STAR TREK: THE NEW ORDER

DISCORD

Peace reigns in the Quadrant. A triumphant Federation has destroyed the mortal enemy of Freedom, the Dominion, and sent it back across the wormhole from where it came, and now stands as the predominant power in the region. Their century-long enemy, the hardfought foe of Cardassia, has been brought to heel and, with an allied - cynics might say puppet - government, they are no longer a thorn on the side of Starfleet. Relations with the Klingon Empire, disregarding the usual border disputes and brazen acts of individual privateers, have never been higher. Even the Romulan Empire, shrouded behind the veil of the Neutral Zone, has been making overtures of peace and reconciliation. Optimistic scholars say that reunification with Vulcan is possible within a generation. And all of this is to the direct benefit of the Federation, which in the wake of the Dominion War has swelled to a size never seen before. In other words, the Federation stands unchallenged in its corner of the Galaxy. It seems that the Eternal Peace, which billions of men and women gave their lives for in dozens of star systems and fleet actions, was a dream that was worth fighting for. It is now not only a dream, but a reality made possible by their sacrifice. Post-War prosperity rings in good times throughout the Federation, as Starfleet returns to its normal mission of exploration after being on war footing for almost ten years. It seems that life, after such chaos and destruction, is finally returning to normal.

But it is soon all about to change.

Disjointed and oft contradictory reports begin flooding the listening posts along the Neutral Zone, the officers manning the post not used to such activity from the usually secretive and paranoid Empire. Not much is able to be made out of the chaotic transmissions, except visions of an Apocalypse drawing near. As more reports fly in, the picture comes into focus. The worst fears of Starfleet are confirmed when a Romulan Warbird decloaks on the Federation side of the Neutral Zone, asking for asylum for their crew:

Romulus has been destroyed, and the Romulan Empire is disintegrating by the minute.

The various client states and slave races once kept in check by the military might of the Emperor are unleashed upon the dying Empire. The Remans, not having tasted independence since Man discovered fire on Earth, raise up the standards of their ancient Kingdom. But there are many claimants to the Obsidian Throne, each with their own men to draw upon. The Nausicaans, the Vronnuks, the Troknai, and the thousand other slave races once subject to oppressive Romulan rule too raise their banners in rebellion, but only time will tell if their struggle for independence will succeed.

The Romulan Government, having been decapitated by the loss of Romulus, scrambles to find itself in the swirling mess of the Empire. A Provisional Council, set up along Federation ideals of representative democracy - or at least a Romulan conception of it - is formed and quickly finds itself in contact with the Federation, seeking aid in the coming civil strife. Elsewhere, warlords with their squadrons roam the Empire, a headless army without a leader or a mission. They tear through star systems, looking for purpose but finding only loot and bloodshed. Rumors roll throughout the remnants of the Romulan Star Navy that, somewhere deep in Imperial space, the Empire continues on with a relative of the last Emperor on the throne, and is preparing itself for the restoration of the Empire.

It is clear to all the powers in the region that the vacuum caused by the destabilization of the Empire can only mean one thing. War is coming. The Klingons mobilize their military forces and begin sending punitive expeditions into the fractured and weakened Imperium, exacting revenge for crimes done onto their people. Squadrons of birds-of-prey and cruisers fly from their bases, bloodlust in their eyes as they descend upon the defenseless Romulan colonies.

Frantically, the 12th Fleet - normally kept in reserve for anti-piracy operations, is deployed to the Neutral Zone to deal with the incoming refugee crisis and, ostensibly, to keep the peace. One of these ships, practically rushed out of the drydock, is the USS Vigilance, an aged Ambassador-class starship in drydock for extended repairs. The crew is picked from those on temporary duty assignment and those awaiting transfer orders and, with a brief shakedown cruise to the Neutral Zone the only thing to prepare them, are sent out to enforce the Federation's ideals of Freedom, Democracy, and Liberty.

