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One of the folks on my flist asked to see some of my Star Trek fic. Actually, they asked to get e-mailed it, but since I totally can't find their old e-mail, I'm posting it here instead.
Some background: this fic is an AU of an AU. The setting is based off the Hidden Frontier fanfilms, up until the end of the first series. Prior to the beginnings of Helena Chronicles and Odyssey. You don't really need to know anything about the three series to read this story, but thought I'd share anyway. Anywho, here's the first in my trekfic series, Open Space. The usual legal disclaimers apply.
STAR TREK: OPEN SPACE
“Arrival”
Captain Theodore Rasamin considered the sight before him with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Deep Space Twelve hung against the black velvet of space, above the planet Ba’ku. At first glance it did not seem to be any different from any other Federation deep space station, but appearances were deceiving. Deep Space Twelve’s past had made it something of a legend in the quadrant. It, and its personnel, had played a pivotal role in ending the Breen-Tholian War and transforming the Briar Patch itself.
And now it’s home, thought Rasamin. For however long it lasts.
The thought was tinged with bitterness. In the aftermath of the Breen-Tholian War, the Federation’s citizens had grown restless with their chosen leaders and Starfleet itself. There was a call to halt expansion into the unknown, to consolidate their hold on existing territories. Political power was shifting on dozens of worlds as Federation citizens embraced more conservative mindsets.
Idiots, thought Rasamin. They’re advocating entropy.
A soft chuckle to his left drew Rasamin out of his thoughts. His first officer, Commander Irriel, was trying not to grin and failing miserably.
“You caught that, eh, commander?”
The handsome Deltan offered an amused grin. “Unintentionally, captain. Your feelings were quite . . . strong. My apologies.”
Rasamin waved his hand. “Not necessary, commander. I should be the one apologizing to you for subjecting you to my mental noise.”
“If it’s any consolation, captain,” Irriel murmured, leaning closer to Rasamin, ‘your opinion is hardly unique among the crew.”
“It isn’t, but I appreciate the effort, commander.” Rasamin shifted in his chair and addressed the Ops Officer. “Tano, hail the station.”
Time to meet our new lords and masters, thought Rasamin wryly.
Next to him, Irriel chuckled anew.
* * * * *
“Ops to Captain Fallon.”
Andrea Fallon’s eyes slid open and she exhaled. “Fallon here.”
“Captain, the Franklin has arrived. Captain Rasamin is requesting a meeting with you and Admiral Movic.”
“Did you route the call to the Admiral’s office, Packston?”
“Yes, ma’am. The admiral would like you and Captain Rasamin to meet with him at 1700 hours.”
“Understood. Make sure Captain Rasamin gets the message and confirm with the Admiral’s office that I’ll be there. Fallon out.”
Shifting her position, Andrea grinned down at her lifepartner. “Thanks for keeping quiet just then.”
Savona laughed and ran a slender finger over Fallon’s ribs. “It took a great deal of effort.”
“Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”
Savona grinned. “But now you have to go and get ready for your meeting.”
“Not right this minute,” said Fallon. “I’ve got some time.”
Savona’s grin widened.
* * * * *
“Come for your jabs, commander?”
Doctor Balez looked up from the padd she was holding, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.
Irriel laughed and put on his best wounded victim pose. “Alas, yes, or the crew will succumb to lust and anarchy.”
The Benzite physician gave Irriel an amused look. “This crew? Too late for that, commander.”
She waved him to a biobed and began to prepare the hypospray. Irriel, like all mature Deltans, produced incredibly powerful pheremones, and, like all Deltans serving with non-Deltans, was required to undergo medical treatment to nullify their effect. Twice a week he reported to Sick Bay to receive the injection that regulated his hormonal production.
Doctor Balez turned back to the commander, a hypospray in one hand. She pressed it to Irriel’s neck, injecting him with the medication. The Deltan shivered at the contact.
“All right?” Balez asked.
Irriel shivered again. “Yes.” He flashed her a wan smile. “Just the usual.”
“If you’d like, we could try the chemical baths again,” suggested Balez. “There are some new mixtures . . . ”
The commander cut her off with a shake of his head. “I’d rather deal with the injections than walk around smelling like a batch of Kaferian lemons gone bad.”
Balez’s tiny eyes crinkled with amusement. “Lie back, please.” She patted the biobed. “I need to do a scan.”
Irriel complied, his fingers laced together over his abdomen, waiting while Balez fiddled with the biobed scanners. “Do you think there are any Deltans on DS12, commander?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought, doctor,” admitted Irriel. “But I don’t think so.”
“Hmm.”
“Is there something wrong?”
Balez was eyeing the biobed readouts, radiating a mixture of concern and irritation. “Your stress levels are elevated.”
“We’re starting a new mission, doctor. That’s hardly surprising.”
“True, but yours have been elevated for some time, commander.” She switched off the biobed and peered down at Irriel. Behind her respirator, Balez’s eyes were full of concern. “And I’ve been brushing up on my Deltan physiology.”
