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Post by Tom Marsland on Jul 4, 2019 18:25:39 GMT
War. War Never Changes. Hour One.
(Joint Log with Aoibhe)
The crunch of her heavy boots on the unsteady rubble all around did nothing to salve her ragged nerves as she blindly crossed the site of the second blast. The air was bone dry and full of static. Eddies of dust and debris swirled and died like the ghosts of the men and women she’d lost, haunting her as she pressed on towards ground zero.
A dream had died in this place and even the unsettled wind seemed to mourn.
Here, until recently, had stood “Leeson’s Rest”, a small town with a disproportionately large cemetery to the north. It was here that many of the Maquis affected by Captain Sisko’s policies had taken their last, shuddering breaths. Ironically, the living residents had now joined the dead, buried under the town itself.
“How do you commemorate the dead in a town that was named to commemorate the dead?”, she wondered.
Her boot scuffed against something soft in a sea of hard angles. She shuddered, instinctively knowing what it must be. She forced herself to look down, her eyes alighting on a limp, lifeless hand half visible beneath the avalanche of wreckage of what had been the village bar hours before. She stared. She could just make out the tattoos on the index finger and thumb under a layer of blood and grime.
Danann recognised the inkwork.
Tom’s people had scanned the blast area before she’d beamed down and they’d found no lifesigns. It wasn’t worth digging to check. With a grimace and a hardened heart she pressed on.
Behind her at a respectful distance stood a Starfleet Security detail. Whether they were there to monitor or protect her, she wasn’t sure and she hardly cared. Either way, all they could do was observe her as her life and her plans once again folded and tumbled to the ground in death and disarray.
Tom followed Niamh - not behind, more to her side. “You acknowledge them,” he said. “You mourn them. You help them rebuild.” Tom wandered amongst the wreckage as well, horrified at what the ex-Bremen had wrought. “I knew that there was animosity amongst the various Maquis captains, Niamh, but I didn’t know something like this could happen.”
"Neither did I."
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Federation or no Federation, Nia.. these were my fellow human beings. I am sure former Starfleet Officers lay among the people here." They did, Danann was certain. Tom pressed on, "We have to recognize that, recognize the humanity that we all possess, and end the conflict.”
"What in godsname do you think I was trying to do?" she replied numbly, her eyes cast into the distance, idly noting the curve of the small, arable planet’s horizon. "But those animals refuse to listen… and now… now look." Her breath caught as the wind tossed her hair. "These people followed me, and they died for it."
“Nia, that doesn’t mean stop trying,” Tom evened his tone, trying to appeal to her logical side. “Unfortunately, people will die, but conflicts will resolve. We will get through this.” He turned Nia to face him, and wrapped his arms around her. “You can’t give up.”
She let him console her, and for a fleeting moment she felt the comfort of it.
The wind whipped up as Tom looked out over the remains of the frontier town, stirring up clouds of dirt and dust on the horizon. “The people here will rebuild, like before,” he said, “And they will continue to believe in good. I know you left Starfleet, Nia.. but we do believe in good as well.”
“They will rebuild,” she repeated, her voice low and shaking. Then, with a sudden, emphatic shrug she broke the embrace. “With what, Tom? With who?!”
She backed away from him and cast her arms wide. “What’s left?!” she shouted into the stillness. “These people had had enough suffering. They wanted peace,” she continued loudly, turning back to him.
“And I was naive and arrogant enough to think I could give it to them... I thought ‘Hey,’” she laughed ironically, exaggerating her body language, “‘...why not?... I’ve faced impossible odds before, right?! I’ve stared death in the face countless times! I’ve inspired bravery, I’ve commanded crews... I’ve even got Soule Douglas to do what he’s fucking told more than once’…" her voice cracked as she continued, “...I’ve lost people I love... over and over and over again... and I survived… I thought I was strong enough and smart enough to do this! But this isn’t the Kobayashi Maru, Tom… I can’t just... laugh this off, pick myself up and buy everyone a fucking drink after!!”, she roared. “This wasn’t a sacrifice I was willing to make!”
