- CHAPTER 7 -
- ISS Hopolite, Deck Two, 8:02 AM Ships Time -
Lieutenant P'tel was on her way to the mess hall for breakfast. She nearly lost her appetite as she approached the first corner. What was that awful smell? The hallway fairly reeked of a mixture of distasteful odors. Still walking, preoccupied with the stench, she tripped and fell over something blocking her path. Some maintenance tech is gonna get a new a$$ hole for leaving his shi* in the middle of the hall she thought as she brought her smarting ankle up to survey the damage. And as she looked at her sore ankle, it was then that she noticed that it wasn't a tool kit at all that had caused her to fall. A pair of legs laid at odd angles to each other. P'tel frowned, those shouldn't be there she thought. Her scowling eyes followed the legs up to see the owner to which they belonged.
The lifeless eyes of Garret McBride stared back at her own, the front of his normally immaculate uniform was covered in a wet stain. Her Vulcan mind made the connections quickly from there. Assassinated, that had to be it she thought, but who? Her eyes roamed the rest of the hall, searching for the one whom had killed Captain McBride. Their questing gaze found what they searched for a second later. Lying not to far away from McBride was none other than Lt. Cmdr. Ulysses Vanguard. At first glance he appeared dead as well, the hilt of McBride's knife jutting out of his ribcage very near his heart. Just as she was about to turn away, she saw Ulysses chest rise slightly.
Could he still be alive? P'tel moved closer and felt along his neck for a pulse. Yes, there was a pulse, but it was very weak. That was good P'tel thought, yet she kept feeling like she was missing something. She looked over the scene again, trying to stop the nagging voice in her head. OK, dagger in Vanguard's hand, McBride's in his chest. Both weapons accounted for. But if he was lying there, his dagger in one hand and McBride's in his chest, that meant that he hadn't used the antitoxin! There was neuro toxin coursing through his blood stream, and only she could stop it.
She lurched into motion, her hand reaching for the blood drenched dagger lying clenched in Ulysses' hand. Careful to grasp only the handle lest she herself get poisoned, she hurriedly spun the bottom of the handle off. Once the antitoxin hypo spray was revealed, she pressed it against Ulysses jugular. With a soft hiss, the medicine was delivered into his blood stream. It was only then that P'tel smacked her com badge.
"Lt. P'tel to Sic Bay, medical emergency, Deck Two, Section Two." She hit her com badge again then lowered her hands to either side of Ulysses head. She knew that it would be touch and go, even with the wonders of modern medicine. He had undoubtedly lost a lot of blood internally, and the neuro toxin had been in his body for what must have been a dangerous amount of time. She placed her fingers on Ulysses temples and whispered into his ear. "My mind to your mind, your thoughts to my thoughts."
Her consciousness roamed the outer layers of his mind, attempting to get him into a Vulcan healing trance. To her shock, she found that he was already in a crude form of one. A mere human that was able to enter a healing trance unassisted? Her hand's still on Ulysses temples, her left eyebrow arched in surprise. It was impossible! And yet the fact that he was in one with no outside help was a fact. It was. most intriguing. She had to look deeper, delving into the deepest reaches of his mind. What she was doing was a gross violation of Vulcan protocol, but she had to know.
What she found broke the meld. It was as if she first hit a barrier, then was forcibly evicted from Ulysses mind. Granted all Imperial officers and enlisted crew underwent training to resist telepathic mind control and probes, but this was of considerably greater order of magnitude than that training. P'tel should know, as she herself had taught many before she had gotten her first deep space assignment. Even among Vulcan's she had unusually strong telepathic powers. Yet she was unable to resist the psychic push that forced her from Ulysses mind.
She was still staring in disbelief at Ulysses when she heard the turbo lift doors open and the rapid footsteps of the medical team. She knew that she needed to compose herself before they came. Quickly she forced her face into a neutral expression and stood from where she had been stooping next to Ulysses. She shunted all thoughts about the startling enigma that she had found, vowing that she would get to the bottom of it. But now was neither the time nor the place to do it.
When the med team came trotting around the corner, P'tel turned to them and said the words that sealed the deal, acknowledging what had occurred here and making the change binding. They were also part of the regulations dealing with assassination. The words themselves had been taken from Earth's distant past, yet in their current context, they fit surprisingly well.
"The Captain is dead, long live the Captain!"
