Surefoot 56: Shelter from the Storm

USS Triton, Thirteenth Fleet Headquarters

Stardate 51183.45:

Tattok sat behind his desk, staring hard at the image on his desk monitor, grateful that the one on the other side wasn't here in the flesh. "And that's it, Admiral? No apologies, no regrets, no excuses?"

The image of Admiral Ian Trenagen was sitting in his own office in the London annex of Starfleet Intelligence, sipping tea from a delicate-looking china cup, as if he was visiting one of his nation's former royalty. His swept-back, snow-white hair was immaculate, and a raised eyebrow shifted his normally-impassive hangdog expression. "Would any of that bring back the dead, Admiral?"

Nearby, Tattok's son, Captain Weynik, stood up, his already-angry expression at being present for this meeting deepening. "No, but maybe they still deserve an explanation for your office's piss-poor performance, Trenagen."

Tattok made the minimum amount of effort to silently cut off Weynik's rebuke of a superior officer, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen. "Admiral, every commander in Starfleet relies on your office for accurate intelligence, especially prior to a combat engagement. The intelligence you provided us before Khavak came nowhere close to being accurate. I believe the living deserve that explanation, if not the dead."

Trenagen sipped from his cup again, setting it down at his leisure before responding. "Since the annexation of the Cardassian Union into the Dominion, the latter has been brutally effective in identifying my office's operatives and informants in their territory, and in some instances feeding them misinformation." He sighed as he reached for a biscuit. "I realise that you and I have hardly seen eye-to-eye over the years, Tattok. But you must believe that the loss of so many lives has affected me as much as you."

Tattok nodded; privately he wouldn't trust Trenagen to tell him that water was wet, but he chose not to antagonise matters further at this time. "Shall we proceed to the reason for this communication? The Surefoot is still missing behind enemy lines, incommunicado. My son is preparing to launch the Ajax to search for her along the most probable route. This involves two entire sectors of space, over fourteen systems. From a previous briefing you informed me of a Klingon Task Force in one of those systems preparing to attack. Any information you can provide us now, from the Klingons or any other sources, on that sector, would be valuable."

Beside him, Weynik made a noise, but otherwise offered no other comment.

Trenagen leaned back in his chair. "I will examine our latest intelligence. However, we lost contact with the Klingon Task Force two days ago, and the sector in question has no inhabited worlds, no colonies or outposts or facilities of any kind. In the meantime, I offer your stalwart son my very best wishes on a successful location and rescue of the intrepid Captain Hrelle."

Weynik crossed his arms and replied, "Stick your very best wishes up your ass."

Tattok tensed, sparing Weynik a dirty glance, before looking back at Trenagen. "Please excuse Captain Weynik, Admiral. He's worried about the fate of the Surefoot, and the hundreds of survivors it is carrying."

Trenagen nodded, folding his hands before him... and his contempt clear on his aged face "A worry we all share, Admiral, I can assure you. Captain Hrelle is very fortunate to have someone like Captain Weynik watching out for him... just as Captain Weynik is very fortunate to have someone like you watching out for him."

Tattok leaned forward. "What do you mean by that, Ian?"

The Englishman raised an eyebrow. "Merely that youth carries with it many positive qualities... but prudence is rarely one of them. But with good fortune, they do develop such traits... before they reach a position in their lives when no amount of influential patronage from their parents will protect them from the consequences of their actions."

Tattok gripped the edge of his desk. "Ian... I hope for your sake that you haven't just threatened my son. I really hope for your sake."

Trenagen remained unmoved, however. "And Tattok, I really hope for your sake that you understand what an effect this War will have on the dynamics of Starfleet and all who serve in it. Even one with your position and influence. Especially after Khavak. It is a poor workman who blames his tools... and frankly, I fear for your continued role with the Thirteenth Fleet."

He terminated the communication without further ado.

Weynik uncrossed his arms. "Charming prick."

"Shut up." Tattok forced himself to calm down, before turning in his chair to face his son. "Are you determined to ruin your career by antagonising him? Have I not made it clear how much power he actually holds, however unofficially? He has connections!"

Weynik grunted. "How many connections? 31?"

Tattok stood up. "Section 31 doesn't exist; you know it, I know it."

"And?"

"And why would you want to antagonise the bloody head of it? I won't be around forever."

Weynik continued to stare at the darkened screen. "Neither will he, at least to judge from what I've seen between him and Ma'Sala Shall."

