EP 10 "RESIGNATIONS" - ACT 1
SHIFT CHANGE, 0800 HOURS
Ensign Souveson straightened her sample uniform moments before she exited the turbolift onto Deck One: Bridge. Several heads instinctively turned as she stepped through the doors. The Canadian had chosen one of dozens of rejected designs, this one a fusion of the officer’s uniform circa the Praxis disaster and the general service uniform circa Wolf 359, Starfleet’s significant encounter with the Borg.
Captain Christian almost collided with the shorter Ensign as he bounded onto the bridge from the gangway to her right while fixated on a padd he carried. “Oops! Sorry, Ensign,” he body swerved her then turned back to study her clothing. “Not bad,” Christian was drawn to the thin white sash that swept from the left shoulder blade over the left shoulder to the left breast, ending in a Starfleet communicator badge in the upper middle of the left pectoral. A horizontal division around the entire uniform ran beneath the badge, separating the black upper ‘cape’ of the shoulders and collar from the black-framed blocks of departmental colour on the sleeves and trunk below. Her rank was indicated by a single standard gold pip on the gold braided white sash just above the badge.
“Thank you, sir,” Souveson stepped over to her station and halted in her tracks. The deck appeared to be raised slightly, by about three inches, and the awkward to maneouvre sliding chair (thankfully) removed. The Canadian walked forward – and slightly up. Immediately, she felt in a better position to see the rest of the bridge more clearly. Also, as she reached out her hands, her arms rested in a more comfortable position on her station console.
“Do you like it?” Hedrik crept up behind her.
“Did you do this?” Souveson asked, half accusingly.
“It’s called Personal Bridge Console Programme Souveson Alpha 1,” Hedrik replied, “but you can rename it something that’s less of a mouthful. I noticed how your arms ached after standing there operating your console for a while, and also how your view was restricted, what with you being so short, so I created a programme with a slightly raised floor. Plus, I thought you’d prefer a more up to date interface to work with rather than the standard Fantasy configuration.”
Souveson nodded, ignoring the dig at her stature. She did indeed prefer this kind of layout. “You’ve added Brakonian technology?” she pointed at a rectangular plate to the far left of the station, toward the Operations position. The open panel of easily identifiable alien technology stood out against the rest of the console.
“Simulated technology, yes,” Hedrik replied. “I happened to get my hands on the blueprints of a Brakonian cognitive shield modulator a few months back, and stored its primary matrix onto an iso rod.”
“And you created a simulation of it?” Souveson said, shocked. She didn’t think the Orion had it in her.
“Well, the computer helped a little. But it works in the same way – luckily the Fantasy has some kick-ass sensors, and they can plug right into the Brakonian logic programme quite effectively,” Hedrik caressed the panel lovingly, knowing it might save their hides one day. “There’s an independent power unit installed beneath your console, as there is under all bridge stations. Even if the ship is compromised and its power reduced to minimal you should still have use of the holoprogram interface.”
The young Ensign found herself feeling slightly in awe of Hedrik. Not even the best-equipped ships in Starfleet had got their hands on such technology as yet, let alone integrate it into the ship’s systems. It would have been a great asset against the Borg, she thought in retrospect.
“Thank you,” Souveson smiled. “Very much.”
“Don’t mention it,” Hedrik skipped off to the turbolift and smiled back at the Ensign as the doors closed. Souveson stared after her, shaking her head in disbelief.
* * *
DECK 2: CAPTAIN’S TROPHY ROOM, 1000 HOURS
Lirik and Christian stood in silence, scanning the room’s contents. The Yeoman looked particularly surprised.
"There’s still quite a bit in reserve, then?" Lirik casually fondled a furled up flag of the most incredible colours, caressing its silky finery and heavy gold-braided tassels.
“Once we have the replicators fully back on line we shouldn’t need to trade anything else,” Christian pursed his lips and sighed. "Besides, I’d like to keep hold of the rest. It reminds me of home.”
The Englishman nodded solemnly. “So,” Lirik changed the subject, referring to the main reason he’d asked to see the Captain. “What do you think about their proposal?”
“I know what my gut reaction is,” Christian confessed, “but I also can appreciate why they’ve suggested it, and I have to admit the logical and meritorious reasons behind doing it are very convincing.”
Lirik nodded at the padd Christian was still holding that contained the list of names and qualifications behind the request. “Most of those people are specialists – historians, archaeologists, anthropologists, geologists and a whole host of well-read keen collectors and amateur studies. They are all keen to get their hands on the cargo that was destined for the archives,” Lirik said. “Frankly, I’m shocked that such a large number of the survivors have come forward asking such a thing.”
The Captain nodded, thinking hard. “The thing is, Mr Lirik, we’re in need of volunteer crew, we’ve a ship to run, not a university. Certainly, they might come in useful in their specialist capacity at some point, but what we really need are tacticians, pilots, engineers, technicians and security officers, not a bunch of swats just… getting in the way.” He hadn’t meant to sound terse or condescending, but there were too many more pressing matters to think about rather than some mamby pamby request from the survivors, many of who hadn’t bothered to pitch in and help around the ship to date. “Sorry, but if they want to help, they can start by helping as part of the crew.”
Lirik nodded, slightly saddened that he couldn’t grant their enthusiastic request. But duty had to be done.
“Of course,” Christian added, “I’m not dismissing some of the specialists on this list. There are agriculturalists, botanists and biologists who will be invaluable in locating and identifying foodstuffs on our way, not to mention cultivating food on board.”
“Of course,” Lirik echoed, remembering an old phrase a former superior used all the time: ‘beggars can’t be choosers’.
“Oh, I don’t know!” Christian shifted several bolts of delicate white cloth from a Roman style chair, all gold leaf, black enamel and plush red velvet, and flopped into it. “Perhaps I’m being too harsh. I’ve been saying for days that what we really need is for all the people to come together. In many ways, this,” he smacked the padd containing the proposal, “this is just the kind of enthusiasm I’ve been waiting for.” He glanced around the room, thinking it strange to be surrounded with such opulence when their situation was so tenuous. This was not what he’d been expecting of his first command. In many ways, his role was just as much a community leader as it was Captain of a Starfleet ship.
