Chapter Four

"I cannot begin to thank you enough, Admiral," Matt said as he limped over to Josiah Parker's table in the private dining hall of Star Fleet Command. "Bad morale? Crew are just out of sort? Hah! That ship is a disaster, and it is the crew from Hell. Sir."

Parker's fork stopped half-way to his mouth, and he sighed and he sat the steaming bite-sized morsel of a tender piece of fillet down back down on his china plate. "You do know this lounge is for Flag Officers and their invited guests only, correct, Captain Dahlgren?"

"Yes, sir. Commodore Jurood was kind enough to put me on the list as his guest for today, after I discovered you were in here having dinner."

Josiah patted his lips with the napkin and placed it on the plate. "Ok, ok, Matt. Take a seat."

Dahlgren sat. "What aren't you telling me, Sir?"

"Damn it, Matt. You are certainly the same balls-to-the-walls, damn-the-torpedoes officer you were before Kearsage went down. If only Edward were here to see what his protégée had become, God rest his soul."

"Admiral Jellico was a good officer, Josiah," Matt whispered. "And don't forget, you served under him Republic a long time ago as well."

The Admiral nodded glumly. "Why the hell did you think I wanted you in command of her, Matt? One of us has to carry on in his place, and I can't do it—not after getting this job I am in now."

"Look. You know how ill-prepared Star Fleet was before Wolf 359 gave the politicians and bureaucrats a kick in the ass. And you how long it took Jellico and Shelby and Shran and the rest to get the reforms out to the Fleet. Well, there was a general feeling at Headquarters that the best way to get the Fleet up to par was to remove the delinquent elements: to put them somewhere that they couldn't screw up getting ready for the Borg."

"I don't how she was chosen—it was before my time as Chief of Star Fleet Operations, Matt—but Republic was one of the ships that our problem children got sent to. And she was given milk runs where there was little chance of her running into a crisis of any sort. She wasn't the only ship in that state, but hell, she was the only ship you and I ever served on."

"The goal was to slowly get rid of the bad apples, but events moved too fast. And the officers who were given command of these ships weren't the best—because we needed the best on the front lines. And over time, the bad got worse, even as the rest of the Fleet got better. That is when Star Fleet Command dropped any pretense at reform and used these ships as a purgatory to send officers and crewmen who screwed up by the numbers."

"We ran into the Dominion, and their Founders replaced Chancellor Martok and the Changeling convinced the Klingons to invade the Federation. We were at war, Matt. And Star Fleet Command didn't have time for a ship full of misfits. Or a dozen ships full of misfits, as long as they didn't interfere with the war effort."

"Thankfully, we managed to stop the Klingons and recover the real Martok—but then the Dominion invaded in force—a fact that you know all too well. Well, the war is over now, and I got promoted and have to deal with the aftermath and try to pick up all pieces and make Star Fleet whole again."

"Yes, I learned about Republic shortly after I become Chief. And, yes, I sent Linda Bates out there to try and get them back up to standards—but then she was killed. By a damn civilian shield generator that overloaded, for god's sake! And that imbecile Harrison nearly started a war with the Gorn. Matt, I've got two choices here: either we rehabilitate that crew or we discharge them. And if we discharge them, I don't have enough personnel to send her back to space—we would have to mothball Republic. And the other ten ships out there like her."

"So what I need to know, Captain Dahlgren, is this: can you turn Republic around or not?"

Matt sighed and he sat back. "You do like throwing an old friend off the deep end, don't you?"

The two men just sat there for a few minutes, and then Matt slowly nodded. "It won't be pretty."

Josiah snorted. "You mean like she is now?"

"I'll need a free hand—and if I determine that a crewman can't be salvaged, he's gone."

"Done."

"I'll need sixty blank personnel transfer orders, signed and authorized by your office."

"SIXTY?" the Admiral thundered, causing other flag officers and guests to turn around and stare at the table.

Matt smiled. "Once we leave Spacedock, Admiral, if I find someone I need in my crew aboard a Starbase, an outpost, or another Starship, I don't want to have to check back in with your office to obtain the authorization to transfer them aboard. And if it is a nonspecific transfer order—authorizing me to grab excess crew or officers—do you think any commanding officer is going to give me their best? They'll hand me their worst—and you know they will. I want blank transfers, signed and authorized, that I can fill in at need."

The Chief of Star Fleet Operations leaned back in his seat, and then he picked up his glass of wine and took a long swallow. "Done. Anything else?"

