume their identity."

Oein nods, "My thoughts precisely."

She glares at him, apparently uncertain whether or not to shoot him.

"Histlin, I know you have reason to hate 'my kind', and perhaps you have reason
to hate Star Fleet as well. But you just saved my life, and I promise you that
once we get out of this, I'll work to have any outstanding charges against you
dismissed. Do you understand?"

She lowers the phaser rather slowly, finally setting it on the table. "I don't
want your help, Romulan. Just undress 'Max' and throw me his clothes. The
transformation won't be terribly useful, otherwise."

Oein does as she bids, tossing her the Tricani's apparel with every piece he
discards until he finally has Max down to the bare essentials. All the while he
can't help thinking that this is a guy who in another second would have killed
him. A guy who killed Kris and her entire team without even thinking about it.
Oein looks carefully at Max, wondering what kind of person this man must be to
do such killing and with such a total lack of remorse.

"Snork," Max blinks once or twice. "What the? Urghhhh!!!"

Oein extracts his boot from the Tricani's fairly exposed crotch, gritting his
teeth in self-righteous rage. "That was for me. And this... this is for Lt. St.
James."

"Doh!!!!!"

"Stop it," Histlin warns. "You're making too much noise."

"Oh, they're expecting a certain amount of noise. I'm supposed to be getting
interrogated right now as I recall."

"I mean it. Stop it or I'll shoot you both." She heads onto the bridge in full
Tricani regalia. "These two," she points at T'lar and Duran, "Release them."

The SFIC soldiers move with an urgency and precision befitting any Romulan
contingent, Histlin observes. Until, that is, the starscape on the main viewer
is suddenly replaced with Tsandzia's face. She's making a rather childish
expression and taking up the _entire_ viewscreen.

"Huh?" several of the Iotians turn to stare, giving Duran the opportunity to go
for the closest gun.

He disarms and slams the nearest soldier in one swift motion, putting the
phaser to Histlin's head in the very next moment. "Call it off or you die,
Max."

"Duran... you fool..."

"You're the fool. You call it off now or I'm pulling the damn trigger, and
don't think I won't do it."

"Duran... put down the phaser. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing. And I'm giving you to the count of three. They
drop their weapons, or you die. One."

"Fine," Histlin nods, "Everyone drop your weapons." They don't do it, of
course.

"Two."

"Drop your weapons!" she re-insists, now on the border of hysteria. "That's an
order!" No dice.

Duran, wondering how he ever got into such a bad tactical position, slowly
lowers his phaser. "Okay, you called my bluff." Then, without pause, he yanks
Histlin in front of him and opens fire on one of the three armed Iotians.
Though it's a single fluid motion, perfectly executed in every aesthetic sense,
the shot is about as far from target as Duran could imagine, effectively
nailing the forward viewer where Tsandzia is still sticking out her tongue in
dorky if triumphant defiance.

Half a moment later, he has to fight not to blink as panic fire is going
everywhere, totally missing everything except the most expensive equipment.
Duran curses himself, realizing that unless he forces himself to slow down and
aim, his own shots will be no more effective than theirs. He pivots almost a
full ninety degrees to the right, firing at the one he just missed who like the
others is diving for cover. Before he can make the shot, however, he feels
himself nailed with a burst of phaser fire, slamming him against the door to
the Captain's ready room before it even has time to open. He maintains
consciousness, however. It's just residue energy. Max, his trusty sentient
shield, had been hit instead. Or so he figures until he feels tits. Max doesn't
have tits.

'Histlin?! Shit!'

The blast had caused her to revert into her natural form. On the up-side, at
least she's not squirming to break free of his grasp any longer. She's just
dead weight. 'Dead weight? Shit!' Duran tosses her toward T'lar, who by this
time has managed to nerve-pinch the one unarmed Iotian. 'Please, God, let it
have been stun. They had to think she was Max.'

He pivots back, reflexively firing in the direction of her attacker. This guy's
behind the security console. Decent cover from phaser fire. 'If only I had a
decent plasma rifle.' He turns to shoot, wondering if he can make the move in
time. No. Doesn't look like it. 'This is it. I'm dead.' Suddenly a burst of
phaser energy streaks out from behind. The Iotian is zapped, right in the face.
'Son of a bitch. Oein, I could kiss you.'

Now there's just one left. Duran pivots and fires. But this last guy is behind
the Captain's chair. He could try to disintegrate it. But the time it would
take... better to just keep him pinned as they circle around from both sides.
'Don't give him a chance to fire back.'