“Maybe I’m being too hasty,” Christian rubbed his hands roughly over his face and ran them through his hair, sighing deeply. He pouted his lips and thought for a few seconds more. “Okay, I’ll grant their request.”
“Really?” Lirik was surprised at the sudden change of heart.
“Yes,” Christian said, “but on one condition - they do it as part of the crew. Talk to the Commodore, see that they’re allocated to the relevant science or other departments. Tell them they can study the cargo, but only for a portion of each day. The rest of the time they have to pitch in and help out. It’s the best I can do for now.”
Lirik smiled.
“Who knows,” Christian continued. “If we get things sorted, there’s every chance they can pursue their vocations full time.”
"I’ll talk to them," Lirik led the way back to the main office, noncommittal in his response.
“Commodore Jackson to the Captain,” Jackson’s voice was transferred via the upgraded comm system to Christian’s badge.
The Captain tapped his communicator in response. “Christian here, go ahead.”
*
In a room on the deck above, nearly directly overhead, Jackson sat nervously in what she’d identified in the deck plans as the Executive Officer’s Office. It was bare, and a little on the small side, she thought, but an eager volunteer had found a table and comfortable chair for her, and a grimy network access module had given her complete integration with the ship’s main computer. She sat awkwardly forward, looking at the first proper roster she’d prepared for the ship. It reminded her of her youth as a personnel officer aboard the USS Saratoga.
“I’m ready to call the crew to order, Sir,” Jackson said, using the language as dictated this situation according to the Starfleet Protocol manuals.
Shortly, everyone would be able to watch a pre-recorded Starfleet ceremony the Commodore had carried out in the lull before the recent Spider incident where the Fantasy had been formerly requisitioned by Starfleet and given the prefix USS. She had then proceeded to inaugurate Christian as the commanding officer, as witnessed by several dozen civilians and crew in one of the cargo bays. Given the rawness of the situation and people’s ongoing grief, the Commodore had insisted on an appropriately low-key affair.
The file would also allow everyone to hear Christian’s brief statement of intent, albeit short term for the time being, and be instructed fully on the general rules of the ship (Starfleet regulated), followed by a number of essential do’s and don’ts for the less space-experienced that would play on a loop for the next few days. Everyone was to undergo training in ship’s routine and emergency procedures, everyone was to have a medical examination, and all volunteer crew – appointed or otherwise – would be attending a series of interviews and possibly tests before they would receive their final postings.
*
Christian smiled. “Make it so.” He tapped his badge and walked over to sit behind his desk.
“Attention all hands,” Jackson’s voice, more echoey around the room over the main speakers, and perhaps a tad fragile sounding. “Captain’s general orders and volunteer crew duty rosters are now available on public information channel 35. All hands are requested to view at their earliest convenience.”
“That’ll cause a stir,” Lirik commented mischievously.
“It’s just a shame we don’t have more volunteers,” Christian said, looking out through the rear windows at the bright exterior and Bel’s agile men. “I’m seriously wondering if we’ll be able to manage the entire ship with so few. Struckchev’s preparing a report for me, and Captain Bel was quick to give me her own personal opinion on the matter.”
“Ahem,” there, stood cautiously in the doorway, was Reb, their increasingly unenthusiastic half-Ferengi helmsman. He’d somehow entered without the need to press the call control.
"Mister Rebbik, what can I do for you?" in spite of the clearly forced entry, Christian was almost pleased to see the quirky fool. He'd spent so much time with Jackson, Lirik, Struckchev and Leonard over the past two days he was sick of Starfleet talk and craved a more colourful down to Earth personality.
"It's uh…can I talk with you alone, Captain?" Reb inched his way across the threshold.
Lirik cast Reb a look of disappointment - he'd hoped their time together in the runabout had secured a friendship, and he was surprised the young man had requested a private audience.
"On second thoughts, it's okay," Reb said, smiling at the Yeoman, causing a raised eyebrow from the Englishman. "You might as well know at the same time. I, well there's no easy way to say this, but… I don't want to be a part of this crew. I want to leave the ship."
Lirik hadn't expected that, and from the look on Christian's face, he hadn't expected it either.
* * *
PASSENGER SECTION: MEDICAL CENTRE, 1010 HOURS
Lieutenant O'Hara thanked Wheezy as the large alien accompanied her onto ward bed number 4. She was ready for duty, but everyone seemed to want her to rest and a thumping headache that had not abated inclined her to agree. Still, she’d insisted on carrying out routine managerial duties, including chairing a couple of meetings later in the day, and intended to put in some time on the medicals later on.
For now she would rest and try to decide her best course of action. Sister Matthew had prepared the bed with extra pillows for her to sit upright. An antigrav table hovering above the covers offered a glass tumbler and jug of water, a fully networked terminal and a couple of padds, and even a bunch of simulated exotic Risan flowers in a bulbous ceramic vase the old woman had found.
Back in the treatment bay earlier the Lieutenant had waited patiently as Jackson intermittently talked – O’Hara hadn’t felt particularly communicative. Finally the Commodore had to depart to finish preparations for instigating the new regime on board, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Paramount in her mind was the question of what she was going to do. After all, she’d only realised she was pregnant in the last few days, and there was still plenty of time for a termination. That thought paled her – in many ways, it went against all her thinking. But rather than any noble thoughts, instead she was thinking more that she couldn’t destroy perhaps the last vestige of the Commodore’s son without at least discussing it with her. And the very thought of talking about termination when Jackson was still effectively in mourning was one thing she couldn’t face.
But at the same time, she had to think seriously about what she was going to do and all the possible consequences and how they would affect her. And she wanted to deal with it quickly.
O’Hara’s train of thought was interrupted by yet another small party of noisy survivors arriving in the Medical Centre’s reception. Since the medical team had relocated to the large facility on the Passenger Section, a steady stream of people had been pouring in. With the exception of the Medical Facility all other Passenger Section areas were off limits to the non volunteering survivors for the time being, so a good few were taking the opportunity of a free excursion onto the main bulk of the ship for the first time. The Lieutenant had so far counted over thirty people wanting treatment for very minor injuries, plus a large number complaining of distress and unusual symptoms. Still, her team was handling everyone extremely efficiently, and they all managed to identify immediately those genuinely suffering from depression and shock from those who were merely restless or curious.
