EPISODE 11 – THE B’DET
PROLOGUE
Like a thief in the night the silent elongated shimmering black hulk of the USS Fantasy crept through space at warp 5 unnoticed.
“Captain’s Log, Star Date 53896.2. The USS Fantasy is en route to the Carifoura League of Star Systems, a destination Captain Bel recommended to us before we parted company ten days ago. Not only is it a long way from K’Tani occupied Qovakia, but also its people have a large colony firmly established there. They are mostly made up of refugees who fled the K’Tani during their last occupation. We should be able to take on supplies, and make further improvements to our ship’s systems. We may also find safe haven for those among us who wish to debark. Moreover, we hope to make friends and allies there in the short term – and in the longer term develop a viable strategy for liberating our colleagues and families. Although they are now a considerable distance behind us, they remain, of course, constantly in our thoughts.
“Our journey time is 36 days in total, overlong because we are avoiding travelling through any part of B’Det territory. While they are a neutral, mostly non-aggressive trading race, they previously had a pact and profitable business agreement with the K’Tani, whereby they provided weapons research data and hard technology in return for being left alone (and a small fee to cover materials and labour).
“That treaty may well have been rekindled following the K’Tani’s recent re-invasion of Qovakia, and K’Tani ships could be travelling through any part of B’Det space as I speak.
“The B’Det are spread over dozens of adjacent star systems, several of which abut Qovakia – though these are a long way from our current position. Nevertheless, we are circumventing all of its vast borders, currently weaving along the least populated areas of remote WauVin space just to be sure we avoid contact with anyone.
“I had originally hoped to at least cut across the very outskirts of B’Det space using our unique cloaking substance as proven cover - it would have cut our journey time by two thirds - but partly because of the B’Det’s tenuous trustworthiness, and partly because of the B’Det technological prowess (especially in weapons and defence systems, which are renowned to be the best in all Qovakia), the Commodore and I agreed we simply could not afford to take the risk of discovery. Our ship may be well on the way toward meeting Starfleet specs, but we are a not nearly battle-ready – in terms of both the Fantasy’s systems and its mostly untrained crew.
“To the best of our knowledge, the K’Tani has given up their direct pursuit of us. As we journey unfettered, research continues on our unique cloaking substance that covers the ship, though it’s a slow process. Pfffffffffff… Pause Log.
“Open Personal Log Supplemental. Start recording. I’m not the only person aboard to be frustrated by the prolonged journey – the most difficult of the passengers, along with a number of junior officers and crew, have all been quite vocal in their objections, though for differing reasons.
“The former believe the full doom and gloom scenario; that I am essentially a rookie Captain and lack sufficient experience to protect them, that the ship is an outdated ‘floatel’ with nothing more than holograms and harsh language for protection, the crew just a bunch of hopeless wannabes and misfits. I’ve also heard mention that I lack the balls to make any command decision myself, and that I would rather blindly follow the whim of an alien (Bel) who is no longer around, or defer to the veteran but equally useless advice of a senior ranking pen-pusher.
“The latter group, on the other hand, whilst being wholly committed to the duties they have been given nonetheless feel we should be doing something more proactive in helping our people back in Qovakia rather than continuing to “flee” from K’Tani occupied space.
“Despite all their protests I know there is some truth in what both groups say, even if that does smart something rotten. I’d be the first to admit that our ship and its crew are almost totally untrained and certainly untested. And yet even considering my own substantiated reservations, I feel there is no alternative course of action at present.
“I’m sure that I feel as helpless to act in a more positive way as they feel apprehension toward me and our situation. But, difficult though it is, I must persevere and focus on our current goal and have faith that time will prove it to be the right – and only – one. End Personal Log. Resume Captain’s Log.”
“As we cruise, we are turning our attention to the great many lesser repairs to the vessel and continued, detailed exploration of this huge and intricate ship. This is no simple task, though it has been improved somewhat by the presence of the very few members of Bel’s experienced maintenance and repair crew who joined us, and by Lt Commander Leonard’s people working flat out to bring on line more of the maintenance droids at our disposal.
“The most significant development is that Lieutenant Hedrik feels she may be close to gaining access to what we know to be hidden – or rather ‘secure’ decks – throughout the ship.