Tom quieted his voice, and reached back to Niamh, placing his hands on her shoulders, squaring her to face him. “That’s not the Niamh I know at all. This may not have been a sacrifice -you- were willing to make, but it is a sacrifice these people were willing to make. They chose to follow you. You’re more of a Captain than you know.”
“You can’t be a Captain without a crew…” she mouthed, the truth of it hitting her like a gut punch.
Tom smiled softly. “I remember a time, Nia, when you helped me - when your friendship is probably what saved me in Starfleet. It was 2nd year, do you remember? I was having trouble with the advanced flight and evasive maneuvers class?”
“...I told you to pick a single point, and focus on it…” she remembered.
“...and never to let go of that focus, that it would see me through. And you were right, it did.”
Niamh bowed her head. That seemed like a very, very long time ago now. She had been a very different person back then; timid, talented, but no less naive.
Tom drew her attention back to him. “...I think, maybe, you need to take your own advice.”
Niamh turned her gaze towards the centre of the destruction. “Pick a point...and never let go…” she repeated softly. Her green eyes flashed with a steely, determined look.
“And I, and my crew, will be here with you through it all.” As Tom spoke, a single pin-prick of light began to shine in the upper atmosphere of Zeta Nine. Then another, and another and another.
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Post by Tom Marsland on Jul 7, 2019 3:48:00 GMT
War. War Never Changes. Hour 24.
(Joint Log with CJ)
Sara stepped off the turbolift, trodding along the corridor towards her quarters after yet another long day, one which failed to really resolve anything. They still had one or more saboteurs on board. They still had lost half a dozen people. There were still Section 31 operatives working to bring conflict between the Federation and the Bok’Nor Pact. Command still hadn’t gotten back to her about her clearance.
Sara could handle having problems. She could handle having a lot of problems, but the powerlessness to fix any of them was the thing she couldn’t handle. What good was it to be Captain of a compromised crew? What could they reasonably accomplish knowing that, at any time, an enemy agent would be in place to hamper their efforts? This was as critical a problem as could be, and what was her solution again? To give this enemy or enemies an out?
She was a damned fool, and she could hear Jonathan saying as much. Jonathan wouldn’t take this shit lying down. He’d do something ruthless and effective to purge his crew, wouldn’t he? Was her perspective of the man even close to the truth any more, after turning him into a psychiatric foil?
Failure. Utter failure in every corner of her mind, her being, weighing across her shoulders because she now also had to be a cliched Atlas figure.
The doors to her quarters swished open.
“Mommy!” called Ulani, as thrilled to see her as ever. For the moment, hearing Ula’s voice lifted her spirits, and she smiled and bent down to scoop up her charging daughter and pull her into a tight hug.
“There she is,” said Sara, nuzzling her cheek into Ula’s as the Cardassian girl laid her head on her mother’s shoulder - a different weight, but a weight nonetheless.
“Hey, love,” greeted Thalev, who wrapped the two of them in an embrace. For a moment, Sara could forget her troubles, simply enjoying the warmth of her unlikely family.
“How are you?” asked the Andorian. Sara simply gave him a tired smile, and he kissed her forehead.
“Mommy, I made you a painting,” offered Ula. “But it’s still drying, though.”
“She’s literally been watching it dry,” remarked Thalev, eliciting a slight furrow from Sara’s brow.
“I wanna show it to you when it’s done!” Ula pressed.
“Okay, baby,” said Sara, turning her attention to the girl and offering a smile. “Mommy has just do a few things in the office, and then hopefully it’ll be dry and you can show me.”
“Okay!”
In an instant, Ula had kissed her cheek and sprung free of her grasp, sprinting back to her room.
“She’s been watching paint dry?” Sara asked dubiously. Thalev just shrugged.
“It’s just one of those creepy things she does now, I guess,” he lamented, before hugging his wife once more. Sara spent as long as she dared in that embrace before moving into her office, sitting heavily in her chair as she activated the terminal.
“Messages,” she called, eliciting a chirp from the computer.
“No priority messages,” it relayed. “Three query hits. No unsolicited messages.”
“Give me the queries.”