Although medical screening hadn’t got much underway beyond rudimentary check ups, O’Hara had been using her down-time to read the multitude of personal accounts as collected by Lirik, Narli, Jackson and some other volunteers who had been roaming among the groups of survivors. The cases were more than a little upsetting – particularly those of the children who had come aboard alone, their parents and siblings left behind on Helub, their fate unknown.
As CMO it was her duty to treat every patient, and not just those with physical injuries. Yet despite the distress and mental anguish people were feeling, the sense of camaraderie had shone through, with many of the people taking care of each other in the form of support or even just company. It was a boon but nevertheless some people clearly needed close attention, and possibly a course of counselling and perhaps even medication if they were to get back onto an even keel.
O'Hara was indebted to her ever faithful team. Surprisingly, it had turned out well for her – Wheezy, a native Qovakian, had worked as a general nurse and then specialised as a paediatrician for several years before joining the Jetraleker government as an advisor. Sister Matthew had trained as a field medic (the Catholic nun seemed particularly clued up on anatomy and first aid) and worked at several aid missions throughout the Federation and beyond providing medical support. The brave woman called Veana (who'd lost her husband and small baby on Helub) was a capable chemist and pharmacist. Of the two young men, Unadi Kaswak was a healing empath (though he wouldn’t talk much of his most recent employment and how he’d come to be in the Outer Zone) and Hensil Arorot had a stomach of steel and a knack for communication and organisation. They made a great team, and O'Hara felt hers was the stronger team spirit compared to any of the other slowly forming departments. However, most volunteers that had stepped forward for medical duty were totally untrained in ship's systems and procedures – including her own immediate staff. Even with the keen to learn helpers, given the ship's lack of automated systems they were far short of an adequate staffing level and O’Hara feared for their future if they were to enter a combat situation. Indeed, even her own training as a doctor was incomplete, and while she felt as capable as any other junior ranking intern, there was the perception that she was still just a highly qualified nurse.
Still, O’Hara thought, it wouldn’t take long to knock her team into shape, and with the vast computer resources on board she would be fully qualified in a matter of a few months, study time permitting. Already they had all the most pressing medical responsibilities for the ship well under control. Despite a lack of fully functional equipment, they had everything they could possibly need for emergencies, and were continuing to work very hard on getting every essential area of the Medical Centre up and running. And as an added bonus the Lieutenant had just heard mention of a dentist and a chiropodist among the passengers who had so far been unwilling to step up to the plate.
O'Hara began to feel extremely sick as she sensed a presence nearby. “Excuse me,” it was Commander Struckchev. He smiled when she looked over at him with more than a hint of annoyance. “How are you feeling?”
The red head paused, swallowing hard. “I know you’ve not come to see how I’m feeling, so what is it that you want, Commander?”
Struckchev smirked at her and walked briskly over to the foot of the bed. “Lirik and I were just wondering if you‘d had enough time to consider our request?”
“Two words, Commander,” she snarled, “and the second one isn’t ‘on’.”
Again he gave her a crooked grin. He looked around at the clean but incomplete medical suite. “You know, I’m sure I can rearrange things so that the Operations teams seconded from engineering are assigned to get the MediCentre up and running as a priority.”
O’Hara sighed – although she never thought she’d respond to blackmail, the desire to have her department shipshape was greater than her moral high ground. “Okay, get talking.”
* * *
CAPTAIN’S OFFICE, 1018 HOURS
"I don't understand," Christian frowned. "You freely admit you're in a war zone, and yet you want to just hop off at the next location?"
"I'm not alone, Captain," Reb sounded defensive, despite his determined opening statement. "Look, I have no quarrel with these K'Tani. I have no loved ones back on Helub or Vekaria to think of, so I'd rather take my chances flying back to Federation space on my own."
"If you don't go through Tholian space," Christian snapped, "that could take a few years."
"Better than hanging around here waiting to get captured or killed," Reb responded.
"Look, my friend," the Captain perched on the sofa's arm in a friendlier manner, "the simple truth is, I need every last person on board contributing. I need you Reb, and-"
"Save that crap for the others, Christian," Reb bounced out of his seat, his face flushed. Christian appeared slightly startled. "I don't need your patronising attitude, or any other form of emotional blackmail. I am NOT Starfleet, and I do NOT have to take orders from you."
Christian straightened, about to launch into a high and mighty attack, forbidding Reb to go, but Lirik had opened his mouth before him.
"Let him go," Lirik said, almost quietly. It was Reb who seemed surprised now. "We don't need freeloaders sponging off us, so if he doesn't want to be a part of the crew and do his bit, I say good riddance. Besides, I would only have to pay him back for saving my life a few times."
Reb smiled and shook his head. "That approach won't work either," he snapped. "And you should know better," he pointed a disappointed finger at Lirik.
"No, we shouldn't try to stop you, should we," Christian smirked. "But the simple fact is, Mister Lirik, I don't think he'd last five minutes on his own out there. Not against the K'Tani."
"Ah," Reb folded his arms, "finally I get the fear challenge. I've made up my mind, so forget it. As of now, I've … er… resigned."
With that, Reb turned and stormed out of the office, leaving Christian and Lirik looking on.
"Well that’s just great," Christian sighed.
* * *
COMMAND YACHT: SCIENCE LAB, 1045 HOURS
In the dim light of the computational analysis suite, Professor Karnak, Lieutenant Commander Leonard and Captain Bel stood around the main diagnostic display showing all the deciphered readings taken on the strange black coating that covered the surface of the ship.
“This sensor data is all well and good, but we really need a sample large enough for more substantial tests,” Bel said, disappointed. “You’ve not found a way of successfully removing any yet?”
“Up to now, no. It’s a mightily strong substance, but only in its current form, fused over the surface of the ship. Each time we’ve tried to move it with various fine cutting tools, the material seems to dissipate. It won’t transport, and I’d rather not take a whole section from the hull of the ship. But we do have an idea,” Leonard deferred to the Professor.
