Post by Nola on Jul 24, 2017 10:29:01 GMT
Resignation
February 22, 2396
Half a dozen shimmering transporter patterns appeared in the main lobby of Starfleet Command, which gave way to a kneeling squad of armored Starfleet Marines. The group swiftly and silently burst forth, moving behind cover and assessing the situation. The lobby was a war zone, with furniture toppled, scorch marks on the walls, and three dead security officers laid out on the floor. Despite the apparent chaos, however, the room was empty and eerily silent.
First Lieutenant Harrell swept the room once more to be sure, then looked to Rogers.
"Anything?" he asked in a whisper. Private Rogers was closely monitoring a tricorder, laying nearly flat behind an overturned sofa.
"This level's clear," Rogers whispered back. "Three to four on level 2, looks like they're huddled in one of the break rooms, and one in an Admiral's office."
"Walker's coming down," called Naret.
"Shit," spat Harrell. "Alright, form up; Rogers, you're covering Walker."
"Joy," sighed Rogers, but he sprang up to his feet and did as ordered. A seventh pattern flashed into the room, giving way to a grim-faced Admiral Walker.
"Are we clear?" came his immediate inquiry.
"This floor is clear, sir," confirmed Harrell. "We've got a few in the upper levels. Rogers?"
"Sir!" Rogers acknowledged, a bit louder than intended. He glanced down to his tricorder once more. "No more than five left, sir. A couple of the ones upstairs seem injured; might be friendlies."
"Or not," Naret offered. Rogers did his best to keep his expression stoic.
"Your orders, sir?" called Harrell, returning everyone's focus to the Admiral.
"Any in the offices?" asked Walker.
"One, sir," answered Rogers. The Admiral gave one brief, mirthless chuckle.
"Two of you with me," he said, already moving towards the turbolifts. "Have the rest of your squad secure the next level."
"Yes, sir," said Harrell, briskly following the Admiral as he hid his annoyance behind a wall of practiced professionalism. "Naret and Rogers, cover the Admiral."
"Yessir," each called. Rogers put away his tricorder and unslung his rifle. The group split as the Lieutenant input the security override code for the turbolifts, each taking a different one to their destination.
"Admiralty," Walker called to the computer.
"An Alpha-level emergency alert is in effect," the computer informed. "Additional authorization-"
"Walker, Delta-Delta-Foxfire-Three," Walker interjected.
"Authorization acknowledged." The lift smoothly slid upward.
Naret and Rogers exchanged a brief glance, and Rogers could tell they were thinking the same thing. They'd each met Admiral Walker a few times; the Admiral was a favorite among the Marines, in fact, and Walker seemed to reciprocate. Neither of them had ever seen the Admiral like this, though it made sense given the circumstances.
Overhead, Starfleet ships rained fire upon each other in a sudden and insane bid for control of Earth. Rogers wasn't sure he'd ever get his head around the chaos of the last six hours, and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep to his training. He kept trying to tell himself that it was just like the drills, except it was on Earth, and it was against other Starfleet personnel. He eventually stopped talking to himself altogether.
The lift came to a stop, and Walker practically burst out as the doors slid open, heading through the small lobby towards one of the offices. The name on the door read 'Fleet Admiral V. Hill.'
"Sir!" called Naret, who actually reached out and grabbed the Admiral's shoulder, surprising both Walker and Rogers. If Naret noticed, she didn't show it. "We need to clear the office before you enter, sir."
"This is not the time, Corporal," growled Walker. Rogers just watched, wide-eyed and astonished.
"All due respect, *sir*," Naret insisted, "but you are too valuable to risk. If something happens to you, we're fucked, and it's my duty to prevent that."
Rogers grudgingly allowed himself to feel some measure of respect for Naret, and Admiral Walker seemed to do the same.
"Make it quick," he said, nodding towards Admiral Hill's office. Naret strode confidently forward, rifle raised and sighted. Rogers followed close behind. The doors slid open, and Naret burst forward.
"Hands!" she shouted at the woman seated behind the desk. Roger stepped through the door and moved to the side, covering Naret from another angle.
A human woman sat behind the desk, her hair tied into a high and tight bun. She wore an Admiral's jacket, her badge and insignia were carefully arrayed on the desk before her. She raised her hands, seeming to stare through Naret. Rogers noted the redness in her eyes, and the woman's calm countenance. She wasn't going to cause a fuss.
