"Report, lieutenant." Nassir barked, doing his best not to sound as exhausted as he felt.
"They got to within fifteen thousand kilometers, we ran out batteries five, twelve, and nineteen they turned to heading three four niner and moved away at full impulse."
"How close did they get to planetary line of departure?"
"Five hundred eighteen klicks, sir." Lieutenant Gosset replied evenly.
Al-Sistani chewed on that information mentally, found it largely indigestible and spit it back out synthesized into a plan of action. "Mister Crawford, take us in another thousand kilometers closer to the planet, maintain effective coarse and heading, geosynchronous over the capital, understood?"
"Aye sir, adjusting relative position and updating navigation charts."
"Very good, mister Crawford." Nassir took a deep breath, he was far too awake to get back to sleep now, might as well start his shift early. He had been availing himself a cot just outside the CIC in an action ready billet. Seventy eight hours since they had arrived above Krios and the situation seemed to be in complete stalemate. All the negotiation was completely one sided; the Kriosians negotiated with the Klingons and MCS was being held as the trump-card-in-reserve.
The tension was seething on Tirpitz, some of the crew and Marines had been around for and participated in the 47 war, and there was still a burning desire for reciprocity against the Klingons who, most felt, had never been adequately punished for their belligerence. Captain Tucker had issued a single and solid order: if they got to within seven thousand kilometers of Tirpitz or two hundred kilometers of the planet he was to blow any Klingon ship in the AO out of the sky.
Dead hulks floating in space.
The way the ships seemed to go blank...all the lights out...drifting on the tidal currents of inertia and gravity.
The tell-tale graveyard of space.
Some Sassanid demand of his DNA loved it, the warrior supremacy and a warning to foes. A warning to allies for that matter. Your friendship renders you recipient of this protection...do not squander it or take it lightly.
How dire the premise.
He never considered himself blood thirsty...he prayed for those he killed, those his ship killed every day and every night. In his mind all beings were children of He and subject to his mercy, but if they raised their hands against his people and their allies...
Coffee...he needed coffee. Coffee was the enemy of introspection and self doubt, coffee beguiled it away be being hair curling strong, cloyingly sweet, or toe-curling bad...either way there was no room for doubt, self-loathing, stinkin' thinkin', or dilly dallying when coffee came into play.
"Mister Gottlieb..." Nassir barked crisply, calling to the Yeoman.
"Sir?"
"Can we get a fresh pot going? Not the cheap crap either, you have my permission to tap into the 'strategic' reserve."
Gottlieb narrowed his eyes giving him a ubiquitously Yiddish look of quiet skepticism, "That's the admirals' coffee you're talking about, commander."
Nassir flashed him a mischievous grin, "I know."
"Aye aye, sir!" The yeoman replied fervently, crossing to the small alcove the contained the water dispensers and coffee maker.
T'Pol sat on the couch facing the AMOLED view screen as the news conference continued. Solan's head was rested on her lap, his body curled and his chest slowly rising and falling as he napped in the warmth of the pool of sunlight coming in through the bay doors and into the sitting room. Her fingers, almost idly, ran through her son's hair as if driven by their own desires and whims divorced from Vulcan logic.
MCS had just announced that Tirpitz had been involved in a major strike against Romulan strategic interests. The response in the reporter gallery was mixed; some clearly saw the move as judicious, some going as far to suggest it was a move that should have been taken immediately after the attack on Vulcan. Others had been less positively disposed about the action, and while MCS seemed to be entertaining any and all questions posited, the gallery seemed to have run out of pertinent things to ask.
The question regarding the naming convention and, specifically the name of the first battleship, had produced silence.
"Why would you name an MCS warship after the infamous Nazi ship? What kind of statement does that make to our galactic neighbors?"
Captain Duluth had remained composed for the most part, but something about his tone took a very serious edge when he replied, a fact T'Pol found amusing. "First off, the original Tirpitz was crewed mostly by German patriots and nationalists, if you had bothered to read into the history of the kriegsmarine you would know that they tended to stay out of politics. Secondly, the U.S.S. Tirpitz was so named because it was built in the tradition of the heavy cruiser raider, on the basis of its first mission where it fulfilled exactly that role, it seems an appropriate name."