He sat up, eyeing the Benzite woman with some concern. “Doctor . . . ”
“Commander, you need to have sex.”
Irriel arched his eyebrows. “Is that a medical opinion?”
“Yes,” said Balez. “It is. Your pheremonal production has increased by twelve percent, commander. The intensity of the emissions has increased as well. A few days from now the inhibitors won’t be effective and neither will the chemical baths.”
“That could be awkward,” admitted Irriel.
Balez’s tone became grim. “Don’t make light of this, commander. If your body doesn’t get the proper stimulus, your endocrine system will keep increasing the potency of the pheremones. It will have a negative impact on your health. Elevated stress is just the beginning.”
The commander frowned. “Worst case scenario, doctor?”
“Glandular cancer,” said Balez.
Irriel’s frown deepened. “I’ll check with DS12 and see if there are any Deltans aboard.”
“If there aren’t,” said the doctor, ‘I’d suggest you consider . . . alternatives.”
The commander slid off the biobed. “You aren’t suggesting I become involved with a non-Deltan, doctor.”
“No,” said Balez, hastily. “I’m well aware of Starfleet regs regarding your species, commander. I was thinking more along the lines of one of Commander Ondan’s personal holodeck programs.” Her cheeks darkened from blue to navy. “You know the ones I’m talking about.”
“I’ll . . . consider it, doctor.”
“Do,” said the doctor. “Or I’ll have to place you on medical leave. And the last thing I want to do is explain the reason why to Captain Rasamin.”
* * * * *
Rasamin made his way through the corridors of Deep Space 12. The layout of the station was typical, except for the lack of an internal habitat. Built around Ba’ku, Starfleet Command had seen no point in one and so the space had been assigned to other purposes, mainly science and engineering facilities. From what Rasamin had heard, just making his way to the Admiral’s office, most of the station personnel sought their recreation down on Ba’ku. The planet was apparently very popular. Rasamin was curious himself about the planet and it’s people, and looked forward to the chance to travel to the surface.
Later, he reminded himself. Business before pleasure.
Admiral Movic’s office was a suite of rooms painted in neutral tones of gray and blue. The civilian receptionist waved Rasamin at a seating area and offered him tea.
“Admiral Movic is running late,” she warned. “It may be a few moments before he can see you, captain.”
“Business as usual, eh June?”
Rasamin turned to examine the speaker. The newcomer was a human woman wearing a red Starfleet uniform. A captain’s pips gleamed at her collar. She was slim and fair, with cornflower blue eyes and dark blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. The sharpness of her features was softened somewhat by her grin.
“More of the same, captain,” said the receptionist. She glanced at the sealed door to the admiral’s office. “He should be free in a few moments.”
The captain nodded and turned to Rasamin. She extended a hand. “Captain Rasamin, I presume?”
Her grip was dry and firm. Rasamin found himself immediately liking the woman. “You have me at a disadvantage, captain.”
“Andrea Fallon, station commander. Welcome to DS12, captain.”
“Thank you, captain. But I was under the impression Admiral Knapp was in command of the station.”
Fallon shook her head. “Not anymore, sir. Admiral Knapp was reassigned to the Federation mission on Cardassia.”
“Really?”
“At his request,” said Fallon. “After Admiral Nechayev was recalled to Starfleet Command.”
“It sounds as if there have been a lot of changes here since the war ended.”
“Over fifty percent of the station personnel have been rotated out over the last eight months. The last time Captain Shelby was here, she said she almost didn’t recognize the place.”
Rasamin chuckled. “I’m surprised Shelby is still here. I thought she would have been gunning for an Admiral’s seat by now.”
Fallon opened her mouth, as if about to comment, but then seemed to think twice. Before Rasamin could say anything else, the door to the admiral’s office slid open and a Tellarite in Starfleet blues stomped out. He glanced at Rasamin, grunted at Fallon and was gone.
Fallon sighed. “Well, I guess we know how his meeting went.”
Rasamin chuckled.
“Captain Rasamin, Captain Fallon, the admiral will see you now,” the receptionist informed them.
* * * * *
Admiral Movic was a Vulcan and his office reflected his race’s austere tastes. The room was little more than a dull, gray box. There was a simple desk and chairs, but nothing to suggest anything of the admiral’s personality or interests. A large window offered a view of starships parked in close orbit to the station, but otherwise there was nothing to distract one’s attention.
Movic himself was tall and thin. His hair was graying and worn in the practical bowl-cut that most Vulcan’s seemed to favor. The admiral’s features were long and, for a Vulcan, somewhat bony. His skin was more sallow than green, giving the admiral a sickly countenance by human standards.
He nodded to Fallon and Rasamin, indicating the chairs arranged before his desk.
“Welcome to Deep Space 12, Captain Rasamin,” said Movic. His voice was deep and flat, betraying no emotion and little intonation.
“Thank you, admiral.” Rasamin inclined his head.
“You have met Captain Fallon, so we shall proceed to business.” Movic steepeled his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. His dark eyes rested on Rasamin’s. “How familiar are you with this sector, captain?”