“There is no denying that the best use of the journey time is to get the newly appointed officers and crew up to speed. They are still a disparate, uncoordinated group, most of whom lack any field experience serving on a star ship, let alone a Starfleet organised vessel. But daily shift work under mentors and tutorials from the command crew along with simulator sessions in the many holodecks on board should help to improve things.
“Though I’ve yet to see it with my own eyes, according to Commodore Jackson and Commander Lirik, the crew and passengers are beginning to bond.”
TEASER
Star Date 53897.1, 2030 hours (a day after the above log entry - ed)
Captain Christian shook his head, a fixed frown deeply furrowing his brow – he didn’t know what to think.
He walked alone along the empty, quiet starboard corridor of Deck 11 of the Command Yacht Section (housed), past the solid airlock that led to its small but adequate shuttle bay, his destination being the smart and refined surroundings of the Banqueting Suite at the Yacht’s fore’.
En route he wound his way around a number of ‘kitchens’, hexagonal serving areas, their shutters down, forming a cluster of specialist food prep units around the mid deck that reminded the Captain of tented side shows in a traditional travelling fairground on Earth after everyone’s gone home for the night.
Christian recalled detail from a report complied by Hedrik and Leonard. According to the ship’s most recent logs uncovered in the Bridge Computer of the Passenger Section, immediately prior to its arrival in the Outer Zone, the Command Yacht of the SS Fantasy had been refitted for the apparent duty of entertaining at the highest level. (Sadly, he did not find detailed logs of the ship’s crew, but rather an assortment of status reports by the various chiefs involved in the ship’s refit and repair, the occasional local customs check, and a plethora of other regular documentation concerning systems, specifications and schematics. Also blatantly missing were any logs concerning how the Fantasy had come to be in the Outer Zone, how it had been impounded in a K’Tani storage facility and how it had come to be coated in the strange cloaking substance – not to mention how several corpses had ended up in the turbolift on the Bridge; all matters that were still to be resolved).
The Yacht’s various function and conferencing facilities were almost entirely unused, as pristine as the day they were installed. With the exception of the shuttle bay and the engineering atrium that sliced through the aft section, this entire deck of the Yacht was devoted purely to the hospitality of upward of five hundred VIP guests at a time. Presumably its previous owner was intending to sell it for civic or diplomatic use, although at this stage of their investigation, his, or her, (or their), identity was as much a mystery as how the vessel had come to this part of the Galaxy.
Christian shook his head again. “How could they be so stupid?!” he muttered to himself.
According to his conversation with Reb over a mug of synth-ale on the Yacht’s Observation Deck earlier in the evening after his shift change, it appeared that his newly assigned Head of Operations and his Chief Purser – two of his key command crew – were engaged in some kind of ongoing personal challenge against each other.
This was all he needed on top of the latest dramatic development that he was currently keeping to himself.
The Captain had realised shortly after Struckchev came aboard that the said Kosovan and the Englishman didn’t get on, but had been puzzled as to why they seemed to spend so much time together – so Reb’s explanation was therefore both believable and wholly unexpected at the same time.
Having dwelt on it for a few hours, Christian could understand why Commander Struckchev, formerly First Officer and one of only two survivors of the recently destroyed USS Papillon, might want to prove himself better than their resident cocky Chief Purser. After all, based partly on the SAT tests, partly on his official record*, and partly on their own lengthy discussion about his performance to date, his skills and potential, it was ten days ago that Christian and Commodore Jackson had agreed on giving Lirik the field rank of Commander, making him equal to Struckchev. Looking from the Kosovan’s point of view, Lirik was merely a functionary of the Diplomatic Corps, a man who had only attained the rank of Yeoman before transferring. It must have really put Struckchev’s nose out of joint, being such a career officer who’d started life as a keen teenage non-com and grafted his way up through the ranks to the level of XO by his late thirties.
*[Hedrik had downloaded the databases from Runabouts Hudson and Severn, and transferred what files had been retrieved from the USS Craybourne, and integrated them all into the Fantasy’s still forming computer systems. These comprised much of the Starfleet standard general database and included a large proportion of personnel files.]
Nevertheless, having learnt about this challenge, Christian was concerned that both men were not showing more maturity and instead had lost themselves in some form of petty macho rivalry. Having given both men equal rank, unless he promoted someone else to full Commander status, he would soon have to choose which of them would become the vessel’s 2nd Officer – and this situation didn’t exactly help with that impending decision.