T'Pol arched her brow at the screen, his response had been made out of his clear agitation, that had been foolish on his part as it would later be exploited by that particular media outlet. It was amusing to witness how humans still clung to certain episodes in their history in order to have visceral reactions. Earth's second world war had been just over 210 years ago, nobody living was in any manner directly effected by the results of the conflict, yet they still clung to it as a source of mortal offense. This was humanity at its most illogical...their ability to circumscribe victim status where it was not applicable. The more affluent the society, the worse it got.
She had her own visceral reactions at moments like this...the desire to throttle those humans to death.
In her youth she had merely found them illogical, obnoxious, counter-productive. But now, with the prospect that the remainder of her life would be spent, largely, among them she felt a strong desire to purge their influence.
They were counter-intuitive, their incessant need for validation and their seemingly endless quest for offense lessened the species as a whole.
On some level, she was angry...
Yes, definitely anger...
They were sullying this world, besmirching the race of her husband, marginalizing half the genetic heritage of her child and children-to-be. It was flatly unacceptable.
Solan fidgeted, likely sensing her anger through the parent-child bond. He lifted his head and looked up at her with an indignant expression that seemed years beyond him.
"I did not mean to disturb your sleep, tal-kam."
Solan still looked irritated as he rolled to his hands and feet, climbing into his mother's lap, then resting his head against her collar settled back down. T'Pol closed her arms around him, gently stroking his hair as he settled back in to resume his nap, somehow seeming to know that the amount of contact with his mother could calm her further.
There were times she felt unable to grasp the idea that he was only fifteen months old now, situations like this when he would give her these pedantic, almost long-suffering looks. It was almost as if he was the vessel of a much older soul.
And then other times...
Yesterday he had decided their sehlat would look better with stripes similar to Earth's panthera tigris tigris and had appropriated his father's boot-black towards such ends. In fairness he had done a surprisingly close approximation as the sehlat patiently allowed his infant charge to perform his displaced-well-meaning mischief. The sehlat...and they still had to come up with some sort of name for him...had actually seemed to be enjoying participating in the totally unexpected side-swipe of youthful misbehavior.
He sat with his head raised, paws together, letting out a good-natured huffing yowl as she froze dead in her tracks at the sight of what was occuring.
The million things that went through her mind simultaneously seemed to pass by as one single overwhelming thought dominated everything; how had he managed to do this without getting a speck of boot black on the carpet...?
He giggled in his sleep, her own thoughts about the event likely triggering a memory of the episode in his mind and how proud and excited he had been over it all.
The sound...it was indescribable...
In her ears it was like hearing the universe open up, all of its secrets laid bare.
For a brief moment she was eternity, everything, omnipresent, omniscient...
For a human they would say they were touching the face of God.
Who was Surak? If she were human should would undoubtedly be thinking 'screw that guy'.
What did he know of this perfection? This bliss?
She cradled Solan's tiny head, leaning her own head in to softly place her lips on his soft wheat colored hair. So illogical, so un-Vulcan, but she had no desire to be Vulcan when it came to these moments. No, she was certain that this had to be as Vulcan as it was human, to cherish your offspring was not only logical, it was...it had to be...the very foundation of life itself.
Among insects, mothers were known to give their very lives for their offspring...lovingly allow their own offspring to devour them so that they may be nourished. This could not be instinct, could not be part of the natural order, it could only be love. So as they allowed their bodies be consumed she was allowing her katra to be feasted upon by her child, and she willingly...happily...would allow him to do so. For each spiritual bite, each morsel she felt given over to this her first born, she felt it replaced five fold.
The perfection could be solidified if only her mate were-
Oh...
That's right...
She had agreed to help Admiral Black convince Trip to not resign his commission. It would likely be at least another five years before he would be able to resume the quiet life he had initially planned for them.
Was it selfish of her to separate him from his family, to surreptitiously work to keep him involved with MCS? Certainly it was logical...his talents would be squandered in civilian life, it would be inexcusable for his capacity as engineer, warrior, and officer to not be utilized to their fullest capacity. In a way, his desire for a quiet life was actually horribly selfish when one considered his capacity to give back to his people.
There would be a consequence to it all though, a price she would have to pay.
She could accept that fact.
One day he would learn her part in him being co-opted by MCS.