Or, at least, that is what they believe. For the dawn of a New Galactic Order is peaking over the Milky Way Horizon, and it can be stopped by no man.

Setting the Stage

This story begins roughly a few weeks after the destruction of Romulus, as depicted in the first reboot Star Trek movie. The Federation is the dominant power, by a significant margin, in the wake of its dual victory over the Dominion and Cardassia. Much has changed in the culture of Starfleet and the Federation due to the wars of chaotic war and strife, but things are beginning to look bright until this terrible tragedy occurs that, for better and for worse, totally reorients the balance of power in this troubled region of space.

This story will follow the Command Staff - the Ship's Company - of the USS Vigilance, which I will detail its service record in its own "character sheet" below. She is an older class ship, rushed out of the drydocks to take part in this operation. This will be the first time these characters will have served together, and it will be the first time they are ever aboard this vessel. The Vigilance is being deployed on a peacekeeping mission in Romulan space closest to the Federation and Klingon border zones. Most of this region of space is uncharted by the Federation and thus this story will feature both the exploration part of Star Trek, and greater political overtones as well.

I am changing a lot of things in this story in regards to Starfleet's structure as a military organization. For the sake of the RP, pretend as though this was always the case, and that Starfleet always had enlisted personnel and such. I suppose it is my biggest gripe and I intend to totally change it up. Under the hider below is the rank structure of Starfleet personnel E-1 through E-9:



Another thing that I will be altering is the uniforms. We can pretend as though Starfleet, true to its traditions rooted in the United States Navy, is altering its uniforms again for all servicemen. This time it's a total shuffle in regards to learning lessons in the Dominion War. In the hiders below, I will link these uniforms and their intended usage. This is mainly for your own visualization and to ease my discomfort on the idea of Starfleet personnel working pretty much their entire time in service uniforms. I mean, who does maintenance in a service uniform?


In addition to this, I will be introducing the Starfleet Marine Corps. I will detail their history and such in the Fact Files post below, but for now I will post the ship's compliment of Marines, their uniforms, and weapons


A final piece of the puzzle is the main character of this story, the ship herself. Below, in the hider, I've taken the liberty of writing up a partial story of our faithful old ship:

FACT FILES

More will be posted as I write them.

CHARACTERS

COMMANDING OFFICER, CAPTAIN STRENN

EXECUTIVE OFFICER, COMMANDER UDRUS AHRUME

COMMAND MASTER CHIEF, COMMAND MASTER CHIEF PETTY OFFICER BYN CH'OVIAVAL


CHIEF ENGINEER, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER HORST MEYER

CHIEF OF OPERATIONS, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER ANCELIN TREMBLAY


CHIEF SECURITY OFFICER, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER ROKUUA


CHIEF TACTICS OFFICER, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CONAAR VUVIAS


CHIER SCIENCE OFFICER, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER PADRAIG O'SULLIVAN


CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER REXA AVUREM


COMMANDER OF ALPHA COMPANY, 1/7TH MARINES, MAJOR IMPISI GWALA

Presidential Mansion
Lake Victoria, African Region
Earth, Sol System, Sector 001
United Federation of Planets

The halls of the Presidential Mansion rung with the thousand frantic calls of what had happened across the Neutral Zone, the President insisting on status updates every fifteen minutes. He summoned the Defense Minister, Foreign Minister, and the Chief of Starfleet Operations. All the communiques which filtered out of from the Neutral Zone confirmed the same thing.

Romulus was no more.

President James Aquilina, elected as a reformer who would move the Federation out from the shadow of the Dominion War, with all its chaos and strife, and into a new age of prosperity and peace, could only thing of one thing. How much it would affect him on the polls. A refugee crisis? Destabilization of the Quadrant? The end of the Congress of Bajor? That all meant he would be confirmed to a single, terrible term. History would forget him, lost in a sea of Presidents, nameless to all except a few studious bookworms.