"There is one last issue, Admiral. The ship needs a challenge—milk runs are too routine and boring to capture the imagination of the officers and men. She needs to be pushed to her limits so that the crew can remember why they joined the Star Fleet in the first place."

"Is she ready for that?"

"No. But, if you keep putting her in safe areas, you are only reinforcing the crew's beliefs about how Star Fleet considers them. They will become even more convinced that they aren't really Star Fleet and that the rules don't apply to them."

"I don't need another incident like Omicron Cygnii II, Matt."

"You won't have one. I promise you that, at least."

"Talk about sink or swim, Matt. Good god, man—you just said the crew isn't ready for this!"

"It all boils down to this, Admiral: do you trust me to keep the ship together and build up that crew into something Star Fleet can be proud of, or not. Republic needs this—the crew needs this. I don't think they believe me when I say we are going back out to the frontiers."

"Ok," Josiah said. "I'll back your play, Matt. But I hope you know what the Hell you are doing."

So do I, Matt thought, so do I.

************************************************** *******

"I'm still showing a fault in the focus software," Chris Roberts said as he frowned at the display. "We need to do a full diagnostic of the system; this shouldn't be happening."

The ensign looked up from his station after he realized that none of his personnel had replied. "Ah, fellows? Let's get cracking on this."

Slowly, the crewmen began to bend back down over their consoles and pull up the schematics—they still didn't answer him, but Roberts just swallowed. This was his first assignment out of the Academy—maybe these Fleet types more about how ships operated in the field than he did. He didn't push them.

Suddenly, his screen blanked, and then came back on—and the fault was gone. "What just happened?" he asked.

"I fixed the fault for you, Mister Roberts," drawled one of the crewmen, who leaned his chair back and closed his eyes again. "You have a problem with that?"

Chris frowned. There hadn't been time for the diagnostic to run its routine . . . he sucked in his breath. "Channing, you cut out the primary circuits! This is the secondary system."

"Yeah. Look, Mister Roberts, our shift ends in five minutes. If we run the diagnostics, then we have to stick around and fix the problem. I've had it up to here with working in my off-duty hours, so there is no way in hell I'm going to volunteer for more."

"It's our job to fix the fault!" pleaded Roberts.

"Look, the secondary is on-line, the deflector is at 100%, and if it goes bad, well that is why we have a tertiary system. Next watch will fix the fault and we'll all be happy."

Roberts gaped, and he started to speak again when the ship's intercom suddenly came to life.

"Ensign Roberts, report to the Operations Office. Ensign Roberts, report to the Operations Office."

Channing winced. "Why that gimp captain can't use com badges like every other person in Star Fleet is beyond me. That damn thing has been going off all day."

The young man looked pained at this description of their captain, but the crewmen assigned to Deflector Control with him only laughed.

"Best you get a move on, there, Mister Roberts," drawled Channing. "Momma Biddle won't like having to wait on a snot-nosed kid taking too long."

Confused about what he should do, Roberts shook his head and he exited the compartment.

"How long do you think this shit will continue, Pete?" another crewman asked Channing.

"Until the gimp wises up and learns that Star Fleet ain't gonna use us for jack. There's no sense in doing more than we absolutely have to—he'll get tired and either retire or lose it like Harrison did. Either way, no skin off of my nose."

Channing and the others sat upright as they heard a dull THUD coming from the base of the ladder up to the deflector dish actuator systems a deck above.

"Is that so?" asked a man that Channing that instantly recognized, causing him to sit up quickly.

"Hi, COB," he called out to Chief Callaghan. "We were just finish . . ."

"I know what you were doing, Channing. And I don't care for it."

"Look, Chief," Channing began.

"Senior Chief!" interjected Callaghan, Republics Chief of the Boat, her senior non-commissioned officer.

"Whatever. We've got a routine—and we ain't gonna disrupt it because the new captain has got his panties in a wad."

Callaghan smiled grimly. "Clear the compartment—everyone but Channing. And you stay your asses in the corridor outside until I call you back in."

One by one, the crewmen stood and left, leaving only Callaghan and Channing. "Crewman, I don't like your attitude," Callaghan said.

"Well, you'll get over it, won't you?"

"You're a real hard-case. A certified bad-ass spacer, am I right?"

"Yeah. And I don't think Roberts or you want a piece of me."

Callaghan shook his head. "Channing, you are too dumb. You are far too dumb to be standing there and saying things like that—why, it could be interpreted that you just threatened two superior officers. Things like that get you tossed in the brig."

"I've done brig time before—no big deal."