“This section of hull on the Marina Deck Maintenance Level has been severely damaged,” Karnak pressed several coloured lights on the console in front of her and brought up pictorial and sensor images of the respective area on the overhead screen. “Although the substance on the fragmented edges along the tear is mostly damaged beyond use, some minute sections have showed signs of retaining their integrity to various degrees.” Karnak enlarged a visual image of the tear, close up. A number of small antennae sporting globes were slowly travelling along the edges both outside and inside the ship. “We are using a dozen fine scanning probes to survey the tear with the expectation of being able to locate an intact sample small enough for laboratory analysis that we can easily break off.”
“That I look forward to,” Bel smiled. “Do you have any hypothesis on the data you’ve got so far?”
Karnak sneered, an odd expression on the doll-face. Bel gave her an up down look in response. The last few times the alien Captain had seen the sour woman, she had been wearing the same chin to toe dress and scarf type affair decorated in an intricate metallic pattern on each occasion. Karnak’s shipmates had told Bel that the Professor was in fact a Human only “pretending” she was a Vulcan. Understanding what she did about Vulcans in the short time she’d spent with the crew of the Fantasy, Bel had thought it odd that a person with the full range of her emotions to tap into would choose instead to try and bury them and study a life of logic and science. Strange – commendable, but strange.
On this occasion, however, Karnak was wearing a more austere full length but flowing black dress, neat, clean lines and well tailored. In fact, it was only on closer inspection that Bel realised this was yet another version of a Starfleet uniform. This particular range was made up of stylised Puritan design with a Starfleet twist. The comm badge was integral to the clothing, stitched into the material and outlined in a barely visible thin piping of turquoise thread. Departmental assignment was clearly indicated by the colour of the thread, and the rank denoted by any number of thin, short parallel lines on both cuffs. Bel noticed humorously that Karnak had chosen to wear the rank of what she guessed to be Commander, and wondered if that had been deliberate.
“Beyond what we know about its effects, no,” Karnak said. “And it might be some time before we do.”
Bel sighed, and then glanced at her wrist mounted time device. “Stars! I have to be off. I’m meeting your Captain later and I need to prepare,” Bel skipped out through the door.
Alone, Leonard picked over the data in silence and it seemed to him that Karnak was perhaps in a trance like meditation – she was so quiet and staring straight ahead.
“Gut feeling, Professor,” Leonard said, startling her. “Sorry. Gut feeling – do you think it was the K’Tani who put the substance on the ship?”
Karnak looked surly. “I do not have a ‘gut feeling’ about it.”
“Well,” Leonard said, annoyed, his blonde hair flopping over his face as he shook his head. “Your most logical choice would be who?”
“Whom,” Karnak corrected.
“Well what about the K’Tani?” Leonard asked, suddenly keen to discuss this with someone who would be logical and, if he knew Vulcans, also lateral in their approach to a problem. “It’s been suggested this was a prototype substance, and that is why they are pursuing us. But if that were the case, why is there no evidence of any other such attempts at stealth in the ships they fly?”
“Perhaps they deemed it as unviable,” the Professor said. “For any number of reasons. Maybe the materials needed to replicate it were too expensive, or too rare.”
“I can’t help thinking to myself,” Leonard thought aloud. “A huge, powerful military race would surely have the wherewithal to keep data, or at least retain the intelligence to be able to recreate the substance? Very slapdash if they didn’t.”
“Moreover,” the Professor added. “Why would they use the substance on a civilian passenger ship from another part of the Galaxy instead of their own war craft?”
Leonard nodded agog. “Yes, you’re right.”
“Perhaps this work was not carried out in the knowledge of the rest of the K’Tani people,” the Professor hypothesised, getting into free-forming more than bogged down by minutia. “It would be more likely that if it was K’Tani in origin, then it was the work of an individual, or perhaps a small group of individuals that the rest didn’t know about.”
“Like a secret military research project?” Leonard agreed. “But again – why the liner?” he frowned.
“Perhaps then,” the Professor said helpfully, “it was not done by the K’Tani at all.”
“Then who?” Leonard looked up at her face; she’d raised an eyebrow. “Whom?” he smiled, and she nodded approvingly.
* * *
1104 HOURS
"Hey Reb, wait up!" Lirik watched the half Ferengi disappear round a bend in the corridor fifteen or so metres ahead - there was no doubt he had heard him, but he didn’t stop. Undeterred, Lirik jogged after him, becoming a little warm from the exertion. Clearing the corner, though, Reb was nowhere to be seen.
Lirik walked slowly down the connecting corridor, listening for footsteps or movement but all was quiet, save the low hum of the ship’s systems. He was in the upper section of the Medical Centre and in a maze of corridors. Lirik studied the door names as each one passed: BioGel Clinic, Submergence and Hydro Pools, Eye/Lip/Nose/Ear Parlour, Body Mass Emporium, Tanning and Re-pigmentation Centre, and a more private, secured facility up a flight of stairs for Preference Reassignments and Sexual Enhancements.
As he passed Skin Resuscitation, something told Lirik that Reb was behind this door. It didn't respond when approached, so Lirik used his shield mechanism to act as a door key override rather than enter any code onto the panel manually - Reb might have quickly reprogrammed the lock, besides. The door swished open.
Inside, empty treatment bays and units stripped of their equipment lay solemnly bereft of occupancy. As with most undisturbed parts of the ship, main lights were deactivated and instead emergency lighting under lit the walls, creating an almost ethereal lighting effect. Reb was nowhere in sight, but Lirik sensed him nearby. "Look, I just want to talk to you, that's all," Lirik said, closing the doors behind him and sealing them with a simple command code (Souveson had yet to programme the ship’s entire security protocol system, so every operational system had reverted to default mode and was easy to override).
Reb stepped out from behind a large cabinet in the far corner of the room. "Well I don't want to talk to you, or couldn’t you tell?" Reb said curtly, striding over to the doors, pushing past Lirik, only to find it wouldn’t respond.
"After everything we've been through?" Lirik pleaded, "You won't even hear me out?"