Christian had half a mind to show the two men the results of the SATs and be done with it. But the other half was rooted in his own biased personal feelings, and he felt sure that even though Lirik had beaten Struckchev by the barest margin in those tests, the Kosovan could easily trounce the Englishman if he put his mind to it. And more to the point, the Captain unashamedly wanted to see that happen, if only for his personal satisfaction at seeing a member of the Corps whooped into submission by a Starfleet officer. He turned his mind to weigh up the strengths and weaknesses of the two men as he had on occasion over the last week.
In the short time he’d known him, Christian had learned that Commander Lirik liked to be proven right, and to show that he had skills equal to if not better than the other command crew, particularly Lieutenant Commander Leonard with whom he seemed to have an existing rivalry. But that was no crime – indeed, on reflection, since they came aboard the Fantasy the way in which he dealt with each incident had shown Christian that Lirik bore all the hallmarks of a consummate command officer. Furthermore, having had time to consider the other possible outcome, he even felt differently now about Lirik’s insubordination regarding his disobeying direct orders and running off with Reb in the runabout Hudson shortly after leaving Vekarian space. It had, after all, lured the K’Tani away from the adrift Fantasy.
And so Christian also considered that Lirik’s ongoing challenge with Struckchev seemed to be at odds with his usual behaviour to date.
Possibly it was just a part of Lirik’s personality that hadn’t been apparent until now. Or possibly there was some other conflict between the two men that Christian didn’t know about. It was certainly clear to everyone they didn’t get along, but this friendly competition seemed to be more about settling a grudge than proving a point. Maybe something had happened in the time they’d spent aboard the runabout Hudson, Christian wondered. Or maybe it was when he’d left Struckchev in command of the Beta Section while the Command Yacht had journeyed to the space station Erowoon.
Reviewing his conspicuously occasionally sparse but nevertheless impressive file and watching back his SAT assessment on the Holodeck in real time, Christian observed that Lirik had a good understanding of Starfleet and Federation principles and law. He showed an almost sixth sense in tactical situations – something that only came with practice and experience. He also had a calling when it came to administration of ship’s business, and clearly could take difficult decisions under pressure while even maintaining a (admittedly base) sense of humour. Plus he had exposure to a wide range of disciplines and many years of service to Starfleet and the Federation under his belt. In almost every way, Lirik was as experienced as any twenty plus year command veteran.
Of course, these were all the reasons Christian had agreed with the Commodore to giving Lirik the responsibility of running the civilian oriented Passenger Section, looking after the Fantasy’s many ‘passengers’, whilst also organising all the more community aspects of ship life and simultaneously assisting the Captain and XO in their executive functions. No mean feat and something that Lirik seemed to be handling exceptionally – Christian even wondered if he were getting help from the Commodore, things had been running so smoothly.
Lirik had his fair share of shortcomings. He was certainly out of condition – obviously overweight, he was loyal to the Diplomatic Corps and perhaps too used to working alone and without redress. But more worrying to Christian was the double edged sword that was Lirik’s Medusan heritage. No matter his level of control and the many useful aspects of the abilities from his alien side, the Captain felt sure it could pose a significant liability.
Commander Struckchev, on the other hand, was a proven, battle-hardened officer, groomed to life as a leader on board a Starfleet vessel. He was very fit, skilled, disciplined and dedicated to his job – indeed, for him it was a vocation rather than any desire to excel. The muscle-bound, hirsute Head of Operations was also decorated, more than a handful of times, with years of Bridge duty under his belt, and by amazingly surviving the Papillon’s demise, he also showed he had tremendous daring, determination and courage.
The Kosovan’s only failings were an abundance of confidence that bled into arrogance, and that his people-skills left a lot to be desired. Frankly, Christian didn’t have a problem with either under the present circumstances, provided that the man did his job.
So if Christian put the SAT results to one side, while Lirik might appear the better all-rounder, in the Captain’s opinion Struckchev was the more suitable choice. Or at least, if he were back in Federation space that would be true.
