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"Unwanted Guest"

by Paul B

2311 – USS Valley Forge

Excelsior Class Starship

At the closing of The Tomed Incident

"They made a mistake on Algeron. It's a big one, and we may come to regret it."

Admiral Nechayev, Commander of the Eighth Fleet, set his glass down on the conference room table. The hulking man of sixty-three still commanded an imposing figure, but years of sitting behind a desk in place of the chair of a starship had started to take away from his physique. He reached across the table, and ignoring the stewards that were clearing the last of the victory dinner, he picked at a turkey bone from a platter.

"A huge mistake," Nechayev mumbled.

K'rilish motioned at the stewards to leave the room. There were still celebrations taking place throughout the ship and he was aware that the galley staff had not yet partaken in theirs. They nodded appreciatively, and they filed out of the room.

"We averted a war," K'rilish said when the last steward had left. He reached for the bottle of cognac across from him and he slid it toward Nechayev. "We can handle the conditions that were made to gain peace."

"We got peace…over an incident," Nechayev said in a derisive tone. "That's what the politicians are calling it to lessen the historical impact. They are calling it the Tomed Incident. Sounds nice and boring, eh?"

K'rilish shrugged. "I am not a historian, Sir."

The answer was not what Nechayev wanted to hear. He grabbed the cognac bottle and he filled his glass. Taking it in hand, he walked around to the table toward one of the windows that lined the back wall of conference room. The windows overlooked the Valley Forge's aft saucer section and its port and starboard nacelles; a view that often caught most onlookers by surprise.

"The Romulans took cloaking technology away from us," Nechayev continued. "They killed tens of thousands of our people, lay waste to colonies in our space near the Neutral Zone, and we push them back just to end up in the same spot before it all started. That doesn't bother you in the least, K'rilish."

It was one of those questions that, coming from a higher-ranking officer, K'rilish had reluctantly learned to be careful in answering. He liked Nechayev, but he was also a career officer and a very ambitious one. Left out of the negotiation at Algeron, he chafed at what he saw as Starfleet Command shutting him out from any further advancement.

Seeing that Nechayev wanted an answer, K'rilish crossed his arms and he rested them against his chest. "We move on, Sir. We accept the situation, and we work to deal with it. The Romulans have cloaking technology, so we work to ensure that our defensive capacities will always outweigh their advantage in that area."

Nechayev responded with an angry grunt. "That was a safe answer, K'rilish. Tell me what is on your fragging mind!"

"I just said them, Sir."

"You think I don't know?" Nechayev said. He turned his anger toward K'rilish. "You think I didn't know The Club didn't call you and asked for your advice?"

The Club. That was Nechayev called Starfleet Command when he was being vitriolic. Soon, he would become insulting and K'rilish had had enough of his behaviour especially on a day that had started out with one of celebration.

"You're drunk, Sir, and I advise you to go sleep it off."

"Yes, I am drunk," Nechayev said. He took his glass and he deliberately set it on the sill of one of the windows to annoy K'rilish. "But at least I am being honest. As for you, it appears that you've learned how to play the game, and now you're an admiral."

Claws tips began to dig into the fine linen that covered the conference room table, but K'rilish kept his composure. He said, "I can have someone escort you to quarters, Admiral, if you are not feeling well."

"This is technically my ship in my fleet," Nechayev countered.

"Not anymore it isn't."

The two locked eyes. They would not see each other again for the next three years and that would be at Nechayev's funeral. By then, he would have resigned from Starfleet; his alcoholism hidden behind a shiny new medal and well-wishes by those who never liked him.

"Fuck it," Nechayev said. He snatched the cognac bottle from the table and he headed for the exit. He was not without an insult, and it was one that K'rilish would think about as he gave a warm speech at the man's funeral years later.

"Don't think that I can't see right through you, K'rilish. You wanted a war as much as I did, and what pisses me off is that The Club knows it. That's why they are kicking you upstairs instead of me."

2319 Terra Nova

Homespun

"We are arriving at your home, Sir."

K'rilish opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the back seat of the air car, a bad habit that came when riding in the things. Looking through the window next to him, he saw the acres of corn fields blur past below.

Homespun. It was an odd name that he never could get used to, but Tirin had liked it. The previous owners, Novans who had laid claim to the land since the settling of Terra Nova, had given it that name. Elderly, and with no children to take the farm, they had sold it to K'rilish fifteen years earlier when he had used the last of his back pay from Starfleet to purchase it. The farm was not for him as it was for Tirin who had turned it into one of the largest charitable food operations on the planet. The organization she founded, and now ran, was also called Homespun.

The air car slowed as the driver switched it over to automatic pilot. The car moved nimbly past several of the windmills that flanked the outer circumference of the house and its multiple outbuildings. Pumping water from the aquifer that served the crops, the windmills also supplied power to the home, buildings, and the charging stations of the maintenance droids that kept the fifteen-hundred-acre partial in operation.

On his off days and vacations, K'rilish tended to the maintenance of the farm, but outside of that he was largely hands off. Running Starfleet Tactical was enough, and Tirin knew this. She thrived on working on the farm and with most of the crops being donated to feed refugees and starving planets, she could care less that the only profit she kept was to keep the place running. The farm was also located near a Caitian settlement and had been a perfect place to raise a child and half Caitian and Kzin grandson.