He, his ministers, the CSO, and the Klingon Ambassador - brought to the Mansion by the CSO’s insistence - gathered in the war room at his mansion overlooking the grand Lake Victoria. The view, which commanded a stunning view of the Alexandra Nile as it flowed into the illustrious lake, was Aquilina’s favorite, and he wondered how much longer he would be able to enjoy this sight.

“We must send some kind of force into the Romulan Star Empire, or what remains of it, before it falls into total and complete anarchy. That will not be good for anyone, not us, not the Klingon Empire, and certainly not the Romulan people. A whole stretch of space, fallen to piracy and warlords! We cannot allow that!” Grand Admiral Jean-Luc Picard, Chief of Starfleet Operations, declared. It had been eight years since the event on the Enterprise-E, deep in Romulan space, brought him from the captain’s chair to an admiral’s desk, “Ambassador Torak, surely the Klingon Empire agrees?”

“The Klingon Empire must not have chaos on her borders! If the Federation is willing to enforce order, then we likewise will send our own force into Romulan space,” Torak concurred with Picard’s view, even if they had a different outlook on what that intervention force would be doing, “Is Starfleet up to the challenge, Picard? To fight these Romulan petaQs as they are pushed against a wall? Is today a good day to die?”

“Ambassador, if the Federation does get involved, it will be for humanitarian aid and peacekeeping only,” Foreign Minister Ramadhani Shamasdin spoke up, after deliberating his words carefully, “the Federation will not take part in a campaign of retribution and conquest of what remains of the Romulan Empire.”

Ambassador Torak simply scoffed and sipped at his glass of water, turning his gaze towards the Lake and refusing to answer. Picard looked over and, seeing the President looking disinterestedly in the same direction, began to speak towards him, “Mr. President, I must ask you to forget your notions of retaining power. Right now, it is the time to act, a time to step up to what your office stands for. You represent the United Federation of Planets, the greatest force for good the Galaxy has ever seen, and you must not allow billions of lifeforms to be swept into civil war and chaos.”

“Admiral Picard, if I may interject….” Defense Minister Thuzok Rossah butted in, “I don’t believe we have the resources to commit to another full-scale conflict, which this will surely spiral into. Who knows what’s beyond Romulan space! Or what’s in it, for that matter! They’ve never let us know the true number of client races within their Empire. We have no reason to do anything except increase security along the Neutral Zone.”

“And if we do that, Mr. Rossah, we’ll only be delaying the inevitable flood of refugees. It will be like the Hunnic hordes storming across the Rhine and into Rome. Do you wish to be the one who causes that, Defense Minister?” Picard looked from the Defense Minister and turned his gaze towards the President, “Or you, Mr. President? If not, you must act decisively and you must act now.”

“Alright, Jean-Luc…” Aquilina murmured, after spending what seemed like an eternity in silent thought, “You always are a bully when it comes to getting what you want, but you always have a point…” He chuckled dryly, “you’ll get your task force, Picard. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me…” Aquilina gestured to his two ministers, “we have a press conference to prepare for. The Prime Minister is going to tear us to shreds…”

As the President and his ministers left, Picard walked over towards the large panoramic windows, admiring the still relatively untouched beauty of Africa. A flock of white-bellied storks flew in the distance, gliding over the waters of Lake Victoria, “Admiral Picard, you have great honor. Your reputation is well-known throughout the Empire,” Torak spoke from behind Picard, still nursing his glass of water, “it is a privilege to meet you.”

“As you, Ambassador,” Picard nodded, turning around to face the Klingon, “your fleet action at Ioya V during the War was astounding. I remember reading the after-action reports and…”

“Enough of my track record, Admiral,” Torak smiled, cutting off Picard with a wave of his hand, “We have a problem, that only men who have tasted combat will ever see…” He had Picard’s attention, “The Romulan space must be absorbed into our states. There is no other option. It is a simple fact, that no one wants to come out and say! Oh, how you Federation types love your word games. Whatever we do, peacekeeping and securing space, just delays when we must face up to that fact.”

