Things best not do on Starships
by Tremor3258
Author's note: Originally created for STO forum's Unofficial Literary Challenge #7 prompt 1: Things crew members were no longer allowed to do. Felt like something to throw three different captains at.
Things left behind…
Admiral Antonine Revka sat in the main crew cafeteria of her beautiful new ship, looking thoughtful. Around her, the crewman and junior officers continued through their mean, though they occasionally glanced at their reptilian captain as she examined the panel that had been set up. Charlie watch was going on-shift, and the scents of a hundred worlds' breakfasts wafted around her.
Conversation was muted – she was generally called captain on board by convention, and her command currently didn't extend beyond the Trafalgar, but her word to Starfleet Command could scuttle or send into warp any poor lieutenant's career. The crew didn't know her or her moods yet a scant few weeks into commission, and the whispers grated on her ears. The sound of the ship still wasn't 'normal' either – too quiet, besides the occasional haunted beeping of the Borg components.
Louder still was the Andorian silently stewing at the table next to her. Takerra had been on board during the Guardian-class outfitting while Antonine had been being stuffed with intelligence reports and diplomatic briefings in Paris and San Francisco. Commander Takerra's had two jobs on board, in her opinion. The first was making sure that the ship operated at a high peak of sustainable efficiency to be able to anticipate and support Admiral Revka's command style in the drill patterns set down by the Admiral. The other, and occasionally more obvious role, was blasting into particles anything from a knife-wielding thug to a Borg tactical cube that interfered with the former.
Both had thought they were running a ship that was working its way to a level of success far beyond what Starfleet considered acceptable. Antonine had even hoped it was steadily making its way towards a happy ship, even thousands of light years from home facing unknown dangers. She'd loved Constellation, and Antonine's old crew was determined to put it back together, even if would have a new command crew after the Emissary-class had been stuck on the brutal tip of the Undine spear during the invasion.
She'd been working towards loving the new ship, but without the picked core of before, she was wondering if she'd misjudged the situation or her new duty officers. Was there some tyrant of the lower deck? Some deck officer manipulating events for their advancement? It did happen occasionally, less often than whispered, but still.
For on the panel before them, reconfigured from one of the replicator displays on the wall outside the captain's private dining room, was a simple list. "Things Crew Members of the Trafalgar are no longer allowed to do:
1: Don't provoke the Borg.
2: Travelling the Dyson sphere is for science – no 'buzzing the spire'.
3: The Diplomatic Corps would appreciate if we stop offering to sell Klingon corpses to the Kobali.
4: Don't provoke the Borg.
5: The ship's weapons' bays are highly modular, but work together as a cohesive suite– please no longer offer to replace the beam arrays with 'thermocyronic radiation catapults with improved accuracy'. You are out of warnings.
6: The graviton generators are no longer allowed to be used in singularity mode near inhabited worlds.
7: Don't provoke the Borg.
8: Time Travel is a privilege, not a right. The ship will no longer used for meeting celebrities that have passed away."
Takerra had spotted it when coming down for their weekly status breakfast, and locked the panel until the admiral could investigate. A brief computer investigation showed no entries into the panel directly recently.
"I like seven, but I'm not sure about four," Antonine mused. Takerra stared at her CO, somewhat surprised. "I take it they want us to stop using the transwarp conduit assault for drills?" She asked.
Takerra shrugged, still appalled, "I suppose – I checked the computer but access logs to the panel have been wiped. I could check the security logs to trace it back but that'd almost have to end in court martial charges." She looked glum. It wasn't really a data breach – shipboard concerts were often advertised there. She looked at the list, "I don't think we've done anything like six?"
"Well, maybe astrophysics has been discus-" Antonine stopped, "Ah, astrophysics." She leaned back in her chair, looking smug. "She's after your job still," the admiral remarked.
"What?" the Andorian was feeling lost at this point, and looked around – she didn't see the ship's watch officer for the late shift around, a particularly promising Betazoid lieutenant Antonine had brought on board as a favor to Quinn to help fast-track her. She'd probably be past Antonine's friends and bridge crew – most of them hadn't had a chance to technically qualify command track for their positions so they hadn't had a chance to rise to their own ships yet.
"No, think higher rank and earlier – there's maybe twelve people on board from when that Voth cruiser at the wrong time cut Constellation's engines and we nearly hit that control spire on momentum," Antonine said, then leaned forward, thinking, then sighed. It'd been a rough minute, but Antonine knew her ship's EPS the way the Andorian knew her plasma banks, and they'd managed to force the impulse coils back into operation. Dramatic, but a minor note in a larger adventure. Takerra would come around and realize the culprit – she would still see this as an attack, but Antonine was considering repair.
