Chapter Seven
"Matt, come on in," Josiah said as he stood from behind his desk in Star Fleet Headquarters. Two other men—Commodore Jurood and a Vulcan dressed in civilian clothing—also stood.
"Admiral, Commodore," Matt said as he shook their hands, and then he turned to face the civilian.
"Ambassador Sepak," the Vulcan said, bowing his head gracefully—he kept his hands firmly ensconced within the voluminous sleeves of his robes.
"Ambassador," Matt replied with a bow of his head.
Josiah sat, followed the other three men in turn, and he turned a wry smile upon his old friend. "I understand Richard Kessler was livid that he was bested even once by a ship as old as Republic, Captain?"
"Rick was . . . irate at falling for my trick, to be sure. But he was only courteous and gracious towards my ship and crew."
"There are some members of the Admiralty, Captain Dahlgren," the Andorian said with his antennae twitching, "who believe that the loss and the draw should be declared void in light of you using full-strength tractors in the first engagement—and then reversing the polarity and using them as repulsors in the fifth. My congratulations on that; you kept deflecting McHale's torpedoes just far enough to generate a miss. Even though my understanding is that Admiral Grantham is not pleased at having to replace your ship's tractors because of the stresses you put on them at Mars."
"Technically, Commodore, tractor beams are not weapons—and the rules of the engagement only stated that weapons were to be powered down to minimum levels. Tractors are equipment and tools, not weapons."
"Those few are . . . concerned that you use of the tractor beam as a weapon is far too similar to how the Borg operate; and there are some who believe that such use may well spur research into the militarization of tractor-repulsor units. I, of course," the Andorian said, pointing at his own chest, "am not one of those detractors."
"Certainly, the Borg was the first major opponent we've encountered that use tractors in combat on a routine basis—and their tractors are far more powerful than any in Star Fleet. But we have adopted other species tactics before—take the wolfpacks of Defiant- and Saber-class ships that we deployed in the Dominion War. That was nothing more than adopting the old Klingon idea of three smaller ships ganging up on a larger, more cumbersome vessel and worrying it to death."
"Oh, I quite agree, and so too do the majority of the officers in this building. But there are some who do not, Captain Dahlgren. And those few have no great love for either you or Republic; they would see you fail even if it costs Star Fleet a ship we can ill afford to lose."
Josiah shook his head. "Zak will talk your ear off with HQ gossip, Matt, if you give him the slightest opportunity—and he no doubt wants to discuss your tactical innovations at length. But that is not why I asked you to beam down here from Spacedock. When can Republic ship out?"
Matt frowned. "Admiral Grantham assured me that his yard-workers will finish installing the new tractors by Thursday, and complete our full gripe list on Friday. It was my understanding that we would have at least two weeks of down-time, though—I've been pushing my people hard and wanted to give them some time with their families on planet."
"No, those plans have changed. Zak, see if you can light a fire under Grantham and get Republic pushed to the top of the list—I want you underway in 24 hours, if possible. What do you know about the Lorsham?"
"Lorsham? I cannot recall ever hearing of them."
The Vulcan leaned forward slightly. "Not surprising, Captain. They are a race of being who inhabit a system they call Hak'ta-thor; their word for Home. It is G-class star located in The Cauldron."
Matt nodded. The Cauldron, he knew about. It was a dark nebula, rife with thick clouds of dust and debris—and one not too far distance from the core of the Federation worlds. The hazards it presented to navigation had not allowed for ships to pass through that of region of space until only a few decades ago, when improved deflector systems from the Galaxy program began to be distributed among the ships of the Fleet. He looked down as he dredged up the memories of old journals and he finally nodded.
"The Lorsham and another race—the Kraal?—inhabit two systems within the Cauldron, correct?"
The Vulcan nodded his approval. "Yes. Both races have developed warp drives, but where the Lorsham were friendly and eager for outside contact, the Kraal are isolationists and very, very territorial. Both species declined joining the Federation, although the Lorsham response was far more restrained. But now it appears that the Kraal have invaded and overrun several Lorsham colonies—and the Lorsham have asked for Federation assistance. The Federation Council has asked that I mediate the dispute, Captain. And I require immediate transport."
Matt nodded his understanding. "Has there been a threat assessment on the Kraal, Admiral?"
"Unfortunately, Matt, there hasn't been. It just wasn't on Star Fleet's list of priorities—but they are more technologically advanced than the Lorsham. Not that it requires a great deal to be more advanced than the Lorsham—their best ships are roughly comparable to the old Daedalus-class of the 22nd century."