"Clear," Rogers called, and Walker slowly stepped inside. Naret still had her rifle trained on Hill, but Walker gently moved it aside.
"Stand down, Corporal," he ordered. Naret hesitated for a moment, but did as instructed. Walker and Hill shared a long gaze that Rogers felt had some history behind it.
"Give us the room," Walker ordered. Rogers looked to Naret, who looked like she was trying to chew threw a brick. With a small huff she motioned to Rogers, and the two stepped outside, reflexively taking up guard positions outside the door as it slid shut.
Inside, Hill and Walker continued their staredown. Hill looked tired, and the usual smirk that had become one of her hallmarks was gone. Walker had to consciously keep the rage he felt at the woman from his features.
"I would have thought you'd have left with your friends," he managed after several moments. Hill only lowered her hands, placing them carefully on the desk, keeping them in sight.
"I certainly considered it," she said, her voice gently breaking. Walker observed the cracks in what had once been a nigh-inscrutable facade, and despite his fury, he couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her. Then again, maybe that was just another one of her tricks.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his hands carefully flexing at his side. She didn't answer right away, her gaze falling to the insignia on the desk.
"I remember my mother's funeral," she said. Martin frowned, but settled in for a story.
"My father was inconsolable. At the time, that seemed like the worst part of the whole thing. I was still pretty numb about it, I think, but dad just wouldn't stop crying."
She closed her eyes, a fresh batch of tears leaking through.
"I was almost angry at him," she continued. "I wondered why he couldn't pull it together, and I felt embarrassed by his grief. I did my best to distract myself from it. I put my attention on the honor guard, stone-faced as they stood beside mom's headstone, rifles at the ready.
"There was strength, I said to myself. There was resolve in the face of sorrow. I told myself that was what mom stood for, that it was what she'd dedicated her life to. As the honor guard fired off their salute, I swore to myself that I would follow mom's footsteps. I would join Starfleet, and I would do anything it took to protect the Federation."
"How'd that work out for you?" Martin asked, unable to keep his bitterness from showing through. Hill just smiled despite the tears.
"It was all bullshit," she said. "Mom wasn't some stone-faced warrior. She was a bright and warm person. She gave me life, and she gave dad's life meaning, and she poured every ounce of love she could muster into us, and the Borg took it away in a heartbeat."
Vera broke down and hid her face in her hands, which stole the momentum from Martin's fury. He couldn't help but think back to what his own mother had told him about there being goodness in everyone. A large part of him didn't want to, but he couldn't help but look at Vera Hill and imagine what her life might have been like had tragedy not befallen her.
Still, she was complicit in the tragedy playing out overhead. Too many families had suffered similar fates due to Section 31 for him to be forgiving in that moment.
"Everything was bullshit," Hill said as she wiped her eyes. "Every lie I told myself to make Section 31 seem justified, every moral I compromised in the name of preserving the Federation, every bit of maneuvering I did to climb the ranks, stealing your office - it was all for nothing. I have betrayed everything I ever told myself I believed in because I convinced myself that I was doing the necessary thing."
"Funny how that works out," said Martin. Vera just nodded.
"The road to hell, and all that," she sighed. "It's almost cliche, isn't it?"
"You still haven't told me why you're still here," he pressed. Hill sighed and wiped her eyes one last time before slowly getting to her feet.
"I have committed crimes against Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets," she said, her voice only wavering for a moment. "I submit myself to face justice for these crimes."
Martin just stared at her as he fought a battle against his own wrath. He had told her, repeatedly, that she was on the wrong path. She'd had innumerable opportunities to change, to work against the cancer that existed in Starfleet's soul, and she had forsaken them all. Now hundreds, if not thousands of Starfleet officers were dying because people like Vera Hill gave in to fear and paranoia. What possible 'justice' could there be?
Walker sighed and moved towards the doors. Naret spun as they opened.
"Take Ms. Hill into custody," he growled. Naret slung her rifle and stepped into the office. Without preamble, she grabbed Hill by the arm and pulled her along. Vera looked to Martin, her mouth moving as if to utter 'I'm sorry,' but the words wouldn't come.
Not that it mattered. Forgiveness for Vera Hill would be a long time coming, if it came at all.
Admiral Walker slowly stepped around the desk, sitting in a chair that had once been his and picking up the combadge Vera had left behind. Rogers stood quietly outside, watching the Admiral, and doing his best to keep his curiosity from going into overdrive. This was all above his paygrade.