"I don't think we have a choice, Commander – unlock the panel when I'm over there, and we'll have to leave it unlocked," she sighed. Ship traditions had started on less, probably. Takerra shrugged, watching closely. She'd had her chance to go get her own ship, but being practically flag captain was nearly as good. She could manage, but the ability to command could only be aped if it wasn't inherent, and what she wasn't granted naturally there was still more to learn here.
In view of dozens of crewman and low-ranking officer, Admiral Revka went over to the console, smiled, and tapped in an additional entry.
9: Environmental controls are maintained for crew efficiency, please no more wind tunnels on deck nine.
She could feel the crew leaning in to try and read the words, and Antonine suspected a minor stampede once her and her first officer left the room. Antonine motioned Takerra – it was probably politic to go breakfast elsewhere, and she tapped briefly on a PADD to ask a yeoman to deliver to the office off the flag communications suite, which wasn't used when they weren't shepherding frigates. The trick in question was always technically possible, but basically impossible in practice. True enough, she supposed.
Takerra folded her arms, sighing, and made a mental note to inform environmental to expect some odd requests as she followed, and the thought tickled some old comrades loose.
"So, was it our favorite Trill," The Andorian asked, shaking her head. Commander Dunwen, unjoined, and a science officer more or less plucked from Earth Spacedock when Antonine was a young upstart trying to pull a crew together. She'd been second officer more or less falling into the position, thanks to all the status reports that had to be delivered with the odd phenomena Starfleet kept sending them into.
She'd also been angling for command but had missing some qualifying exams, but was now flying the Luna-class Daystrom somewhere out here in Delta as well. And apparently been cultivating some cyber-warfare experts of some kind, though Takerra was sure her own crew would be able to backtrack from an astrometrics update package or the like.
It was perfectly harmless as pranks went, and Antonine hummed to herself a bit as she worked to the turbolift. She was expecting some amusing entries in the future. Takerra still looked a bit irritated. At a questioning eyeridge, the Andorian blurted as they entered the turbolift, "But how are we going to get her back?"
Things left undone….
D'ellian, of the Orion House of M'ara, a general of good standing, though somewhat less so in her house. Her loose 'understanding' with the House of Martok was her current voice in the Great Hall of the High Council. Her interests in shipping and smuggling were minimal and appropriately discrete for a commander in her standing, and she had shown enough care and discretion the KDF had granted her an effective independent command as a privateer.
These were all words well known to Thraak, poorly born to the Gorn warrior caste. D'ellian had offered him an opportunity to engage in the pursuit of knowledge, while still engaging in the bloodshed demanded of his birth. He had thought it had a been a hallucination, when deep in his cups and at loose ends following being paid off his last commission with few prospects, when the green apparition had listened sympathetically and offered a bridge slot. He'd said yes – it was wise to honor potential ancestor spirits, or potentially the waitress. He'd been there for several hours.
Then she had punched him away from the table, force-injected him with an alcohol antagonist kept at hand in the bar (one must always be ready for challenges) and beamed him to her Raptor until he had sobered. Then in the privacy of the sick bay, she'd asked again more seriously, and he'd sworn his service to her crew. It was almost tragically Klingon, the public violence followed by backroom deals. The operas would leave that out, and the desperate spreading of coin by a non-Klingon captain without strong patrons for an even reasonably competent science officer.
Now, he was technically between commissions – if only because their new ship was not ready. D'ellian had been serving as a 'jobbing captain' of one of the KDF's big carriers while its true shipmaster worked with his House leaders on rebuilding the High Council. Clearing Tholians pirates sniffing at Imperial possessions during the chaos had proved lucrative, and the General had been able to arrange a ship to her name whose previous master no longer required it from within Sto'vo'kor's gates.
The House of Martok had no issues with transferring one of their new Mogh to a non-Imperial Klingon, but the Houses, shorn of guidance, had made noises about a ship whose design had been so legendarily compromised by Starfleet Intelligence being transferred. She was, as such, visiting one of the offworld monasteries on a ritual purification tour.
Or that was the cover story. D'ellian had been unable to describe exactly what sort of mission she was operating on or for whom, one that she had travelled on with only ethnic Klingon members of her crew on a nondescript freighter. The only hint she'd given was to try and secure the nameplate Demonslayer for the ship.