- Grand Alliance Base, Deep in the Badlands -
Twisting lightning-like ribbons of amber colored plasma flashed all around the massive station for as far as the eye could see. Yet the area of space around the station, while still filled with turbulent plasma clouds, lacked the dangerous ferocity of its brethren lying just out of range of the station. That was the main reason that this area was chosen as a site for an Alliance base. It was both hidden and protected by the plasma storms raging around it. The Alliance's tactics also protected the station. No raids were launched anywhere near the base, or any of the Alliance's major bases for that matter. Instead they were clustered around carefully prepared areas. This allowed Starfleet Intelligence to believe that they were actually hurting the Alliance forces, when in actuality they were destroying mere decoy and secondary stations.
The fact that the much-vaunted Terran Empire was so easily fooled into believing what it saw at face value merely made the job easier. They were so arrogant that they thought that the Empire's subject people could mount no credible threat to them. They didn't know how wrong they were. Not yet anyway, but they soon would feel the wrath of those they had crushed under their boot heels for so long.
General Worf gazed upon the fury boiling seemingly just outside the portal, a lazy grin on his face. The last strike had gone better than expected. Not only had they captured the two Defiants and the Steam Runner, but they had captured the ships that came looking for them as well. When the initial ships didn't report back, Terran Sector Command had sent out an even more powerful fleet to find them. And they had fared no better than their three brethren. Even now, the two Galaxy class, one Nebula class, and five Akira class ships were undergoing refit at various hidden yards scattered around the Alpha and Beta quadrants. In the grand scheme of things, they were mere pinpricks but every little bit helped. And these pinpricks will allow us to execute our masterstroke. After generations living under Terran rule, our people will finally be free Worf thought, and his grin turned to a hungry tooth filled smile.
Battle stations klaxons started screaming with out warning, there atonal wail cutting into the peace of Worf's quarters. Before he could respond, a voice came over his room's hidden speakers.
"General Worf, we have an unidentified ship approaching from bearing 020 mark 040, range 500,000 kellicams! They are on a direct course towards the station. Sensors are having a hard time picking up the target because of the storms, but it appears to be a heavy cruiser of some sort."
"Lock on weapons but hold your fire until either the cruiser opens fire or I say otherwise. I shall be in command shortly, Worf out." Worf was already out the door of his quarters. If it was the visitor he was expecting it all well and good that he be on the command deck to receive him. But on the off chance that it was an Imperial patrol, he needed to be in command as soon as possible. And thus he charged down the hall, the armor encased his feet clanging on the metal deck almost as loudly as the alarms that drove him to run in the first place.
- ISS Hopolite, Deck Two, 8:02 AM Ships Time -
Lieutenant P'tel was on her way to the mess hall for breakfast. She nearly lost her appetite as she approached the first corner. What was that awful smell? The hallway fairly reeked of a mixture of distasteful odors. Still walking, preoccupied with the stench, she tripped and fell over something blocking her path. Some maintenance tech is gonna get a new a$$ hole for leaving his shi* in the middle of the hall she thought as she brought her smarting ankle up to survey the damage. And as she looked at her sore ankle, it was then that she noticed that it wasn't a tool kit at all that had caused her to fall. A pair of legs laid at odd angles to each other. P'tel frowned, those shouldn't be there she thought. Her scowling eyes followed the legs up to see the owner to which they belonged.
The lifeless eyes of Garret McBride stared back at her own, the front of his normally immaculate uniform was covered in a wet stain. Her Vulcan mind made the connections quickly from there. Assassinated, that had to be it she thought, but who? Her eyes roamed the rest of the hall, searching for the one whom had killed Captain McBride. Their questing gaze found what they searched for a second later. Lying not to far away from McBride was none other than Lt. Cmdr. Ulysses Vanguard. At first glance he appeared dead as well, the hilt of McBride's knife jutting out of his ribcage very near his heart. Just as she was about to turn away, she saw Ulysses chest rise slightly.
Could he still be alive? P'tel moved closer and felt along his neck for a pulse. Yes, there was a pulse, but it was very weak. That was good P'tel thought, yet she kept feeling like she was missing something. She looked over the scene again, trying to stop the nagging voice in her head. OK, dagger in Vanguard's hand, McBride's in his chest. Both weapons accounted for. But if he was lying there, his dagger in one hand and McBride's in his chest, that meant that he hadn't used the antitoxin! There was neuro toxin coursing through his blood stream, and only she could stop it.
She lurched into motion, her hand reaching for the blood drenched dagger lying clenched in Ulysses' hand. Careful to grasp only the handle lest she herself get poisoned, she hurriedly spun the bottom of the handle off. Once the antitoxin hypo spray was revealed, she pressed it against Ulysses jugular. With a soft hiss, the medicine was delivered into his blood stream. It was only then that P'tel smacked her com badge.