One day all the pain of that pseudo-betrayal and the moral agony his role as fighter brought to him would have to be soothed.
She would have to be the one to deal with the recrimination, pay the price for her part in the quiet little treason against their family. Something in her wanted his anger, his frustration, he confusion and dejection. She wanted to feel the vulnerability in him, to feel the strength of conviction and discipline fail him and leave him the same way she had been left by the Trellium D years before. She wanted to hold him while he broke down, caress him soothingly while he wept, kiss him gently as he clung to her...afraid, confused, agonizing over things he could not reconcile. Her logic, her strength, her discipline would stand and become the pillar on which the relationship remained aloft.
There was something almost perverse to the desire until it struck her that it was not a self-ingratiating desire...
How shocking...almost inconceivable.
She didn't want Trip to fall apart because it would strengthen her...she simply believed that he deserved to, should be allowed to, needed too. He had been strong for so long it seemed almost just that he be allowed to be weak, if only for a while. Further more, it was almost a certainty that he needed to be able to fall apart.
The sudden pang of longing was overwhelming, but she shoved it down, crumpled it up and hid it away before it could reach her child. He already woke some nights weeping, wanting his father, wanting to feel the reassuring hands of his father to lift him up, hold him close, the unquestionable powerful safety he could only experience from the quiet and subdued outwardly directed protective violence of what, to a child, had to be an almost deific father. She remembered something...threads of memories, specks of sensations, perceptions that existed almost as dreams of her own father, lifting her up, carrying her in powerful and sure arms. It was almost as if fragments of her early child were dangled before her eyes like tiny prisms, momentarily catching light to make you aware of their presence then disappearing again.
When Trip returned from this cruise she would have to make sure he could spend every moment possible with their son, it was only fair that both of them have that time together. Besides...he would be all hers come night fall.
Valek arched a brow, frowning at the Andorian in front of him, arms crossed for any of a multitude of reasons; crossed arms helped protect his chest, it presented a more belligerent posture, it showed dissatisfaction...it was an excellent all purpose gesture. Of course in this situation much of it was feigned, playing the part that was expected. In point of fact he considered her very pretty.
"I do not understand what you are trying to tell me." He said again.
She pointed over towards where Surat sat surrounded by his informal security detail and spoke once again in what was likely her native tongue.
"She wants you to inform your boss that he needs to report to the administration building."
Valek looked up to the tower where Corporal Barnes stood overwatch. The harsh seeming human had remained effectively aloof since his transfer to the prison camp, but he was fair and while most of the Romulans felt a subtle threat of violence from him as a veteran of Shi'kahr who had likely killed more than a few of their number during the fighting on Vulcan, he never was arbitrary or cruel.
Oh...and he also spoke near perfect Romulan.
"You'd think they would have a universal translator." Valek groused, hoping it didn't provoke the Corporal's ire but feeling the need to voice his protest.
"Yeah...you'd think..." Barnes declared, hands resting on the stock and receiver of the M-430 slung around his neck. He was silent a few moments then spoke up again, "You planning on getting a move on or what?"
Valek nodded, he had no intention of testing the patience or forbearance of the Marine, "I will go notify him."
Up to now they had been spared much of the routine cycle of interrogation used to ferret out Tal Shiar agents hiding among the troops taken prisoner, it had been a mercy as the procedures, as he had heard about them, tended towards the extreme. If Surat was about to face that kind of interrogation there was little he could do to help his commanding officer, but at the very least Surat had a sort of frankness of personality and character that tended to force people to take what he said at face value.
It didn't take him nearly as long to cross the field as he would have liked it to, having to go inform the Commander of the order was not something he relished and at least part of him wondered why the Andorians had not simply assembled a group of guards to come take him directly. Part of him suspected it had something to do with the attempt that had been made on Surat a week before by some Tal Shiar plants. It was believed that Surat's cohort enjoyed the level of privilege and impunity from the harassment of guards they did because of collaboration and not the more obvious element; good behavior.
The attempt had been stymied by Uhlans D'Kor and Sirrik who promptly intercepted and dispatched the would-be assassin before he could make his attack. Interrogation of the attacking prisoner by the staff of the prison had shown that the Romulan in question was, in face, Tal Shiar. One of the mess hall workers had revealed the fact to D'Varr who, still, seemed to be the only one of their number with an adequate grasp of the human tongue.