The Captain’s half-Ferengi, half-Human confident had gone on to divulge that the two men had already participated in a number of events – all since their trip to Erowoon. They had fought a stand-off in the shooting range, down in the labyrinthine Fantasy Arcade, raced shuttles in a simulated environment in the recently re-activated HoloPark, and even competed to build a power generator from scratch down on the vehicle maintenance deck - all during their mutual off hours. As well as other increasingly public and more general competitive knowledge and reaction tests, they were also participating in what appeared to be a number of Starfleet Academy final year exams, though the exact details of these weren’t clear. The rumours of their ‘friendly competition’ had spread quickly among the passengers and crew over the past week and a half since parting company with Bel, but failed, it seemed, to reach him until now.
According to Reb’s account, the adversaries were currently at level pegging having drawn equal in almost every ‘game’ or test they’d played so far. This evening, however, they were engaged in some kind of test of tactical knowledge, as arranged for them by a third party. The test comprised a complex and prolonged semi-holographic interactive alien role playing game they’d both been given to learn over a short period. According to his Helmsman they had been playing since going off shift and were drawing quite a crowd of followers as they carried out this one-off match in the middle of the Banqueting Suite.
Christian would soon put an end to it.
As he approached the large wooden doors inset with long oval panels of frosted glass, (each bearing the now familiar stylised Fantasy ‘f’ logo), the silent control mechanism caused them to swish open, revealing a darkened room beyond, expansive with a high ceiling, but no overhead or surrounding lighting switched on, just the glow through the multi-panelled plexiglass from the hull lights from outside.
As he stepped over the threshold, the floor space beyond reminded Christian of the Galaxy class Ten Forward lounge, though the shape of this forward most point of the Yacht was less a gentle curve and more reminiscent of a conventional sea ship – and while the bar was very near to the entries, here it was recessed quite a way back into the deck. A bank of windows, arranged along the sharply arcing prow of the ship were illuminated from outside and below, housed as the Yacht was in its docked state within the Command Section of the Fantasy. The floodlights below brightly reflected off the recently re-touched uniform white hull walls of the Command Section’s sheering plane, illuminating the interior of the suite with a ghostly light and casting many shadows from the suite’s support struts.
As Christian moved further in, more of the suite became visible and he stopped in his tracks. A larger than expected group of onlookers didn’t notice him arrive, intently gathered as they were around the perimeter of the glowing 10m2 game board – four or five people deep in places. Christian couldn’t help but be moved at the sight of so many and varied Fantasy-style Starfleet uniforms – HIS crew, he reminded himself paternally. Intermingled were the myriad colours and styles of civilian garb, all bubbling with excited chatter and sociable body language, rather than their usual silently sombre, hangdog demeanour.
Christian was surprised to notice Professor Karnak – a Lieutenant, a student of Vulcan logic and his current Head of Science – along with Chief Engineer Lieutenant Commander Leonard and a number of other junior officers among the crowd. Lieutenant O’Hara appeared to be adjudicating the game, perched in a seat atop a ladder above everyone’s heads, much like a tennis umpire, similarly armed with a tricorder and a large wide-screen padd. Her red hair, piled on her head in a tight bun, was only millimetres from the ceiling, and Christian saw within her milky face, illuminated by the holographics below, her keenly attentive emerald eyes watching the match play beneath her.
“I wondered how long it would take you to get down here,” it was Jackson’s chocolate voice, very close – from behind. The Captain turned – she’d been sitting in the shadows of a nearby seating recess tucked behind the entrance, more watching the audience than the contest, and noticed him drift in. “Commanders Struckchev and Lirik are eight hours into their game of Tactical Jarokee – that’s what it’s called, you know – and from what I can tell things are reaching a head.”
“I’ve not heard of that game. In fact, I only found out about this whole business earlier tonight,” Christian sulked in officerly tone. “How long have you known about their competition?”
“Not much longer than you, actually, Captain,” she said, morphing the last word so that it reminded him of her superior rank. “I overheard a conversation yesterday, picked my moment and asked an obedient crewman to spill the beans about it today,” Jackson said, hand on hip. “And, er… then I asked him to divulge it to you tonight,” she grinned.
Christian pulled his lips tight at her, noting that Reb was the Commodore’s unusual but perhaps not entirely unbelievable snitch. ‘Perhaps the deal she’d struck to make Reb stay as part of the crew had extended beyond the lure of money to some kind of mutual agreement concerning exchange of information?’ he wondered, then balked at his suspicious nature.