“They will be admitted into the Federation if they so choose, Ambassador…” Picard spoke, but he knew the Klingon spoke wisdom.

“As your War Advisor pointed out, there is much out there that we do not know of.” Torak paused, and then turned his gaze towards the lake, “This view reminds me of my home. Except there, it is much more beautiful.”

CHAPTER ONE: THE ROMULAN CRISIS

Somewhere near the Neutral Zone
USS VIGILANCE
STARDATE 64607

"-Romulan refugee ships have begun to filter across the Neutral Zone. Starfleet ships have been dispatched to assist in aid operations, which is becoming the greatest humanitarian crisis of the Alpha Quadrant's history. Here with us is-"

"-Defense Minister Thuzok Rossah has announced that the joint Klingon-Federation task force has entered Romulan space and is proceeding to make contact with the Romulan Provisional Government in the Hasseleh system. The Romulan Provisional Government consists of former sen-"

"-in soccer , Vulcan has beat Earth 5-4 in the third round of the Federation Cup. They will proceed onto play the Saurians in the next match tomorrow. We'll now take it to T'Pra for the latest stock exchan-"

Captain Strenn switched off the newsreader. It was all too much. He sat in silence in his ready room, the stars streaming past the large window above the settee. A cup of herbal tea, made from leaves grown in the arid deserts of the Forge, was slowly losing its warmth on the table before him. The Vulcan Captain's mind was racing, far faster than he could handle with his nearly five decades of carefully constructed mental walls. His father would be utterly ashamed that his eldest son could not keep his emotions in check, but how could he? Strenn had been aboard the T'Kumbra, in fact had been her Executive Officer, when it was destroyed on that fateful day above Cardassia. Captain Solok, that brave officer, went down with the ship and with most of the crew. Strenn, for his bravery, was promoted to Captain and awarded the highest award the Federation can bestow. Strenn, however, considered it an insult, even contemplated on resigning his commission. But that would not logical, since Starfleet needed experienced officers now more than ever.

And so that's what brought him to this lofty position as a Commanding Officer of a cruiser, no matter how aged she might be. It was a high responsibility to be a starship captain, and he felt the pressure sit heavily upon his shoulders now that he was sitting in the central seat. But the question "What would Solok do?" raged in his mind every time he made a decision, even if it was 'Boats, ahead warp five.' Solok was a true Starfleet officer, and more, he was a true Vulcan. Strenn, on the other hand, was only a fair facsimile.

The great pressure of being a starship captain weighed even more knowing that the Vigilance would be a high-profile ship, certainly subjected to scrutiny from the highest levels of Starfleet. The actions that the 12th Fleet, now temporarily renamed the Joint Federation-Klingon Peacekeeping Task Force for the Romulan Empire - or simply the Joint Task Force, would take - or not take - would be analyzed from every angle. The stakes were incredibly high, and for Strenn, it seemed too much.

Why had he come back to Starfleet at all? The Vulcan Diplomatic Institute had even offered him a tenured teaching position, disregarding his youthful rejection of the stuffy university for the future in the stars that Starfleet promised. It certainly wasn't the money, for he had enough of that, and it wasn't because he enjoyed space, because he had seen enough of it. He found it difficult to isolate exactly why, in the churning waters of his mind. The storm continued to rage and send electric bolts flying every-which-way in his brain, with no end in sight.

The door buzzed, breaking through the clouded thoughts of the Vulcan captain.

"Enter."



Commander Udrus Ahrume, Executive Officer of USS Vigilance, entered into the ready room of his Commanding Officer. It would be his first time meeting face-to-face with Captain Strenn, who had suspiciously secluded himself in the two weeks that they had been on the ship, getting the heavy cruiser shook down in preparation for what the papers were now calling "Operation Vanguard," the largest peacekeeping mission in known history. It sounded like horse-shit to him, but what did he know?