“Query one: FNN article on Operation Seleyan Sun.” She could read that later. Maybe.
“Query two: Attack reported at Zeta Nine.”
Sara’s heart froze before sinking directly into her stomach.
“Display that report,” she instructed. The Starfleet bulletin displayed on her screen, a sense of nausea building as she read. She looked for the reporting ship: The USS Zorya.
---
Tom tossed and turned in the plush bed in his stateroom, trying to sleep. He’d spent 23 hours on the planet’s surface, trying to allay fears and convince the Maquis below that he and his crew were here to help. At some points he’d thought he’d been successful in convincing the survivors that the Akira-class vessel was not, indeed, the source of the photon torpedoes that had detonated above the planet’s surface, and at other points he thought his words were falling on deaf ears.
He also still couldn’t come to grips with his discussions with Niamh - There were Maquis spies, and who knows what else, running around on his ship. How to get rid of them plagued his thoughts night and day, and even now, after being awake for over 20 hours, he couldn’t find the solace he needed in his comforter.
Rising, he padded over to his desk and slouched into his seat. The whiskey from his decanter flowed easily into his tumbler, and he flicked on his terminal, reading the latest news from around the quadrant.
An alert popped up on his screen, an incoming communication request from Sara Sumner, Captain of the Chiron - and former Captain of the Bremen.
He ran his fingers through his blonde hair quickly and glanced at himself in the mirror, frowning at his tired face. Odd, he thought, as he tapped the screen. Commander Marsland of the Zorya. To what do I owe this honour, Captain Sumner?
"Captain Marsland," greeted Sara, managing a brief smile, though the worry in her expression was evident. "Sorry to bother you. I just got the alert about Zeta Nine. We, uh, had dealings with the world recently. How… How bad is it?"
“Pretty awful, but please.. Call me Tom.” A wane smile crossed his face. “A large portion of the inhabited populace has been wiped out. Many of the Maquis now think I did it, thanks to another faction of the Maquis and their resurrection of one of our ships. “I’m trying to figure out a way to track her down.”
Tom sat back in the chair a bit, his forehead creased with worry. “I don’t know what do. Part of me thinks I shouldn’t even be out here, but I feel like our presence could be key to resolving some of the conflicts these people have faced.”
Sara averted her gaze for a moment, unsure how to delicately ask her next question.
"Was Niamh Danann there?" She looked back to the screen.
“Yes, she was here on Zorya for a bit, and then side-by-side with me for the last 23 hours on the planet’s surface. We were old Academy classmates.” He sighed. “I have hopes that she’ll come back to Starfleet, but I don’t know.” Tom straightened up in his seat. “Her faction is the one here on Zeta Nine. They were attacked by another faction… using the ex-Bremen as their flagship. She’s more of a Captain now than we are, I’d almost be certain of that. She’s taking the damage here pretty poorly.”
Sara stared blankly at the screen, entirely unsure how to process, well, any of that information. She set about prioritizing.
"But Nia's alive," she said, more to herself than Tom. "And this other faction - they're flying my ship?"
There was just a hint of anger in her gaze.
Tom simply nodded. “They are. I tried the old SF command codes. No dice. I have another problem, too. There are spies on my ship. Probably from multiple factions of Maquis. Hell, we might be being listened to right now; but I don’t care. I’m going to do what I can to see the re-unitement of these people and safety - we owe them that much.”
Sara heaved a sigh that might as well have been a growl, momentarily running her hands over her face. 'Zombie-Bremen' hadn't even been on the list of things she'd expected from this call, and her inability to do anything about it seemed to make all the other bullshit filling her head just a touch heavier.
Her hands fell away and she looked to Tom, her visage steeled.
"I'd drop everything to come help, but the Chiron has its own infiltration problem, not to mention the whole 'don't start a war with the Bok'Nor Pact' thing," she explained. "For what it's worth, I think you have the right idea. The Federation owes a great deal of reparation to the people of Zeta Nine. I suggest bothering Command as much as possible for relief supplies. If they give you the runaround, tell them you'll have me call them on your behalf - they'll hate that."