This meant little in terms of target in these times with tortured souls scrabbling to break the Empire, fluid entities from beyond space twisted to mock and mimic good-hearted soldiers, and demons of air and darkness walked through walls of force and metal to strike at the Empire's heart, but Thraak supposed it was a hint. Or just a good name. His good captain may just be on a mandated interplanetary drinking tour.
He stood now above Q'onos, mighty homeworld of a warrior people, one whose honor was given and taken by acclimation, not by how many people were under them, or even what their birth was. Its ways were often still alien in terms of politics, and without guidance, he was loathe to navigate them. There was always duty, thankfully.
He tapped a panel, and it went from the default trefoil insignia of the Empire to a view of the massive and ever-growing shipyards above the Klingon homeworld. Another tap put the ship he would be serving on in the future, looking still ragged. The ship would not be truly complete until its own heart was active, relying on forcefields more than metal. But it would be done. Even if itss shape did remind him more of the Saurs his cousin raised as guard dogs than the sleek, marine look of most Klingon ships.
He growled slightly and unconsciously. For the first time, this was a ship that could be considered his captain's, a ship of her own forces seconded to the KDF in the matter of House vessels, instead of a ship belonging to the Council or a temporary posting.
He considered ranking across societies and nodded. She could be considered to have effectively reached Matron status in her own people's terms, even if she did not describe herself as such. Something was deserved for the effort. She had a crew of aliens whose first instinct was dominance, not from any weakness, but a physiological inability to hit all the glottal stops in tihIngan Hol. But she'd lived among them and risen to mastery on their terms, instead of turning their chains back on themselves, the easier path for her, but she'd risen through the path of military, the strength that lent the Klingons supremacy.
It deserved something, as any noble would on reaching ascension. Rulership spoke across all the Empire's cultures, it was the concept of warrior that bound all the unconquered races. It deserved to be spoken to. Empowered by the thought, he considered further.
Several hours later, he stirred – he had it. It would require some coin, some discussion with his mess and the other officers, and perhaps some sort of sword. To consider their previous deeds, if broadly. Yes.
General D'ellian returned towards Q'onos, still feeling unclean. It was a quirk of biology, but the Tholians simply felt wrong. Just from what she had been born to, carbon-based life had certain subconscious responses she'd been trained to react on since birth. It'd proven useful in swordsmanship to make up for the lack of brute strength compared to her peers, so she'd kept the practice even after that final argument at home.
But the Empire had lacked information on the current status of itself in the strange Mirror Universe, a quantum where passions seemed to burn even hotter and impulses laid closer to the surface, and yet remained eerily similar to their own. When the distress signal had been received from a Bird of Prey on the surface of a distant planet, lured through the Tholians still-mysterious subspace tunnels, a Bird of Prey that was on no record within the Great Hall, it had demanded investigation. One who was available, could operate without supervision, and one who was unlikely to meet themselves. The status of Orions was not clear in the other Universe, so she would either be unknown, or underestimated.
Personally, she suspected her people were maintaining the Terran Empire's equivalent of Memory Alpha, dedicated to restraint and their long history, or had else immolated themselves in pursuit of the ultimate pleasure.
Bringing only ethnic Klingons had been the oddest part of her orders, but ethnic Klingons were the only they'd be sure to serve on Mirror vessels if biometric locks had to be…. Confused. And mirror ships, were their subtly different configurations, were often in demand by captains seeking their own confusion. She was used to having more tools available across physiologies for her strike teams. Fortunately, it'd been a simple counterraid against Tholians, and she was looking forward to seeing the rest of her followers and forging her new crew.
The freighter was slow, though she was amused the quarters were more comfortable than the warrior caste allowed themselves on Klingon vessels. On 'pilgrimage', she did not have access to the military communication net, and while she had no doubt that the crew that had bled together would work hard towards outfitting their newest ship, there were certainly issues that would require her, either with a pointed word or a blunt bat'leth.
She grinned, but only inwardly. Sure, it looked like the Saurs Thraak's cousin raised, but it was hers, in ownership and captaincy. Its capabilities would be limited only by what they could win for themselves. It was more than she'd dared dream. Won by her own hand, rather than stolen out from under some other power. The complacency of M'ara had led to the final break.
At long last, the freighter entered transporter range of the shipyard complex, she and her crew beaming to the cradle holding their new ship. She narrowed her eyes. Thraak, long happy for a role she had given him he had trouble finding on his own, calm if not cold-blooded Thraak, and very dependable… was radiating satisfaction. She stopped and studied him. He did not appear intoxicated – which was an easy thing to mask in Gorns, admittedly.
"Commander Thraak? You figured out how to put those prototype weapons in the weapon bays?" she asked hopefully.