There was a chill in the breeze today, the slow current occasionally gusting in the way he remembered the winter storms rolling in from off the sea doing. If only there had been that hint of brine he could, for a moment, close his eyes and be back home. The subtle melancholy, like an old blanket, familiar and somehow comfortable despite tattered edges and holes, drew over him once again. He froze in his tracks, overwhelmed by the gravity of it all. There had been no word of contact from the Empire on their behalf, no concessions made, and news that the humans had been leading expeditionary strikes in their territory had caused initial alarm on the part of the prisoners.
The rumors had swirled around the camp that the humans were intent on eliminating their race entirely, or annexing the empire in its entirety. Certain leaders of the prisoner population had then been briefed by the joint administrative board, a human officer, a Vulcan bureaucrat, and some petty Andorian government functionary. They had assured them that the punitive raids were the result of continued Romulan belligerence along the border of their territory and no plan was being developed to annex Romulus, any Romulan territorial holdings, or begin a campaign of genocide.
Surat had accepted it without question, a fact that had initially sparked protest even from within the ranks of the cohort but were quickly silenced when he brought up a single immutable and pertinent point; have they lied to us yet? No...as near as could be told they had not, the humans seemed particularly scrupulous in that regard, even going as far as to provide the unvarnished truth when it could conceivably make their jobs more complicated.
"Valek?"
He didn't even realize he had been standing there longer than a second when he saw his commanding officer standing in front of him.
"Are you alright?"
He gave his head a single firm shake, "Yes, sir, was just lost in thought for a moment. The guards said you are to report to main administration."
"Did they say for what reason?" Surat furrowed his brows.
"Do they ever?"
The commander nodded, "Point taken."
"So, captain, why do you prefer the AFG to the VFG, sir?"
Tucker looked up from the PADD containing the situation report from Al-Sistani and right into the inquisitive face of Lance Corporal Peterson. He was a kid...well as much of a kid as you could be after combat diver training, zero G warfare school, jump school, SERE, ranger, and a whole list of other training cadres and special warfare centers someone like him had to go though to make the cut to be MARSOC.
"I dunno, always just felt more natural to me." He offered by way of explanation, it was a lot easier than, Christ, I dunno kid, that's just they way I like it, I'm just some swabbie, why are you askin' me this crap?
"Did you always use an AFG?"
"Didn't have time to grab one in forty seven."
Oh wait, that's what this was...Goddam hero worship.
How did you tell a kid like this that he was barking up the wrong tree?
"And before you ask I wasn't strappin' anything much bigger'n a M twenty seven in the expanse."
"Aye, sir." The lance corporal nodded. "Do most naval personnel prefer the angled fore grip?"
Trip lowered the PADD, "Honestly, I don't have the first idea...last time I ran into any swabbies who had the first clue what t'do with an M seven was at MARSOC trainin' in forty seven just before the hammer dropped."
The lance corporal nodded again, "Just one more thing, sir."
Trip arched his brows, "What would that be Corporal?"
"Sir, major Musashibo wanted me to life you about forgetting your son's birthday."
Tucker grimaced, "Yeah, I didn't actually forget about it..."
Trip had woken up the morning of Solan's first birthday and had considered breaking every operational dictum he knew in order to send a message. Something, anything to let his son know he was thinking about him, how badly he missed him and wanted to be there with him and his momma. In point of fact they were supposed to already be on their way back to Earth now. Six months had come and gone and in accordance with the original plan of procedure for the cruise they were supposed to be back at LaGrange two now.
Trip stood up, he had actually managed to send a message through standard channels a day ago, which meant it would likely still take a week for it to reach Earth, but more importantly...
"I think you misunderstood the major's imperative, lance corporal. What he actually meant was, he wanted you to get lifed for tryin' to life me."
Staff Sergeant Glass and Gunnery Sergeant Walthour could smell the blood in the water and sprung to their feet, coming up on either side of the Lance Corporal. They were already bellowing at him, screaming like frenzied drill instructors running him through a battery of physically strenuous exercises as part of the huge practical joke that was the faux break-off session. Trip was just about to return to his seat when Gunney Walthour stepped up, so far into his face that Trip felt momentary concern that the shorter Marine would go up his nose.
