Disclaimer: I don't own Voltron, Star Trek, or anything else that belongs to WEP or Paramount. What I do own are the crew of the Berlin, (except for Mordock and Scotty), the fighter, Thunderwing, and the story itself.
Star Tron: Hidden Dangers
Chapter 16
Captain's log, stardate 51437.3: We have now secured the Doom base on Arus. The Konogg Brigade left us a few surprises, and it took our engineers a while to disarm them all. Big shock there. Good news, though, nobody was hurt too bad. Starfleet has expressed interest in turning it into a starbase, but that's up to them and the Alliance to hash out.
Captain Scott is continuing with repairs, with the help of a CST that the fleet sent out. The Timberwolf has been recalled, now that the Starbase's weapons are up. The base is now operating under the call-sign "Denubia One", and will provide cover for Arus while the Berlin makes sorties against Doom, and of course, does the usual science and exploration thing.
I'm kind of surprised that I haven't heard anything negative from Admiral Nechayev about the invasion. I'd've thought she'd be hot on the horn to me, wondering why I couldn't hold the Doomies at Arus. Oh, well.
The Captain deactivated the log recording and headed for the shuttlebay. He was supposed to help the Voltron Force in Shavena that afternoon. Gredar, Jacobs, and the rest of the senior crew had been avoiding him a bit since the battle. Not that he had to wonder why. His two top officers were supposed to meet him for some kind of conference they insisted on having, but they were late, and Driscoll had other things to do. If it was that important, they could catch up with him planetside.
Grabbing a tool belt armed with a hammer, drill, screwdrivers, tape rule, graviton mallet, laser welder, and other various implements, he left his ready room, and was soon on his way.
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Unknown to Driscoll, though, the Doom incursion and Driscoll's role in it were very much on Alynna Nechayev's mind, and the mind of another admiral.
Admiral Matthew Dougherty sat across from Admiral Nechayev in her office. Both had just left a meeting about the recent Doom incursion. The admiralty wanted someone's head, and as the first line of defense, Driscoll's had been the first on the chopping block. Luckily for the young Captain, cooler heads had prevailed, and the admirals realized how unrealistic it was to expect that Driscoll could have held off such superior numbers.
But that wasn't why Dougherty had gone to see Nechayev. In his hand, he held a PADD loaded with the after-action reports of Driscoll's first and second officers. And what they had to say about the Captain's actions during the pursuit of the fleeing Doom fleet was not flattering.
"I told you that kid couldn't handle the job," Dougherty said, bouncing the PADD in his palm. "I told you at his confirmation hearing that he was too immature."
Nechayev stood, looking out her window as the sun set over San Francisco bay. "I've seen it too, Matthew," she said as Dougherty tried to hand her the PADD.
"The kid is dangerous. What's he going to do next? Try to take Planet Doom by himself? He let his lust for vengeance blind him to a very real danger to his crew."
Nechayev was silent for a moment, carefully considering her response. "I'm not going to remove him from command because he got angry," she said finally. "Consider the pressure he was under for weeks: little rest, combat at all hours, trying to fight an invisible enemy, and all the while shouldering the duties of liaison officer and a front-line diplomat. That's a big load for anyone."
"And if he didn't insist on flying that damned plane of his, and serving with those Voltron people…"
Nechayev shook her head. Dougherty's concerns were all quite legitimate, but she'd considered them all herself previously. Nechayev was cold, but also coldly rational. And she simply couldn't conclude that the facts warranted Driscoll's removal. As serious a problem as this was, Driscoll had proven himself capable of his post, and the episode could easily be chalked up to stress. "He doesn't need to be removed. He needs backup," she said finally. "But we can't spare anything. They're just going to have to tough it out a while longer. And that means we'll have to cut the kid some slack.
Dougherty recognized the end of the conversation. He stood and excused himself, muttering something about a mission to the Briar Patch, which Nechayev barely registered. As the sun went down, Nechayev called for the lights to increase, and walked over to her desk.
She noticed a message from the harbormaster of Qualor II, the yard where Starfleet sent all its retired or mothballed starships. To meet the demands of the Dominion War, many of the older ships were being reactivated and refit to serve in the interior, while the newer ships were sent to the battlefront.
As she browsed the list, she noticed one ship that was awaiting renaming and recommissioning. It was an older ship that had had quite the distinguished career. The problem was, very few commanders had any experience on the type.
But as she thought, she remembered that she knew a guy… who knew a guy.
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Lotor stormed through Castle Doom, making swiftly for his chambers. He had just received the tongue-lashing of a lifetime from his father. Not that he didn't expect it. Losing over 150 ships, several thousand fighters, soldiers, scores of tanks, and two robeasts, not to mention a major shipyard on Citrine II, while accounting for only a dozen enemy ships destroyed was a pitiful showing for anyone. Especially the once-esteemed and much-feared Prince of Doom.
He cursed every member of the Voltron Force, even Allura, such was his rage. Torka and Kozal and all the other incompetent fools were lucky they were not here to face his wrath. He would have to content himself with imprisoning their families and seizing their assets.