February 22, 2396
Half a dozen shimmering transporter patterns appeared in the main lobby of Starfleet Command, which gave way to a kneeling squad of armored Starfleet Marines. The group swiftly and silently burst forth, moving behind cover and assessing the situation. The lobby was a war zone, with furniture toppled, scorch marks on the walls, and three dead security officers laid out on the floor. Despite the apparent chaos, however, the room was empty and eerily silent.
First Lieutenant Harrell swept the room once more to be sure, then looked to Rogers.
"Anything?" he asked in a whisper. Private Rogers was closely monitoring a tricorder, laying nearly flat behind an overturned sofa.
"This level's clear," Rogers whispered back. "Three to four on level 2, looks like they're huddled in one of the break rooms, and one in an Admiral's office."
"Walker's coming down," called Naret.
"Shit," spat Harrell. "Alright, form up; Rogers, you're covering Walker."
"Joy," sighed Rogers, but he sprang up to his feet and did as ordered. A seventh pattern flashed into the room, giving way to a grim-faced Admiral Walker.
"Are we clear?" came his immediate inquiry.
"This floor is clear, sir," confirmed Harrell. "We've got a few in the upper levels. Rogers?"
"Sir!" Rogers acknowledged, a bit louder than intended. He glanced down to his tricorder once more. "No more than five left, sir. A couple of the ones upstairs seem injured; might be friendlies."
"Or not," Naret offered. Rogers did his best to keep his expression stoic.
"Your orders, sir?" called Harrell, returning everyone's focus to the Admiral.
"Any in the offices?" asked Walker.
"One, sir," answered Rogers. The Admiral gave one brief, mirthless chuckle.
"Two of you with me," he said, already moving towards the turbolifts. "Have the rest of your squad secure the next level."
"Yes, sir," said Harrell, briskly following the Admiral as he hid his annoyance behind a wall of practiced professionalism. "Naret and Rogers, cover the Admiral."
"Yessir," each called. Rogers put away his tricorder and unslung his rifle. The group split as the Lieutenant input the security override code for the turbolifts, each taking a different one to their destination.
"Admiralty," Walker called to the computer.
"An Alpha-level emergency alert is in effect," the computer informed. "Additional authorization-"
"Walker, Delta-Delta-Foxfire-Three," Walker interjected.
"Authorization acknowledged." The lift smoothly slid upward.
Naret and Rogers exchanged a brief glance, and Rogers could tell they were thinking the same thing. They'd each met Admiral Walker a few times; the Admiral was a favorite among the Marines, in fact, and Walker seemed to reciprocate. Neither of them had ever seen the Admiral like this, though it made sense given the circumstances.
Overhead, Starfleet ships rained fire upon each other in a sudden and insane bid for control of Earth. Rogers wasn't sure he'd ever get his head around the chaos of the last six hours, and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep to his training. He kept trying to tell himself that it was just like the drills, except it was on Earth, and it was against other Starfleet personnel. He eventually stopped talking to himself altogether.
The lift came to a stop, and Walker practically burst out as the doors slid open, heading through the small lobby towards one of the offices. The name on the door read 'Fleet Admiral V. Hill.'
"Sir!" called Naret, who actually reached out and grabbed the Admiral's shoulder, surprising both Walker and Rogers. If Naret noticed, she didn't show it. "We need to clear the office before you enter, sir."
"This is not the time, Corporal," growled Walker. Rogers just watched, wide-eyed and astonished.
"All due respect, *sir*," Naret insisted, "but you are too valuable to risk. If something happens to you, we're fucked, and it's my duty to prevent that."
Rogers grudgingly allowed himself to feel some measure of respect for Naret, and Admiral Walker seemed to do the same.
"Make it quick," he said, nodding towards Admiral Hill's office. Naret strode confidently forward, rifle raised and sighted. Rogers followed close behind. The doors slid open, and Naret burst forward.
"Hands!" she shouted at the woman seated behind the desk. Roger stepped through the door and moved to the side, covering Naret from another angle.
A human woman sat behind the desk, her hair tied into a high and tight bun. She wore an Admiral's jacket, her badge and insignia were carefully arrayed on the desk before her. She raised her hands, seeming to stare through Naret. Rogers noted the redness in her eyes, and the woman's calm countenance. She wasn't going to cause a fuss.
"Clear," Rogers called, and Walker slowly stepped inside. Naret still had her rifle trained on Hill, but Walker gently moved it aside.