"What's the point? You're just going to try and talk me out of leaving," Reb turned to face Lirik, almost angry. "But I've already decided, and I won't change my mind."
"Don't believe you," Lirik snapped and walked over to a table cluttered with delicate skin treatment tools, turning each over and casually studying them. It was a visual distraction to try and make Reb’s thoughts fragment slightly. "We may not be bosom buddies, but that time I spent with you on the runabout gave me an insight into who you are."
Reb laughed cruelly. "You don't know anything about me." It was a put-down, despite the truth of the statement. Luckily Lirik was thicker skinned.
"Maybe I don't," Lirik said. "But I'd like to think I’ve made a first step, and that in time you might trust me enough to show me the rest."
Reb shook his head and looked at the floor, changing the subject. "I know what the risks are out there, Yeoman, I've been out there on my own for years. And frankly, that kind of life suits me: only responsible for myself, making all my own decisions. Compared to here that’s paradise… here I don't know how to begin to fit in. Hell, I don't think I ever could. Not the way Christian would want it. At least I know where I stand out there alone."
"Is that what this is all about?" Lirik looked Reb in the eye, but Reb looked away quickly. "Just because you feel uncomfortable as part of a team?"
"No," Reb said defensively. "It's more than that. A lot more. And before you say it, despite outward appearances I’m not suffering from any kind of complex like ‘I’m too scared to let anyone close’ or any bull like that."
Lirik dropped a tool noisily, startling Reb slightly. "And how long before you run into the K'Tani? What if you're captured, tortured or incarcerated - or killed. What good your independence then? And it's not just the K'Tani - what about the Tholians? Maybe even the Borg exist out here?"
"Like I said, the danger doesn't worry me. This ship… it just isn't my scene," Reb gestured at the air around him. "I don't function as part of a crew, one cog in a larger machine, I never have. Jeez, I got turned down from Starfleet Academy - even they had the sense to see I wasn't made for that kind of life. And yet now you and the Captain and everyone else just expect me to get on with it, fit right in. You all want me to turn into the gallant helmsman, sit on my butt and say 'aye sir' all day. Well, I'm sorry, Lirik. That's not me." Reb turned back to the door. "Now will you please let me out?"
Lirik placed his hands on his hips. "I understand what you're saying Reb, but you're failing to realise that this situation is beyond an individual's control. Yours, mine - everyone's. We're all in this together whether we like it or not."
"Wrong," Reb paced toward him - perhaps physical proximity might reduce Lirik into conceding. "I never asked for this. Since I've come to the Outer Zone I've been chased, shot at countless times, hell, I've even defecated myself in public - not to mention that I've lost my home - my ship - and my entire possessions. No, Lirik. I just want out."
Lirik laughed back at Reb condescendingly. "Do you think I chose this situation, then? Or O'Hara, or Hedrik or Christian? Or how about all those people who've lost their friends, colleagues, loved ones and families on Helub? All those poor bloody children without their parents? None of us asked for this, Reb, but we're all here nonetheless."
"I know all that, but-" Reb did understand, he just wished Lirik and the others would let him make a decision for himself.
"I don't need to tell you how much we all mean to each other," Lirik talked over Reb, ignoring whatever he had been about to say. "And that goes for every last one of us. On board the Fantasy we have proven we have a fighting chance of survival. As a crew we can look out for each other and have a hope of getting through this situation alive. But we're dependent on all of those like yourself who can help train the others. I for one would sleep much better in the knowledge that it was my mate Reb at the Helm rather than some jumped up, gung-ho inexperienced trainee."
"Flattery isn't endearing to me," Reb said.
"Twaddle," Lirik spat. "You like flattery every bit as much as other people."
Reb smiled and placed a hand on Lirik’s shielded shoulder. "Okay, that's true, but I'm telling you Lirik, you're wasting your time. You won't talk me out of leaving." He quickly withdrew his hand, his fingertips tingling, and a wave of nausea rushing over him.
Lirik puffed his cheeks and sighed. "What if I threatened you with physical violence?" Lirik asked with new enthusiasm, lightening the mood slightly. “Or a dose of my Medusan energy?” He brandished his fingers like a magician.
Reb shook his head, still smiling. "My father warned me about you Hu-Mans."
"That's half-Hu-man to you, Mister," Lirik punched him on the arm in a friendly way. "So what did your ‘Hu-Man’ mother impart to you?"
Reb's face seemed to darken and sag a full inch. "My mother…" he paused, almost choked, "my mother gave me… feelings."
"That's a really nice thing to say," Lirik was genuinely touched.
"No it's not," Reb roughly pulled himself away.
Lirik knew when not to say anything more, instead storing the information for another time.
"What about your mother?" Reb asked, clearly trying to avoid further questions about his relationship with his parents.
Lirik looked down at his own hands. "I never knew my mother. She died giving birth to me," Lirik looked up into Reb’s face and half smiled. “But I’m told we’re a lot alike.”
"I'm sorry," Reb felt stupid. He wasn't much good at sympathy, but his supportive hand returning to Lirik's shielded shoulder said more than words could. "Walk me to the Marina Deck? I can’t leave without a ship, and as I lost my Pod back on Helub, I’ll need something to replace her."
“You’ve got the Captain’s permission, I assume?” Lirik asked officiously.
“Of course not,” Reb snapped, annoyed and defiant again. “But according to the inventory, there are plenty of vessels suitable for my needs. Might need a little work before I set off, but I’m sure I can manage.”
“Reb,” Lirik said a little seriously, and out of genuine group concern. “Don’t you think you’re being a little selfish about this? We might need any one or all of those vessels. And what about the spare parts you plan to use? And all the while, we’ll be missing you where we need you the most. On the bridge. As part of this crew.”
Reb suddenly stiffened. A bitter look crossed his face. “You’re damned right it’s selfish, Lirik. That’s the only way I know how to be. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.” He swallowed, then said: “Like you said, I’ve saved your skin a few times, and the rest of the survivors along with it. I’m proud of that, and not ashamed to admit it. But I’m also not afraid of calling for payback – and I think I’m owed just one small ship in return, don’t you? Call it the Ferengi businessman in me, if you like.”
