Interlude - 7-10 Split

 

(Author's Note: I am swamped with work and health issues at the moment, and cannot get the latest promised chapter completed and published, so here is an excerpt from it that can stand on its own...)

USS al-Razi, Deck 3 Fore - Holodeck 1:

Captain Lucille Arrington stood in the approach area of her lane, ignoring the discomfort in her wrist from the weight of the purple ball resting in her right palm, her fingers lodged uncomfortably in the holes in the ball, not willing to go back to the rest of the balls and choose another, and draw scrutiny from her opponent. She’d had enough scrutiny in her life.

They had the computer-generated bowling alley to themselves, except for the holographic background characters doing their own programmed thing, though even their presence made her self-conscious; the game was new and unfamiliar to her, and she preferred to prepare alone before trying out anything new in public.

She ignored the characters, ignored the tinny old-fashioned music playing overhead and the smell of the chilli cheese dogs at the concession stand and the feel of the air conditioning on the back of her neck. She ignored everything but her objective of the moment.

She felt her boots scuff on the polished wooden floor beneath her as she strode forward, swinging her ball arm back in a wide arc and propelling the ball swiftly down the centre of the lane, following the guidelines on the floor to keep the ball as far away from the flanking gutters as she could, and towards the triangle of ten pins awaiting her. Come on, you’ve defeated Klingons and Jem’Hadar and Cardassians, you can knock down some stupid pins with a stupid ball-

Another Split, the number 7 and 10 Pins in the last row of pins still upright, defiant in their refusal to yield to her attack.

Sitting on a squeaky plastic bench nearby, her ship’s Counselor Zhuan Yan swallowed another chunk of chilli cheese dog before wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. “You do that well.” He was a slightly older, broad-framed Terran of Asian descent, with a trimmed goatee and a belly, and preferred very casual civilian clothes even when he was on duty – like now. “And how did you feel when he told you the news?”

She grunted, moving to the line of bowling balls and seeking a better one for her second shot – bet he has this holoprogram rigged to make me do bad – before selecting one, returning to the approach lane. She knew it was possible to still bring down the final two, if she was skilled and lucky, but which one should she aim for? She chose the 7 Pin, added a little more power to her swing, though she almost ended up crossing the foul line. There, you bastard! Take that! 

Inresponse, the ball… went into the gutter.

She grunted again, refusing to look up at the display board producing some holographic avatar of her failure as she cracked her knuckles, the question the Counselor asked still hanging in the air. “My Dad’s an adult; if he wants to get married again, more power to him.”

Zhuan stood and regarded her, making another sound as he strode up to the approach area, dressed in gaudy attire that he assured her was traditional for the sport; he even had his own bowling ball, an admittedly-striking transparent sphere with a dazzling miniature Milky Way galaxy within. “So, why aren’t you going? Is it because he’s marrying someone your age instead of his own?”

Lucille chuckled and reached for her cold non-alcoholic drink. “Nechayev’s 55 years old, Yan, he’s not exactly cradle robbing.”

“Then why not go? Your brothers will be there.”

“You make it sound like that should be a selling point for me. Of course they’ll be there. Bill is based on Starbase 74, a stone’s throw from Earth. And they keep Matt on Earth itself in some spare closet in Starfleet HQ, because no one is stupid enough to trust him with any real responsibility.” She frowned at him. “Well? Go on, impress me with your skills.”

“Skills? Me?” He turned towards the lane, lined himself up on the markers as if born to it, and with an annoyingly fluid ease stepped forward and rolled the ball in an annoyingly straight line and velocity towards the pins. Knocking all of the pins down. Annoyingly.

The lane displays lit up, once again, this time projecting the holographic image of a cartoonish fat bird, flapping its wings as it circled overhead. Lucille winced at it, as if it might fly down and peck at her. “What the Hell’s that supposed to be?”

He smiled, looking a little embarrassed. “A Turkey: a term for making three consecutive strikes. It goes back to the days of food awarded as prizes in bowling matches, when the game was much harder than it is now.”

“You mean this frigging game used to be harder? When was that, Mediaeval times?”

Zhuan chuckled as he walked up to her to get his own drink. “Oh, bowling’s much older than that. Evidence has been found in Egyptian tombs of a similar game, played over 7,000 years ago, but it was only in the last four centuries that the game was standardised.” He paused while he drank. “So… why don’t you want to go to the blessed event?”