"Not a prototype weapon exactly, General. I have considered the situation with the oncoming crew and believe I have a way to deal with oncoming discipline problems." D'ellian studied her fingernails in an Orion show of unconcern. Thraak knew she was pleased, temporarily then, if she was affecting mannerisms. Discipline was always a concern for Klingons.
D'ellian stood in the lounge, Thraak still radiating some satisfaction, as her Klingon officers made some shocked noises. "I speak for the crew, lord captain," intoned Thraak, "But I carry your words, spoken and unspoken to them as well." He grinned, a faintly terrifying prospect, "But sometimes the tales should simply be boasts." It stood there, inscribed in stone at the back of the lounge, blood flecked – Klingon colored – enameling highlighting the words. Two (holographic) torches had been set up to give proper lighting.
"Things the crew of the Demonslayer are no longer permitted:"
"1: Bloodwine is not a direct substitute for Klingon medical supplies."
"2: Shore leave with Orions is no longer to be considered broadly."
"3: Nausicaans no longer to be offered latinum for intervening in private disputes. Blades are in the armory."
"4: Gorn are no longer to be used from other duties when hand tractors unavailable for quartermaster staff."
"5: Tactical operations should consider that physical victory over demons is not a metaphysical one."
"6: The captain baring her teeth is not to be considered an invitation."
There was, notably plenty of space left to add items. She folded her arms. They'd run into or across, all the situations at some point. Not pleasant memories. But instead, they were simply there, all the anger displayed where the whole crew would see it. War songs or mourning, it would be known and simply be, without having to fight it head on, it'd be known the officers were watching, and expected to watch.
It was an… odd gift, cross-culturally. She eyed Thraak. But it was a gift, certainly, and she could certainly use it. But then, this beyond what honor or duty required in all their societies – what do you get in return for a friend?
Things looking forward….
R.R.W. Ghost Shrike had no relation to Admiral An'riel seh'Virinat. This was important to remember. The Faeht, designed to utilize experimental technology beyond accepted safety limits, was one of the Republic's newest ships, and certainly fit well with the Admiral's mission to investigate the Delta Quadrant for traces of Iconian activity. And certainly she'd been asked to consult on the post-Imperial generation of Rihannsu ships, along with the rest of the Republic's top captains.
But the Ghost Shrike did not have any ties beyond those of its class. A determined operative would be able to find logistics and personnel reports that indicated the ship operated in similar sectors as An'riel's ship, the battleship Tempestuous Kestrel, and both had been refitted with fruits of the study of Tholian raiders. That was all true. A mere round of drinks with the right dockhand would note the ships had shared dock space, but the Ha'pax was so large a Faeht could easily slip under its broad nacelle pylon, nestled in its wings, so that was fairly sensible if they were being refitted with similar equipment. And it was sensible technology for searching out subspace anomalies with for either ship in the wild and rough Delta Quadrant. Even Starfleet with all its science admitted the Tholians were as skilled with subspace and its fractals as the Rihannsu with gravity.
A skilled and determined operative would be able to dig up twice-encrypted shipyard reports that had mapped and tuned the Shrike's weapons' energy emissions to match the larger battleship's as precisely as possible. That would indeed be suspicious, since the Admiral was very publicly on a Navy mission to chart the surrounding area for Undine, not operating for Republic Intelligence. Certainly, the Kestrel, often after the fact, was reported to have stumbled across and short-circuited operations that were allowing the Alliance to rapidly gain Influence, and the sensor logs proved it being there.
Of course, a well-placed traitor at the heart of Mol'rihan would have access to the Shrike's mission logs and make the whole thing academic. An'riel reflected on this as she sat on the Ghost Shrike's narrow bridge, glaring at the engineering repeater. She missed the Great Owl, of course, especially after so much effort into her own refit, but the Sphere needed the Owl's sensor capabilities with the main Alliance fleet, and the Ghost Shrike's sensor suite and drone compliment certainly satisfied her urge for situational awareness. And the interaction of new technologies was fascinating, even if her engineering background wasn't sufficient to understand them all. She knew enough to be frightened, though.
The technology was all a mission to fight in the shadows could ask for. The load out was, to borrow a loanword from her liaison, bananas. (A strange word that rolled off the tongue more musically than most Federation Standard. What a monoculture fruit had to do with things being crazy she was unsure of. She suspected the Trill's sensor of humor was manifesting tragically late in life and she was being had).