“I’ll give them this,” she said, surveying the various smiling, interested faces, the laughter and joking conversations among passengers and volunteer crew alike, “they’ve provided a welcome spontaneous relief for the crew and brought people together.”
“But with what consequence? It’s certainly no way for Starfleet officers to behave – or indeed a future 2nd Officer,” he said, referring to his impending decision. “Just think of the example they’re setting to the enlisted civilians.” Christian then stood on tiptoe for a better look – the holographics appeared to be exquisite. He turned to his superior seriously. “Give me your take on this, what’s it all about anyway?”
“Well,” Jackson hooked her arm around his and led him to a place where the crowd thinned, and easily pushed through for the Captain to get a good view of the action. “It’s about two opposing races who wage a war across several star systems. There are all manner of command and morality tests during their contest, and slowly the armies engage in battle. At this point in the game, they’ve practically destroyed all of each other’s forces, and they’re on the final battlefield. As you can see, it’s all gamed on a scaled down representation of the environment – in this case, a holographic playing board – and each player is standing amid his army and flying squadrons, giving voice and keypad commands.”
Christian looked at the pieces – the current aspect covered several hundred kilometres of mountain woodland, all alive with tiny holographic representations of Starfleet ground and air fighters. “They’re both playing with Starfleet characters..?” he realised – Struckchev’s had yellow livery, Lirik’s green.
“I’m told that minor modifications were made by O’Hara and Hedrik, they thought it more fitting to use armies comprised of craft, weapons and personnel they’re more familiar with.” Jackson huddled closer, craning to see Struckchev’s formation of fighters kamikaze into Lirik’s field HQ, much to the crowd’s pleasure. “Oh, good show!” she exclaimed, the crowd erupting in applause.
“That’s hardly Starfleet textbook!” Christian gave his Commodore a disdainful sideways glance – he was surprised at her unusual outburst, and indeed by the Kosovan’s unorthodox tactics. “But what I actually meant before was, why do you think they are even doing this in the first place?”
Jackson turned to him, gazing up into what she clearly thought was his dumb face. “Well,” she said, “you know how they get on so famously. This is clearly a manifestation of their friendship, a succession of friendly matches just for fun.”
The Captain gritted his teeth, glancing at the two men, their facial expressions intent and alert on all the game play taking place. Each man was frantically stabbing orders into his padd and giving whispered commands into small head-mounted microphones, while simultaneously reading intel and sensor data and trying to keep an eye on the overall picture at the same time. As well as lead their armies into battle, it seemed they were also required to take care of the wounded, manage any POWs, replenish their supplies and ensure their players behaved as a real army would. Much of the play was accelerated, with hours passing as minutes, and statistically computed ‘hits’ cutting down on playing time. But occasionally, during a particular event, gaming would revert to real time – like now.
“If they have a problem with each other-“ Christian began to vent.
“If they have a problem with each other,” Jackson spoke over him, pausing for effect. “Then maybe this is just the way for them to sort it out.”
The Captain looked at her supposedly wise face, and then at the two men – Lirik’s forces were taking a pounding. “Hmm,” he mused, suddenly interested to see the cock-sure Diplomat under pressure. Instinctively Christian smiled – despite getting to know him better and regardless of what he thought of him professionally, his subconscious was still knee-jerk reacting to the former Yeoman. As far as he knew, none around him could read his wicked thoughts, so he allowed himself the pleasure of wallowing in his cruel internal reaction.
As Lirik’s front line HQ exploded in a brilliant flash of holographic special effects, he cried with rage and frustration, forgetting himself for an instant. The onlooking crowd, in a circular pattern for about four metres around him, all simultaneously fell or stumbled back, like a Humanoid crop circle felled by a sudden down-draught. Christian’s jaw fell open – he’d felt a rush of anxiety himself, even at this distance, and noticed all the others in the room breathing deeply or swallowing saliva as they felt the residual effects of Medusan energy.
“Game pause!” O’Hara called, waiting for the holo-projection to freeze, and then glowered at Lirik. “Yeoman! You must control your Medusan effect!”
“Sorry…” Lirik seemed genuinely embarrassed and a little surprised at having let his barrier down.
