From: Jerome McKee (parakeety_at_hotmail.com)
Date: Thu Jun 28 2007 - 09:07:00 PDT
"DESOLATION, PART ONE"
(Continued from "The Worst Pain That There Is")
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Captain's Log, Supplemental - With the Reaper's attacks stopped, a
semblance of normality is returning to the station. Yesterday, I received a
message from BAJOR that a delegation of Vedeks will arrive here today to
return the Orb of Judgement to the other side of the wormhole - thew Kai has
decided that the eleventh Orb's place is amongst its own people...
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Location: Space Traffic Control Centre
Stardate: [2.7]0628.1700
Scene: Control Room
Time Index: A few days after the events of Sarah's post
The watch manager crossed the floor of the control room, reading the PADD
that contained the flightplan of the Vedeks' shuttle. The room was a hubbub
of chatter - approach and en-route controllers vectored the long line of
space vessels that awaited entrance to the wormhole, watching their progress
on three-dimensional holographic generators. With such an amount of traffic
waiting to use the wormhole, things could get hectic, but space traffic
controllers were a generally ambivalent lot.
"SS STAR QUEEN, decrease speed to point-three sublight, you're catching the
traffic ahead of you."
"Freighter K'SARRA, cleared to enter wormhole via marker bouy one. Live long
and prosper."
"Negative, shuttle SKINFLINT, I am not aware of ther twenty-seventh Rule of
Acquisition and don't want to buy real estate on RISA. Please contact
wormhole approach on frequency one-one-eight-decimal nine."
The watch manager stopped by the Met desk. That's what it was called -
although there *was* no meteorological activity in space, the Met controller
monitored the area of space immediately around the wormhole, watching the
event horizon for anything untoward, like dark matter asteroids,
multi-phasic phenomena, or even the sudden, if unlikely, appeareance of
something like a cosmic string.
The Efrosian controller on duty looked bored. "Anything?" asked the watch
manager.
The Efrosian shook his head - ever since that vacation on TERRA last year,
he'd done nothing but copy Human mannerisms. "Negative, sir. That VIP
Bajoran shuttle entered the wormhole ten minutes ago, according to DS9
control. We're expecting them at the top of the hour."
The watch manager nodded blithely. "Wormhole still the same?"
"Does it ever change?" the Efrosian grunted. The wormhole, interestingly,
been continuously open now for the past seven years, two months, and three
weeks, but did not seem to display an untoward reaction to the seemingly
endless stream of shuttles, freighters, and starships that passed through it
on a daily basis. It was truly a cosmic tunnel, linking Alpha and Gamma
Quadrants together, making a seventy light year journey pass in just over
forty minutes. In the half-century or so since its discovery, it had become
a vital commerce link, with explorator and diplomatic missions from both
quadrants passing through it. It was a life-line to both quadrants, its
constancy a familiar thing. It had only been sealed once, back in the
Dominion War, but ever since then had continued, stoically and with much
welcome, to admit and gently push out the myriad space vessels that
traversed it. It was Constant.
The watch manager didn't know much about the aliens that were reputed to
inhabit the wormhole - some other-dimensional entities sacred to the
Bajorans they called Prophets. What they were, what they wanted, and why
they were wasn't all that important to the rest of the quadrant, only that
the wormhole was there. He wasn't that sure he understood all that much
about Bajoran mysticism, either, but at the end of the day he didn't need
to. Space traffic control existed to maintain a safe, separated, and
expeditious flow of traffic through the wormhole at both ends, and that was
what they did.
"Thanks," he said to the Efrosian controller.
Just another day at the office.
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Location: GS-2
Scene: Temple of the Prophets, Promenade
**Thank you for saving me, Prophets. Grant me strength and humility. Send
your blessings to my family. Let me not forget nor forsake my heritage as a
child of BAJOR.**
Gene McInnis paused mid-prayer, watching the glowing Orb where it rested
behind its protective forcefield. He was one of several dozen prayerful
pilgrims, but ever since his resuce from under the knife of the maddened
Ranjen Roh, he felt for the first time in years that he had something to be
thankful for. There was nothing like a brush with death to make one realise
the true value of living, to appreciate the things one normally so easily
took for granted. Everything stood out a little clearer now - colours seemed
to be more bright, thoughts came more easily, and emotions were that much
closer to the surface. Ever since the rescue, telling Xana that he loved her
had taken on new meaning - the words themselves seemed insufficient for
expressing the feeling, inadequate to vocalise the the sheer depths of his
heart.