Lirik didn’t reply. He just looked into the half Ferengi’s green-yellow hued eyes. Despite their past disagreements, Lirik felt for the first time he was about to lose someone on board who he genuinely cared about. With a strong sense of camaraderie he nodded his head and released the door.
As they exited into the corridor Lirik cocked his head. “Don’t even think about taking the Hudson.” Reb sniggered. “Or the Tellurian Cruiser.”
“The Zephyr?” Reb asked.
“In your dreams.”
* * *
ENTRANCE TO CAPTAIN’S OFFICE, 1145 HOURS (WHERE CHRISTIAN WAS HOLDING A PERSONNEL MEETING WITH JACKSON, LIRIK AND O’HARA)
How far he would have to go to prove to the Captain that he wanted to help was going to push his limits of tolerance, he knew. But Judge Madison wanted to do his bit - and he intended to tell the Captain as much.
The Judge thought back to his time as a barrister and an advocate for Starfleet. He drew on the years of experience and discipline to compose himself. Steadying a shaking hand he pressed the call tab on the small lcars panel.
A second later, Lirik's voice spoke. "Your Honour, we are in the middle of a staff meeting, please come back in an hour."
"No, wait," it was Christian's voice. "I think this is a good time for us to set something straight. Come in, Madison." Christian had sounded almost predatory, the Judge thought to himself with a sinking feeling about what was to follow.
Entering, Madison was surprised by the darkened interior, light from Bel’s ship’s interior outside blocked by external ‘storm shutters’, as they’d become known, secured over all the office windows and around the two external ‘balconies’. Only two standard lamps lit the cosy lounge area sited on the starboard side of the office across from the entrance. Sitting on the plush sofas bathed in the concentrated pool of light were Yeoman Lirik, Commodore Jackson and Lieutenant O'Hara. Christian had stood to invite the Judge into the spare armchair beside the fire. Madison sat, and the Captain seated himself opposite.
Lirik cast an amused look across to O'Hara on the sofa opposite, then felt Jackson's glare on the side of his face. He turned to Madison, nodding a faint 'hello'.
"Captain, before you start, may I say something?" Madison's tone was friendly but firm. The Captain nodded. "The reason I was coming to see you was because I read on the duty roster that I have been assigned to the repair and maintenance teams as a general hand."
Christian raised an eyebrow. Madison continued: "You may not be aware, but before I became a lawyer I was in the Solar System Defense Fleet. I served for seven years as a commissioned officer, so I know all there is to know about operating a starship, and have undergone extensive tactical training. I’ve even seen some combat. I may be a bit rusty with modern techniques, and not used to a vessel of this size, but I’m sure my skills are adaptable, and I am a fast learner."
Christian turned to Jackson, who in turn took the cue. "We are fully aware of your background, Mister Madison - only too well. The plain truth of the matter is that we as Starfleet officers do not believe you would be suitable to serve in a command position."
The man physically shrank back into the chair, a mixture of resignation, frustration and anger. "Because of Arianus 2," Madison stated in a whisper, once again facing his biggest demon.
Jackson didn't respond. Instead, she beckoned Lirik to pass her one of the many padds piled by his feet; he selected the appropriate one, Jackson took it and called up the recently accessed data. "Federation Security File 7693244: Madison, R V K. Former Senior Judge of the Federation Supreme Court, struck off on Stardate 44887 due to tragic failure resulting from inappropriate actions following the Arianus 2 Civil Unrest. Included in your unattended hearing were endorsements of gross misconduct and behavior not suiting a member of the legal profession, and also,” she looked him in the eye, “it was widely agreed that your behaviour ultimately provoked terrorist acts that escalated to the renewed full-scale civil war.” She blinked, letting her words sink in, then returned her eyes to the padd. “Wanted for further questioning by Federation Legal Council, current status and whereabouts unknown," Jackson glanced up, peering over the rims of her spectacles at him. "This file on you is still open. Technically you could be arrested by Starfleet security right now without trial and remain in the brig until our return to Federation space." Jackson turned to address Lirik’s earlier remark. "And may I remind the FORMER Judge that the Arianus 2 situation is still continuing to this day?" Jackson stabbed at the padd several more times. "To date there have been in excess of three million fatalities, and more than five million casualties, not to mention the devastation wreaked upon the environmental-"
Madison closed his eyes tightly and sharply raised a hand to stop her mid-sentence. His posture stiffened. "I am fully aware of the situation on Arianus, thank you, Commodore."
"But it didn't stop there, did it?" Jackson scanned the details of the padd further, undeterred. "After you were barred Starfleet Intelligence kept tabs on you while you remained at large in neutral space. You were involved in several consecutive financial failures often involving the criminal underworld, the result of which led to you being indicted several times over by local states. Three warrants are still outstanding. Despite that, you maintained the elusive but consistent limelight of underground popularity on the fringes of Federation space, becoming outspoken in a whole range of radical campaigns. For a time, you were popular again. But suffice it to say, you courted treason and caused a whole lot of trouble for Starfleet and the Federation by stirring up infighting and opening old wounds on many worlds in conflict."
Madison was shaking his head. "I don’t deny that what you say is factually correct, but that wasn’t exactly the way it happened. At the time… it was different…I was different," he seemed saddened rather than angered by what she was saying.
Christian leant forward to speak. "But it backfired on you in the end, didn’t it? Once people began to see you for the fraud you were, Madison, you became unpopular even with the most unscrupulous politicians and military leaders. So you moved on again, and pursued instead a pitiful life of minor celebrity – acting as consultant and advisor to crime lords and organisations like the Orion Syndicate. All the while you continued to take swipes at the Federation via long-range subspace links, often from hostile states. But then you just disappeared out of the comm news reports entirely. I must admit, I am curious to know why."
“It was my time.” Madison looked Christian in the eye, but did not embellish. "A lot has happened to me since then, Captain."
"It doesn't look like it to me," Jackson sneered at his gaudy clothing and apparent desperation to hold onto his youth; and in a way, it was working.
"Like what?" Christian asked in a goading way, ignoring the Commodore’s cheap shot.