"Ma'Sala? When did you meet her?"

"I haven't yet, in the flesh, just communicated with her and Trenagen after that business with Sasha and the Ferasans." He straightened up. "Right, we've wasted enough time! The Ajax is ready to head out and find the Fat Cat! What other Fleet ships are coming?"

"None."

"Excuse me?"

"None." He paused as a message appeared on his PADD; he read it, and rose to his feet. "Oh, I've received many volunteers: the Minotaur, the Argonaut, the Essex, and others. But I can't spare them; they're needed here to protect the Fleet vessels still under repair and recovery."

"Fine, I'll go alone!"

"No." He walked to the windows of his Ready Room. "You're not. The aforementioned Fleet Captain Shall is imminent, to assist with her own vessel, the Mother's Fury."

Weynik was taken aback as he joined his father. "The Caitian Planetary Navy's own flagship is coming here?"

"No. It is here." He nodded outwards.

Weynik's jaw dropped at the sight of the Mother's Fury: a cobalt-blue vessel, more resembling some ancient sea-faring battleship than a starship, longer than a Galaxy- or even a Sovereign-class Starfleet ship, and sporting sharp, swept-forward radiator and atmospheric fins and multiple banks of wicked-looking disruptor cannons and missile launchers, came into view... passing the Fleet completely and heading in the direction of the Khavak Sector.

Bloody Hemra, that monster looks almost as tough as the woman commanding it... He knew that the many member worlds of the Federation all had their own local defence organisations to varying degrees depending upon their cultures and histories, from the, well, the non-existent forces of the pacifist Halkans, to the tough, scrappy Andorian Guard ships. But this? The Caitians really knew how to pack heat, as they used to say in the old Terran gangster videos. "She's not wasting time."

"If it were my family out there, I wouldn't either," Tattok suggested. "Get going, Son. Get them home."

*

"USS Surefoot-A, Personal Log, Cadet -- sorry, I mean, Ensign -- Zir Dassene, Stardate 51183.45: We remain behind enemy lines, hiding as best we can, moving as best we can... surviving as best we can. We have shortages of food and other resources, there have malfunctions, fights among the survivors as well as between them and our crew, and we're working shorter shifts to avoid burnout. But we'll survive.

I'm... I'm waiting to feel horrible.

I'm mean, just a couple of days ago, I killed a couple of Cardassians. I killed with a phaser and a knife. I had their blood on me. It wasn't the first time I've killed. Years ago, I had to kill the Orion shipmaster I had hired to get me into Federation space, but who'd betrayed me... who'd brutalised me. But that was purely in self-defence, before I had even dreamed of entering Starfleet Academy. I fought, I killed, as a member of Starfleet, a citizen of the Federation, in defence of my shipmates, my... people.

I had a talk with Counselor Hrelle. She warned me the impact will hit me. Or it won't, she added. As enigmatic as ever, at least at the time. But I'm understanding it more now. I'm hoping that, when it does hit me, we won't be in the middle of a clusterfrick..."

*

Deck 3 Fore -- Officers' Mess Hall:

As she stood in line with her squadmates, Zir realised that now, at the time when they had earned the right to come here for food instead of going to the Enlisted/Cadets' Mess, everyone was coming here, including those survivors scheduled now for their morning meals.

Ahead of her, the massive frame of their Security Officer, Urad Kaldron, blocked the view of the replicators, until he turned around, the grey pachydermoid appearing unusually apprehensive. "Please, Comrades, I will only attract resentment among the survivors if others see how much I am consuming at this time compared to everyone else. I should go-"

Beside him, their Medical Officer Peter Boone grabbed him by his huge arm, though the tall, thin blonde human male had no real chance of stopping him if Urad wanted to leave. "Hold it, buddy! It's not like you're being greedy! Your Hroch physiology needs more food, more often, than most humanoids. You can't just cut down! Remember what happened in Sickbay 3 yesterday?"

At their feet, the lump of fibrous brown rock that was their Science Officer Stalac rumbled. "I certainly do."

Urad glanced down at him, his hippo-like head expressing remorse. "Please. Comrade Friend, I have never passed out before! I didn't mean to land on you!"

But the Horta just rumbled with amusement, accentuated by the tone in his voder unit bolted to his side beside his Starfleet combadge. "Quite alright, my friend. It wasn't the first cave-in I'd experienced... just the first Carbon Based Lifeform cave-in."