"Yes, you have. I checked your record, you see. And I am sure that you are thinking about how Star Fleet won't ship you off to a real starship, because no one wants you in their crew. You're thinking about how a transfer to a ground base just means you have more chances to pick up a willing sophont in a bar. You're thinking that neither this ship nor this captain can do a damn thing to you that would make you regret your words and your actions."

"Yeah. So what?"

Callaghan slammed his fist into Channing's belly and the crewman doubled over, his gasp for breath suddenly ending as Callaghan's knee smashed into nose. The crewman fell over and lay on the deck plates, bleeding.

"Ya bas'tad!" he squealed. "Ya cat do tat! Regs say ya cat do tat!"

"Screw the regs, Channing," Callaghan said as he hauled the crewman to his feet and buried his fist into the younger man's ribs. "You threatened me!" Punch. "You threatened Mister Roberts!" Punch. "You called the Captain a gimp!" PUNCH.

The Chief stepped back and released Channing's uniform—the rating fell to the deck again and didn't try to get up.

"Let me tell you something, Pete Channing. I served with Captain Dahlgren and I know exactly how he got that injury to his leg. He got it saving lives, you moron, including my own. So, no, Pete; you aren't going to the brig—you aren't getting a transfer off this ship. No sweetheart, you're ass is mine and you belong to me for the duration of your career. Or you can resign from Star Fleet; you've only got three months left on your enlistment. Hell, I would endorse that request."

Callaghan stood straight and tapped his comm badge. "Sick Bay. Medical emergency in Deflector Control."

"En route," answered a voice on the far end of the link.

"You see, Pete," Callaghan whispered as he knelt beside the battered crewman on the deck. "There are all sorts of regulations about how bad it is for someone to strike a superior officer—but there ain't one about a superior officer striking a subordinate. Now, you could press charges against me for conduct unbecoming or for criminal assault. And I could press charges against you for dereliction of duty as to your shutting down the primary array. Either way, I will get a slap on the wrist—or do you think the XO, our Andorian XO, is going to toss me into a brig cell for slapping a piece of shit like you around?"

"The times, they are a-changing, Pete. And you better adapt real fast or you're gonna find yourself extinct. Real soon."

DING.

Matt didn't look up as his chime on his door sounded. "Come!" he barked.

The doors slid open and he heard footsteps, but he continued to frown at the computer screen, changing a few words in his latest readiness report to Admiral Parker, and then he saved the data and closed the unit. He raised his head and saw Ship's Counselor Trincullo standing in front of his desk.

"Take a seat, Counselor. I see that you did manage to locate your uniforms. Commander Shrak said that you requested to speak with me."

The woman sat. "Thank you for seeing me, Sir. I have been trying to do so for the past three days."

"In case you haven't noticed, Counselor, I have had precious little free time since we boarded ship. What's on your mind?"

"Sir, I think there has been an error in my assignment during alerts. I have been informed that I am assigned to Sick Bay under Doctor Talbot."

"Go on."

"Captain, I think it would be obvious. Tradition requires that the Ship's Counselor be stationed on the bridge to provide advice to the commanding officer. But I have been posted elsewhere. Thankfully, we are in still in Spacedock, since this antique vessel lacks a seat for me as well."

Matt leaned back and he frowned at the ship's counselor. "Doctor Andrea Trincullo. Age 34. Graduated Star Fleet Academy with a degree in Psychology, attended Star Fleet Medical where you received a medical doctorate in both Psychology and Psychiatry. Excellent grades in both institutions. You would have graduated top in your class at the Academy except for your poor marksmanship—it took you five attempts to pass basic phaser training. However, you do have a 3rd-degree black belt in Aikido. And you graduated third from Starfleet Medical."

Andrea's eyes went wide; he wasn't reading the data from a screen—the Captain had memorized it! But Matt pressed on, "Four postings to starships over the past ten years as a junior counselor for which you received a consistent string of Excellent ratings from your supervisors and commanding officers. Six months ago you received an invitation to attend Command School; instead you accepted a posting at Star Fleet Academy where you taught Intro to Psychology until Admiral Parker shanghaied you aboard Republic. Did I miss anything, Counselor?"

Andrea blinked! "How . . ."

"Did I know all of that? Doctor Trincullo, I have three hundred and eighty-one officers and crew assigned to my command. I have thoroughly gone over their records. Did I miss anything, Counselor?" Matt asked a second time.

"No, Sir."