Christian was intrigued and reflection gave way to revelation. Since meeting Lirik, he’d learned that the Medusan part of him could ‘sense’ electromagnetic waves with an incredible degree of accuracy – to a certain extent he could perceive things that weren’t there, and ‘see’ energy through solid bulkheads. He’d also witnessed the Englishman ‘fry’ a hologram with his bare hands.
Although he didn’t go into detail Lirik had admitted to the Captain and the Commodore that he had in the past worked on a number of occasions for Starfleet Intelligence because of these ‘gifts’. What had just happened in the Banqueting Suite was yet another expression of Lirik’s… ‘power’. It dawned on the Captain that until now he’d thought of the Commander’s inherent Medusan energy as a crude, deadly force and something that inhibited social reaction. No wonder the man had been considered suitable for the myriad and sometimes dangerous duties of the Diplomatic Corps.
The Captain also realised that O’Hara was more knowledgeable about Lirik’s physicality than he was – he decided to rectify that matter at the earliest opportunity. Lirik could be a useful tactical asset in the future, and as his commanding officer Christian needed to know everything there was to know about his subordinate.
For a moment, the Captain paled – despite these good intentions, all his plans could be wrought asunder following this afternoon’s news.
“You’re making the crowd feel sick,” O’Hara continued to chastise the Englishman. Christian watched as several groups of people couldn’t shake the feeling of nausea – or didn’t want to chance the feeling again – and peeled off to another part of the crowd, away from the scary Yeoman. “You have a minute to compose yourself,” she said.
Christian saw that Struckchev, apparently un-phased by Lirik’s ‘effect’, was teetering on the point of victory and it seemed to be getting to the Yeoman. The Captain chuckled to himself.
“What’s so funny?” Jackson asked him, wanting to share the joke.
“Lirik,” he smiled, shaking his head with a smug pleasure. “I’ve not seen him lose control like that before.” He looked down at the Commodore’s judgemental expression. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve changed my opinion of the man since I first met him. But between you and me it’s just nice to watch him being taken down a peg or two by one of his peers.”
Jackson regarded the Captain with a look of sadness. She could tell he was happy that their so-called Chief Purser was losing, and suspected that contrary to what Christian said, the painful memory of what a Medusan had done to his parents was still very much with him.
Across the room, the Yeoman was visibly trembling. He brought his hands to his face, wiped his mouth, and rubbed his eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he turned to the remaining crowd behind him. “I’m so sorry about that,” he apologised, smiling affectionately at them. Several individuals blessed with exceptional eyesight returned the smile with knowing winks, for they had been reading information off his padd for several hours – but they loyally gave nothing away.
Lirik turned back to the playing field and his adversary, trying to maintain composure and appear deadpan. Struckchev was beaming, and the Yeoman read from his eyes that he was about to goad him before he even opened his mouth.
“I think we may as well call it a win for me and have done with it,” the Kosovan Commander said loudly. “You’re clearly losing control of the Medusan inside you and you are about to be well and truly defeated,” he chuckled, “just look at your ground troops! Do you really want to go on and embarrass yourself in front of all these people?”
Christian swallowed, he’d had the exact same thought minutes earlier – but now that he heard those words spoken he felt a little shame. The crowd behind Struckchev, (in more ways than one), giggled and sniggered mockingly. The Englishman licked his lips. ‘Is he really beaten? Christian wondered. ‘What could he say in response to that? Something clever, no doubt.’
Jackson nudged Christian; he looked down at her peering up at him with her big brown eyes behind half rectangular glasses. “Hey,” she whispered mischievously, “want to make a side bet?”
“What?!” Christian scoffed incredulously.
Jackson squared her jaw at him.
“What?” he repeated, not quite believing her. “You’re not trying to bet me that Lirik’s going to win, are you?!” He gestured at the smouldering destruction, suspended in time, his remaining pockets of forces straggling back to find cover. “How could he possibly?”
Jackson squinted at him. “Chicken?”
The Captain shook his head. “You seem awfully sure. Do you know something I don’t?”
“I’m something of a three dimensional chess player, that’s all,” she fluttered her eyelids, she was clearly proud. “Was the Ship Services Branch Champion, four years running back in my youth, and was a runner up in the Federation Games several times. I’ve played Lirik. Twice. And lost, most creatively on both occasions.” She smiled, basking in the recent and yet elusive memories of uncomplicated, good times. Although Jackson knew they had been fun evenings, she wasn’t too clear about the detail of either night out in the flesh pots of Helub that had followed each game. Indeed the second time, she’d insisted on going in disguise.