Madison glanced at Lirik and O'Hara, both of whom seemed happy to not participate. O'Hara seemed to be daydreaming. She certainly wasn't paying much attention. Lirik was looking at the floor, occasionally glancing at the Captain - like he was assessing Christian's interrogation process.
"I found out who I am. And yes, what a damn fool I've been as well," Madison sat back.
"A fool?!" Jackson snorted, slapping the padd with the back of her hand. "At the very least you were unprofessional, man. But however you want to put it, you are the cause of countless deaths. You made… terrible, selfish decisions. How can we possibly consider you as credible? "
Madison held up his hands and raised his voice to her. "Commodore, please!” It made everyone jump, but no one reacted further. “You sit there and judge me?! All you know is what you read in reports and what you were told third hand. You don't even know the half of it."
Christian was on the verge of standing, frogmarching the man out of his office for the aggressive outburst. But the ex-Judge seemed suddenly calmer, composing himself. "Look. I know now that I've done some stupid, crazy things. When I think back, it's like I didn’t really know what I was doing at the time - but I've changed now. The whole business following Arianus 2 just put me into a psychotic tailspin. I could have destroyed myself, and I know I did a damn good job of almost destroying others while I was trying to cope," Madison placed a finger on a temple, calming himself. "But like I say, that's all in the past," he grasped the arms of the chair. "Not that I can escape it. I live with the past every day, Commodore. I can't ever deny it happened. I could still let it destroy me, even now, if I thought too long and too hard about it. But I won't. I've come to realise that whatever I may have done in the past, I can contribute now. I have a lot to give, and I still want to live a full life. I want to make up for what I've done. In fact, in the last year and a half I've been doing a great deal to prove it."
Christian knitted his fingers together, bridging the space above his thighs with his forearms. "All we have is your word for that. You must appreciate that we can't ignore the fact that Starfleet, the Federation and many others have thrown the book at you. As I'm sure you can appreciate, Starfleet could never agree to associating with a person like you until all these charges are resolved."
"We may not actually have a brig to throw you in right now," Jackson continued to voice her obvious dislike for the man. "And in spite of everything, we need every last person we can pitching in. But we can still sure as hell stop you from doing any more harm to others, whether you're in your right mind or out of it."
Lirik was shaking his head vigorously. Christian glanced at Jackson and wondered what Lirik wanted to disagree with so much. "You have something to say Yeoman?"
"No, no, it's just a personal opinion," the Englishman sat forward, spreading his legs and leaning his elbows above his knees, trying to look meek, "it has no bearing here."
Madison stood, his head rising above the light. The glow from beneath the lampshades cast ugly shadows up his face, like a horror movie icon. "You’ve clearly already made up your minds about me. But let me state for the record that my decision over Arianus 2 was the only one I could ever have made, and I would make it again without any hesitation."
Christian was about to blurt a retort out when Lirik interrupted. "Explain yerself!" From the glint in his eye, Christian suspected that Lirik had some insider knowledge of the Arianus 2 trial – what he may have been wanting to speak about but couldn’t, bound as he was by his Diplomatic Corps oath to the High Council itself. Madison had been sent as Federation envoy and ambassador for peace, and he was sure to have been accompanied by the DC [Diplomatic Corps]. Perhaps Lirik was among them, or knew someone who was. The Captain briefly wondered how many secrets the Englishman retained.
Madison paused, but when no word of protest from the Captain followed, he wandered out beyond the periphery of light, becoming a dim shadowy figure vaguely remembering the good old days when he made summing up speeches at the end of a long trial. "The Federation's very ethics are based on the protection of life, you officers swear as such when you join the ranks. Any one of you with front line experience in such volatile situations as Arianus 2 will know that neither side plays fair. Whatever side's violence you consider, innocents are still the only real victims. The moral truth was that both sides were guilty of terrorism. The legal truth was that the only ones being held accountable were the ones not currently in power - and many of them were not directly responsible for any violence. It was a witch-hunt. I knew that if I found the alleged terrorists guilty they would almost certainly be tortured and killed in prison."
"Well, they were found guilty of the crimes they were being tried for," Jackson shouted, startling O'Hara out of her renewed melancholy reverie. “The forensic evidence, as I recall, was irrefutable.”
"Remember, Commodore, the political situation on the planet had already been resolved. The two groups had come to an agreement and there was an end to the violence, a ceasefire that had lasted for some months. Had the terrorists not been arrested, they would have eventually travelled to their new home and that would have been the end of it, life would have carried on," Madison walked back into the light, between the Captain and O'Hara. "After my success at resolving the conflict in order for Arianus to gain provisional entry into the Federation, I was asked to chair the trial on a group of high profile terrorists. I didn’t want to, I felt it was up to their own judiciary. But Starfleet felt my presence was a symbol of neutrality and stability. The High Council insisted, and I couldn’t refuse. So I sat between eight other judges. As far as I was concerned, the civil war was over. But my fellow judges had quite a different idea. I saw it as an opportunity to set a precedent for the future. One of peace and non-violence. They saw it as an opportunity for retribution and naming scapegoats for the history books. I knew exactly where I stood and I foolishly thought everyone else would buy into the same, given the temporary peace and feeling of renewed hope."
"Yes, I remember that," Lirik said, "in the end you had to make the ruling decision when the other judges were split 50/50, didn't you?"
"What you probably don't know is that during the trial several key proposals I made were overruled by the rest of the bench. Whenever I agreed to admit evidence for the defense council concerning government terrorist and scare mongering tactics they came up with some tort or other to disallow them. As a result, the admissible evidence was heavily one sided. It was only then I realised my hand was being forced - that I was expected to make only one decision. Morally I knew that I could not condemn those terrorists and I knew that I would be ridiculed for it. But I also realised how alone I was in my deliberation – I was required to condemn these men and women to death, and the Federation and Starfleet, it seemed, were happy to go along with it. So I reminded myself of my father's best advice: 'be true to your heart'. And I was. The rest, as they say, is history," Madison was sincere, yet what he said did not sound rehearsed to the Captain. “My life was over at that point,” he said, “I was roughly extricated from Arianus – even my Federation colleagues rebuked and chastised me. No one wanted to hear my side of things. A communiqué from the Starfleet Bar indicated my career was at an end, so I jumped ship, returned to Arianus space and tried to work things out. It only made matters worse. I became obsessed at trying to attain some kind of justice, but soon it became apparent there was nothing I could do. I felt disowned, that the Federation had let me down. That became my mantra, and my undoing. I entered that dark chapter of my life, and I am sad to admit that it took too long before things reached a head.”