"I wondered, since you marched in here and seem determined to be stationed on my bridge. Counselor, there are two types of officers and ratings assigned bridge duty: those officers and ratings who jobs require them to be on the bridge and those officers who are able to assume command. I mention this because I noticed that you have not attended Command School. You had the opportunity, but you refused, preferring instead to teach at the Academy."

"Captain, those requirements have been waived in the past . . ."

"Not aboard this ship, Counselor. You want a station on my bridge you have to be trained and ready to pick up the pieces if everything falls apart around you. You must be prepared to immediately step into my place or Commander Shrak's place and assume command of this vessel, with three hundred and eighty lives being just one of your many responsibilities. You are not so trained and I doubt that you have the command mentality."

"Sir, I resent that!"

"Resent it all you want, Counselor; I was not referring to your intelligence and capability—I was referring to your attitude. Here is a hypothetical: you are on the bridge, I am dead, Commander Shrak and Lt. Commander Biddle are undergoing emergency surgery in sick-bay. Luckily, Republic destroyed the last of her attackers before you assumed command. Engineering reports heavy casualties and Commander Malik is gravely wounded; Lieutenant Bowen has assumed command of the engineering spaces. The warp core has been damaged and is only moments away from breach—but Bowen tells you that the core can be shut down. However, to do so will require a member of this crew to enter a compartment flooded with radiation, effectively committing suicide in order to save everyone else. You have fifteen seconds, Counselor—what are your orders?"

Trincullo blinked.

"Twelve seconds."

"Eject the core!" she shouted.

"Ejection mechanisms damaged and off-line. I'll still give you twelve seconds."

"Abandon ship."

"Congratulations, Counselor. Everyone is now dead. The life pods can't get far enough away in twelve seconds, even if they launched the instant you gave that order—which they won't."

"That is not a fair simulation, Captain . . ."

"On the contrary, Counselor, it is the type of decision that someone, somewhere in Star Fleet has had to make. It is a decision to deliberately sacrifice one or more members of the crew so that the rest of the ship's company and the ship herself survive. It is a decision that anyone sitting on that bridge, who pulls a watch in my chair, who wants the privileges of command has to be able to make in an instant. Matt shook his head. "No, Counselor. Your job is to keep this crew on an even keel while I command my ship. If you decide one day to opt for Command School, perhaps I will have a different answer, but for now your station will remain in Medical, assisting Doctor Talbot."

The woman squirmed in her seat, and Matt sighed. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, sir. You are pushing the crew too hard. They aren't machines, and the stress you are putting them under is too much."

"Counselor, stress—believe it or not—is good. Stress and resistance is how we build our muscles, develop our bodies. And mentally, stress forces a being to focus, to learn to concentrate even when he might be distracted, to pay attention to his duties. The crew are all more resilient than you think—and the ones that are not? They don't belong here."

"Captain, some of them are on the verge of breaking. And not just crew—but you are pushing the NCOs and officers equally hard. Eighteen red alert drills in the past seventy-two hours? No one on this ship has had more than four hours of sleep each night—including you. All of the recreation facilities are shut down—the Holodecks require a command level override to activate. They are not used to this level of pressure. And, I have seen someone down in sickbay being treated for injuries. I think someone snapped and resorted to violence due to your stress test."

"Crewman Channing. Yes, I am aware of the situation."

"This could well be a sign that you are pushing them too far, Sir. Those types of injuries do not occur in a vacuum—they were deliberately inflicted!"

"Counselor, the rot on this ship is like gangrene: it has to be cut out, as painful as that may sound. As to Channing, I am aware of the situation and have been fully informed of the circumstances surrounding his beating. It will not happen again, I can assure you."

"You still need to a ratchet down the pressure, Captain," Trincullo continued. "The crew won't stand for much more."

"Counselor, we now have a deployment date for shake-down—and it is three days from today. In sixty-eight hours, to be precise, Republic will exit Spacedock and we will conduct drills until the crew drops. Or they meet with my standards, whichever comes first. We will have three full weeks of drills and weapon tests and warp tests and emergency simulations and this crew will become proficient or they will be removed. I've got to know what their limits are, Counselor, and the only way for me to discover that is to push them."

Matt leaned forward in his seat and he propped his elbows on his desk. "Now, I want you to keep a close eye on them—don't baby them, don't coddle them, but make sure they are mentally stable. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir," she answered glumly. "And speaking on that subject, Captain . . . how are you feeling?"

Matt laughed. "Oh, no, Counselor. Don't even try that. Now, if that is all, I have work I must get back to—and you have a crew to watch. You are dismissed, Counselor."