Star Trek and all related characters and indicia are owned by Paramount. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.
JadziaKathryn: Reading it as an AU is fine :). That said, I think a case can be made that the Federation (at least in the TNG era) is a communist state (possibly a dictatorship). Many episodes are quite preachy about egalitarianism and Federation moral superiority; there were several instances of bartering (indicating that such Federation currency as exists isn't widely accepted), and then there are the Ferengi - merchants portrayed as greedy connivers who the Federation has to restrain for the good of all. Also, we never hear about elections or other political matters. No-one ever talks about the latest news, or sports, or holovids. There aren't many ships to be seen, even around Earth (which should be swarmed by them, being the Federations capital planet) and there don't seem to be any privately owned ships (at least, none that I can remember). That's one possible interpretation, anyway. Glad you liked what I did with Geordi and Dr. Crusher.
grayangle: In later chapters we'll head into the Federation itself to take a look at Earth and Vulcan, and then touch on the other main powers of the Star Trek universe. The overall story will probably run up to the beginning of the Dominion War.
Teal Thanatos: Thanks, glad you're enjoying it! More is coming, but I have to warn you that I update kind of randomly.
Johannes Garibaldi, Warp Drive Technician 3rd Class, Star Fleet, assigned to the Enterprise, wished that Lieutenant Varan would shut the Hell up. Garibaldi was following the Vulcan down a street in New Chicago. He and five of his shipmates had been dirtside for nearly six hours, and in that time Varan had talked almost non-stop. His constant chatter was focused exclusively on the political, social, economic and moral short-comings of the Selenker Republic. There wasn't a sight to see that didn't elicit a comment of some sort from the pointy-eared freak. Garibaldi thought glumly of the fifty Selenker dollars in his pocket, money that would likely never get spent if Varan had his way. So far, every request to enter a shop or store had been denied. Bookstores especially seemed to rouse the Vulcan's ire, if the angry (for a Vulcan) glares he'd directed at Garibaldi had been any indication. After the fourth request Garibaldi had given up asking, partly out of frustration, and partly out of fear. Varan had mentioned the need to report 'frivolous, potentially counter-revolutionary' activities on the part of the enlisted personnel in his charge. That had been enough for Garibaldi. The last thing he wanted, or needed, was to sit through yet another Political Indoctrination class. So he kept his mouth shut. Varan was well ahead now, Garibaldi's shipmates in close tow. Garibaldi himself was hanging back, glancing down side streets, marveling at the sheer abundance of material wealth the Selenker's possessed. Federation politicians routinely denounced Selenker's 'capitalist excess', never noticing (or perhaps deliberately ignoring) that materialism was the cornerstone of Federation social and political philosophy. After all, wasn't every being in the Federation entitled to food, clothing, shelter and meaningful work? Weren't goods and services rationed to ensure that everyone had what he needed, but no more? Garibaldi snorted humorlessly. Everyone knew (though few dared say it out loud) that the rationing was because there was barely enough of anything to go around, except in Star Fleet, which had first call on everything.
Jean-Luc Picard spoke clearly and forcefully.
"Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."
There was a hum, as the transporter in the Ready Room went to work. A glass mug, full of steaming brown liquid, appeared out of thin air. Picard picked it up and sipped. Not bad. Not as good as real brewed tea would have been, but quite passable.
Picard rubbed his head with his free hand. He was working on his report to Star Fleet about what he had seen during his tours of Selenker naval facilities, and had reached something of an impasse. He wanted to give an account of his impression of Cynthia Braye, but was having to struggle with not making it sound like fawning hero-worship. That could have dire consequences. It was one thing to have a healthy respect for the woman, and her abilities, but quite another to make her sound like some sort of warrior demi-goddess.
He glanced at his desk. The computer terminal built into it was on, but Picard wasn't using it. The terminal had a nasty (and quite deliberate) tendency to record, permanently, everything that was written on it, even if the user deleted something.