The ship's weaponry and support systems were designed to accept near-future damage for very short-term gain, or used weapons or techniques so exotic that they weren't cleared for general fleet use. Its support systems and cargo space for cruising and range were nearly non-existent, and it was the only Republic vessel she'd ever seen that required hot-bunking. It had almost no central coordination of repair or emergency equipment. Like much of Intelligence, it was designed to be support carefully for a long time for a very brief and busy period of activity. Fighting in it felt like being on the razor edge. It was certainly a stiletto designed for a master fencer, hence her as 'fighting captain' at least and nominally in charge of its administration.
The crew were pure Intelligence in background though, and that brought back uncomfortable memories of other ships. They were perfectly polite, if not downright obsequious. The crew spoke in low whispers to her, seeing only Hakeev's slayer, and never the long healing periods and damage from her work to undermine the Tal Shiar. Their ship training had been secondary, though they were all technically Navy. D'tan wasn't going to make the mistake of giving a top secret intelligence apparatus weapons of war without some check.
She was happy to help them out in the role of temporary captain. She had the tactical understanding to use all that crazed weaponry, and she had a few tricks with support systems that couldn't be directed out of a singular console that o. And her experience meant she had the right strategic view to support the ship's missions and develop training regimens. But she was happily a visitor on the ghostly ship, and spent most of her time on the Kestrel.
She glanced at the viewscreen, showing the massive Advanced Warbird streaming on, its skin highlighted by the tetryon and tachyon emissions of its Tholian deflector grid. It was still slow at impulse despite all their efforts, but all the supplies of the Shrike could be hidden aboard. Its massive warp field helped mask the small ship nicely as well, and saved them the expense of cramming quantum slipstream inducers on an overloaded hull. And, the Kestrel had cheerfully stumbled across several incidents, besides the pre-planned maneuvers to be at two places at once.
That was the whole point, after all. The true enemy still remained hidden despite their efforts. Every effort of confusion and underestimating their presence here was needed. And a ship the size of the Kestrel could make the long trip home if needed, so they were covering a bet of the loss of a ship with another bet.
She was confident the scheme would work out. She guessed, since it made no sense to officially know, that Jarok had some similar schemes on that monstrosity of hers to keep attention off other assets. She was damn sure it wasn't the only Borg half-breed the Republic had sent this deep into the quadrant, but the flagship was too vital to not keep tracked, and it was becoming clear even with the gates, the Iconian resources were not limitless.
Still, she'd be happy to head back after this latest mission to confuse time on target. They'd be breaking off soon. Tovan would have the Kestrel keep a Talaxian trading outpost intact from a Vaadwaur time-on-target attack they'd uncovered. It was vital, but straightforward, they'd gotten a good read on what the Vaadwaur were able to accomplish were their boosted technology. Fortunately, their tactics had not yet caught up with their capabilities.
And while the Talaxians (Nice people, loquacious generally, but as the survivors of an absolutely ruined military empire, she understood their new cultural desire to please. It was certainly a more healthy direction to go than the Vaadwaur had, but she'd seen both reactions far too closely in her own fallen empire) were being saved and being allowed to continue their own subtle but vital force towards unifying the Quadrant, the Shrike would be shattering the supply depot the strike was from at the same time.
The recriminations in Vaadwaur command alone would probably slow expansion in the sector. The scramble to set up a new base would give more time to find the real heart of their power. Such did the Rihannsu uncover and destroy their enemies.
All was understandable, and An'riel knew her younger self would be very disappointed in herself right now. Here she was, an unthinkable distance from home, working with ancient enemies in a ship of wonders and technology undreamed of, and she was reminding herself again and again that, by public word, she was not here and this ship was not hers. It helped, to think of it as not hers. She would never understand Intelligence, clearly, as they'd obviously found the list in the warbird's tiny cube of a galley amusing:
"Things the R.R.W. Ghost Shrike's crew is no longer allowed to do:
1: Propose ways to reverse engineer Borg technology. Working with nanoprobes never ends well. They are lively and they don't like us. Stop asking.
2: Elaborate holo-simulations faking time delay and amnesia to gain the trust of enemy combatants always forget some detail. They are short-term use only.
3: It is not all a Tal Shiar plot.
4: It also isn't all a Starfleet plot.
5: Or an Iconian plot.
6: We don't know why Starfleet is scared of dragons, but stop making their captains twitch by saying the word 'Drake'.
7: Remember, just because our enemies of a year ago are our friends doesn't mean they will be our enemies again. Stop spying on our neighbors.
8: At least, stop spying so badly.
"
And so, it was easier to face the enemy and the threat of destruction, because they didn't worry her quite as much as those at her back.