'Oh shit. He's not firing back. The bastard's carrying out his mission.'

He's firing on Sarin.

"No!" Oein hurtles himself over the chair, firing down at essentially point
blank. In a fraction of a moment it's all over.

Oein scrambles for a comm-port. "Sickbay!!"

"It's a vacuum, remember?!" Duran rushes over to the Ambassador, being beat out
only by T'lar who practically skids into him. She places her hand firmly on
Sarin's temple, probing gently with her fingers, yet more harshly with her
mind.

<*> My mind is your mind. My thoughts are your thoughts. My life is your life.
    My... screw this Vulcan crap, Sarin! YOU SHALL NOT PASS!! <*>

She suddenly feels Oein manually pumping the Ambassador's chest. "We've got...
to get his... heart beating."

"Will somebody _PLEASE_ get these cuffs off me!" Vince looks like he'd put a
hole in the deck if he could.

<*> Sarin! <*>

Oein ignores him, now slamming as hard as he possibly can on the Vulcan's
chest. Duran looks down, shakes his head, and walks over to Histlin.

<*> Please. Don't die. <*>

"Oein!" Vince slams the deck with his bionic foot for added emphasis. Oein
looks up for all of half a second, switching to mouth-to-mouth a moment later.

Pacal watches as well as does Trozena. There's nothing else they can do but
watch.

Meanwhile, after assuring himself that Histlin is still alive (the phaser that
hit her was indeed set on stun), Duran enters the Captain's office and sees Max
crumpled on the floor, gripping his swollen testicles in both hands. The
Tricani looks up, wondering what he was thinking when he signed on for this
job.

"How's your precious Ambassador?"

"Dead."

Max smiles despite the pain. "Good."

Duran responds by slamming a boot into his fingers, probably breaking a few and
doing wonders for the soft, tender, dangley things beneath.

"Eeaarorggghh!"

"You're not SFIC. I don't know who or what you are, but you're not SFIC." Duran
lifts the Tricani into a sitting position, grabbing himself a piece of chin in
one hand and a hunk of hair in the other. "You're a piece of filth and a
disgrace. You hear me Max? You're nothing. And unless you start talking, I'm
gonna make you less than nothing. I'm gonna make you dead."

"Fuck y..."

With a single swift motion, he snaps the Tricani's neck, expertly,
professionally, completely. Duran holds the body for a few seconds as Max's
life drains slowly away, then spits on the corpse and leaves. By the time he
re-enters the bridge, Vince is up, rubbing his wrists.

"How's the Tricani?"

"Never seen him look better," Duran confides, reaching down to search the
bodies. Sure enough, one of them has his rainbow dagger. "C'mon. We have
Iotians to terminate."

"Just a second here," Vince tries to think. "Let's do this right so we don't
lose our advantage. Remember that anything they did, we can do as well, so lets
nail these bastards without losing any more men."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, since St. James is... no longer with us... I'm making you the acting
chief of security."

Duran blinks, "Sir, with all due respect, we can worry about the formalities
after..."

"Good, I'm glad you agree. See to it that everyone here is armed."

Duran sighs, reaching down to help Pacal out of his cuffs and handing him one
of several phasers scattered carelessly across the deck. Histlin wakes as well,
walking over see what has happened to Sarin.

"Is he..."

"Gone," T'lar manages, staring dully at the corpse of her mentor. "I couldn't
save any of him... not a single thought... one of our greatest souls... lost
and unremembered forever."

Oein still hasn't accepted the fact, however, and continues beating on Sarin's
chest for all he's worth. "Breath, damnit!" Of course, nobody is callous enough
to tell him to give it up. Except for Duran, that is.

"That's enough, Oein."

"No."

Duran leans down next to the body. "Nobody can help him now. All we can do is
avenge him." He hands a phaser to the Romulan, and another one to Histlin. "I'm
sorry. I didn't realize it was you."

"No harm done," she looks down at the corpse, "at least not to me."

Vince checks out the phaser scaring on his command chair. "What a mess. Pacal,
I want a full status report on the ship and all crew. Make sure Deck 7 is
repressurized, we may need sickbay."

"Uh... yessir, er... aye sir."

One of the Iotians rolls over, groaning amidst a haze of stun.

"And secure the prisoners. And don't forget about Max."