She snorted. “Sorry, Yan, but as far as I’m concerned, ‘blessed event’ only applies to births, not my Dad marrying Anal Alynna herself.”

“Fair enough. But still, why don’t you want to go? You’re entitled to the leave.”

Lucille ground her teeth, delaying responding by drinking again, until she saw he wasn’t budging until she relented. “I wasn’t invited.”

“What?”

“I heard the news about Dad, the same as everyone else, in the Starfleet News Communiques, of Admiral Calvin Arrington, Retired, marrying Admiral Alynna Nechayev. He hasn’t actually spoken with me since my breakdown; everything else since has been relayed through Bill, though I expect he’s filtered out the Old Man’s continued disappointment in my weakness.” 

Now Zhuan frowned at her, aghast. “‘Weakness’? You were assaulted! The Bel-Zon had been secretly drugging you to get you removed from command of the Impala and put one of their operatives in command. You know that!”

She grunted again; yes, she knew tht, and he didn’t have to go over it for her benefit, it was a familiar little mental earworm. Dad’s response when they had last seen each other, after she had been relieved of command, was one of acute unforgiveness. She was an Arrington, after all. They had a reputation, and she had sullied it.

Dad had more respect for Baby Brother Matt, a low-flying dunsel who got himself barred from Starfleet Academy grounds after trying to bully Hrelle’s human daughter on her first week as a cadet, and ended up getting his ass handed to him by her, a kid less than half his age! But Lucille? She was the Family Disappointment.

“I know, Yan,” she finally relented, rising to her feet. “And we both know I’ve moved past blaming myself for what happened to me. And I know that Will has tried to mediate between Dad and me, and I appreciate his efforts, but the old bastard is just as stubborn as Gramps, proving that the rotten fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

She took her turn on the lane, hefting a ball up, not caring about her choice any more. “So, screw him. Screw everyone I’ve wasted time trying to prove myself to all my life. Also, Dad will want the wedding cake to be coffee flavoured: the worst cake flavour, ever, and I will punch anyone who thinks differently.” She started down the lane.

“You want a tip?” Zhuan offered.

She froze in mid-stride, glaring at him challengingly. “It’d better not be about my family, or I’ll mistake your face for those pins.”

He smiled, unintimidated. “Don’t aim for the head pin; that’s a Squab mistake. Aim for the second arrow on the gutter on your dominant side. The centre of the lane is generally the most oily part, so keeping the ball somewhat to the side is a good way to maximise your traction on the lane. What often seems the most direct approach to a problem isn’t always the most efficacious.”

“Hmph. Now you offer me help?”

He shrugged. “You could have asked for help at any time. This isn’t a proper match, it’s just a chance for you to unwind… and to be open with your feelings.”

“I think if you ask my crew, they’ll tell you that I have many faults, but one of them isn’t keeping my feelings to myself.” Lucille glowered at him. “You think I’m wrong for feeling like I do about my family?”

Zhuan shrugged again, leaning back in the plastic chair until it creaked. “It’s not my place to judge, Captain, just to make sure you know yourself. I was just wondering if you appreciate the irony.”

“What irony?”

He smiled. “For their own irrational reasons, your grandfather and father fostered a lot of hostility in you and your brothers for Commodore Hrelle, from way back when you were both cadets, a hostility that continued into your career.

It took a breakdown for you to see the errors of your ways, and now you’ve started a new phase of your life, willingly working for that same Caitian.”

She felt herself flush at the observation… acknowledging the truth behind it, if only to herself. Yes, she’d been a nasty bitch to Hrelle, for no legitimate reason except that she wanted to be the Arrington that her elders expected. And the Bel-Zon had exploited that, pushing her into a deranged state that cost her command of the Impala. The Dominion War offered her a second chance after she recovered, with the Redemption, but that was lost at the Battle of Cardassia. 

She could have languished then in some planetside assignment, no one willing to offer a third command to an Umglick, the old midshipman’s term for a Captain unlucky enough to lose more than one ship in their career.

But Hrelle had given her a lifeline, recognising that he had lost two commands of his own, so he would never judge her for that, and recognising that he respected someone with her experience and skills to help bring Salem Sector under control again.

And she had seen his achievements since the Academy, since returning from captivity: saving thousands of lives during the War, freeing his planet from the Occupation, not to mention training and nurturing superlative young officers, including her nephew Giles, and members of her current crew. When she thought of what might have happened, if the petty cruelty she and her brothers had shown to him at the Academy might have driven him out of Starfleet and back to Cait…

“I know, Counselor,” she finally admitted. “And I know I can never apologise enough to him for the past. So instead I’m gonna do my best to prove his faith in me.”