She gave a small huff, running a hand through her crimson Mohawk.
"Will you do me a favor and give Nia a message from me?" she asked, her voice considerably more soft.
Tom nodded. “Of course, I can pass along anything you’d like. She’s a pretty awesome person who seems to have lost her way. What can I tell her?”
Sara thought on that a moment.
"She's finding her own way," she offered. "She gave much to Starfleet, more than it could reasonably ask of any of us. Don't push her too hard to return, or she'll turn away completely."
She gave a small nod, mostly to herself.
"As for the message, tell her that I'm… I'm sorry I can't be there for her, that I would be if I could. Then you tell her I expect her to send me everything she has on whoever took my ship. Tell her that I'll come get it personally if she doesn't - she knows full well how big a pain in the ass I can be."
Gravely nodding, Tom glanced to his left, to the picture frame sitting there. It was a graduation photo he still cherished of him and his friend with the fiery red hair. He held up the photo for Sara to see. “Such a long time ago. I’ll make sure she gets the message. Deal with your spies on Chiron, and let’s go put the Bremen to rest, what do you say?”
Sara managed another small smile at the picture.
"We'll have to share stories over a drink sometime," she mused. "Sounds like a plan, Tom. Thank you."
“Of course, Sara. Keep in touch, and fly safe. Marsland out.”
———————— Tom rose, padding his stateroom. It was almost the beginning of Alpha Shift again, and about time to head up to the bridge. He stepped into the shower, allowing the scalding water and steam to envelop him, cloud his mind, and give him time to think.
Maquis infiltrators. A Starfleet ship hijacked by the unfriendly Maquis faction. The True Federation still lurking around every corner. And a planetary bombardment to atone for. How was he going to handle it all?
Pick a singular point, and focus on it. Take Nia’s advice yet again, he thought. He stepped out, toweling himself dry, and pulled on a clean uniform.
“Time to get to work.”
--- Sara ended the comm and stared blankly at the screen, feeling a great many things all at once. She felt helpless. Powerless, even, bordering on defeat, and that particular bullshit wasn't gonna fly.
She was up and out of her office in an instant, making for the door out into the corridor.
"Bad news?" asked Thalev, putting up a wall of guilt that stopped her in her tracks.
"Something like that," she murmured.
"Need to go?"
Sara sighed and ran a hand over her headfuzz. She didn't need to go, per se. They were stuck there, and it wouldn't matter much if Raqiin knew now or later.
"I can cover for you," offered Thalev.
"No," replied Sara. "I don't need to go."
Thalev pushed off the bulkhead as Sara turned and walked into his open arms.
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Post by Tom Marsland on Dec 16, 2019 7:42:21 GMT
Stardate 11912.15
Marsland tried to distract himself as he sat at his desk and stewed. It was one thing for a Commodore or Admiral to come aboard and start throwing his weight around, but to be thrown out of a briefing before it even began and ordered to his ready room?
The ship had accelerated to warp a few minutes ago. Something which he hadn't ordered. It definitely felt like the final straw. Or it had, right up until the doors to the room hissed open and the Commodore strolled in without even sounding the door chime first.
The two of them just stared at each other for a good moment before the Commodore simply said "Commander…" as greeting.
Tom stood, a distinct angry expression on his face. “Commodore. To what do I owe this… pleasure?” He was going to remain political.. To a point. No one gives orders on his ship. No one but the Captain.
The Commodore produced a thin and mirthless smile as he folded his hands behind his back.
"We can dispense with the pleasantries, Marsland. We could beat around the bush for a good few minutes here. I could ask about your ear and your state of health. You could offer me a drink before we get down to business. But we both know that neither of us care to do that. So first thing's first. Say what you gotta say to me, son."
“Commodore, you and I both know and understand the expectations and the responsibilities of command. While you are on my ship, I’d ask that you follow the same protocols your Commodores followed back when you were a starship Captain. That’s all. We are assigned here to help you, and I will follow those orders to a ‘T’. But on my ship, I give the orders. If you need the Zorya to do something, it goes through me.”