"Especially if the user deletes something," Picard thought sourly. That was a red flag for Star Fleet's Political Office, who vetted everything the computer recorded for 'potential counter-revolutionary tendencies'. How many officers had their careers come to a sudden, permanent end because of some impertinent remark they had made in the heat of a moment? Too many for Picard to stray into that area, that was sure.
That was also why he had resorted to drafting his report in an old fashioned notebook, with a pen. Any 'mistakes' would end up in the disposal unit, after he had burned them. Picard wasn't sure, but he didn't entirely discount the rumor that the disposal units sent trash to the Councilor's Office before it was stripped down to atoms for recycling. He shook his head. He had to put Admiral Braye into perspective. Maybe reading about her father would give him some hint of how his should proceed. He plucked one of his precious collection of paper books from its place on the shelf. The pages rustled softly as he opened it. It was an annotated copy of a popular history of the Selenker Navy. Picard grimaced. Someday he would have to acquire an unadulterated copy. Then he wouldn't have to put up with Star Fleet 'editors' attempts to 'clarify' the text. They hadn't, thankfully, altered the words the original author had written, but there were a multitude of footnotes, almost all of them political in nature.
"In April of 2347 (approximate Stardate: 24290) increasing Cardassian harassment of T'vaarian shipping culminated in a full-scale invasion of the T'vaar System. T'vaar had been liberated from Cardassian rule seven years earlier by the Selenker Republic, and the new Cardassian government wanted it back. In anticipation of such a move, Admiral McKeel Braye had been authorized by the Selenker government to act as he thought best. Hastily assembling what ships were at hand, Braye set out from the fleet station at Osmose, and arrived in time to thwart the Cardassian attack. Standard Selenker policy was (and still is) to make the Cardassians pay a price in territory for each such incursion. That being the case, Braye went in pursuit of the fleeing Cardassian task force, pausing just long enough to learn the invasion fleet's point of origin from prisoners."
"Arriving hard on the heels of the Cardassian squadron, Braye offered battle to both the invasion fleet and the system defense force. Though outnumbered in hulls almost three-to-one (Braye's flagship, the battleship Constitution, was under fire from four Cardassian capital ships at one point) Braye forced the enemy to withdraw after three hours of hard fighting. Braye then landed his Marine division, which quickly overwhelmed the Cardassian garrison, securing Silver Springs for the Republic.
"The twin disasters of T'vaar and Silver Springs caused the recently installed Cardassian government to collapse. It's successor ceded Silver Springs to the Selenkers, and peace was restored. Since Silver Springs lay deep within Cardassian territory, the question of free access was addressed by the treaty. A corridor of space one light year in diameter and stretching from Silver Springs to T'vaar was set aside for exclusive use by the Selenkers and their allies."
Picard leaned back. A thought took shape within his brain. Picking up his pen Picard began to write.
'McKeel Braye was bold, aggressive, and not afraid to take risks. In this regard Cynthia Braye is certainly her father's daughter. However, after re-reading her file, I noted that she has a marked tendancy toward recklessness as well. That being the case, we may be able to turn her formidable strengths against her, by tricking her into rash action...' Yes, that would do nicely, Picard smiled to himself as his pen continued to wend its way across the pages of his notebook.
"How about that one?" Wesley suggested, pointing across the busy street at a small but crowded looking restaurant whose sign proclaimed it to be 'Grandpa Gordon's American Cafe'.
Geordi nodded agreeably. "Sounds good to me, Wes. Data?"
The android cocked his head, as if pondering the matter. "While it is true I do not need to ingest organic matter to sustain my functions," Data proclaimed with solemn verbosity, "I do like to taste things," he continued with a much brighter expression. Geordi and Wesley grinned. Data often claimed to lack emotions, but his two companions had long since decided that was untrue. An intelligent being had to have emotions in order to function normally. After all, there were a dozen or more eating establishments within view. A purely logical, unemotional being would have carefully weighted the relative merits of each, from distance to potential cost to waiting time based on the crowd factor, and more besides. Instead, Data had made a snap decision, eliminating the majority of options on the basis of 'instinct' alone.