For some reason now, the sanctity of the place that K'rilish had enjoyed for over a decade now felt as if it were a respite. He tried not to turn his thoughts to the Bonaventure, and the orders that Starfleet Command had given him.

Having reached its descent coordinates, the air car paused and hovered for a second as it adjusted its thrusters to vertical intake. The car was descending toward a marked parking area where a gravel road let up to the main house and one of the barns. He noticed the field hauler, a truck with large tires was out by the house.

His daughter Seleesa was standing next to it and she was throwing a bag in the back. From where K'rilish was seated in the air car, she looked almost exactly like her mother. She had maroon fur and a bright red main that she had pulled back in a ponytail. At times she even acted like Tirin by the way she walked and laughed, but it was her temper and pig-headed nature that she got from K'rilish. She had been a handful whereas raising Charl, his grandson, should have been the challenging task.

"Where's she going to now?" K'rilish said to himself.

"Excuse me, Sir?" the driver asked.

"Nothing," K'rilish answered. He grabbed his jacket as soon as the air car touched down. "Come back tomorrow morning at zero seven hundred."

"Yes, Sir."

K'rilish waited for the green safety light above the door to signal that it was safe to disembark. He opened the door that swung upward, and he climbed out. He slammed the door shut and soon as he stepped out of the landing area, the driver thumbed the thrusters and the car shot off at an angle across the front of the house. The ducks from the pond that K'rilish had dug out for Tirin began to quack and flap their wings in a frenzy. From the air car, the sound of rock music reverberated from the windows.

"I'll get you for that tomorrow, smartass!" K'rilish growled.

He walked along the drive toward the house and the hauler. Upon seeing him, Saleesa smiled.

"What are you doing?" K'rilish asked.

"The drone out on sixteen is down again," Saleesa said. She tossed a tool box into the back of the hauler. "If I don't get it working the blight could overrun the whole crop out there so I'm going to have to monitor it to make sure it doesn't go down again. I think it needs a full rebuild."

"Will you be back for dinner?"

"I don't think so," Saleesa answered. She stopped, and she raised her ears. "What's up, Rassa? You look annoyed."

Rassa was the Caitian colloquialism for father. She also said "dad" at times, but that was usually when she was mad and protesting something.

"Nothing," K'rilish said. He looked towards the house. "Where's your mother?"

"In her office yelling at the admins," Saleesa answered. "She's protesting the changes they want to make to the export bill."

Knowing Tirin's anger and her passion for work, K'rilish knew that it was going to be an interesting evening.

"Red alert?" he asked. He smiled at Saleesa.

"You bet," Saleesa answered. She approached K'rilish, and in the Caitian tradition, she brushed her cheek against his. "I'll be back in the morning. Okay?"

"Be back before seven if you can. I'll be gone a few days."

"I promise!" Seleesa said. She hopped into the driver's seat of the truck. "Oh, I forgot, Uncle Stahl is here!"

"What does Luther want?"

"I'm not sure, but he's eating your leftover chicken."

Before K'rilish could ask anything else, Saleesa started the truck. She hit the accelerator and the battery powered vehicle kicked up rooster tail of gravel as she started down one of the service roads. K'rilish yelled at her to slow down but it was no avail.

Responding with an annoyed grunt he started up the path to the house. He reached the porch that circled the home and he saw Luther Stahl seated at one of the wicker chairs. The man, now pushing fifty, had a plate of left over fried chicken on his lap and a napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt. He was munching on a drum stick and watching a viewer that someone had set up on a nearby table. A soccer game was playing.

"H'lo," Luther said. He didn't look at K'rilish while he chewed on his food.

"Help yourself," K'rilish said with a note of sarcasm. "When did you get here?"

"An hour ago. Tirin was yelling at some people so she told me to make myself at home," Luther replied. He reached for a glass of iced tea. "I hope you don't mind."

"I meant when did you get to Terra Nova?" K'rilish corrected.

"Oh!" Luther replied. He looked at K'rilish and he jabbed a finger nail between his teeth to extract a piece of chicken. "This morning. Man, Kri, the traffic was crazy! I know this planet is always busy, but the orbital patrols were out guiding ships into orbit. They said Spacedock Three is at capacity! They were accepting Federation starships only."

"You haven't heard," K'rilish said. He looked at Luther who may have been from another universe. "The Bonaventure-C?"

Luther took another bite out of his drumstick. He started to chew when his mouth dropped open. "Oh! TheBonnie's back! I forgot!"

K'rilish squinted at Luther and he waved his tail in a suspicious manner. He took in the wrinkled suit, scuffed shoes, and the five o'clock shadow on his face.

"Are the Orion's looking for you again?"

Luther paused, and he swallowed his food in a large gulp. "Uh, no."

"Have you been drinking?"

"Clean, five years. You know that."

Something was amiss. K'rilish pulled his ears back and he pointed a claw at Luther. "You stay right there and eat your damn chicken!"

Luther blinked as K'rilish headed for the door into the home. "Oookay…I wasn't planning on doing anything else. Hey, do you have any more iced tea?"

K'rilish opened the door and he slammed it behind him.

"Get it yourself!"