"The Kraal are a different story, however: Hera made first contact back in 2361, she reported their vessels were armed with both disruptors and photon torpedoes, and equipped with deflector shield grids—technologies that were not available at the time for the Daedalus-class ships."
The Ambassador held up a hand. "It matters not. We shall be talking with the Lorsham and the Kraal, not fighting them. Your vessel is only present to deliver me and my and staff, Captain Dahlgren. The Council has no intention of getting involved in yet another war at this time."
"I'll have quarters prepared for you and your staff at once, Ambassador," Matt responded. Although, I don't think your intentions are going to matter a hill of beans if the Kraal don't want to negotiate, he thought but didn't say.
Josiah stood, quickly followed by Matt, Jurood, and Sepak. "In that case, Matt, I'll let you get to it. Don't worry about Grantham—he'll get your ship ready on time. Good hunting, Captain."
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Matt sat with his eyes closed, as he listened to the last chorus of Loch Lomond. No instruments of wood or brass or strings; just voices blending perfectly together to form the ultimate expression of music. He lifted the crystal glass on the side table to his lips, taking a sip of the twenty-four year single-malt scotch whiskey—no synthehol, this!—before setting it back down on the table. As the voices crescendoed to the final strains, his comm badge beeped.
"Computer, pause playback."
The music immediately stopped.
"Dahlgren," Matt said as he tapped the device.
"Lieutenant Commander Biddle, Sir. The communication channel you requested is now open."
"Thank you, Miss Biddle. Transfer it down here to my quarters, please."
Matt slowly stood and—ignoring the cane—took a few fumbling steps over his desk, where he sat down and opened the monitor. He pressed a series of icons and the screen blanked, and then an image appeared of a teenaged woman, the reflection of a newly rising sun shining off the lake and the mountains he could clearly see through the windows behind her.
She smiled. "Dad!" she squealed. "Amy, Sarah, it's Dad!" she yelled.
"Hi, Cass," Matt said to his oldest daughter. "How are you doing, sweetheart?"
"Oh fine. Did you get the recording? Have you heard that we're going to Paris and we get to perform at Notre Dame!"
"I heard, baby. Congratulations—I know you've worked hard for this, and yes, I got the recordings—all of them. In fact, I was just listening to Loch Lomond—I think the tenor was a bit flat."
"Oh, Daddy," she shook her head, still grinning, but then the grin faded and her face fell. "You aren't going to be able to be there, are you?"
"I'm sorry, Cass, but I've got orders to leave the system in just a few hours from now. I don't know when I'll be back at Earth—but promise me you'll get Amy and Sarah to record it and send it to me via sub-space."
A faint voice came across the screen, and Matt's heart lurched when he heard his ex-wife. "Cassandra, who is calling at this hour?"
"Mom, it's Dad! Can you get Amy and Sarah?"
His daughter turned back to the comm and gave Matt a half-hearted smile. "You want to speak to Mom?"
Matt just shook his head. "No, just tell her I called and that I hope she's well." Besides, he thought, I don't need an argument this morning.
"I understand—about Notre Dame, Daddy. Is your ship what you thought she would be?"
"Better, Cass."
"Good. You need a woman in your life again," his eldest said with a grin. Suddenly, there was an ear-piercing shriek, and his other two daughters came running into the field of view.
"DADDY!" screamed the youngest, Sarah, a girl of only ten. Amy, his middle child and half-way grown at thirteen just smiled her breath-taking smile at him. She was the quiet one.
"Hey, girls. I just called to see you."
"You're going to space, aren't you?" asked Amy.
"I am sunshine."
She nodded. "You be more careful this time," she said very firmly.
"I will. I've sent your presents to your Mother, girls. She'll have them for your birthdays, if I am not back on Earth by then. But I want letters every week, you get me?"
"WE GET YOU, SIR!" all three of the girls shouted back smiling.
"Ok, I've got to go, babies."
"WAIT!" hollered Sarah as she ran into another room, Amy and Cassandra shaking their heads. Matt waited until she got back and deposited a most displeased cat—her golden fur stripped with darker patterns and dots—right in front of the monitor.
"See how BIG Jinx has got!"
"Oh, she has, hasn't she," Matt said with a chuckle. The cat cocked her ears when she heard Matt's familiar voice and turned to look at the screen, pawing the monitor. "MEOW. MEOW."
"She's saying she misses you, Daddy!" Sarah cried, lifting one of the cat's forepaws and waving. "We all miss you."
"Miss you too, girls. I'll send you message every week—and I expect yours on a regular schedule as well. And if you need to speak to me, you call that number at Star Fleet, and they will patch you through to me." And if not, there will be HELL to pay, he thought.
"Bye, babies, I've got to go now. I just wanted to see you again before I ship out."