O'Hara had heard the last few minutes and decided to check something out. Heaving the huge suitcase-like medical history reference database open she called up the relevant information. "His medical file shows that following Arianus 2 he was undergoing treatment for depression and insomnia. He became prone to panic attacks, there's evidence of paranoid delusion. Whoah," the Lieutenant scanned through a list of narcotics. "I'm surprised you don't rattle when you walk, Mister Madison."
The deeply tanned man didn't smile at that. The reality was too painful. "The medication was supposed to make things better, but I was impatient. I switched doctors almost on a weekly basis, in the end becoming too paranoid to even seek medical advice. I was like that for years before I finally began to realise that I was slowly killing myself. I got scared, so I took a … retreat. I purchased a shuttle and I raced as fast as I could for as far as I could. Actually, I was just trying to run away from myself. I wanted to go on forever, focus on the journey and nothing else. But I was alone with my thoughts. I couldn’t help but deliberate, but without medication or counseling I began to have suicidal thoughts. As I continued my voyage, I reached a decision to end it all quickly. By now I was out somewhere beyond the Briar Patch and felt I’d reached the end of my journey. I faced a sinister choice: should I pilot the vessel on a collision course for a sun, or go to warp without a structural integrity field? Should I set the warp core for overload, or switch the chemical mix of the environmental system and just go to sleep? I began to wonder myriad other ways of ending my pain when I picked up an all frequency distress call. A nearby system of limited resources had been ravaged by an ion storm and they were asking for any help that could be given. In my delusional state my ego took over again, thinking the transmission to be a sign that I shouldn't end my life." Madison shook his head and sat down once more. "The desperation of the people necessitated a total commitment on my part. I didn't stop. After airlifting casualties for several hours I handed over my shuttle to more capable pilots and pitched in on the ground in one of the worst hit areas, helping organise demolition teams and initiating sanitation control. I had found nirvana, for here I didn't have to think about myself anymore. The past had been overtaken by the present and my pain finally ended. But as the months passed and their lives began to return to normal so I too turned my mind back to the reality of my situation. I had well and truly screwed up my life, but I decided there and then that I wasn't about to give up. I’d done good on this world, and I felt secure in drawing a line and not looking back. So I did a little travelling, working as an odd jobs person, casual labour. Out in the far reaches, people didn't care who Judge Madison was, they only wanted to know me. When I heard the Outer Zone had been discovered, I just felt an itch that wouldn't go away. It was an opportunity for a fresh start. In many ways,” he said stepping back into the full light, “it still is."
As Madison stopped, each of the crew shifted in their seats. Lirik was bursting to say something but etiquette demanded he let the Captain lead.
Christian sat back and looked up into the dim shadows of the office's intricately patterned ceiling. "Commodore Jackson, as Executive Officer you are responsible for the officer trainees. Everything else aside, we do need all the support we can muster, especially with those who are experienced. If you are willing to accept responsibility for the training and discipline of him, I won't object to your giving Mister Madison a chance to prove himself. But it's your decision."
In more senior-ranking company, the Commodore would have delivered a short burst of verbal abuse at the Captain, but the circumstance would not permit her. "My decision?!"
"Yes," Christian swallowed, and Madison noticed that Lirik smiled at that.
Jackson thought for a moment and then glanced around from Lirik to O'Hara to Christian. "You all think we should give him a chance, don't you?" None of them answered, but their eyes said it all. Jackson reminded herself of her basic personnel training. Although outwardly nurturing, as Jackson had advanced up the ranks the postings she was given hardened her slightly, her efficiency manifesting into a by the book, erring on the side of caution kind of command style. In recent years her attitude had mellowed, but the Arianus 2 events stuck clearly in her head.
She reminded herself that what was being asked wasn't whether Madison deserved to be trained, but whether it would benefit the ship. The chunks of information detailing his early and not undistinguished career could not be avoided. "Very well, report at 0800 to the shuttle bay with the other trainees. You better get some sleep," Jackson rose and gestured toward the door.
Madison decided to not give a speech upon leaving. A quiet thank you to each one in days to come would be more appropriate, he decided. Just as he was about to exit, Jackson called out to him. "Madison. Don't disappoint me."
"No, Sir," Madison said, then smiled and departed. O'Hara and Lirik tittered, but the Commodore was not amused. As she sat down she noticed Christian suppressing a smile.
"Captain, I'm beginning to think you should rename this ship the Jolly Roger," Jackson folded her arms. "I hope you're not biting off more than I can chew."
Christian grew serious. “Actually, we do have one situation that’s cropped up. It’s Rebbik. He wants to leave.”
Commodore Jackson sighed, half resigned, half annoyed. “I can’t say I didn’t expect it. He is half Ferengi, after all.”
“What has that got to do with anything?” O’Hara said, a little shocked.
“I lived on Ferenginar, Lieutenant,” Jackson said sternly. “I know just what makes a Ferengi tick.”
“He’s half Human,” Lirik stated, though knowing that Reb seemed to regard his Human inheritance as less than desirable.
“Same difference,” Jackson said. “I’ve met a hundred Rebs in my time. He’s a boy, truly. He’s lost, trying to find himself, fighting everyone and everything and not ever really understanding.”
“Well personally, Commodore,” Christian said, “I don’t want to lose him. But we’ve tried every way of convincing him not to go. It just isn’t working," Christian placed his hands on his knees. "I don't know what else to do."
"Perhaps you haven’t tried every way," Jackson smiled. "There's one very obvious avenue I bet you didn't follow.”
Her glance gave it away to him. “I get you,” Christian said.
“Leave it with me," she said and beamed, happy to have a challenge.
* * *
ACT 2