“Sometimes you can’t knock all the pins down,” he opined philosophically. “And you have to focus on one, and keep your ball out of the gutter if you can.”

“You talk a lot of balls, you know that?” She turned and sent the ball down the lane.

But before the ball reached the pins, the holodeck simulation ended, leaving them in the stark yellow and black grid enclosure, as the Red Alert klaxon filled the air.

Immediately Lucille cast out her disappointment at not seeing the results – bet it would have been a strike – and raced out, the game and the Counseling session that came with it a memory except for the ache in her arms and in her head, dodging crewmembers racing through the corridors of her ship to get to their stations, while she made her way to hers, the Bridge.

She entered, her hand reaching out to briefly touch the dedication plaque, a silly little good luck ritual that no doubt the Counselor would comment heavily on. But it grounded her, especially as she had learned more about the man whose name graced her latest command: Muhammad ibn Zakariya al-Razi, a Persian polymath and pioneer of modern medicine, chemistry and philosophy from fifteen centuries ago, dedicated to the service of his patients regardless of race, religion or wealth. Hence the ship’s motto, taken from one of al-Razi’s many works: “The Doctor’s aim is to do good, even to our enemies, so much more to our friends”. 

Yes, the al-Razi may no longer operate strictly as an ambulance ship, but the principle behind that sentiment still stood well for her: mercy to the enemies, to a degree, but not at the expense of those we are pledged to protect.

Then she focused on the Tactical display in the rear of the Bridge, before even glancing at the viewscreen, approving once more of how her Security Chief and the senior officer on duty, Lt Neraxis Nemm, had arranged the data for her Captain. “Report.”

“A private yacht, the DIsco Volante, is under attack from unknown raiders.” Neraxis’ bald blue head creased with concentration as she pointed to various areas on the display. “Sixteen passengers, six crew. They’ve reported damage to their warp drive and outer hull. I’ve transmitted warnings to the raiders to cease and desist, no response as yet.”

Arrington nodded. “Analysis?”

Neraxis’ fingers moved to adjacent data, her voice still sounding urgent but also pensive. “A mix of warp and weapons signatures, with an unpolished attack pattern, nothing unified- Raiders, rather than drones or a unified threat like the Kzinti or Orions.”

“So they shouldn’t put up much of a threat then?” Arrington ventured, prompting a response from her junior officer.

Neraxis shook her head. “Wouldn’t underestimate them just yet; a mix of ships can throw us something unconventional. But our phasers and photon torpedoes are online, and I recommend starting with a basic pattern until we get the cut of their jib.”

Arrington nodded again, with continued appreciation of the young woman’s skills - and use of old Terran Naval terms. Her husband, Lt Jonas Ostrow, another of ‘Hrelle’s Cubs’, proved equally adept with Engineering, pulling them out of the fire on more than one occasion. Really, the only problem the Captain had with them was the initial confusion over both of them being ‘Lt Ostrow’, until Neraxis resumed her pre-married surname while on duty. Thank you once again for your amazing ‘Cubs’, Commodore. “ETA?”

“Thirty seconds.”

Arrington patted her on the shoulder and strode down to the centre seat, sliding into it confidently, missing her First Officer Bill Franco, currently on medical leave on Salem One. “Take us out of warp, Mr Foxworth.”

The high warp starfield dissipated as they dropped to impulse, revealing the saucer-shaped Vision-class yacht, wounded in places as a swarm of small angry-looking starfighters of various types firing phasers and disruptor bolts at its prey.

All short range vehicles, she told herself, unable to get out here on their own power. “Tactical-”

“Scanning for their mothership now, Ma’am,” Neraxis replied briskly. “Raiders targeted. Shall we give them another warning?”

“Bad guys only ever get one warning from me, and they’ve had theirs. Phasers only, torpedo bursts might damage their prey, target weapons and engines.”

“Aye, Ma’am. Helm, Attack Pattern Alpha One!”

Arrington watched as Lt Train took her ship sweeping over the dorsal side of the yacht, narrow phaser beams shooting down to strike at the tails and atmospheric wings of the Raiders, sending some careening away, others exploding, too vulnerable or unlucky to withstand even a beam at partial strength.

Don’t expect me to lose too much sleep over your losses. “Tactical, status!”