"Forget about Max," Duran comments. "He won't harm anyone ever again."

Vince stares, then nods. "We'll divide into three groups. Duran's team will be
responsible for re-acquiring the transporters on deck three. Oein, your team
will stay here and monitor the bridge. We can't afford to lose it again."

Suddenly one of the consoles starts beeping rather loudly. Pacal looks at it, a
confused expression sliding down the length of his face. "Energy drain?"

A moment later, they're in pitch darkness, their feet floating off the deck. No
lights. No gravity. A collective groan filters around the bridge.

"What the..."

"Someone's cut the power," Duran states the obvious.

"What about auxiliary."

Pacal navigates across the console from memory, "Not responding. They must've
cut the power junctions and pre-drained the local backup. Iotians be damned!"

Duran floats over to a panel beside the security station and pulls out a box of
fluorescent lanterns, perfect even for those rare situations when individual
batteries are blown to hell via some high-intensity subspace pulse. He passes
them around, along with their hoods. Suddenly one of the Iotian's communicators
starts beeping. Duran floats over to the beeping box, "Histlin, do your Max
thing and answer this but be careful what you say."

As a chameleon, she's got the ability to imitate just about any voice she can
think of. But the accent is another story. Max had his own unusual brand.
Histlin concentrates for a moment, then opens the flap.

"Yes?"

"Commander, is that you?"

Histlin shrugs, "Who else?"

"We've lost the power down here, including the backup ca..."

"I know. They've cut the lines." Histlin stares at Duran, an anxious and
somewhat confused look in her eyes.

"Tell them," Duran keeps his voice to the softest whisper, "to stay put. You're
sending some additional men. When they arrive, they are to go to the lower
decks, find the breach, and restore power."

"Sir," the voice continues, "what are we going to do?"

"Hold your position. I'm sending down reinforcements to..." Histlin stops mid-
sentence as Vince shakes his head wildly, finally whispering in an exasperated
voice. "Have them take two men and see to the problem. We'll have better odds
if we break them up."

"...er... on second thought," Histlin continues, "take two..."

"No!" Duran hisses in what is slightly more than a whisper. "We don't want them
wandering around looking for a cut power line. We want them to stay where they
are so we can find them."

"Sir, I didn't quite copy that. Can you repeat?"

Histlin looks between Duran and Vince and then toward T'lar, apparently on the
verge of panic.

"Tell them what I said," Duran instructs, then looks toward Vince. "Trust me."

Vince nods affirmatively, watching as Histlin relays the original message. Then
he leans forward and whispers in her ear, adding to it. She looks at him, a
mixture of confusion and alarm.

"Just say it, Histlin."

She sighs, then mimics the Tricani's voice. "I'm coming down personally with
the reinforcements. Then we'll go after the saboteurs."

"Understood, sir. We will hold our position."

Vince gently closes the communicator's flap, staring toward the upstart
andorian who'd just countermanded his orders.

Duran coughs, "I'm sorry, sir, but if we sent them out scouting for the broken
mains..."

"I know," Vince states. "I'm just worried about what's going to happen when
they see who you really are. With Histlin in front, however, you might just
have a chance."

"We'll have more than a chance," Duran counters. "We'll have total surprise."

"I hope you're right." Vince wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of
his sleeve. "Take two people with you, and dress as members of Max's crew.
Histlin, you'll stay in front with the brightest light you can find. It'll keep
them from seeing the rest of you too well. If they even get the smallest clue
that you're not who you're pretending to be, it'll be a bad scene. A real bad
scene."

"I understand that."

"Good," Vince nods. "Call back when you have them overpowered."

Duran looks around, "Volunteers?"

To say that everyone leaps in at once might be a slight overstatement, and
Vince wonders if that's the chirping of crickets he hears off in the distance.
Either that or the flapping of chicken wings. Trozena is the most obvious,
slinking back toward the communications console, checking out the damage, and
pretending that this call for volunteers went unnoticed.

Duran grins, "Okay, fine. T'lar, Pacal, you're with me. Everyone grab a phaser
and a light and grab some Iotian clothes." They all quickly change, Duran
briefly inspecting his 'troops' once T'lar and Histlin emerge from the office,
neither particularly pleased to be going along on the dangerous ordeal.
'They'll have to do,' he thinks, shaking his head. "Okay, people, lock and
load. Set 'em on heavy stun, and if it moves, shoot it. We'll sort 'em out
later."


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

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