One by one, the girls said bye, and then screen blanked, replaced by Star Fleet's insignia. And Matt slowly closed the monitor, before he limped back to his chair, and lifted the glass of scotch.
"Computer: restart recording."
"By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes . . ."
"HOLD STILL!" Lara commanded, "Stop that fidgeting, Ensign, and look up!"
Chris grinned as he lifted his chin a little higher. "Aye, aye, ma'am," he answered as his friend from the Academy finally managed to hook the tight collar of Robert's dress uniform together.
"There," she said stepping back and giving Chris an appraising look. "Not bad, Chris, not bad," she mused as she circled around him. "I think you are now presentable."
Chris sighed. "Why did he pick me for this?"
"Silly, he's been having all of his officers for dinner—I dined with the Captain last week. Well, me and seven other officers dined with the Captain."
"I know that, Lara. I mean, why this old ritual? No one else in Star Fleet does this."
"I don't know, Chris. Maybe he wants to meet his officers in a situation where he doesn't have to chew them up and spit them out! Maybe he wants to judge us in a formal dinner setting—although my dinner invitation didn't include dress uniforms! Don't forget, you've got the Ambassador at the table as well—and Commander Shrak."
"Yo-you want to take my place?"
"Hush up. You'll do fine, Ensign Christopher Roberts. Just remembers: Ensigns are supposed to be seen and not heard—Mister Shrak told me that one. So don't speak unless someone asks you a direct question—and mind your manners, Mister!"
"Quiet I ca-can do."
"Go get 'em, Tiger!"
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The dinner wasn't nearly as bad as Chris thought it would be. Besides him, the Captains guests included the XO, Lt. Commander Biddle, Lieutenant Bowen from Engineering, Lt. Commander Tsien, the Ambassador, and the Vulcan's senior aide, Zakariah. So far, the conversation had been light and witty (although Chris had followed Lara's instructions and kept silent) and the meal was excellent. Not replicated, either, but hand-cooked by Captain Dahlgren's chef—another slot Chris thought he would never have seen aboard a starship.
They had finally arrived at the desert course, and the yeoman's had whisked away the earlier plates and glasses, replacing them with smaller china platters with silver dome lids. The crewmen assigned to the dinner party refilled carafes of sweet iced tea, and water, and juice, and then the chef came out of the adjourning pantry and extended a sealed bottle to Captain Dahlgren. The Captain took out a pair of glasses—real spectacles!—and put them on to read the label, and then he nodded at the chef, who removed the cork and poured a small amount of genuine brandy into the bottom of a snifter. The captain inhaled the scent of the liquor; he swirled it in the glass, and then he took a small sip.
"Most excellent, Francis," he said to the chef who bowed slightly. "I do hope my officers will share this cognac with me? Ambassador, I am aware that Vulcans do not drink . . ."
"We do not usually drink, Captain Dahlgren, but I must admit I have developed a taste for earth cognacs. I shall try a snifter."
Glass by glass, Francis circled the table and poured just enough cognac to cover the bottom of the curved crystal goblets. Then, the chef stepped back and the yeoman's removed the silver lids revealing . . . a grayish stone mottled in green?
"You honor me, Captain Dahlgren," the Ambassador said. "Ts'kaba fruit is a rare enough delicacy upon its native Vulcan. I shan't inquire too closely as to how you acquired ripened ts'kaba in such a short time."
"Republic and her officers wished to show their appreciation for the Ambassador's service to the Federation, Ambassador."
The Vulcan bowed his head slightly, and then his stern gaze settled on Chris.
"You first experience with ts'kaba, Ensign?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I also believe that is the first spoken words I have heard from you all evening. Take these tongs," the Vulcan instructed, holding up a silver utensil," in your left hand and fix them firmly to the fruit. Then, using this utensil," he held up a small silver hammer, "gently crack the shell along what you would refer to as the 65th-degree of north latitude, were the fruit a planet. Taking the fork, pry the cracked rind up and away, placing it to one side. And then," the Vulcan finished as he lifted a spoon and scooped up a glistening chunk of a reddish-orange pulp, "you eat."
Sepak slowly chewed the fruit and then he swallowed. "It is a most excellent ts'kaba, Captain."
Chris followed the ambassador's directions as conversion resumed and the other guests were cracking open their own fruits, but his first tap did not crack the rind.
"A bit firmer, Ensign," the Vulcan advised, and then he frowned. "I would suggest, however, that you reposition the tongs before . . ."
CRACK! As Chris tightened his grip on the utensil and began to strike it again, the fruit shot out of the grips and soared up on a ballistic arc.
". . . you lose . . ."