And now, for the first time, Lotor began to long for his days of victory. He had captured dozens of worlds in his father's name, earning fortune and glory, a name to be feared, and his father's pride. All these seemed to have deserted him now as he became locked in a bitter stalemate with Voltron and his allies. He could not abandon the fight, or what honor he had left would be lost. Yet victory inched farther from his grasp with every encounter.
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In his throne room, King Zarkon sat alone with his thoughts. Manfully downing a swig of the bitter red wine he favored, he considered the latest dismal developments his incompetent son had forced upon him. There was a time when he was the most feared of all the Drule leaders. Now there were murmurings against him. He was losing too much face. And as the murmurs grew among his peers, so they did among his slaves. Even on Doom, there was talk of Voltron coming to free them. Disturbing thoughts indeed.
What had happened, he wondered, to the son he had been so proud of? Voltron was a difficult enemy, but why had so many seemingly-effective plans fallen apart at the last minute? Voltron always had a way out somehow.
Haggar had told him before that to defeat Voltron, there was a vital piece that must be destroyed first. A part that connected Voltron with his creator. But what was it?
As he looked at the golden goblet in his hand, considering Lotor, and Haggar's mystery, the answer suddenly came to him, and an evil grin crossed his face. Yes, that was the answer to it all…
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The mid-afternoon sun shone brightly down on Shavena as swarms of people filled the streets. With the threat of the Konogg Brigade gone, life was returning to normal, and several shipments of supplies had arrived, replacing and adding to the stocks that were destroyed in the raids of the past weeks.
Shavena, because of the fire, was actually much harder-hit than Olessa, and Commander Wright had set up an engineer detachment in the harbor town. For nearly a week after the attack and subsequent fires, the town had been shrouded in a veil of mourning for the lives lost. But now, the healing was beginning. Hearts would take a long time to mend, but the physical scars were already beginning to disappear.
Gredar and Jacobs followed the sounds of hammering down a dusty street, where ashes still clustered in the corners of the pavement. They were walking through a neighborhood that had seen its fair share of destruction, though not as much as some.
Coming around a corner, they saw a row of houses swarming with the black uniforms of Starfleet engineers, and the many colors of clothing worn by the Arusian civilians. It didn't take them long to find who they were looking for.
"Ronnie! We need more nails over here!" they heard Driscoll call from the back of a house. Gredar and Jacobs entered, the smell of fresh wood surrounding them and mixing with the slightly smoky odor carried by the breeze. The members of the Voltron Force were working on this house. Hunk nodded to them as he held up a wall while Lance and Pidge nailed it to the floor joists. Keith was stringing some electrical wire, and off in a back corner, Driscoll and Allura were installing wallboards. Adam was dressed, as was rare now, in a regular uniform, but he'd taken the jacket off, and now worked in just the red tunic. Both Princess and pilot wielded hammers and nail pouches as they tacked the wallboard to the studs.
Allura turned, thinking their nails had arrived. "Oh, Commander Gredar, Commander Jacobs. Come to help us?"
Driscoll looked over his shoulder at his officers as he held a board in place while Allura tacked it. His features took on a grim, slightly-dejected look as he said, "No, I think they want to talk to me."
A look of concern crossed Allura's face. "Is everything okay?"
Driscoll sighed. "Not really, but it's nothing you have to worry about." He smiled at her reassuringly as he turned to his officers.
Allura was puzzled, but said nothing. If Adam wanted to share, she decided, he'd tell her later. But she wondered what could be so bad now that the battle was over and the Konogg Brigade was in custody?
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Adam walked off with his officers through the house and out the back door, into the yard. When they were out of earshot of the house, Jacobs said, "Captain, I think you know why we're here."
Driscoll nodded. "Yeah, I know," he said with a sigh. "The warp core thing."
Jacobs nodded. This wasn't part of her job. She didn't sign up with Starfleet to be someone's parent, especially that of some kid who was supposed to be a commanding officer, but she felt she at least owed the Captain a chance to tell his side. Out of professional courtesy, if nothing else.
"We have both sent our reports to command. Your actions were inexcusable," Gredar hissed deliberately, his silver eyes glinting in the sunlight. "You were, at that time, unfit for command."
Driscoll looked at his officers. It had taken a long time to begin to establish a rapport with them, and now it was crumbling. Not what he needed in the middle of a war, and he cursed Lotor for being the cause of it. "Look," he said, "What I said is how I feel. I'm gonna make sure Lotor goes down in flames, either from the Berlin's bridge or Thunderwing's cockpit. After what happened, it's personal now, and I'm gonna bust his ass any way I can." He paused, seeing the argument building in Jacobs' eyes, and Gredar tensing up. "But you're right. I was stupid to ignore the warp core. I put the ship and everyone on it in danger. Exactly what I shouldn't 'a done." He looked at Gredar. "You were right. You had every right to do what you did. If I were you, I wouldn't have given me even that much chance."
"Are you going to step down, then?" Jacobs asked.
"Do you think I need to?" Driscoll replied.
The two officers looked at each other for a long time. Both knew that this was coming, but neither had an answer. Both had made arguments for and against, but the regulations were inconclusive. Finally, it was Gredar who spoke. "No, you do not."