"Well," Wesley said, "Now that that's settled, I'm hungry." He turned on his heel and headed toward the nearest corner with it's attendant pedestrian crosswalk.
They were met at the entrance by a middle aged man in a white shirt and black tie.
"Hello, gentlemen," he greeted them cheerfully. "Just the three of you today?"
"Uh, yes," Geordi replied.
"Would you like a table or a booth?"
"A booth, I think."
"Smoking or non-smoking?"
"Non-smoking."
"Very good, if you'll please follow me..." The man led them across the small restaurant to a booth with a view of the street. While Wesley, Geordi and Data sat down the man placed menus in front of them. "Your server will be with you momentarily. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen," the man said, and then he was off to greet more customers.
Geordi opened his menu. Data and Wesley followed suit, but Wesley didn't really look at his. He was far more interested in the restaurant and its patrons. There were, he judged, about eighty beings at the various tables and booths. He also noted a bar at the back of the restaurant, where more people sat, some eating, some drinking despite the early hour. As with the express that had brought them into the city, the crowd was predominantly Human with a healthy leavening of other races. Wesley was trying to gage the relative proportions of each non-Human race when he spied a girl heading their way with a tray in her hands. The tray held three glasses and a pitcher of clear liquid: water, no doubt. It was the girl that fascinated him. She was about his height, slim but curvaceous. She had wavy black hair that hung to her shoulders. She was wearing a mid-thigh skirt and a white blouse that had it's sleeves rolled up and which was tied together rather than buttoned. A short camisole top worn beneath the blouse kept the outfit modest. She had fine, almost elfin features and a dazzling smile. She also had a distinct greenish tint to her skin and ears whose tips swept up into points.
The girl reached the booth and smiled down at them. "Hi!" she said brightly as she set dripping glasses of ice water in front of each of them. "I'm Cissy, and I'll be your server today," she added as she set the pitcher in the middle of the booth's table. "Have you decided what you want, or do you need more time?"
Geordi answered immediately. "I think we need more time, Cissy. At least I do."
"As do I," Data added absently as he pored over the menu.
Wesley just stared blankly, until Geordi nudged him in the ribs. "Uh, right!" Wesley stammered. "I...need more time too."
The girl called Cissy's eyes sparkled. "Fine. Can I get you anything to drink besides water?" she asked, producing a notepad computer from a pocket in her skirt.
Geordi glanced at Wesley then said, "I'll have coffee, please."
"Regular or decaf?"
"Regular."
Cissy turned to Data. "And you, sir?"
"What is the Breckenridge Brew Pub Sampler?" Data asked.
"With that you get eight small glasses, each with a different kind of beer from the microbrewery on the other side of the block," she explained, pointing toward the bar. A door was visible in the back wall of the restaurant. "You get a stout, a porter, a pilsner, an ale, a pale ale, a bock, a lager and a wheat beer. The eight glasses add up to a true pint," she added.
"I'll have that," Data told her.
Cissy turned to Wesley, "How about you?" she asked flirtatiously. Wesley blushed. He quickly scanned the menu. He ordered the first familiar thing he saw.
"I'll have a cherry cola," he stammered. Cissy smiled.
"Ok, coffee, the brewpub sampler, and a cherry cola. I'll be back in a few minutes with your drinks." With a final smile she turned and walked away.
When she was out of earshot Geordi nudged Wes in the ribs again. "What's with you, Wes? You act like you've never seen a pretty girl before," he teased.
"Aw, come on, Geordi," Wesley objected.
"Relax, Wes," Geordi grinned. "She is pretty, after all, and she seemed to take an interest in you. If she wants to flirt, go ahead and flirt back."
Wesley tried changing the subject. "She's a Vulcan, isn't she?"
"Probably," Geordi allowed offhandedly. "A lot of Vulcans have settled here over the years, though I suppose she could be a Romulan."