Christian smirked. “Chess is one thing…” he said as if in explanation. He thought about how against protocol their behaviour was, but at the same time liking the different kind of relationship he was forming with the Commodore. He then instinctively recalled the details of Commander Vancek, who would have been his First Officer aboard the USS Firefly had it not been for the K’Tani. She was a game kind of gal, too, from what he had read.
His thoughts turned to her tragic demise and snapped him back to the afternoon just passed, and his face turned stony and ashen thinking about the news he’d received and its potentially deadly ramifications. Christian looked at the Commodore’s oblivious smiling face as she joined the rest of the crowd in shouting words of support – or otherwise – at Lirik as they all waited for his reply. The Captain was only just getting used to her as his Exec, and he was surprised at how comfortable he felt with that. It would be sad if their relationship had to be cut short.
Christian glanced over at Lirik, wondering if this defeat at Struckchev’s hand would also be like a death knell for him. If that were the case, then the decision of who would become 2nd Officer would be moot.
He looked beyond, at O’Hara. She was a passionate but truly deep woman, he felt, and yet he barely knew her. Such fire and so many defences would take time and not a small amount of effort to break through – time that could now run out in an instant. She was too young to die, not to mention the foetus she now carried, but the ramifications of the overall situation were too great – she was a Starfleet Officer and he had his duty to perform. Her possible sacrifice and that of her unborn may be necessary, although it still disturbed him greatly. He would speak to her first, before the others, he decided, and immediately after this game finished.
Worse case scenario flooded his mind suddenly, and he felt cold and alone among the camaraderie. ‘Could I really afford to lose them all?’ he thought to himself, and turned ashen. The idea of life without the three of them – and the two others he had chosen – was almost unthinkable.
And yet the gravity of the perilous situation in the Outer Zone dowsed the flames of his doubt and compassion at once. He was Captain. He had to do what needed to be done.
Just then, the Captain locked eyes with Lirik across the game board – it was a mere glance, but in that nanosecond Christian thought he saw through Lirik’s outer shell for the first time.
Christian turned back to the Commodore, remembering well his training and telling himself he would do what he had to do because that was what being Captain was all about. No one could make the decision for him. That was the price, the burden, the honour and responsibility of command. Christian regarded Sarah-Louise Jackson not as a senior officer, not even as a mother or a widow, but first and foremost his XO. His number one. And because of that fact, she was also the person who had to go because he could not.
“I know the perfect bet,” Christian said. Her brown eyes melted his façade and caused him to smile back instinctively. “If Struckchev wins, I get to lead the next away mission. If he loses to Lirik, then you do.”
The Commodore shifted, chucking a fleshy hand on her hip. “You make it sound like I would actually be keen to lead an away mission.”
“Well,” Christian chuckled. “It’s either that or take the centre chair while I’m gone.”
Jackson thought for a moment. Since the Starfleet Aptitude Tests over a week ago, she’d learned that her forte was more for ground/field based operations than anything involving a warp core, plasma manifolds or any complicated navigational manoeuvres. Though she was now on a crash course of catch-up learning, and felt she had made great headway, all things considered, she felt far from ready. “Done,” she beamed, and shook hands.
Turning back to the game board, he watched as Lirik ran his hands through his thinning hair, glaring at Struckchev, drinking in all the many and various prompts and asides rippling through the crowd. The Englishman wasn’t surprised or even hurt by the occasional anti-Medusan sentiment and anti-English jibe, or even the large number who were choosing to rally around Struckchev. He instead listened for the supportive blurts, many from his own recently appointed staff; people, he told himself, he barely knew. Unconditional support – it was something he had long aspired to, and hadn’t thought for one minute he would find so well on into his life.
Lirik studied his padd again, looked up at his adversary and smiled – full and wide, brimming with confidence, showing his slightly crooked teeth. “I’d rather play on… if you don’t mind.”
The crowd murmured their mixture of surprise and lack thereof.
Struckchev tilted his head with glee. “Your funeral.”