"What kind of grab ass is this Tucker? You do not forget a birthday, you understand me? Get on that deck!" He howled.
Trip barely suppressed the grin, he knew what this was, had seen it a million times before, this part was to play along like some boot getting a foot broken off in his ass. He immediately dropped to the floor, beginning to push out a series of quick, poorly preformed pushups, "Sir, aye, sir!"
"Push it out! Get your face in the dirt!"
"Sir, aye, sir!"
"You ain't making love to the deck, get up in that like you did your best friend's sister!"
Sergeants Gordon and Li and Staff Sergeant Madsen marched over as well, each taking up their part in the Super-Lifer Games, each clearly bucking for the gold and title of most obnoxious first-shirt candidate. This was a game, a game in two parts; it was the only acceptable way that enlisted and non-coms could give an officer a hard time without the potential of getting NJPed, providing the officer elected to participate in the joke at his expense. Further, it helped to help break in junior enlisted who often became rapidly too big for their britches upon leaving boot.
"For the love of Jesus...shut the fuck up, there are decent people trying to sleep over here." Lieutenant Pritchard growled from his cot.
The wind, as it were, quickly and unceremoniously left everyone's sails. Among the marines, the young lieutenant was widely regarded as the hardest, meanest, bastard in the battalion. Not even Major Musashibo was looked at with as much awed admiration and a fair measure of fear as first lieutenant Nathan W. Pritchard.
Of course, Trip, himself, occupied his own unique niche when it came to ship lore and the pecking order of who constituted the most bad ass person or persons on the ship. He had managed the trifecta; the forty seven war, the Xindi, and now Vulcan and the Romulan War. Between that and the half dozen badges and services devices that were part of his NWU, he was treated, at times, as part God, part father confessor, part warrior prophet, and part high school sports hero. The awe those who served under him experienced towards him was tempered by a sort of easy accessibility that didn't intimidate or scare away like it did with Musashibo or Pritchard.
"Alright, gentlemen, lets break it up before the lieutenant decides the Klingons are the least of our worries." Trip quipped sardonically.
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." Pritchard replied with an appropriate measure of respect.
Trip stood, looking back over at his own cot and the PADD laying there-on. He should write another letter, send it to his son, give him something to look at in years to come and remember about his old man who wasn't there when he was little. It pained him a little to even consider the separation, the fact he hadn't been there to watch his son turn one year old. As soon as they got back he was going to put in his resignation...he'd finish out the three month refit and repair cycle but after that, he was done...totally done.
He could likely land a job as one of the General Dynamics lab jockeys at Canaveral and spend the next twenty years of his life doing that without ever having to be separated, for more than a few days, from T'Pol and Solan. A yawn overtook him, and he suddenly realized precisely how tired he really was, how drained. The adrenaline, the modified-MAOA reactions, all of those things had done much to help allay the feelings of exhaustion, but now it was finally here to collect.
He felt his eyelids starting to drift shut, bobbing back upwards only to fight against some sudden impossible gravity that wanted to pull them down. As they once again popped open just to being the slow slide to cover his eyes again he caught a glimpse of a figure...not one of the marines, not a Kriosian, little more than a silhouette standing near a colonnade. It looked like it was clad in civilian clothes, and the bearing bespoke an almost imperious nature. For whatever reason, Trip couldn't look away, and when it began to speak... "Captain Charles Tucker-"
"Captain! Sir!"
Trip's eyes shot open, turning to see the flushed face of Corporal Sears, "Sir! Tirpitz is on the horn...they just fired on a Klingon ship."
Trip looked quickly to the colonnade...nothing was there, it had to have just been his brain playing tricks on him, more importantly, there was now a shooting situation with the Klinks and that could only mean one thing.
"Sonuvabitch...get me the Princess and her ministers right now, Corporal."
[! Author's Note !]
Wow, this story is one year old already...and we're right about smack dab in the middle of this story now based on my current projection for where I'll be taking it. But who knows, I might need at least another fifty chapters to get where I want to go with this. Within the next few chapters you'll start to understand why I call this the first of three "overlapping" stories.
Unfortunately, the time between chapters is about to increase because of certain business and personal issues, as well as the Cassandra's Dilemma Book 2's writing cycle about to kick into high(er) gear again.