The young man's jaw dropped, his mouth opened, and the blood drained from his face as the errant fruit struck a carafe of iced juice, knocking it over where it spilled its contents directly into the lap of the ship's Captain.
". . . the fruit."
Matt gasped as the sweet, sticky juice, chilled with cubes of ice, poured into his lap, and he jerked slightly, and then he looked down at the mess.
There was absolute silence in the dining room. Yeoman Sinclair moved towards the Captain, but Matt held up one hand, and she stopped in her tracks. He raised his head and lifted the drenched napkin from his lap, turning it around and around until he found a dry spot, and he patted his lips.
"Ambassador," he said in a quiet and even voice. "Mister Shrak. I believe that I will retire for the night. Please, gentlemen, ladies, feel free to finish your meal."
Chan Shrak had both arms set on the table, his face buried in his open palms, but his antennae weren't merely twitching—they quivered! A white faced Grace Biddle turned to stare directly at Chris in horror, and the other officers were only barely containing their shocked laughter. The ensign slowly closed his open mouth, as he tried to apologize but not a single sound emerged.
Matt reached down, and picked up his cane, and then he stood, followed by everyone else at the table. "Good evening, to all of you," the Captain said as he limped to the doors and exited, dripping fruit juice behind him.
The Ambassador nodded and folded his hands before him. "Please extend my complements to the Captain's chef, Mister Shrak. And I think perhaps it is best to end the meal here. Come along Zakariah." The aide trailed out behind the Vulcan, and slowly each of the other guests began to shuffle towards the door.
Chris took two steps, only to be stopped by the stern voice of the XO. "Oh no, Mister Roberts; not you. Everyone else, you are dismissed."
Oh boy, Chris, he thought to himself, have you managed to screw up big this time.
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"Captains Log, Stardate 53750.0, USS Republic. We have been traveling at Warp 8 for the past 116 hours since leaving the Solar System en route to the Cauldron. Republic appears to have gotten her second wind and all systems are operating well within the limits of regulation. We will drop out of warp just outside the nebula and reconfigure the main deflector and bussard collectors handle the increased particle density. According to Stellar Cartography, it should take seventeen hours to penetrate the outer cloud at Warp 4—higher speeds being contraindicated by the prevailing conditions within the cloud itself."
"This is my first encounter with the Cauldron, and upon reviewing the data Lieutenant Commander Tsien has provided for me, I must say that I am impressed. Most nebulas, even those formed from the explosive demise of a star, are seldom home to sentient lifeforms. But within the interior of the Cauldron, space-normal conditions prevail after piercing the wall of dust and debris. Seventeen star systems lie within a 'hollow' at the center of the nebula. Those seventeen systems contain at least fourteen known Class M worlds, several of which have been colonized by the Lorsham and the Kraal. It is most unusual and quite possibly unique, and Lt. Commander Tsien has expressed her eagerness to examine the nebula at close range, an eagerness that I must admit that I share. The dust clouds and debris fields that litter the nebula have provided both of these races with access to nearly unimaginable amounts of resources. Information on the Kraal exploitation of the nebula is not fully known, but the Lorsham have many ships dedicated to mining the resources, leaving their colony worlds ecologically pristine. Technologically, the Lorsham are roughly comparable to the Federation as it was in the late 22nd and early 23rd Centuries."
"I am concerned by the reports that indicate powers originating outside of Federation space have made contact these two cultures within the Cauldron, powers that include the Klingons, the Orions, and the Ferengi. Whether or not any of these powers are behind the sudden aggressive actions by the Kraal remains to be seen, but the recent appearance of disruptors, shields, and photon torpedoes on Kraal ships in the past two decades indicates either that culture is rapidly advancing or receiving covert assistance and technological innovation."
"Ambassador Sepak is convinced that diplomacy can resolve the issues; I remain skeptical that a race as xenophobic as the Kraal will respond to any such overtures from a being outside of their own closed society. Accordingly, I have stepped up drills and battle simulations aboard Republic. I am confident that we can end any Kraal aggression quickly if necessary—provided that our information is correct. Unfortunately, there is a noticeable paucity of data on the Kraal, and many of the briefing notes which the Ambassador provided are prefaced with 'to the best of our knowledge'; a knowledge that is sorely lacking in many key areas."
"The crew are as prepared as I can make them for this challenge, and they appear to be rising to the occasion. Morale has soared as they have come to realize that if our ship can avert a war, the weight of her shame will be lessened. In addition, our system faults have been eliminated: crewman Zapata managed to locate the error in our primary and secondary computer cores and restored the systems to full nominal operation. Perhaps we have left our gremlins behind us."