DISCLAIMER: Star Trek and all its various components are owned in full by Paramount.
CLAIMER: The ship was my design. Xia is my design... mostly. About half the senior staff is mine.
DISCLAIMER: The actual crew of the ship was thunk up by Kenn Sprinkle. However, not without *MY* help.
I would like to thank Katy Opatz for letting me bounce ideas (and other things) off of her.
Dishonorable Heroes
Part One
Brian Burke
The_
"Damn..."
Somewhere in space is a small shuttle. It floats through space on a specific course with no particular urgency. Its engines are only using about half their potential. The ash colored vessel has about the significance of a tire rolling off someone's truck. It rolls, but nobody seems to care.
"Worth it though!"
Inside the space-faring equivalent to a canoe is a single man. He wears a uniform of mostly black with grey shoulders and red shirt peeking out of his collar. Ordinarily, an enlisted man would have small pins in their collar. He does not. Ordinarily, an enlisted man would have a badge on his chest. He does not.
He grins as he thinks about what got him into this predicament. He has his boots up on the colored console, but it won't do anything. A static message reminds him endlessly that the controls are locked. He could hit every button on the counter, but not a one would work. There is a timer on the console that counts down from currently about four years.
His name is Brogan. I don't remember his first name, so I doubt anyone else will. The shuttle he is on is actually a flying prison cell. The controls have been locked to keep him on a predetermined course during his 'sentance.' The replicator has been set to only give out a ration twice a day at a specific time. The door to the cargo area has been locked. He has a weapon onboard, but it's locked up as well. The only condition that will open it is if the ship has been boarded. Brogan suspects that last part to be a lie-he'll probably die first.
If that were true, his flying 'prison' would be a flying 'coffin.' Which is actually preferred depends on the perspective.
He has been leaving many things about this to suspicion. The course being unalterable is rather solid. The weapon will likely never be used-or perhaps the battery has been drained completely. The controls have been thoroughly tested and known to be locked.
The timer? That's a big suspect. Considering how he got into this, he doubts that he'll be released in four years.
His cargo? He can't touch it so he wonders about what (if anything) is inside.
"She sure was cute though..."
6 weeks ago...
On a fine day, on a fine Starfleet Academy... Brogan found a cute cadet.
Things happened, and Brogan found himself in her quarters.
More things happened, and Brogan got caught with his pants down. Literally.
What the cute cadet forgot to mention was that her grandfather is an Admiral in Starfleet. He found him with his granddaughter and unleashed Hell.
And now...
The Admiral easily dropped his ass into a shuttle. This shuttle is preprogrammed to fly between two stations. No deviations. Automation will unload and reload the shuttle. He cannot exit for any reason.
~What if I gotta piss?~
The Admiral gave an evil sneer and promptly tossed him a bucket.
Until...
Brogan was sleeping in his seat with his feet planted up on the console. He was no doubt dreaming about the cute cadet again. Or one of a few other cute cadets.
Or maybe booze.
Or brawling.
To be honest, Brogan starts with one and ends up with all three at one point or another.
"Damn Admiral..." he grumbles. "Not a drop of liquor on this tin boat."
His snoozing is violently interupted when the entire 'tin boat' rocks enough to toss him out of his seat. The bucket lands on his hand with a THUD. "So glad I held it in..."
The boozing bastard stands up and looks out the window. As the ship corrects its course back to its destination, he sees what he flew into. "Shouldn't the system avoid stuff like this? Well... whatever."
The object is in fact a starship that his own 'tin boat' could dock inside of. Should the course ever take it that way...
"Damn..." he sighs. "They're fucked." The comment could actually be a compliment. The ship, a Nebula Class ship, has been blackened in many areas of the hull. A warp nacelle has been removed. Several chunks of the hull have been blasted off. The bridge is nothing but a smudge. Several fires burn and leave lines of smoke.
Over the past couple years, an outside force collectively known as the Dominion have been warring with the Federation and its tenuous allies. Everyone in the Alpha Quadrant is in danger from these monsters. They hail from the Gamma Quadrant which would normally takes hundreds of years to reach. But, a wormhole has given them expedient passage.
The wormhole has been guarded on this end for several years. But, as the Dominion grew stronger, the sentinel could no longer hold them back. Deep Space Nine and its crew were at the center of this resistance.
This ship is a Nebula Class. It is not meant for extended combat. It is designed for exploration and science. And the damage done to this one in particular should not be a surprise. "USS Cambridge," Brogan mutters. "Bad day for you..."
Days later, the shuttle's computer has landed itself at one of the two stations. Brogan, however, couldn't care less. He cannot greet the people that work here. He cannot help unload the cargo. He can't pop out for a sandwich.
He just sits with his feet up.
"My punishment is to be bored to death. Literally. I ain't shittin' you."
Regardless of whether anything was loaded, unloaded, or sprayed on the side of the shuttle, it takes off once more. "Oh yay. We're leaving."
Whether the station workers (if any) waved with one finger or five, the ship carries its 'cargo' and prisoner away from the complex.
As the little thing returns to the first station, Brogan notices something. "Flying crappile. Oh, the poor crew." He watches in somewhat amusement as the Nebula Class 'crappile' limps through space with all the speed of an earthworm.
Attention Shuttlecraft! We cannot maneuver away from you. You have to divert your course!
"Attention Shitpile! My controls are locked. I can't do anything!"
Well, I guess we have no alternative. We are taking you into our shuttlebay. We can shut down your shuttle from there.
Somehow, the shuttle has stopped inside the shuttlebay as planned. For the first time in weeks, Brogan leaves the cockpit of the shuttle. "Alright..." he groans. "To whom do I owe my freedom?"
A few officers have come to greet him. All of them are dirty and mildly bruised. "This is the USS Cambridge. Pleased to have you aboard."
Brogan grins just a bit. "Something is wrong with this picture." But, soon, his eyes grow wide with horrible thoughts. "THE Cambridge? Good lord! I was better off in the frickin' shuttle! Where's that phaser? I'm just going to do myself a favor..."
"What's your name?"
"Brogan."
"Brogan? First or last name?"
"Does it really matter?"
"No. I guess not. If you have nothing better to do, our ship could use a little tidying up."
"What's YOUR name?" Brogan asks.
"Mel Carstairs. Captain of this scrappile."
"Heh. You think it's scrap too?"
"Starfleet does. It's been decomissioned. Once we arrive at the junkyard, a ship will pick up the crew."
"You have to fly it there yourself?"
"Starfleet is spread a little thin because of the war. We should feel lucky we have any ride at all."
"Just fucking kill me now..." But he sighs and tries to not think about it. "Tell me you have booze."
-End One