"Lt. P'tel to Sic Bay, medical emergency, Deck Two, Section Two." She hit her com badge again then lowered her hands to either side of Ulysses head. She knew that it would be touch and go, even with the wonders of modern medicine. He had undoubtedly lost a lot of blood internally, and the neuro toxin had been in his body for what must have been a dangerous amount of time. She placed her fingers on Ulysses temples and whispered into his ear. "My mind to your mind, your thoughts to my thoughts."
Her consciousness roamed the outer layers of his mind, attempting to get him into a Vulcan healing trance. To her shock, she found that he was already in a crude form of one. A mere human that was able to enter a healing trance unassisted? Her hand's still on Ulysses temples, her left eyebrow arched in surprise. It was impossible! And yet the fact that he was in one with no outside help was a fact. It was. most intriguing. She had to look deeper, delving into the deepest reaches of his mind. What she was doing was a gross violation of Vulcan protocol, but she had to know.
What she found broke the meld. It was as if she first hit a barrier, then was forcibly evicted from Ulysses mind. Granted all Imperial officers and enlisted crew underwent training to resist telepathic mind control and probes, but this was of considerably greater order of magnitude than that training. P'tel should know, as she herself had taught many before she had gotten her first deep space assignment. Even among Vulcan's she had unusually strong telepathic powers. Yet she was unable to resist the psychic push that forced her from Ulysses mind.
She was still staring in disbelief at Ulysses when she heard the turbo lift doors open and the rapid footsteps of the medical team. She knew that she needed to compose herself before they came. Quickly she forced her face into a neutral expression and stood from where she had been stooping next to Ulysses. She shunted all thoughts about the startling enigma that she had found, vowing that she would get to the bottom of it. But now was neither the time nor the place to do it.
When the med team came trotting around the corner, P'tel turned to them and said the words that sealed the deal, acknowledging what had occurred here and making the change binding. They were also part of the regulations dealing with assassination. The words themselves had been taken from Earth's distant past, yet in their current context, they fit surprisingly well.
"The Captain is dead, long live the Captain!"
- Grand Alliance Base, Deep in the Badlands -
Twisting lightning-like ribbons of amber colored plasma flashed all around the massive station for as far as the eye could see. Yet the area of space around the station, while still filled with turbulent plasma clouds, lacked the dangerous ferocity of its brethren lying just out of range of the station. That was the main reason that this area was chosen as a site for an Alliance base. It was both hidden and protected by the plasma storms raging around it. The Alliance's tactics also protected the station. No raids were launched anywhere near the base, or any of the Alliance's major bases for that matter. Instead they were clustered around carefully prepared areas. This allowed Starfleet Intelligence to believe that they were actually hurting the Alliance forces, when in actuality they were destroying mere decoy and secondary stations.
The fact that the much-vaunted Terran Empire was so easily fooled into believing what it saw at face value merely made the job easier. They were so arrogant that they thought that the Empire's subject people could mount no credible threat to them. They didn't know how wrong they were. Not yet anyway, but they soon would feel the wrath of those they had crushed under their boot heels for so long.
General Worf gazed upon the fury boiling seemingly just outside the portal, a lazy grin on his face. The last strike had gone better than expected. Not only had they captured the two Defiants and the Steam Runner, but they had captured the ships that came looking for them as well. When the initial ships didn't report back, Terran Sector Command had sent out an even more powerful fleet to find them. And they had fared no better than their three brethren. Even now, the two Galaxy class, one Nebula class, and five Akira class ships were undergoing refit at various hidden yards scattered around the Alpha and Beta quadrants. In the grand scheme of things, they were mere pinpricks but every little bit helped. And these pinpricks will allow us to execute our masterstroke. After generations living under Terran rule, our people will finally be free Worf thought, and his grin turned to a hungry tooth filled smile.
Battle stations klaxons started screaming with out warning, there atonal wail cutting into the peace of Worf's quarters. Before he could respond, a voice came over his room's hidden speakers.
"General Worf, we have an unidentified ship approaching from bearing 020 mark 040, range 500,000 kellicams! They are on a direct course towards the station. Sensors are having a hard time picking up the target because of the storms, but it appears to be a heavy cruiser of some sort."
"Lock on weapons but hold your fire until either the cruiser opens fire or I say otherwise. I shall be in command shortly, Worf out." Worf was already out the door of his quarters. If it was the visitor he was expecting it all well and good that he be on the command deck to receive him. But on the off chance that it was an Imperial patrol, he needed to be in command as soon as possible. And thus he charged down the hall, the armor encased his feet clanging on the metal deck almost as loudly as the alarms that drove him to run in the first place.