"You're going to accept your allotted rations, Ensign Kaldron," Zir announced, finishing the conversation. "And we're going to watch you eat every bite. You're needed. We're all needed. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Comrade Squad Leader."

Behind Zir, her Squad's Flight Ops Officer, Astrid Michel rocked in place, occasionally resting her hands on Zir's shoulders as if for support, murmuring, "Ensign Astrid Michel... Ensign Astrid Michel..."

Zir glanced over her shoulder, the Orion girl looking up at the dark-skinned human. "Pull it together, we're all sleep deprived..."

"I'm not, Fearless Leader. I'm just seeing how it sounds. 'Excellent piloting, Ensign Astrid Michel'... 'Please accept the thanks of a grateful Federation, Ensign Astrid Michel'-"

Behind Astrid, their Engineering Officer Tori Emoto, the shorter girl invisible behind the taller Astrid, muttered, " 'And the Starfleet Medal for Modesty goes to... anyone but Ensign Astrid 'My Head Is Bigger Than The Andromeda Galaxy' Michel."

Astrid looked behind her and winked. "I could still win it, Gearhead."

"You, Flygirl? You're about as modest as a fricking Klingon sex toy."

Peter turned to exchange glances with Zir. Of them all, both of them had been worried most about Tori, following the attack on her by the Cardassian invaders in Engineering days ago. Peter had been providing his Counseling services to her, and keeping Zir updated. She sounded more like her old self now, but Peter had warned her that, like the rest of them, the effects may yet to be seen.

The lines to the replicators moved quickly; it helped that with rationing, choices were very limited, and there was less reason to sit around for lengthy conversations.

Stalac had moved up with Urad, the latter able to reach the asking, "Your usual Granite and Copper Casserole, Comrade?"

Stalac rotated, as if looking around despite having no conventional eyes, before replying, "Actually, I just realised I have some preparations to make before we continue our study of the Jem'Hadar, to find a treatment for their Ketracel White addiction."

Peter knelt down beside him, reaching out. "Buddy, I'm sure you can take five minutes to grab a bite-"

But Stalac rumbled backwards. "I'll come back when it's less busy, friends, I promise!" Then he departed, side-sliding around the lines of people waiting their turn.

Peter rose again. "I've been checking the replicator logs. He hasn't eaten since he recovered from his injuries."

"Are you sure?" Zir asked. "He says he's had, even if he hasn't eaten with us."

"He's the only one onboard with his dietary requirements. No one has ordered anything mineral-based."

Zir selected a plate of eggs and sprinkles of bacon and an orange juice, asking Peter, "And what about Counseling him on experiences killing those Jem'Hadar?"

The tall blonde human took his oatmeal and honey to an unoccupied table. "A couple of times. He insists he can't recall anything."

"You don't believe that. You need to press him on it."

"I have."

She sat down beside him, waiting for him to continue, and when he didn't, prompted, "And?"

"And... it's like talking to a brick wall."

Everyone else looked up at him, Tori offering, "Really?"

Before he could respond further, someone Zir didn't recognise at a neighbouring table rose to her feet, coughing, her face quickly reddening, before clutching her throat, eyes wide, as people flanking her rose, first to help her... but then to begin acting identically.

Peter rose immediately to help, Zir following, before seeing others at other tables coughing and choking. She looked to her squadmates. "Don't eat!" Louder now, she called to everyone. "STOP EATING!" She smacked her combadge. "Medical Emergency in the Officers' Mess Hall! Bridge! Shut down all food replicators!"

*

Deck 2 Fore -- Main Shuttlebay:

"Are you really a Klingon?" the little human boy asked.

Doctor Kline grunted as he finished suturing the gash on the leg. "I am indeed. Does that frighten you?"

The boy stuck out his chin. "No! I'm not afraid of nothing and nobody!"

He chuckled. "Good for you." He returned his autosuture to his kit. "But perhaps you should be afraid of jumping off the tops of the shuttlecraft in here-"

"You!"

He turned and rose at the challenging voice, tensing as he watched three senior Starfleet officers approach: two humans and an Andorian. The rank on one of the humans told him it was one of the Captains of the ships they had rescued, some petaQ who thought his rank still meant something now. Kline straightened up. "Do you require medical assistance, Captain? Perhaps something for your constipation?"

The man stopped in his tracks. "I beg your pardon?"