“I’ve read the general reports, sir,” said Rasamin. “But I lack any detailed knowledge of it.”
“That is not surprising, captain, as previous conditions prevented any detailed exploration. Since the destruction of the Gray Dyson Sphere and the dissolution of the metreon gas, exploration of the sector has been given a high priority by Starfleet Command.”
Rasamin was frowning slightly. “Given the recent shift in politics and policies, admiral, I find that surprising. Why the emphasis on exploring this sector?”
“Despite the shift in the political landscape, captain, Starfleet remains committed to its mission of exploration. That, and the possible presence of other Gray artefacts within this sector, are partially responsible for our continued interest.”
“And the other reasons?” Asked Rasamin.
“Politics,” said Fallon. She glanced at the admiral, who nodded his approval, before continuing. “We aren’t the only ones interested in acquiring Grey technology, captain. The Breen and Tholians are still active within the Patch, and there have been reports that the Cardassians and So’na are sniffing around as well. Everyone is looking for a piece of the action.”
“I’m surprised the Romulans haven’t shown up,” said Rasamin.
“Give them time, captain,” said Fallon, grimly. “If they weren’t distracted by their own internal squabbles and concerns over the Archein, they would be involved as well.”
“There is a high probability that the Romulans are investigating the sector,” said Admiral Movic. “Surreptitiously.”
“Which brings us to you, captain,” said Fallon.
Rasamin glanced at the commander. “Me?”
“The Franklin,” said Admiral Movic. “You will be joining the vessels charting the sector.”
“Is there a specific reason for that, admiral?”
“Yes,” said Movic. “Starfleet and the Federation Council feel that this sector needs more stability. We feel that you and your crew can help accomplish that.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Rasamin. I think, he added mentally.
The admiral rose, indicating the meeting was done. “Captain Fallon will coordinate your field operations with the rest of the fleet. If you require assistance with anything, do not hesitate to ask for it.”
* * * * *
“That meeting went better than I had anticipated,” said Fallon.
She had invited Rasamin for a coffee on the station promenade and he had accepted. Fallon had guided him to a small café and the two officers were now seated in a booth at the back. Fallon was sipping Vulcan tea while Rasamin had opted for a large breve.
“Oh?” Asked Rasamin.
Fallon nodded and fixed Rasamin with a speculative gaze. “May I speak freely, captain?”
“Please,” said Rasamin.
“Do you want to know the real reason the Franklin was assigned to the Patch?”
“You mean it isn’t our glowing reputation?” Asked Rasumin, wryly.
“That’s a big part of it, but not all of it,” said Fallon. She shifted a little, glancing around the interior of the café. It was largely empty at this time of day, and Rasamin noted that they were the only Starfleet personnel present.
“It’s because of the cowboys,” said Fallon.
Rasamin blinked. “The what?”
“Cowboys,” said Fallon. “This place is full of cowboy starship officers. Or it was.” She sighed and took a sip of her tea. “You said you had read the general reports?”
“Some, when I had the time.”
“If I were you, I’d go back and read them again. Only this time, pay attention to what’s between the official lines.”
“Tell me.”
“A lot of the officers here came up through the war,” said Fallon, quietly. “Don’t get me wrong. Most of them are good people, but, to be frank, a lot of them are undisciplined. They were promoted during a time of crisis and they did well during the crisis. But afterwards . . . ”
“There were problems?” Asked Rasamin.
“It’s one thing to ignore regs during an emergency, if it saves lives,” said Fallon, bluntly. “But too many of them continued to do so after things calmed down. The ends don’t always justify the means, captain.”
“That’s why the personnel changes,” said Rasamin.
Fallon nodded. “Exactly. Starting at the top.”
“Admiral Nechayev?”
The captain nodded and lowered her voice even further. “The C-in-C himself bounced her back to Earth.”
“Why?” Asked Rasamin. “She held the sector against the Breen and the Tholians.”
“And ran it like her personal fiefdom,” said Fallon. “Or, at least, that was Command’s impression.”
“That’s why she’s back on Earth?”
Fallon nodded. “Back in Starfleet Intelligence.”
“And Admiral Knapp?”
“Oh, he did request the reassignment to Cardassia. His daughter is studying there. But there were extenuating circumstances. You know his daughter was kidnaped during the war?”
Rasamin nodded. “Yes.”
“Knapp left the station to hunt for her personally.”
Rasamin was incredulous. “And Command took exception to that?”
“They took exception to him leaving his post during a time of war. Admiral Nechayev used her influence to shield him, but Command wasn’t pleased. There were rumors of a possible court martial, or at the least, a disciplinary hearing, but nothing came of them.”
“You seem very well informed, captain,” murmured Rasamin. He sipped his breve, lukewarm now, but still sweet.
The blonde woman shrugged and fiddled with her tea cup. “A lot of this is second-hand, from people I know back in Command. The C-in-C is putting the house in order. A lot of careers are being affected and a lot of people aren’t happy about it.”