Tom steamed at Truman. “Well, there goes Captain,” he thought to himself as he remained standing behind his desk. But there was protocol that was violated, and Tom was a protocol guy.. When it suited him.
Commodore Truman paused a moment. He was completely unreadable though there was a flicker behind his eyes that may or may not have been something like impressed.
"Well at least you seem to know what a protocol is," he began, "Commander you haven't been assigned here to help me. You have been assigned to my task force in this sector. I am your direct CO now. Which means that as of this moment the only reason why you are even in command of this ship at all is because I've been told that you are better at your job than I think you are. I need this ship. But I don't need you…"
Tom held a hand up. “Commodore, I understand your point. And I know you understand mine. Can we get to work?” Tom turned, not really waiting for a response, and pulled up a graphical depiction of the sector. “What do you have for us?”
The Commodore threw a look that made it clear he wasn't actually done with the conversation but stiffly took the seat in front of Marsland's desk.
"I need ten more ships to adequately protect this sector. I asked for five because I knew there aren't starships to spare. They sent me just you," he sighed and let down his guard for just a second, "Talarian ships keep going missing and they keep blaming us. At this point if we don't find the real cause soon they're going to start a war. And they don't even need to take on our ships. They can just go around our ships and attack our colonies direct."
If he saw the look, Tom didn’t show it. He thought for a moment. “Okay, so what we need is some firepower, I agree, but also, I would suggest some diplomacy.” Tom tapped at the screen and showed his fighter squadrons. “I can have my fighters do patrols of the sector looking for anything out of the ordinary. What sort of diplomats do the Talarians have here? Why not have one of them ride the Zorya? They can see first-hand that we aren’t doing this. We could embark a Talarian ride-along on most of our ships out here, if you’re amenable to that, Sir.”
The Commodore cocked his head in a somewhat pitying way.
"Diplomacy is not the Talarian's strongest suit. The closest thing they have to ambassadors are the war orphans they took from Federation colonies during our first war. They function within the Talarian military, and while some of them have been less chilly towards relations with us they are still for all intents and purposes entirely loyal to their surrogate people."
He leaned forward on the desk and folded his arms.
"We did have two Talarians in Starfleet which I had hoped could come here to serve as a bridge between us. Unfortunately one thing that was in neither of their records was that there was a blood feud between their families. They didn't even know. Until the day they did. After that I had one Lieutenant with a knife in his chest and a Commander that shot himself as ritual suicide for breaking his oath to Starfleet. Their honour system is so complex I've heard even Klingons struggle with the nuances."
There was a long pause and Marsland noted that Truman looked as though he hadn't shaved that day as he absent-mindedly rubbed the stubble on his chin.
"The fighter screen isn't a bad idea," he finally allowed, "We thought of doing something similar but O96's runabouts are too necessary to their daily operations and the fleet shuttles don't have the capabilities we need. Your squadron might give us a little more to work with. You can implement it at your first opportunity."
He got to his feet and returned to his stiff edge of formality he had assumed before.
"Right now we have other issues. I ordered your crew to set a course for what appears to be a wrecked Talarian warship that we detected this morning. A few hours ago we sent the Lexington to go on ahead and see what they found. Unfortunately we've just picked up a distress signal from the Lexington. Seems they may be under attack."
Tom stood, eyeing the map and the Commodore. “Certainly. Seems prudent we get out to the Lexington and give her all available aid. As for the fighter patrols, I’ll brief my team and we’ll get that started. Anything you can forward us on the Lexington and on this Talarian warship will be vital, of course.”
Tom took a sip of coffee from his mug. “Is there any thing else I can do for you now? My crew assures me quarters are ready for you, if you’ll be staying aboard.”
"Not necessary, Marsland. I'll have the Storm rendezvous with us and I'll disembark. All the data we have on the Lexington and the debris is already in your databanks," he paused and tapped his knuckles on the back of the chair he was just sitting in a moment ago, "Lexington is the only other ship we have close to being a heavy hitter. And Captain Harleck is one of my best. If they've been overrun then we may have a serious problem…"
He nodded and turned on his heel, the ready room doors parting for him obediently.