There was the fact that he had made contact with the Prophets, too. For too
long, and for various reasons, he had pushed them to the back of his mind -
for a time, he was sure that they didn't even exist. That viewpoint had been
completely turned on its head now, although a little evil corner of his mind
still sought to explain away his vision as a dream or the lucid
halluncinations of a traumatised mind. The Prophets had saved him, had shown
him the universe from an angle that he had never even conceived of before.
Was it salvation? He knew, upon reflection, that he had not made contact
with them - *they* were the one who had made contact with *him*.
Now, he had to figure out what to do, how to integrate the events of the
past few days into his life. It was not going to be easy, he knew - such
occurrences tended to leave a legacy of their own, bitter echoes that
manifested in nightmares and cold sweats, shaped by the night's darkness and
given voice by the long hours of silence. Hard times were ahead, but his
resolve was undiminished.
A blue glow in his mind's eye bloomed like a flower, bathing him in its soft
glow. He felt calmer somehow, suspended in a comfortable gloom, imagining it
suffusing his spirit with balm, easing all his worries.
It was the gasped shock of one of the prylars behind him that shattered his
reverie and rushed him back up to full awareness, and made him open his
eyes.
The Orb of Judgement was levitating about a foot above the plinth it rested
on, turning slowly on an invisible axis, shining like a verdant jewel. The
blue glow had passed through the protective forcefield like a mistral wind
over white sand. and as Gene watched in amazement, started to pulse, sending
out ripples of its nascent power like a marker beacon hanging in space. The
pulses illuminated the Temple to every corner, drowning all other light.
Gene looked down at his hands in awe, imagining the power of the Prophets
coursing right through him.
They stood there for several moments. The pulses did not stop, and
maintained an incessant rhythm, keeping time to an invisible tempo. By now,
dozens of pilgrims had filed into the temple, and many more were jostling
for position to see. Several cried out, praising the Prophets, but others
lamented, wailing for the Prophets to spare them from Judgement.
Gene focused as the imperative reasserted itself. Something was Going On -
the pulsing of the Orb continued apace, with no signs of it slowing down or
stopping. The protective forcefield was still in place, as one over-zealous
pilgrim discovered as she attempted to touch the Orb, a rapturous look on
her face, but that did not stop others from moving as close as they could,
watching intently as the Orb hung in mid-air, revolving round and round
seemingly under its own power.
Gene wondered what to do - say another prayer, perhaps? Word was spreading
out on the Promenade - excited clamours began as the hundreds of queueing
Bajorans scrambled to see what was happening.
"What does it mean?" breathed a prylar in fearful awe.
Gene had no answer.
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Scene: Ambassador's Office
Michael Turlogh Kane entered Xana Bonviva's office like a soldier going into
battle. This woman need to be nipped right in her bud, and Kane reckoned he
was just the man for the job. For good measure, he had put himself into an
even fouler mood than usual this morning, stoking the fires of his own ire
and shifting the overflow onto Xana bloody Bonviva.
They eyeballed each other for a a moment. Kane felt a measure of distaste
for her racial heritage - what sort of a pervert would be sexually attracted
to little fat blue Bolians? - and balled his hands into fists.
"Tea?" She smiled at him like a cat smiling at a mouse. "Have a seat."
"No on both counts," he said angrily. "This isn't a social call."
"I was just being polite," she said bitchily. "What do you want, anyway?"
"To deliver a message."
"Oh? And what's that?"
kane crossed the room and leaned over her desk, resting his palms on the
wooden surface. Oddly, he felt that his prosthetic eye was vibrating in his
head. In a voice as low and deadly as he could muster, he let her have it.
"That this is *my* station now, not yours. Whatever airs and graces you have
about retaining a measure of authority in the command structure of GATEWAY -
forget them. You are a politician, a meeter-and-greeter. A middle-man. A
go-between."
"Is that right."
"It is. Your little attempt at vigilantism with a deadly weapon, which
included threatening behaviour against a civilian resident of this station,
is as unwelcome under my authority as it should have been under yours, as it
would be everywhere else in the Federation. To that end, you will be subject
to a criminal investigation, and if Mister Rixx wants to press charges
against you, you will be prosecuted to the full extent of civil law." He
raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to go to war with me, Ambassador, because
I don't take prisoners. Am I making myself clear?"
Xana was flushed now, her sky-blue skin tinged with an odd purple blush as
her blood got fired up. "You tin-plated dictator! You don't tell me what to
do to protect my family, you pompous bureaucrat!"