Kline bared his jagged, yellowed teeth. "No need for begging, Captain...?"

"Price, Nathan Price, of the Lynx-"

"Don't you mean former Captain? Or do you still command its wreckage?"

The Andorian standing at Price's side stepped forward now, his antennae dipping in anger. "You need to remember you're speaking to a superior officer, Mister-"

"It's Doctor," Kline corrected, thoroughly unimpressed. In his time working with Starfleet as part of the Medical Exchange Program, he had learned how to treat those around him, and had learned to respect those he worked with. These whiny targs they saved, however, were another case altogether, one he had little patience in indulging. "And you need to remember that I'm a civilian serving on this ship. If you wish to lodge a complaint against me, I will direct you to the Chief Medical Officer, or the Captain. I am certain either could do with a laugh in these hard times."

"Stow that insolence," Price snapped angrily. "What's going on? Why has Hrelle stopped people from getting food? Keeping it all for himself?"

"I understand there is a problem with the replicators." He leaned in slightly closer to Price. "And in any shortage of food, Captain Hrelle will always be the last to indulge... appearances to the contrary."

"We've had power outages, drops in temperature, and now the replicators aren't working! I've been more than patient with Hrelle, but enough is enough!"

Kline drew back, smiling and nodding, announcing with deliberate volume, "Excellent! You intend to challenge him for command! To fight with him to the death and take his place!"

Price blanched, aware of people turning their attentions on him. "Fight? To the death? What are you talking about?"

"It is the Klingon Way! Or do you intend to adopt the Romulan Way, and assassinate him instead?"

"Are you insane? We're not Klingons or Romulans! We're Starfleet! We don't fight or assassinate for leadership!"

"No. You don't." Kline bared his teeth, his raised voice laced with contempt, knowing he had the immediate area's attention. "And you don't skulk and whine like a pack of smacked targ pups because it gets cold or dark and your meals aren't there when you want them! You show discipline and resolve!" He looked around him. "And you show respect and regard to the man who sits in the centre chair on the Bridge! The Caitian Warrior who has saved us, time and again! Because he has earned it, from all of you!" He gave Price a sneer. "Regardless of rank. Summon me when you're ready for treatment for that haemorrhage under your nose, Captain."

Nearby, Captain Sakuth, Starfleet Intelligence operative, former commanding officer of the James Fenimore Cooper, sat alone in one of the Surefoot's remaining shuttles, a place of respite from the assembled survivors of the Battle of Khavak outside, and a place to secure the intelligence data she had gathered from the battle. She had listened in on the encounter, confirming that Price was an inconsequential pawn in her dealings on this benighted vessel.

She used the shuttle's computers and her own advanced equipment to access the Surefoot's main systems, confirming what she had been told by Hrelle about their current status; it appeared the Caitian had been completely upfront to her about their circumstances... an honesty she certainly wouldn't have employed if the situation had been reversed-

She felt a familiar buzzing in the back of her skull. She sat up, triggering the biofeedback response to indicate she could receive the secured transmission. A man's voice with a Terran British accent reverberated through her. "Captain Sakuth."

The Vulcan breathed in, confident that the Surefoot's security systems would not pick up the subspace signals. "Admiral, I had hoped to hear from you sooner."

The icy barb in his tone was clear, even across many light years. "I was otherwise engaged in clearing the mess you left with the surviving crew of the Cooper. According to the reports of the Bridge officers, during the battle you froze, refusing to acknowledge the crisis around you or respond to the recommendations of your crew, necessitating Admiral Arrington's son Giles to take over."

Sakuth stiffened, having hoped the other Bridge crew had been killed while evacuating their vessel so as not to reveal the more unsavoury aspects of that incident. "They are mistaken. I was otherwise engaged in the security of vital data at the time, and trusted Lt Arrington to manage the minor-"

"Of course," Trenagen cut in impatiently. "This is precisely how I ordered the eyewitnesses to remember the incident... and trust such behaviour will not be repeated from you. Ever. Report."

The Vulcan swallowed. "The data from the Cooper is secure. The vessel is proceeding along a circuitous route to avoid an increased number of Jem'Hadar patrols. There are 218 survivors onboard; resources are being rationed. We have just made an encounter with an extradimensional vessel, with entities reported in historical Intelligence reports; Hrelle has classified the details of the encounter, but I have secretly gained access to his ship's computer, and have copied these, along with the personal logs of all his crew.