“Can you blame them?” Asked Rasamin.
“No,” admitted Fallon. “And I’m sympathetic to a lot of them, but I also think Command is taking the right steps.” She straightened and looked Rasamin in the eye. “Starfleet officers should remember that they are Starfleet officers and act accordingly.”
Rasamin nodded, slowly. “I agree. But is there a reason you’re telling me all of this, captain?”
“There’s been some bad feeling here on the station. A kind of us verses them attitude between the personnel assigned here during the war and the newcomers. I wanted you to be aware of that and the reasons why, just in case you encounter any problems.”
“Have you?” Asked Theo.
Fallon shrugged. “Some. Usually after a shift. On duty, everyone’s pretty professional. I don’t really expect it to be a problem for you, since you’ll be out in the sector, but . . .”
“If I run into one of the other ships and the captain gives me the cold shoulder, I’ll know why.”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate the heads up.”
Fallon sighed. “I just want everyone to get along.”
* * * * *
“What happened, Eram?”
Lt. Commander Jaras Ondan glowered at the Franklin’s Chief Engineer. Eram Cin was standing behind a detention field in the station brig, nursing an impressive black eye. The Betazoid engineer sighed and looked down.
“It was just a little . . . disagreement, Jaras,” said the Betazoid. “I take full responsibility for what happened.”
Ondan snorted and crossed his arms. “Yes, you will. I’ve seen the security tapes from the bar. The station security chief showed them to me.”
Cin’s cheeks colored. “Oh.”
Ondan took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Is that all you have to say, Commander?”
“Are we being official now, Jaras?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” The chief engineer straightened and met his Tactical Officer’s dark purple gaze. “I’m sorry things got out of hand with those Nausicans, but they started it.”
“And?” Prompted Jaras.
A crooked grin spread across Cin’s face. “I don’t think they’ll be picking fights with Starfleet officers any time soon.”
Ondan scowled and shook his head. “You do know that Captain Rasamin is going to hear about this, don’t you, Eram?”
For the first time a look of unease flashed across the Betazoid’s face. “Yes, about that. I don’t suppose you could put in a good word for me, could you, Jaras?”
“You were the ranking officer present, Eram. You should have put an end to the fight without getting dragged into it yourself. The captain is going to point that out to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And,” continued Ondan, “he’s also going to remind you that this isn’t the first time you’ve been involved in an altercation with Nausicans.”
“Er. You think he’ll remember that?”
Ondan glowered at the engineer. “Don’t be stupid, Eram. Of course he’ll remember it.”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.” Ondan turned to the guard standing at a control terminal, listening to the exchange with some bemusement. “Lower the field, please.”
The forcefield field snapped off with a crackle and Ondan stepped into the detention cell. “But I do know what I’m going to do, Eram.”
A look of alarm flashed across Eram Cin’s face, just before Ondan reached up and grabbed him by the ear. Cin let out a little squeak of surprise, and then Ondan was pulling him out of the detention cell by his earlobe.
“If you’re going to act like a brat,” said Ondan, “then I’m going to treat you like one.”
“Ow! Jaras, leggo!”
“Hush,” snapped Ondan. Smiling mercilessly he pulled Cin out of the detention area, past a smirking security guard. “Or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap too.”
Wincing, knowing that Ondan wasn’t kidding, Eram Cin reluctantly let himself be steered out of the brig and into the station corridors. He was painfully aware of the amusement of the people they passed and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. By the time they reached the Franklin’s umbilicus, Eram Cin was ready to face Captain Rasamin. He was fairly certain that nothing the captain did could be worse than being pulled through a busy space station by his ear, while being verbally chided by Ondan as if he were a naughty boy caught stealing sweets.
In the end, he was quite wrong about that.
* * * * *
Rasamin released a heavy sigh as the door to his quarters sealed behind him. He could feel the tension draining away as he stepped into the room.
The meeting with Movic had gone as expected, but his private conversation with Andrea Fallon had been surprising. Rasamin considered following her advice and reviewing the recent general reports regarding the sector, but quickly pushed the thought aside. Tomorrow, he and Fallon would determine the Franklin’s course into the patch. He knew that, although their primary mission would be exploratory, they would also be handling other duties. If there were hostile forces still at work within the sector, as the admiral and Fallon believed, it was likely the Franklin would be seeing combat. And there was the matter of Federation colonists flooding the sector, as well. Rasamin had never known a colony to be established smoothly. Trying to decipher the hidden motivations of Starfleet Command from field reports could wait.
For a moment, Rasamin felt a flash of nostalgia for the dull routine of sector patrol. But only for a moment. Beyond his viewport, Ba’ku and its ring system glistened. A bulky transport ship drifted across the view, followed by the sleek silver hull of a Federation starship. Unfamiliar stars glowed against the black. Soon enough, the Franklin would be among them.
For better or for worse, thought Rasamin.
An inexplicable chill suddenly raced up and down his spine. Shivering, Rasamin turned away from the viewport, toward his bedroom. He had a feeling that soon he would need all the sleep he could get.