"Nice office…" he simply said in passing, then stepped out of the room, the doors once again closing to cover his departure.
Tom sighed. It was going to be a long day.
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Post by aoibheni on Dec 17, 2019 7:47:04 GMT
Nice writing, you two! I thoroughly enjoyed that.
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Post by Tom Marsland on Feb 24, 2020 2:47:34 GMT
Stardate 12002.22
It took around a day and a half to get things squared away after the battle. Marsland beamed over to brief the Commodore on everything that had happened while Zorya was under the Gorn-induced communication blackout. Commodore Truman met him in the Storm's transporter room, demanded a run down, listened intently for five minutes then sent him back. Marsland never even stepped off the transporter pad. For the rest of the day the Zorya's crew diligently got to work repairing the ship. They'd been fortunate that despite the beating they had taken there were only a handful of injuries throughout the ship. Meanwhile Captain Xolon recovered well enough that Dr. Rousseau reluctantly allowed him to return to the remaining Talarian cruisers which in turn lumbered back towards their own space at low warp, though not until Truman had confirmed with the rest of the Task Force that the Talarian fleet was also backing down. Yet there was a tension that rippled through the crew. The loss of the Lexington was a blow. The survivors had been sent to Outpost 96 for debrief and medical care but none of the senior staff had made it out. As much as Starfleet wanted answers, Commodore Truman wanted them more and he had a relentless demand for all the sensor data and information that the Zorya had on the Lex and the Gorn while making a flurry of subspace transmissions to the CNC and diplomatic corps. After forty hours of this he signalled over to Zorya and asked for Marsland and Feyna to meet him in his office aboard the Storm for a briefing. As the doors opened they caught him in mid conversation with someone on the comm. "I'm not saying I told you so, all I'm saying is that this all proves just how vulnerable this sector is," he said, looking up from his desk and waving the two officers in.
Marsland paused, briefly, running his fingers through his hair quickly and giving Feyna a glance. “This should be fun,” he whispered her way, as he stepped through into the Commodore’s office.
The office was different than what they expected. The desk and set of chairs in the centre looked fairly business-like but the rest of the room seemed pretty cosy. There were photos of smiling friends and family displayed proudly on the walls, soft furniture that seemed downright colourful compared with Starfleet norm, and close behind the Admiral stood a classical guitar. It was a display of personality that demonstrated that the Commodore likely lived a large portion of his life in his office.
He gestured for them to sit down as an authoritative sounding voice filtered through his console. "There was no way that we could have known there was a Gorn presence in the sector. Their space is hundreds of light years away from there," the voice said, a woman's but with the slight rasp of someone who is either approaching late middle-age or had been speaking for some time. "And we can discuss the stellar job Starfleet Intelligence has done in that regard another time," Truman retorted, "Right now I just need to know when I'm getting reinforcements." The woman sighed and then there was a notable silence. "I'll send a carrier. Just one. We still have a war to fight, Eric." "Just one war. Since my team have just prevented another. I need those reinforcements in two days. Goodbye, Admiral." Without waiting for a response the Commodore shut off the commlink, clearly irritated with whichever desk-jocky flag officer he'd been dealing with.
The Commodore turned his attention to the two Commanders, but before he could say a word Marsland beat him to the punch.
“Commodore, you wished to see us again," Marsland posed as a statement rather than a question, "What can the Zorya do for you?"
For a split second Truman looked slightly taken aback but allowed his stern expression to quickly cover it over. "What's Zorya's status, Commander?" he asked.
"We are almost all repaired, thankfully. We just need to requisition new shuttles and get our fighter squadrons back aboard.” Marsland said, once again as brusquely as decorum required.
A curl appeared at the corner of Truman's mouth. The very slightest hint of a smile. Marsland knew from their previous encounter that the Commodore preferred to get straight down to business.
"Your squadron is still out for patrol for the next day or so," he said, "Just to make sure things have quieted down out there. After that they will be all yours. As for shuttles I know your requisition is being actioned but you'll likely have to arrange a rendezvous to pick them up on your way to where you'll be headed next."