“Two destroyed, another two damaged, spinning off- Captain! New vessel coming in, Ferengi Marauder! Weapons armed!”

“Helm, take the battle to them, away from the yacht! Weapons, ready full torpedo spread!”

The al-Raz banked sharply upwards, Arrington’s mind recalling the most recent reports about the legitimate Ferengi operations in the sector, and the criminal activities being taken to undermine security. The reports from Hrelle’s team suggested the Bel-Zon was behind it; I guess we have something else in common, Commodore: the bastard Bel-zon, though admittedly you had the worse from them. Onscreen, she saw the crescent-shaped Ferengi vessel on a hard approach, its wings containing its warp generators glowing bright.

“Entering weapons range!” Neraxis reported.

Arrington nodded. “Helm, drop out of warp and bank hard to port! Fire at will!”

“Firing torpedoes!”

On the viewscreen, the dilated fields of warp speed snapped back to reality, and a swarm of red coruscating shot forward, detonating as the Marauder fired its weapons to detonate them, even as it banked as well to avoid the detonation.

“Attack Pattern Beta!” Arrington barked, working out her next moves.

Neraxis reported, “Second volley locked and loaded! Sensors identify them as the Filthy Lucre, last reported having robbed a latinum shipment bound for- for the Bank of Bolias, Ma’am.”

“We’ll see if we can avenge your homeworld’s loss, Lieutenant. Helm, hard about! Let’s see their next move!” She ran calculations; most Marauders were tough, almost on the level with Galaxy-class starships. All they had was a little Sabre.

Sabres cut sharp, and deep, she reminded herself. “Tactical, where’s-”

The viewscreen showed the Filthy Lucre…. turning and departing. No, you don’t get away that easily. “Helm, pursue!”

They jumped back into warp speed, the dilation increasing with their speed, Foxworth reporting, “They’re reaching Warp 8!”

“Take us to 9.5, be ready to slip past them so we can hit them with our aft torpedoes.”

“Captain!” Neraxis snapped, sounding alarmed now. “The damaged Raiders we left behind! They’ve done suicide runs on the Disco Volante! They’re reporting casualties, major damage, potential warp core breach!”

Arrington frowned to herself – Ferengi weren’t into suicide, there was no profit in that – but puashed that thought aside as she stared ahead at their quarry, the hunger and the need for stopping them almost as strong as the hunger and need to assist civilians.

Almost, but not quite. Sometimes you can’t knock all the pins down, and you have to focus on one, and keep your ball out of the gutter if you can. “Turn us around, full speed, let’s get back to the Disco Volante!” 

As the ship obeyed her orders, Neraxis suggested, “Shall I alert Jonas to get a repair crew together for the ship?”

“Negative, I’m not bothered about saving some millionaire’s luxury yacht. Remmick, alert them that we’re beaming them onboard directly to Sickbay, have Medical ready for casualties. Neraxis, prepare a Tactical report and send it to Captain Godleski on the Prospero, her ship’s the closest to the Ferengis’ expected escape route.”

*

Arrington kept patient; she knew how to be patient, it was a trait she had acquired in her later years, when she had grown away from the impulsive, privileged daughter of an Admiral who thought she was better than everyone else around her.

When she believed her crew had time to assess and begin management of those they rescued, she ventured to Sickbay, finding it busy, but not uncontrollable, her CMO Dr Tina Tamatoa, a short, stocky Terran of Samoan origin, in the centre of it all as usual. “Doctor T, how are our guests?”

The woman turned to her, setting aside some medical tools. “Some burns from exposure to coolant gas, broken bones from falls, nothing we can’t handle. You should have told me we were getting celebrities.”

“Celebrities?” Then she focused on the corner of the room, where a crowd of people stood, some surrounding a small collective, with media recording drones floating overhead. As she approached, she took notice of the huge figure in the background, a massive male humanoid with bronze skin, dressed in an old-fashioned clothes, including a bowler hat, watching and grimacing at everyone.

But everyone’s focus was on a smaller, but no less dynamic and formidable-looking man, with slicked-back blonde hair and a gaunt, sepulchral face, which broke into a grin as he noticed Arrington and drew up to her. “Captain! Thank you! Thank you so much for your timely rescue! My Security Team had warned me of a threat of abduction, but I expected something to happen closer to civilised space!” He held out his hand. “Maximillian Zorin, of Zorin Interstellar...”

TO BE CONTINUED...