Some background: this fic is an AU of an AU. The setting is based off the Hidden Frontier fanfilms, up until the end of the first series. Prior to the beginnings of Helena Chronicles and Odyssey. You don't really need to know anything about the three series to read this story, but thought I'd share anyway. Anywho, here's the first in my trekfic series, Open Space. The usual legal disclaimers apply.
STAR TREK: OPEN SPACE
“Arrival”
Captain Theodore Rasamin considered the sight before him with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Deep Space Twelve hung against the black velvet of space, above the planet Ba’ku. At first glance it did not seem to be any different from any other Federation deep space station, but appearances were deceiving. Deep Space Twelve’s past had made it something of a legend in the quadrant. It, and its personnel, had played a pivotal role in ending the Breen-Tholian War and transforming the Briar Patch itself.
And now it’s home, thought Rasamin. For however long it lasts.
The thought was tinged with bitterness. In the aftermath of the Breen-Tholian War, the Federation’s citizens had grown restless with their chosen leaders and Starfleet itself. There was a call to halt expansion into the unknown, to consolidate their hold on existing territories. Political power was shifting on dozens of worlds as Federation citizens embraced more conservative mindsets.
Idiots, thought Rasamin. They’re advocating entropy.
A soft chuckle to his left drew Rasamin out of his thoughts. His first officer, Commander Irriel, was trying not to grin and failing miserably.
“You caught that, eh, commander?”
The handsome Deltan offered an amused grin. “Unintentionally, captain. Your feelings were quite . . . strong. My apologies.”
Rasamin waved his hand. “Not necessary, commander. I should be the one apologizing to you for subjecting you to my mental noise.”
“If it’s any consolation, captain,” Irriel murmured, leaning closer to Rasamin, ‘your opinion is hardly unique among the crew.”
“It isn’t, but I appreciate the effort, commander.” Rasamin shifted in his chair and addressed the Ops Officer. “Tano, hail the station.”
Time to meet our new lords and masters, thought Rasamin wryly.
Next to him, Irriel chuckled anew.
* * * * *
“Ops to Captain Fallon.”
Andrea Fallon’s eyes slid open and she exhaled. “Fallon here.”
“Captain, the Franklin has arrived. Captain Rasamin is requesting a meeting with you and Admiral Movic.”
“Did you route the call to the Admiral’s office, Packston?”
“Yes, ma’am. The admiral would like you and Captain Rasamin to meet with him at 1700 hours.”
“Understood. Make sure Captain Rasamin gets the message and confirm with the Admiral’s office that I’ll be there. Fallon out.”
Shifting her position, Andrea grinned down at her lifepartner. “Thanks for keeping quiet just then.”
Savona laughed and ran a slender finger over Fallon’s ribs. “It took a great deal of effort.”
“Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.”
Savona grinned. “But now you have to go and get ready for your meeting.”
“Not right this minute,” said Fallon. “I’ve got some time.”
Savona’s grin widened.
* * * * *
“Come for your jabs, commander?”
Doctor Balez looked up from the padd she was holding, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.
Irriel laughed and put on his best wounded victim pose. “Alas, yes, or the crew will succumb to lust and anarchy.”
The Benzite physician gave Irriel an amused look. “This crew? Too late for that, commander.”
She waved him to a biobed and began to prepare the hypospray. Irriel, like all mature Deltans, produced incredibly powerful pheremones, and, like all Deltans serving with non-Deltans, was required to undergo medical treatment to nullify their effect. Twice a week he reported to Sick Bay to receive the injection that regulated his hormonal production.
Doctor Balez turned back to the commander, a hypospray in one hand. She pressed it to Irriel’s neck, injecting him with the medication. The Deltan shivered at the contact.
“All right?” Balez asked.
Irriel shivered again. “Yes.” He flashed her a wan smile. “Just the usual.”
“If you’d like, we could try the chemical baths again,” suggested Balez. “There are some new mixtures . . . ”
The commander cut her off with a shake of his head. “I’d rather deal with the injections than walk around smelling like a batch of Kaferian lemons gone bad.”
Balez’s tiny eyes crinkled with amusement. “Lie back, please.” She patted the biobed. “I need to do a scan.”
Irriel complied, his fingers laced together over his abdomen, waiting while Balez fiddled with the biobed scanners. “Do you think there are any Deltans on DS12, commander?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought, doctor,” admitted Irriel. “But I don’t think so.”
“Hmm.”
“Is there something wrong?”
Balez was eyeing the biobed readouts, radiating a mixture of concern and irritation. “Your stress levels are elevated.”
“We’re starting a new mission, doctor. That’s hardly surprising.”
“True, but yours have been elevated for some time, commander.” She switched off the biobed and peered down at Irriel. Behind her respirator, Balez’s eyes were full of concern. “And I’ve been brushing up on my Deltan physiology.”
He sat up, eyeing the Benzite woman with some concern. “Doctor . . . ”
“Commander, you need to have sex.”