"Good afternoon, sir," Commander Udrus stood at attention as he entered into the cramped ready room, which was little more than an office desk, a settee with a coffee table, and a replicator mounted to a wall. Nothing adorned those walls, typically spartan as most Vulcans tended to be. Udrus made notes of his surroundings as he stood in those brief seconds before reporting, and did a glance down upon his own uniform. His Service Uniform was immaculate, pressed with no lint or dust hairs, and his shoes were so polished you could see the streaking stars on the toes. Not that if mattered if he was unsat, since he couldn't change it by then anyway, "We've crossed the Neutral Zone, and entered Romulan Space."

The Vulcan looked up from his gaze, firmly locked on the tea cup sitting on the table, and locked eyes with his First Officer. Commander Udrus, though no telepath, knew the thoughts running through that analytical Vulcan's mind. He would, by now, be recalling that this Bajoran Rebel-turned-Starfleet Officer had a track record the size of some small holonovels, most of all that damned business on the Albatross with that Cardie frigate.

If the Vulcan asked for an explanation, he mused to himself, then he would simply tell him that he only regretted that he did not kill the lot of them when he had the chance.

But instead of demanding that he explained in detail why he hated the Cardassian Race so much, the Vulcan simply rose to his feet and spoke one word, "Good...." and without further discussion led the way back onto the bridge. Udrus noted, in the back of his mind, that this Vulcan was perhaps the most peculiar he had ever known. Even more strange than that bastard Stavath.

One thing was certain, Vulcans were hard to get along with, and even harder to understand.



"Lance Corporal, I need not have to remind you to 'wrap it' and to have some military bearing."

Lieutenant Commander Avurem shook her head unsympathetically to the five Marines in Sick Bay. The first "casualties" of the Vigilance's underway were these foolish Marines who caught STDs while on liberty call at Starbase 764 before she departed. They had all been involved in a group orgy, apparently, and it got out of hand relatively quickly - even for Marines.

Fucking bitch....

Avurem's eyebrow raised as the Lance Corporal's inner monologue spat venom at her. Little did he know that "this fucking bitch" was a Betazoid. She chose, oddly diplomatically for her, to hold her tongue instead of firing back. "I will be consulting with the Major to schedule more instruction on sexual health."

The Marines' inner thoughts said some more vulgar obscenities, but outwardly they remained stoic and unbreakable. They were dismissed from Sick Bay, each with a hefty prescription of antibiotics and the knowledge that they would soon be sitting through hours of Naval-mandated powerpoints on the dangers of unprotected sex.

The Corpsmen and nurses in the Sick Bay shared the Marines' distaste for the Betazoid doctor, but she didn't care at all. She had stared down and won against foes far greater than they. It didn't matter much if they hated her, so long as they did their jobs. And she made sure of that. With an iron hand, the battleaxe doctor ensured total obedience to naval regulations.

Naturally, the more experienced and seasoned medical staff chafed under these rules but they had no choice. Avurem was committed to following the regulations to the letter. She had seen first hand what happens when they aren't followed; people die. With the grumbling thoughts of the medical staff piercing her brain, she beat a hasty retreat into the office and closed the door behind her, valuing what little inner silence she could have.



In his office, Lieutenant Commander O'Sullivan read the reports from Romulus with great sadness, but also great enthusiasm. The sadness, from the demise of a glorious Empire and the almost-assured fracturing of the political union that had been around since before Man united his own world. The enthusiasm, from the knowledge that out of this chaos, so much could now be uncovered about the secretive Romulan Empire.

He knew firsthand the kind of secrecy that the Romulans prided themselves upon. It was like pulling teeth trying to get anything out of them, and that was on a joint scientific effort on their own people. Debates would draw into the wee hours of the morning some days on whether or not the science teams could be permitted to stray into the Romulan-aligned worlds in the Neutral Zone. It was a work of nothing less than God Himself that O'Sullivan had been able to prepare a report on the Romulan ethnogenesis at all.