"Stand down, Corporal," he ordered. Naret hesitated for a moment, but did as instructed. Walker and Hill shared a long gaze that Rogers felt had some history behind it.
"Give us the room," Walker ordered. Rogers looked to Naret, who looked like she was trying to chew threw a brick. With a small huff she motioned to Rogers, and the two stepped outside, reflexively taking up guard positions outside the door as it slid shut.
Inside, Hill and Walker continued their staredown. Hill looked tired, and the usual smirk that had become one of her hallmarks was gone. Walker had to consciously keep the rage he felt at the woman from his features.
"I would have thought you'd have left with your friends," he managed after several moments. Hill only lowered her hands, placing them carefully on the desk, keeping them in sight.
"I certainly considered it," she said, her voice gently breaking. Walker observed the cracks in what had once been a nigh-inscrutable facade, and despite his fury, he couldn't help but feel a little sorry for her. Then again, maybe that was just another one of her tricks.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his hands carefully flexing at his side. She didn't answer right away, her gaze falling to the insignia on the desk.
"I remember my mother's funeral," she said. Martin frowned, but settled in for a story.
"My father was inconsolable. At the time, that seemed like the worst part of the whole thing. I was still pretty numb about it, I think, but dad just wouldn't stop crying."
She closed her eyes, a fresh batch of tears leaking through.
"I was almost angry at him," she continued. "I wondered why he couldn't pull it together, and I felt embarrassed by his grief. I did my best to distract myself from it. I put my attention on the honor guard, stone-faced as they stood beside mom's headstone, rifles at the ready.
"There was strength, I said to myself. There was resolve in the face of sorrow. I told myself that was what mom stood for, that it was what she'd dedicated her life to. As the honor guard fired off their salute, I swore to myself that I would follow mom's footsteps. I would join Starfleet, and I would do anything it took to protect the Federation."
"How'd that work out for you?" Martin asked, unable to keep his bitterness from showing through. Hill just smiled despite the tears.
"It was all bullshit," she said. "Mom wasn't some stone-faced warrior. She was a bright and warm person. She gave me life, and she gave dad's life meaning, and she poured every ounce of love she could muster into us, and the Borg took it away in a heartbeat."
Vera broke down and hid her face in her hands, which stole the momentum from Martin's fury. He couldn't help but think back to what his own mother had told him about there being goodness in everyone. A large part of him didn't want to, but he couldn't help but look at Vera Hill and imagine what her life might have been like had tragedy not befallen her.
Still, she was complicit in the tragedy playing out overhead. Too many families had suffered similar fates due to Section 31 for him to be forgiving in that moment.
"Everything was bullshit," Hill said as she wiped her eyes. "Every lie I told myself to make Section 31 seem justified, every moral I compromised in the name of preserving the Federation, every bit of maneuvering I did to climb the ranks, stealing your office - it was all for nothing. I have betrayed everything I ever told myself I believed in because I convinced myself that I was doing the necessary thing."
"Funny how that works out," said Martin. Vera just nodded.
"The road to hell, and all that," she sighed. "It's almost cliche, isn't it?"
"You still haven't told me why you're still here," he pressed. Hill sighed and wiped her eyes one last time before slowly getting to her feet.
"I have committed crimes against Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets," she said, her voice only wavering for a moment. "I submit myself to face justice for these crimes."
Martin just stared at her as he fought a battle against his own wrath. He had told her, repeatedly, that she was on the wrong path. She'd had innumerable opportunities to change, to work against the cancer that existed in Starfleet's soul, and she had forsaken them all. Now hundreds, if not thousands of Starfleet officers were dying because people like Vera Hill gave in to fear and paranoia. What possible 'justice' could there be?
Walker sighed and moved towards the doors. Naret spun as they opened.
"Take Ms. Hill into custody," he growled. Naret slung her rifle and stepped into the office. Without preamble, she grabbed Hill by the arm and pulled her along. Vera looked to Martin, her mouth moving as if to utter 'I'm sorry,' but the words wouldn't come.
Not that it mattered. Forgiveness for Vera Hill would be a long time coming, if it came at all.
Admiral Walker slowly stepped around the desk, sitting in a chair that had once been his and picking up the combadge Vera had left behind. Rogers stood quietly outside, watching the Admiral, and doing his best to keep his curiosity from going into overdrive. This was all above his paygrade.