Irriel arched his eyebrows. “Is that a medical opinion?”
“Yes,” said Balez. “It is. Your pheremonal production has increased by twelve percent, commander. The intensity of the emissions has increased as well. A few days from now the inhibitors won’t be effective and neither will the chemical baths.”
“That could be awkward,” admitted Irriel.
Balez’s tone became grim. “Don’t make light of this, commander. If your body doesn’t get the proper stimulus, your endocrine system will keep increasing the potency of the pheremones. It will have a negative impact on your health. Elevated stress is just the beginning.”
The commander frowned. “Worst case scenario, doctor?”
“Glandular cancer,” said Balez.
Irriel’s frown deepened. “I’ll check with DS12 and see if there are any Deltans aboard.”
“If there aren’t,” said the doctor, ‘I’d suggest you consider . . . alternatives.”
The commander slid off the biobed. “You aren’t suggesting I become involved with a non-Deltan, doctor.”
“No,” said Balez, hastily. “I’m well aware of Starfleet regs regarding your species, commander. I was thinking more along the lines of one of Commander Ondan’s personal holodeck programs.” Her cheeks darkened from blue to navy. “You know the ones I’m talking about.”
“I’ll . . . consider it, doctor.”
“Do,” said the doctor. “Or I’ll have to place you on medical leave. And the last thing I want to do is explain the reason why to Captain Rasamin.”
* * * * *
Rasamin made his way through the corridors of Deep Space 12. The layout of the station was typical, except for the lack of an internal habitat. Built around Ba’ku, Starfleet Command had seen no point in one and so the space had been assigned to other purposes, mainly science and engineering facilities. From what Rasamin had heard, just making his way to the Admiral’s office, most of the station personnel sought their recreation down on Ba’ku. The planet was apparently very popular. Rasamin was curious himself about the planet and it’s people, and looked forward to the chance to travel to the surface.
Later, he reminded himself. Business before pleasure.
Admiral Movic’s office was a suite of rooms painted in neutral tones of gray and blue. The civilian receptionist waved Rasamin at a seating area and offered him tea.
“Admiral Movic is running late,” she warned. “It may be a few moments before he can see you, captain.”
“Business as usual, eh June?”
Rasamin turned to examine the speaker. The newcomer was a human woman wearing a red Starfleet uniform. A captain’s pips gleamed at her collar. She was slim and fair, with cornflower blue eyes and dark blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. The sharpness of her features was softened somewhat by her grin.
“More of the same, captain,” said the receptionist. She glanced at the sealed door to the admiral’s office. “He should be free in a few moments.”
The captain nodded and turned to Rasamin. She extended a hand. “Captain Rasamin, I presume?”
Her grip was dry and firm. Rasamin found himself immediately liking the woman. “You have me at a disadvantage, captain.”
“Andrea Fallon, station commander. Welcome to DS12, captain.”
“Thank you, captain. But I was under the impression Admiral Knapp was in command of the station.”
Fallon shook her head. “Not anymore, sir. Admiral Knapp was reassigned to the Federation mission on Cardassia.”
“Really?”
“At his request,” said Fallon. “After Admiral Nechayev was recalled to Starfleet Command.”
“It sounds as if there have been a lot of changes here since the war ended.”
“Over fifty percent of the station personnel have been rotated out over the last eight months. The last time Captain Shelby was here, she said she almost didn’t recognize the place.”
Rasamin chuckled. “I’m surprised Shelby is still here. I thought she would have been gunning for an Admiral’s seat by now.”
Fallon opened her mouth, as if about to comment, but then seemed to think twice. Before Rasamin could say anything else, the door to the admiral’s office slid open and a Tellarite in Starfleet blues stomped out. He glanced at Rasamin, grunted at Fallon and was gone.
Fallon sighed. “Well, I guess we know how his meeting went.”
Rasamin chuckled.
“Captain Rasamin, Captain Fallon, the admiral will see you now,” the receptionist informed them.
* * * * *
Admiral Movic was a Vulcan and his office reflected his race’s austere tastes. The room was little more than a dull, gray box. There was a simple desk and chairs, but nothing to suggest anything of the admiral’s personality or interests. A large window offered a view of starships parked in close orbit to the station, but otherwise there was nothing to distract one’s attention.
Movic himself was tall and thin. His hair was graying and worn in the practical bowl-cut that most Vulcan’s seemed to favor. The admiral’s features were long and, for a Vulcan, somewhat bony. His skin was more sallow than green, giving the admiral a sickly countenance by human standards.
He nodded to Fallon and Rasamin, indicating the chairs arranged before his desk.
“Welcome to Deep Space 12, Captain Rasamin,” said Movic. His voice was deep and flat, betraying no emotion and little intonation.
“Thank you, admiral.” Rasamin inclined his head.
“You have met Captain Fallon, so we shall proceed to business.” Movic steepeled his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. His dark eyes rested on Rasamin’s. “How familiar are you with this sector, captain?”
“I’ve read the general reports, sir,” said Rasamin. “But I lack any detailed knowledge of it.”