He wondered what sort of secrets the Vigilance would be on the frontline discovering. Those mythical races like the Troknai could finally be studied, and their Race's history finally given true light in the Federation. Perhaps even the Vronnukai would be able to reclaim their birthright.

But, at the moment, he could only watch the holonews and wait for the order to come down to his Department.



"I'll take a rum and coke, thank you very much."

The mixed drink phased into existence on the replicator dispenser tray in the Officers' Mess, and was eagerly taken in hand by Lieutenant Commander Tremblay. He was thankful that the Starfleet replicators ensured that the beverage was distinctly nonalcoholic. If it wasn't, well, he would probably be stuck back on that Starbase in Terminal Holds.

It was a wonder that he had been permitted back into space at all, after that whole business on Risa. As he took a seat in the empty mess, he chuckled quietly to himself about the crazy turn of events that led him here at all. An adventure while on leave in Bajor made such a shock in the new Member State that politics forced Starfleet Command to re-evaluate the troublesome Lieutenant. A reassignment to a tinpot cruiser was one thing, but a promotion? When the Commodore gave him his official certificate, he could've hardly believed it possible.

Politics was the name of the game, after all, and Tremblay played it exceedingly well. He even got a nice medal from the Republic of Bajor to show for it too. How many non-Bajorans had been able to get anything from their government, even a thank you for liberating us? Very few, so few that they could all be counted on a human's hands.

As the ship sped at warp speed into Romulan Space, the Chief of Ship's Operations downed his synthetic mixed drink and slammed the glass on the table, and debated within himself on whether or not he wanted another drink.



Reports from the latest all-hands drill sat on the Chief of Security's desk, right beside a cup of scalding hot coffee. The Saurian Lieutenant Commander never had the drink before he went to Mineman A School in San Diego, but soon found himself utterly addicted to the drink. Wherever he went, that cup of coffee followed him.

The reports, as expected, were well above Starfleet standards. But they were not up to Rokuua's. The response times of the anti-boarding parties were abysmal to him, and those sailors would be running drills this entire underway until they shaved off those precious 30 seconds. He knew, better than any of the officers here, the sort of grumbling these sailors would be cursing and swearing about their Security Chief, but he knew that deep down they would understand if the Vigilance was ever in a true battle situation.

He learned a lot from the Klingons, and sought to implement their anti-boarding tactics into Starfleet as a whole. He considered his experience in the Empire all together positive, if a little shaky when the brief conflict between the Federation and the Klingons exploded just before the Dominion War. But he bled alongside that warrior Race, and found great sympathy in their honor-bound race. They reminded him of his own, who had once been so much like them.

Rokuua took another sip of his coffee, and pondered exactly how he was going to shave off those 30 seconds.



Deep in the bowels of the aged heavy cruiser, Lieutenant Commander Meyer was hard at work crawling through the Jefferies tube adjacent to the Main Engineering compartment. The Division Officer, a young Ensign fresh from the Academy, was outright confused not only by Meyer's insistence on crawling into the tube at all, but making the young officer come along with him. The accompanying Engineman, Second Class (EN2), however, took a distinct degree of pleasure in watching the DIVO squirm.

"EN2, you said that this was the junction where the system reported a problem?" Meyer inquired from the Petty Officer who was picking up the rear as they reached a tube junction, his thick German accent making it hard for either man to understand him very well. "I don't see a damn thing wrong here!"

"Sir, I'm tellin' you, this ship is haunted..." The EN2 shook his head with absolutely no sign of joking, "This isn't even the half of it. The computers randomly turn off, or start accessing files from random folders. The Warp Core Main Terminal locked us out for a good three hours yesterday. We almost had to pull back into port. What an embarrassment."