Marsland quirked an eyebrow. “Where we’ll be headed next? I figured we’d be sticking around here to help with your reinforcements. What do you have for us?” Tom continued facing Truman, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He wondered what it must be like, to be in charge of a sector of space but removed from the day to days of a Captaincy.
Truman leaned back his chair and carried the same look of weariness with him that Marsland noticed before when they had first met. "I need you to go to a diplomatic conference," he said. "Obviously no one was particularly pleased to find out about your encounter with the Gorn. The news even broke in the middle of an open session of the Federation council. There was outrage," he sighed, "Their territory is nearly three hundred light years away from here and yet we discovered a raiding force operating in Federation space. Cloaked no less. Would you care to take a guess at what the Gorn Government's reaction was when they were confronted with this information, Commander?"
“I doubt I need to guess, Commodore, but I’ll oblige. I would imagine complete and utter denial their forces were anywhere near our area of space, along with demands for any data my ship collected. Is that somewhat close?”
Tom watched the Commodore closely.. Then a realization of what he’d said dawned on him. “Wait… what kind of diplomatic conference?”
The Commodore studied him for a moment before reshaping his head at his answer. "They admitted it, Marsland. All of it. They gave an unconditional apology for the actions of what they claim is a rogue privateer group that has taken up arms against their Imperator."
Truman got up on to his feet and picked up a PADD on his desk, handing it straight to the commander. "They called a conference. To be held in six weeks on Cestus III to discuss possible ramifications and how the Hegemony might make reparations for any future losses of our ships due to their purely internal conflict. They even specifically requested the Talarians send a delegation too."
Purely internal conflict. The rogue group wants to incite a conflict, no, a war, between Starfleet and the Hegemony. This had far-reaching implications. The surprised Commander took the PADD, studying it closely. He wasn’t often wrong. “We’ll head that way, see where we can stop and get our shuttles. Did they bother to say where they got the cloaking technology from?”
"They said that they must have obtained an old Warbird off the black market. Honestly, Commander, I don't buy it. To their credit I'm not sure the Federation Council do either. The Gorn don't typically apologise for anything. And Starfleet intelligence can't confirm anything about a rogue group." The Commodore walked out from behind his desk and settled into the nearby plush sofa, grabbing another PADD off of the coffee table and putting his feet up. It was as if he was acting automatically without being all that aware of Tom in the room. "The Storm will be following you in a week with myself and the Talarian delegation. My job is to play nice and give a report on what we've found out here. I want you to be a bit more… belligerent. Poke your nose around. Ask questions. An uppity Commander with a new command under his belt isn't exactly going to ring many alarm bells. I also want Jo and Commander Douglas to head up security. Make sure there's no undue surprises."
“I think your gut is right on this one. Something’s up. I’ll be happy to be my normal self around them.” Tom turned to glance at Feyna. “Anything else, Commodore?”
"No. Command has arranged a full science schedule for you on the way. Enjoy being explorers for a change. Over the last few days you and your crew have performed… Adequately." Truman's eyes had been fixed to his new PADD since he picked it up and didn't turn back to look at Marsland the entire time. "Dismissed."
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Post by Tom Marsland on Apr 27, 2020 17:40:25 GMT
Stardate 12004.20
We're caught between a rock and a hard place. The Vidiians could very well be cured by technology we could get for them. But it's sensitive stuff. I'm torn between wanting to help this ship, these people, heal this disease that has plagued them for so long, and the rules and regulations set forth with biomimetic gel. Trust is something that we, as a species, either give far too freely, or not freely enough. Where is the right balance? It's times like these I wish we had a Counselor aboard, sometimes.
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Post by Tom Marsland on May 28, 2020 2:48:17 GMT
Stardate 12005.20 (Joint Log)
Cordan, dressed in his uniform and carrying a PADD or two, walks up to Marsland’s quarters and presses the door chime.
Marsland was sitting at his desk, enjoying a little time off after his shift ended. The quarters were still sparsely decorated - either a sign of how little time Marsland spent here, or how spartan of a lifestyle he truly led. In the corner sat another replica of a New Orleans-class starship, on a bookcase, a picture of his sister. “Enter,” he said at the chime.