“That is not surprising, captain, as previous conditions prevented any detailed exploration. Since the destruction of the Gray Dyson Sphere and the dissolution of the metreon gas, exploration of the sector has been given a high priority by Starfleet Command.”
Rasamin was frowning slightly. “Given the recent shift in politics and policies, admiral, I find that surprising. Why the emphasis on exploring this sector?”
“Despite the shift in the political landscape, captain, Starfleet remains committed to its mission of exploration. That, and the possible presence of other Gray artefacts within this sector, are partially responsible for our continued interest.”
“And the other reasons?” Asked Rasamin.
“Politics,” said Fallon. She glanced at the admiral, who nodded his approval, before continuing. “We aren’t the only ones interested in acquiring Grey technology, captain. The Breen and Tholians are still active within the Patch, and there have been reports that the Cardassians and So’na are sniffing around as well. Everyone is looking for a piece of the action.”
“I’m surprised the Romulans haven’t shown up,” said Rasamin.
“Give them time, captain,” said Fallon, grimly. “If they weren’t distracted by their own internal squabbles and concerns over the Archein, they would be involved as well.”
“There is a high probability that the Romulans are investigating the sector,” said Admiral Movic. “Surreptitiously.”
“Which brings us to you, captain,” said Fallon.
Rasamin glanced at the commander. “Me?”
“The Franklin,” said Admiral Movic. “You will be joining the vessels charting the sector.”
“Is there a specific reason for that, admiral?”
“Yes,” said Movic. “Starfleet and the Federation Council feel that this sector needs more stability. We feel that you and your crew can help accomplish that.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Rasamin. I think, he added mentally.
The admiral rose, indicating the meeting was done. “Captain Fallon will coordinate your field operations with the rest of the fleet. If you require assistance with anything, do not hesitate to ask for it.”
* * * * *
“That meeting went better than I had anticipated,” said Fallon.
She had invited Rasamin for a coffee on the station promenade and he had accepted. Fallon had guided him to a small café and the two officers were now seated in a booth at the back. Fallon was sipping Vulcan tea while Rasamin had opted for a large breve.
“Oh?” Asked Rasamin.
Fallon nodded and fixed Rasamin with a speculative gaze. “May I speak freely, captain?”
“Please,” said Rasamin.
“Do you want to know the real reason the Franklin was assigned to the Patch?”
“You mean it isn’t our glowing reputation?” Asked Rasumin, wryly.
“That’s a big part of it, but not all of it,” said Fallon. She shifted a little, glancing around the interior of the café. It was largely empty at this time of day, and Rasamin noted that they were the only Starfleet personnel present.
“It’s because of the cowboys,” said Fallon.
Rasamin blinked. “The what?”
“Cowboys,” said Fallon. “This place is full of cowboy starship officers. Or it was.” She sighed and took a sip of her tea. “You said you had read the general reports?”
“Some, when I had the time.”
“If I were you, I’d go back and read them again. Only this time, pay attention to what’s between the official lines.”
“Tell me.”
“A lot of the officers here came up through the war,” said Fallon, quietly. “Don’t get me wrong. Most of them are good people, but, to be frank, a lot of them are undisciplined. They were promoted during a time of crisis and they did well during the crisis. But afterwards . . . ”
“There were problems?” Asked Rasamin.
“It’s one thing to ignore regs during an emergency, if it saves lives,” said Fallon, bluntly. “But too many of them continued to do so after things calmed down. The ends don’t always justify the means, captain.”
“That’s why the personnel changes,” said Rasamin.
Fallon nodded. “Exactly. Starting at the top.”
“Admiral Nechayev?”
The captain nodded and lowered her voice even further. “The C-in-C himself bounced her back to Earth.”
“Why?” Asked Rasamin. “She held the sector against the Breen and the Tholians.”
“And ran it like her personal fiefdom,” said Fallon. “Or, at least, that was Command’s impression.”
“That’s why she’s back on Earth?”
Fallon nodded. “Back in Starfleet Intelligence.”
“And Admiral Knapp?”
“Oh, he did request the reassignment to Cardassia. His daughter is studying there. But there were extenuating circumstances. You know his daughter was kidnaped during the war?”
Rasamin nodded. “Yes.”
“Knapp left the station to hunt for her personally.”
Rasamin was incredulous. “And Command took exception to that?”
“They took exception to him leaving his post during a time of war. Admiral Nechayev used her influence to shield him, but Command wasn’t pleased. There were rumors of a possible court martial, or at the least, a disciplinary hearing, but nothing came of them.”
“You seem very well informed, captain,” murmured Rasamin. He sipped his breve, lukewarm now, but still sweet.
The blonde woman shrugged and fiddled with her tea cup. “A lot of this is second-hand, from people I know back in Command. The C-in-C is putting the house in order. A lot of careers are being affected and a lot of people aren’t happy about it.”
“Can you blame them?” Asked Rasamin.