The trio sat in the cramped junction as the Chief Engineer wracked his brain. It was like the computers had a mind of their own! He had even gotten reports that the shields were randomly deactivating, thankfully only for split second intervals but it would be a major problem in the heat of battle. What next? Life support systems fail across the ship? Malfunctioning holodeck training simulators kill the entire Marine contingent?

"Sir..." The DIVO interrupted the Chief Engineer's rambling and disjointed thought train, "Could we perhaps figure out this problem....outside the tube?"

"Ah, ja, of course, of course!" Lieutenant Commander Meyer nodded, a little red from embarrassment of having been caught in his head. With the relieved DIVO and a bemused EN2 in tow, Meyer slid down the tube, eager to research exactly what the hell happened to this ship.



Major Gwala, an imposing figure amongst the Starfleet sailors aboard the Vigilance, stuck out like a sore thumb in his Utility Uniform. The coverall-like SWUs were like a sea of blue in the haze-grey passage ways, and the Marine was like an island in this vast ocean. He thought to himself how odd it was that most of these sailors had barely come of age when he was fighting the Dominion armies on a hundred worlds.

Did any of them know that he was the man who planted the Grand Flag atop the ruins of the Chancellery? The image had burned itself in the holofeeds across the Federation, and indeed across the Galaxy. When the Blue Flag of the Federation was unfurled over the burning city, it sent out the signal that the Terrible War had finally ended. But scars never heal so nicely. How many men and women died in fields far from home? The freedom that they had fought for had been taken for granted for far too long, and only now the Federation was beginning to realize it.

There was little love between the Marines and sailors, an interservice rivalry older than the Federation and Starfleet, but the Major had some respect for the iron men and women who sailed on titanium ships in open space. So many Starfleet sailors perished, just as the Marines did, in brutal combat. Starfleet had gone in half-cocked, and it was only due to their will and courage that the Federation had triumphed at all.

The Major said nothing as he entered the turbolift, except to say "Bridge." There were two sailors inside the lift, talking about something that made the old Marine smile.

"...I don't know why GM1 has to be such a fuckin' dick. My boots were perfectly fine. I literally put polish on them last night. Dickhead thinks we're all supposed to have clean and polished boots like we're in A School or something. The instructions say they need to be blackened..."

"I don't know either, man. Maybe his wife cheated on him."

The pair of grumbling sailors departed on Deck 6, and the Major continued his trip up to the bridge. The doors slid open shortly after, and he stepped out onto the bridge just in time to witness history.



This was the oldest ship he had ever been on, and he didn't like it one bit. There was too much wrong with this damned ship.

Lieutenant Commander Vuvias shook his head from the Main Tactical station on the bridge. On the screen, all systems reported functioning and normal, but he knew that was bullshit. If a Romulan warbird confronted them now, he was sure that the shields would fail or that the torpedo tubes would malfunction like they did on the shakedown cruise. That German Engineer still hadn't figured out what was wrong with the ship, let alone gotten anywhere close to fixing it.

Why did Starfleet have to move so slow? Why did they decide to bring this piece of shit back into service at all?

The Vulcan Captain, flanked by the Bajoran XO, entered the bridge from the Captain's ready room and began the ritual of relieving the Watch.

"Attention on deck!" Lieutenant von Körner, the Officer of the Deck, shouted as the Captain entered the bridge.

"As you were." Strenn waved his hand and approached the OOD, "Any updates, Lieutenant?"

"USS Courageous is requesting all vessels attached to the Fleet connect to her channel. She is going to begin broadcasting soon." The Lieutenant made his watch report, still standing at attention before Captain Strenn, "other than that, there has been some odd readings from the Warp Core and from minor systems on Deck 6, but Engineering is dealing with it and it has not affected any operations."

"Very well." Strenn nodded, "I relieve you, sir."

"I stand relieved. Attention in the bridge, Captain Strenn has the deck!" Lieutenant von Körner shouted once more and the bridge, once more, leapt to attention. This sort of pageantry and show-ponyism always left a sour taste in Vuvias' mouth, and he hoped that he would never have be subjected to this indignity if he ever became Captain.