"You gonna ask Command to remove me?"
"No," said Jacobs. "Not this time. But you always have to remember that your actions affect everyone on the ship. They are your responsibility, as much as the mission is." Jacobs looked the young man in the eye. "That should always be foremost in your mind, Captain."
Driscoll nodded. He turned away, looking back at the house. "Look, for what it's worth, I know how ya feel. I musta scared the shit outta you guys. I was always taught that I had to be in control of myself, but that time, I lost it. All I wanted was to chase Lotor down and kill him, and to hell with anything else. And if I didn't have such a good XO, we might not be here to discuss it now.
Driscoll turned back to the two and half-smiled at them. "I can't promise that I won't get that pissed again, but I can promise that I'll remember it's not just me. It's the Berlin and everyone on her, too. And they come first. That is my job, after all. Not many people thought I could do this job. You gave me a chance, and I blew it, I acted like a dumb kid." He looked at Gredar and Jacobs in turn, his voice taking on a solemn tone. "It won't happen again."
Jacobs nodded at Driscoll. "The thing is, you are a kid, Captain," she said to the teenager. "But you don't run into many that can handle a starship. For a kid, you're not too bad."
Driscoll nodded, and smiled in gratitude. "Thanks, T.J." He turned to Gredar, looking up at the towering reptile. "Any thoughts to add to that, Commander?"
"I would have asked for your relief," the Gorn replied. The comment didn't surprise Driscoll. Gredar wasn't known for tolerance. "But know this: we Gorn hold all oaths absolute. And so is yours."
Driscoll realized that he'd just been warned. If he wanted any chance of restoring Gredar's confidence in him, he'd need to make sure he didn't lose control again. If he did… it probably wouldn't be pretty.
"Understood, Commander."
Gredar growled, but said nothing.
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Allura watched the whole exchange from a window, but the sounds in the house drowned out the voices from outside.
"What's with them?" said a voice behind her.
Startled, Allura spun around to find herself face-to-face with Keith. They were so close, her nose was almost touching him. Keith stepped back, blushing and looking away awkwardly.
"I, uh, I don't know. I couldn't hear," Allura said.
Keith nodded and looked out at the three for a moment, before they turned and headed back toward the house. "Well, whatever it was, it's over." Keith had his own hunch about the secretive meeting, but he'd keep it to himself, like he always did. Raising his voice, he shouted to his team-mate, "C'mon, Dinoman, you gotta get that wallboard up by the end of the day!"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin', ya slave driver," Driscoll retorted from the yard. The other officers didn't follow, and were claimed by transporter beams as Driscoll entered the house.
"'Slave driver', huh?" Keith asked, using his best "boss" voice and look.
"Yeah, well, somebody's gotta say it, and I'm the only one who can get away, so…"
"Really?" Keith asked, looking around at the others. "Well, just for that, I want this whole house finished by sundown." He wasn't serious, but he said it as though he were ordering a combat maneuver, just to see what would happen.
Without a word, Adam shrugged and gestured to Allura. "C'mon, Ally, let's do this." The two walked back to the wall they'd left off on, and Keith turned to leave.
"Hey, Keith," he heard Adam call. He turned, and just then a large, heavy glop of something wet hit him square in the chest. Looking down, he watched the clump of drywall mud flop to the floor. He looked at Driscoll, who was grinning ear-to-ear. "How's ya like 'at, massa?" he said mockingly with an affected southern accent.
Keith picked up the glop of mud. "Let me show you," he said, and hurled it. Adam dodged, and the mud caught Allura's elbow, making her drop her hammer on her foot.
"OW!" she yelled. She looked at Keith murderously. Before the commander could think, she hurled a fresh glob at him. Oh, well, turnabout's fair play… he thought.
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By the end of the afternoon, not a single new sheet of wallboard had been put up, but at quitting time, all six members of the Voltron Force were perfectly plastered, and every tub of wall mud was empty.
"That's it," said Lance, flopping down with the rest of the group on the back lawn as he dug some mud out of his ear. "Next time, me and Hunk do the wallboard. You're on cleanup duty, Driscoll."
As they sat there, shaking dried mud from their hair and pulling it off their clothes, the pilots watched the sun set and two of Arus' moons appear dimly in the fading light. Even as night fell, there were still sounds of people at work, and, at least for that one, perfect moment, surrounded by friends, nature's beauty, and the courage of mankind, everything was right with the universe.
And that's it. Another sortie ends with a successful trap and a pint in the club (or maybe a gallon in the ear, in Lance's case). Thanks very much to everyone who read and reviewed. This was definitely the most challenging story I've done yet, but I'm pleased with the results. I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as I have. And yes, I've already started on the next one. As soon as I can come up with a title for it, I'll post. Probably by the end of the month, but I've got midterms to administer (then grade...ugh) so it may be a week or two.
And a special thanks to Michaelangelo Cornholio. I'm glad I have continued to live up to your expectations, and your comment on my first story about Driscoll being sort of Mary-Sueish has been nagging at me ever since, and is a driving force behind the young Captain's emerging dark side. Just had to figure out how I wanted to do it.
Until next time, check 6.