"Statistically, the odds of her being of Romulan decent are only one in twenty-seven point six one, based on the latest Selenker census figures," Data weighed in. Geordi and Wesley gaped at him.
"What?" Data asked, puzzlement plain in his voice.
"Nothing, Data," Geordi said, shaking his head. "Let's figure out what we want to eat before she gets back."
When Cissy returned with their drinks they ordered. Geordi, on her recommendation ordered a meatloaf sandwich. Data ordered a cheeseburger with the works, and Wesley opted for a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup.
As Cissy was turning away from them Wesley spoke up. "Uh, Cissy?"
She turned back. "Yes?"
"Can I, uh, ask you a question?" He hesitated briefly. "It's, uh, it might be kind of personal," he cautioned.
"If it's too personal I'll just refuse to answer it," Cissy replied pleasantly.
"You, uh, you are a Vulcan, aren't you?"
A flicker of surprise crossed Cissy's face. "If you're asking what species I am, then yes, I am a Vulcan," she answered. "Why do you ask?" she added curiously. Wesley flushed.
"Well, uh, it's just that, well, you don't act like any other Vulcan I've ever met," Wesley explained.
Cissy frowned. She took a good look at the trio. "You're from the Federation, aren't you?" she asked, as if noticing their uniforms for the first time.
"Uh, yes," Wesley confessed.
"That explains it then," Cissy said. "The only Vulcans you've ever met are Surakites."
"Surakites?" Wesley repeated.
"You know, those fanatics that control Vulcan and force everyone to live according to Surak's philosophy of logic over emotion," Cissy clarified.
"Fanatics?" Wesley repeated dumbly.
"You ever hear of IDIC?" Cissy asked.
"Sure, Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations," Wesley said.
"The Vulcan ideal," Cissy agreed with a slightly sarcastic smile. "In theory anyway. The way my grandpa tells it (He and my grandma left Vulcan just before - well, they left seventy-two years ago. Draw your own conclusions.), in practice it's: You can act however you please, just so long as you act like everyone else." A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. Cissy shook her head. "But there I go, talking politics again when I should be working." She smiled warmly. "Let me get this order placed before you starve to death," she said, pressing a button on her notepad. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other customers to see to," she said and headed for the kitchen.
"Good one, Wes," Geordi reproved with a shake of his head.
"What'd I do?" Wesley demanded plaintively.
"You assumed, based solely on her race, that Cissy would act a certain way," Geordi explained gently. "Just like they teach you not to do in Interspecies Relations." Wesley turned red.
Garibaldi halted when he noticed they were passing yet another bookstore. How many bookstores were there in this city, he wondered as he gazed through the glass display windows. There were hundreds of books in the window cases alone, and he could see thousands more on shelves inside the store. He considered asking Lieutenant Varan again for permission to go inside, but bit his tongue when he read the name of the store. 'Townsend Rare and Specialty Books: Small Press, Self-published and Used,' Garibaldi muttered silently. Varan would have three kinds of fits (for a Vulcan). What to do? Garibaldi toyed with the idea of just going in, but then he'd have to explain how he'd gotten separated from his group. He could say that he'd stopped to look at something, and when he looked up Varan and the others were no longer in sight, except...except the Betazoid witch would know he was lying. Or would she? Betazoids were telepathic within their own race, but only empathic with others. She'd know he was nervous, but given the potentially severe penalties Garibaldi would know might be awaiting him could explain that. He glanced after the others. They were well down the street, Varan still in the lead, talking his head off without looking back. Garibaldi turned his attention to the display. One title in particular seemed to leap out at him: 'Marxist Mistakes - A point by point refutation of Karl Marx's 'Das Kapital'. It was a book Garibaldi had never heard of. Not much of a surprise. Until that moment he'd never seen any book that purported to refute the ideas of Marx. Always a curious person, and a vociferous reader, Garibaldi knew he had to at least look at it. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and began to count. When he reached one hundred he opened them and looked up the street. His group was nowhere in sight. Trembling nervously and questioning his own sanity, Garibaldi pushed through the door and into the bookstore.