“No,” admitted Fallon. “And I’m sympathetic to a lot of them, but I also think Command is taking the right steps.” She straightened and looked Rasamin in the eye. “Starfleet officers should remember that they are Starfleet officers and act accordingly.”
Rasamin nodded, slowly. “I agree. But is there a reason you’re telling me all of this, captain?”
“There’s been some bad feeling here on the station. A kind of us verses them attitude between the personnel assigned here during the war and the newcomers. I wanted you to be aware of that and the reasons why, just in case you encounter any problems.”
“Have you?” Asked Theo.
Fallon shrugged. “Some. Usually after a shift. On duty, everyone’s pretty professional. I don’t really expect it to be a problem for you, since you’ll be out in the sector, but . . .”
“If I run into one of the other ships and the captain gives me the cold shoulder, I’ll know why.”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate the heads up.”
Fallon sighed. “I just want everyone to get along.”
* * * * *
“What happened, Eram?”
Lt. Commander Jaras Ondan glowered at the Franklin’s Chief Engineer. Eram Cin was standing behind a detention field in the station brig, nursing an impressive black eye. The Betazoid engineer sighed and looked down.
“It was just a little . . . disagreement, Jaras,” said the Betazoid. “I take full responsibility for what happened.”
Ondan snorted and crossed his arms. “Yes, you will. I’ve seen the security tapes from the bar. The station security chief showed them to me.”
Cin’s cheeks colored. “Oh.”
Ondan took a deep breath and counted to ten. “Is that all you have to say, Commander?”
“Are we being official now, Jaras?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” The chief engineer straightened and met his Tactical Officer’s dark purple gaze. “I’m sorry things got out of hand with those Nausicans, but they started it.”
“And?” Prompted Jaras.
A crooked grin spread across Cin’s face. “I don’t think they’ll be picking fights with Starfleet officers any time soon.”
Ondan scowled and shook his head. “You do know that Captain Rasamin is going to hear about this, don’t you, Eram?”
For the first time a look of unease flashed across the Betazoid’s face. “Yes, about that. I don’t suppose you could put in a good word for me, could you, Jaras?”
“You were the ranking officer present, Eram. You should have put an end to the fight without getting dragged into it yourself. The captain is going to point that out to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And,” continued Ondan, “he’s also going to remind you that this isn’t the first time you’ve been involved in an altercation with Nausicans.”
“Er. You think he’ll remember that?”
Ondan glowered at the engineer. “Don’t be stupid, Eram. Of course he’ll remember it.”
“What do you think he’ll do?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.” Ondan turned to the guard standing at a control terminal, listening to the exchange with some bemusement. “Lower the field, please.”
The forcefield field snapped off with a crackle and Ondan stepped into the detention cell. “But I do know what I’m going to do, Eram.”
A look of alarm flashed across Eram Cin’s face, just before Ondan reached up and grabbed him by the ear. Cin let out a little squeak of surprise, and then Ondan was pulling him out of the detention cell by his earlobe.
“If you’re going to act like a brat,” said Ondan, “then I’m going to treat you like one.”
“Ow! Jaras, leggo!”
“Hush,” snapped Ondan. Smiling mercilessly he pulled Cin out of the detention area, past a smirking security guard. “Or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap too.”
Wincing, knowing that Ondan wasn’t kidding, Eram Cin reluctantly let himself be steered out of the brig and into the station corridors. He was painfully aware of the amusement of the people they passed and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. By the time they reached the Franklin’s umbilicus, Eram Cin was ready to face Captain Rasamin. He was fairly certain that nothing the captain did could be worse than being pulled through a busy space station by his ear, while being verbally chided by Ondan as if he were a naughty boy caught stealing sweets.
In the end, he was quite wrong about that.
* * * * *
Rasamin released a heavy sigh as the door to his quarters sealed behind him. He could feel the tension draining away as he stepped into the room.
The meeting with Movic had gone as expected, but his private conversation with Andrea Fallon had been surprising. Rasamin considered following her advice and reviewing the recent general reports regarding the sector, but quickly pushed the thought aside. Tomorrow, he and Fallon would determine the Franklin’s course into the patch. He knew that, although their primary mission would be exploratory, they would also be handling other duties. If there were hostile forces still at work within the sector, as the admiral and Fallon believed, it was likely the Franklin would be seeing combat. And there was the matter of Federation colonists flooding the sector, as well. Rasamin had never known a colony to be established smoothly. Trying to decipher the hidden motivations of Starfleet Command from field reports could wait.
For a moment, Rasamin felt a flash of nostalgia for the dull routine of sector patrol. But only for a moment. Beyond his viewport, Ba’ku and its ring system glistened. A bulky transport ship drifted across the view, followed by the sleek silver hull of a Federation starship. Unfamiliar stars glowed against the black. Soon enough, the Franklin would be among them.
For better or for worse, thought Rasamin.
An inexplicable chill suddenly raced up and down his spine. Shivering, Rasamin turned away from the viewport, toward his bedroom. He had a feeling that soon he would need all the sleep he could get.