"This is not about your family, this is about order!" Kane roared, thumping
his fists on the tabletop.
"You have no idea how this station operates! You don't just swan in and
expect everyone to bow the knee to you!" sneered Xana. "The criminal
fraternity on GATEWAY piss all over your order on a daily basis - who in the
eighty-eight hells do you think you *are*?"
"If you recall, that's exactly why I was appointed station commander!"
bellowed Kane. Outside, Xana's staff watched furtively from their
workstations, casting fearful glances at one another as the row escalated.
"Previous commanders have obviously not been up to the job!"
"Don't you *dare* question my record, you sacrosanct bast - "
[[Lieutenant Yao to Captain Kane.]]
Kane and Xana both froze, killing the moment. Pausing, Kane remembered that
Yao was the duty officer on in Ops. Slowly, he pressed his communicator. "Go
ahead, Lieutenant."
[[Reports are coming in from the Temple of the prophets, Captain. The Orb
there is behaving strangely. We've also received a priority one communiqué
from BAJOR - the Kai himself is urgently trying to contact you.]]
Still staring daggers at one another, Kane's brow furrowed. "I'm on my way,
Lieutenant. Kane out." He looked back at Xana. "This isn't over."
"It's just beginning," she responded.
He turned and stalked away, ignoring the worried stares of the ambassadorial
staff.
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Scene: Gorman / Potter quarters
"Arse! Bollocks! Goolies!" squealed Rick, capering around the living room
like an asylum escapee. El'rhon and Dahlia looked on in facination as Rick
got his groove on, shimmying around the floor to imaginary music. "Penis!"
he yelled with delight.
Kat waddled out of the bedroom where she had been having a lie down, jaw on
the floor. "Merrick!" she said sharply. "What are you saying!"
"Fanny!" screeched El'rhon suddenly, joining in the fun. "Fartbags!"
Kat looked down at them like they were mental. Maybe they *were* mental, she
thought bleakly. It was a good thing she was on maternity leave, she knew,
but when the twins started acting up like this, she wished she'd never been
impregnated in the first place. After all, the best years of her life were
doomed to be frittered away, given over to the complete care of some brat
who yelled out dirty words on random whims.
Plus, she thought gloomily, I'm as fat as a Tarkanian land whale.
"Now stop that at once!" she admonished sternly, waggling a finger at them.
"Do you want Mummy to give you a red bottom?"
"Snot! Puke!" shouted Rick gleefully.
"I'm warning you!" Kat said loudly.
"If you hit us, we'll write a book!" said El'rhon suddenly.
"What?" Kat looked at her daughrter. Actually, she was probably Fek'hlar's
daughter. It was like being in a war, with enemy fire coming in from all
sides. Kids wwere capable of lightning-quick thinking, usually on mad
tangents with no relevance whatsoever to whatever topic was under
discussion. She wished that Jeff was here. "What do you mean?"
"Cor-poreal punishment is inunillegal," explained El'rhon with suitable
gravitas. "That means that it's against the law. When we grow up, we'll
write a book on how you hit us and make a million strips of latinum!
Kat felt like she was going to faint. Her temperature was up, too, she could
feel it. Bloody pregnancy. Bloody brat-children with their abusive parent
book deals. She put a tired hand on her forehead. "Look, just stop saying
bad words, please?" She didn't mean for it to sound so plaintive, but that's
how it came out.
"Penis is not a bad word," said Rick loftily. "It's bye-bye-logical. It's
scientifical. Look, I'll show you." He started fiddling with his pants
buckle.
"You keep those on!" gasped Kat, aghast. "Please behave, Mummy is tired - "
"Did you hurt yourself?" asked Dahlia suddenly. Her little brow was furrowed
with concern. "There's blood on your dress."
Kat looked down and, sure enough, saw a large red stain spreading down her
thighs, seeping through her maternity dress. Like an inrushing wind, fear
blew over her, making her heart thump in her chest and her limbs shake in
sudden panic. Her legs gave way, and she sagged against the wall.
"Mummy!" El'rhon screamed, voice shrilled with uncomprehending terror.
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NRPG: Part 1 of 2... stay with me, now ;)
Jerome McKee
the Soul of Captain Michal Turlogh Kane
Commanding Officer
GATEWAY Station
the Soul of Lieutenant Solomon Arn
Senior ACT Instructor
Starfleet Academy
"He speaks an infinite deal of nothing!"
- Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice", Act 1, Scene
1.113
"Futile is resistance. Assimmilated you will be."
- Yoda of Borg
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