Cordan walks into his quarters and finishes writing something on his PADD and then straightens his uniform. He then walks towards Marsland, “Good Afternoon Captain.”
Marsland smiled, rising from the desk and walking over towards the small table built for three in the quarters. “Lieutenant Cordan, good afternoon. What can I do for you? Please, grab a seat if you’d like.”
Cordan takes Marsland’s offer, “Thank you, sir.” He says sitting down, “I just realised that we have never had a proper chance to have a talk since you took command of the Zorya.”
“I suppose we haven’t, have we?” Marsland glanced over at the model of the New Orleans-class ship in the corner. “It has been a while now…” He shook his head, as if to clear a bad memory. “Anyways. I’m glad you dropped by. The last thing I wanted to do right now was keep thinking of the conference once we arrive at Cestus III. Is there something specific you’d like to discuss?”
“I was wondering how you were settling in. It has been a rough couple of missions. I remember my own command of a starship, it was fun and I don’t envy you in diplomatic situations, I had my fair share of them as a Captain and an Admiral, but that was another lifetime, literally.” He says smiling remembering the good old times.
Tom smiles wanly. “Well, it’s a bit different than flying a New Orleans class starship, or even being an XO, that’s for sure. Rough is a way to put it - I mean, I did lose an ear. That being said, I don’t think I’d trade it for anything.”
Tom wandered over to the replicator, and grabbed a drink for the two of them, before sitting back down. “What were your experiences like?”
“When I was a Captain I did a few skirmish negotiations and as an Admiral, you have to diplomatic every day of the damn job. And trust me I much preferred being an Academy professor than a Starfleet Admiral.” He thought to himself for a bit, “Though being the operations officer aboard the Zorya in this time is interesting, you could say I am a bit of an observer or a watcher of things now.” He smiles as he remembers all he has been through the past few lives.
“Fair statement,” Tom added. “I never was much of a fan of diplomacy. Especially with the current situation with the True Federation. All of those former comrades..” Tom looked disgusted. “Put me in a firefight anyday. That’s what this class of ship was made for, anyways. I would’ve thought I’d have seen more action... “ Tom pondered. “And a fourth pip by now.”
“I agree. A fourth pip would be on time right about now. Hopefully, the Commodore sees it that way. I know all about former comrades turned bad, I fought during the Dominion war and let me tell you that before that all happened there was the Maquis and let me tell you seeing some of your colleagues go over to the Maquis was not nice.” He ponders on the thought and his face turns an expression of unhappiness, “Trust me when I say this, constant combat is not something to take lightly I witnessed friends and people I would call my family get killed.”
“I agree with that. I lost my sister already, numerous friends. Honestly, I just want to see the Federation restored. And I’m not a diplomat, Lieutenant. When all of this is done, the diplomats are who they’ll talk about. I’m a soldier, plain and simple. My place is on the bridge of a starship. That’s where I belong. And I want to do that duty, bring the fight to where it’s needed.”
“But tell me now, what else is on your mind?”
“Well sir, I was wondering about what you thought about my workaround on the requisition order from the R&R Department and I am sorry sir if my judgement in the last mission affected it in anyways and if I offended you at all.” He says putting a semi-serious face on.
Tom’s face grew more serious. “Honestly, Lieutenant….,” he trailed off, rising to his feet. “I need officers just like you. Every single day, as you well know from your history, a Captain needs to make decisions. Many times, we can’t predict the outcome of those decisions. I trust my senior staff implicitly - yourself included. Keep speaking up. I need to hear it.”
“Aye, sir. Hopefully, this conference will be a calmer change of pace for us. Let the crew calm down a bit.” He smiles to himself, “You should join me on the holodeck sometime, sir, I have a few good programs”
“I’d like that very much, Lieutenant. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, is there anything I can do for you, sir?” He says returning the offer and smiling at his Captain.
Tom smiled and escorted Lieutenant Cordan to the door of his quarters. “Not at all. Thank you for dropping by.”
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