“Resume play,” O’Hara instructed. As the end of the explosion continued, a slightly muted sound of the event emanated from the epicentre. Gradually the smoke faded, the noise of falling debris died out. Struckchev’s forces continued to fire relentless volleys at the decimated complex and the now hurriedly retreating rabble of soldiers. But as the sound of destruction dissipated, another noise grew slowly in intensity; a hum, not unlike the sound of a swarm of wasps.
Louder and louder the sound reverberated around the Suite – and it was coming from above. Everyone instinctively looked up, many with a look of apprehension. Suddenly, streaking through the cloud of the holographic sky just under the ceiling, wave after wave of alien fighters plunged into the air above the battlefield and levelled off above the game board, causing many in the crowd to duck instinctively, then laugh at their own foolishness. Struckchev watched dumbfounded as the orange and green hued bulbous ships corkscrewed their way down and targeted all his airborne and ground based vehicles, evaporating them in moments with several thousand daggers of white hot energy that streaked from their wing tips.
It was over in less than a minute.
The alien fleet circled momentarily before rearing and flying straight up, out of sight – though as a touch, a last vessel diverted, swooping close to Struckchev causing him to recoil, and went off spinning, teasingly, into the ether. The hologame echoed a synthetic fanfare and the images disappeared, plunging everyone but Lirik into darkness, he bathed in a golden pool of pulsating light that indicated the victor. O’Hara switched off the holoboard and re-activated normal lighting.
Everyone began applauding loudly, though Struckchev was seething. He boiled over quickly, shouting for everyone to be quiet. “Wait, wait, wait!” he bellowed, causing the gathered passengers and crew to quieten and witness his defeat in full.
“What’s the matter Commander?” Lirik asked goading him, trying hard not to smile too much.
“What the hell was that?” the Kosovan spat, thrusting a spade like hand toward the ceiling. “It was supposed to be just your forces against mine.”
“That’s right,” Lirik said. “But I realised within a few minutes of playing you that I couldn’t match your military expertise. So I played defensively and looked for an alternative solution. In the appendices of the rules, I found a small section on diplomacy. I realised that if I were able, I could make a treaty with a foreign nation in return for military support. So I focused my efforts on communicating with local star systems instead.
“For five hours?” Struckchev growled, flushed with rage.
“Yes,” Lirik replied calmly. “And it wasn’t easy, let me tell you. For a while I thought the game was designed to ultimately disallow such play, but I persevered. It was the only avenue I felt open to me. It took a lot of negotiation, but finally I managed to make a treaty with a not too distant race, and they told me they would take the equivalent of three days’ game play to get forces to my aid.” He revelled in the blank look on his fellow Commander’s face. “So all I had to do was hold out for that long.” He recalled his smashed HQ, just before his straggling forces began to celebrate their victory. “Honestly, I barely made it.”
“But that’s…that’s not fair!” Struckchev muttered pathetically, wishing he hadn’t said such words in front of the crew. “I mean, that’s not what this game is supposed to be all about!”
“Actually, it’s about winning,” Lirik said harshly, like an older sibling educating a younger innocent to the ways of the world. “And there are more ways to win a game of Tactical Jarokee than a simple tunnel vision approach.”
Struckchev turned to O’Hara, seeing her as his only saviour from this surprise result. “Can you verify this, Lieutenant?”
O’Hara was already on the case, but at this point gave up reading through the extensive rule books and instead posed the question to the computer. The response was magnanimous and the nurse opted to read the précis of the result that had auto-downloaded to her padd. “There is nothing in the rule book that says a competitor can’t seek allies off-world, just so long as it doesn’t involve unconditional surrender in return.”
“Which it did not,” Lirik interjected speedily. “Thank you.” He turned and bowed over-dramatically to the applauding crowd.
Struckchev stiffened and stormed off in a rage, barging through the first few people to leave and heading off to brood in private.
As the noise began to die down and the bulk of crowd shuffled toward the exits, Christian turned to Jackson. “Well,” he said, “looks like you’ll be leading the next away mission.”
Jackson looked pleased with herself and walked off with the dissipating group.
“Oh, Commodore,” Christian called after her. She turned. “Report to my office in the morning at 0800 hours,” he smiled. “You’re going on a little away mission.”
“I am?” she asked; then it dawned on her. “You knew you were going to send me before we made the bet!”
Christian smiled and pointed at her in a ‘gotcha’ gesture before swaggering after the group departing with Lieutenant O’Hara.
* * *
ACT 1