Of all the things he would wish to deal with, a Disciplinary Review Board was certainly not one of them. The CMC hated those, even more so than when he was a junior sailor. Now on the inside looking out, it was such a tedious process and almost wholly unnecessary. A show of theatrics that younger chiefs and senior chiefs indulged in, that he found no similar need to do.

The latest was that of Yeoman, Third Class Daniel Joachimshalter. The recently-frocked Petty Officer made a fool of himself while on duty, sneaking off to his berthing and nipping at some smuggled whiskey he brought aboard. When assuming his watch station, the sailor he was relieving immediately smelled the alcohol on his breath and reported it to their LPO, who escalated the situation to necessitate a DRB. Ultimately, and all but assured, YN3 Joachimshalter was recommended for an XOI board, where CMC Ch'oviaval would have to see his face again. And surely after that, he would see him once more at Captain's Mast, when that same Third Class would get placed on liberty restriction, half months' pay, and the host of other punishments that could be meted out.

As the CMC made his way up from the Third Deck, where the DRB had taken place, to the Bridge, he thought about some of the more unusual punishments he had seen given to sailors while in Starfleet. There was that one time on the Idaho, when his LPO, BM1 Conta, had been caught running a gambling ring in his berthing. Instead of giving him the normal restriction, half months' pay, and Extra Military Instruction, BM1 Conta had his designated replicator meals restricted to bread and water only for a month.

CMC Ch'oviaval smiled to himself, remembering those bygone times with some fondness. Whatever happened to that old Tellarite anyway? Surely, he was either a CMC like Byn or out of Starfleet entirely by now. Perhaps, though, he was one of the untold billions who did not survive the Dominion onslaught which claimed so many.

The CMC entered the Bridge just as the official hand-off of the Watch from the Officer of the Deck to Captain Strenn was concluded, so his entrance was unnoticed except by the glances of some of the petty officers manning their stations. Certainly none of the junior - or for that matter senior - officers noticed the Command Master Chief enter. Not that he minded much anyway.

Captain Strenn, standing to the right of the Captain's chair but for some reason refusing to take a seat, turned towards the Communications Station, where Chief Operations Specialist Kernaghan was awaiting his orders, "Chief, put Courageous through."

"Aye, aye, sir." OSC Kernaghan replied simply and obediently, and with a slight move of hand, the viewscreen that once showed stars was replaced with the bridge of the Sovereign-class starship, the flagship of the Task Force. At the center of the screen was Commodore Doma, a grizzled Bolian and a veteran of the War. Vigilance must have been the last to connect, for shortly after he was put on the viewscreen the Commodore began his speech.

"All Starfleet and Federation vessels, we are about to undertake a mission unlike any other in the Alpha Quadrant's history. The eyes of thousands of species are upon you today, the hopes and dreams of billions of souls depending upon your adherence to duty. I expect every sailor in my task force to be model Starfleet servicemembers, and to act in accordance with the Starfleet Creed. We represent the Federation, and we cannot let these people down. Captains, you will receive a coded transmission detailing your specific operational goals." The Commodore paused, "I wish you all the best of luck. Godspeed!"

The screen was replaced by the eternal starscape of deep space, displaying a region of space that had not been traveled by Starfleet since the days of the Earth-Romulan War. "I'll be in my ready room. Commander, you have the bridge." Strenn turned heel, and without doing the formal trade-off of the Watch with the Executive Officer, disappeared into his ready room as quickly as he had come onto the bridge. The bridge staff was stupefied by the quick disappearance of their Captain into the ready room, none moreso than Ch'oviaval, who had been used to ostentatious and eccentric Captains using every opportunity to "show their feathers."

The strangeness of the incident, however, was quickly lost as the bridge staff returned to duty. Except the CMC, who locked eyes with the XO as both seemed unsure of what to do next.