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Chapter One

Matt leaned back in his chair and considered the data that flashed on his desktop screen.  Frowning, he went back and annotated one section of the analysis on USS Bessemer’s first contact with a warp capable civilization in the Zeta Scorpius binary system.  Finally satisfied that all of the information requested by the Federation Council was present—and in a readable fashion—he saved the data file and forwarded it onwards and upwards.  And he sighed as he closed his eyes and rubbed his aching leg.

The damn thing still wasn’t healing properly, and because of the injury Star Fleet Medical had pulled him off the line and stuck him here, in the bloated bureaucracy of Star Fleet Command.  He removed the reading glasses that he wore and rubbed his weary eyes.

Six months.  Six months had passed since he left the hospital ward, and still he was trapped here in these labyrinthine corridors hemmed in by bureaucrats who hadn’t logged a single hour in space for years.  And with the downsizing of the Star Fleet following the conclusion of the Dominion War, it was unlikely in the extreme that he would ever get a chance to stand . . . well, sit, he thought ruefully rubbing his leg, on the bridge of a Starship again.

Why he didn’t just resign his commission and go home remained an open question.  He had considered it over the past months as one doctor after the next refused to certify him for space.  But the thought of that empty house, and an empty life had made him delay time and again.  But he couldn’t keep putting off the decision, not for much longer.  Although Star Fleet was stronger—in absolute terms—than it had been at any point in the last century, there were fewer actual Starships in the Fleet.  More powerful ships, true, but the sheer losses suffered in the Dominion War had outpaced the ability of Federation shipyards to commission new vessels into service.

And the damage suffered by Federation member planets meant that, once again, the Federation Council was turning its resources to the so-called Peace Dividend, trying to recover the damage on Earth, Bajor, Betazed, and dozen other member and associated systems.  Once the last of the wartime time construction was complete, only a trickle of new ships would emerge each year.  And fewer ships meant Star Fleet would have little need for a Captain, especially one who was barely mobile.

BEEP.

The monitor flashed and Matt frowned at the display.  He accepted the call, and the screen blanked and then presented the image of a Lieutenant wearing the aiguillettes that marked her as an aide to a member of the Admiralty.

“Captain Dahlgren?” the Lieutenant asked.

“Yes.  How may I assist you today, Lieutenant?”

“Admiral Parker requests your presence in his office, Captain, at your earliest convenience.”

Matt slowly nodded, even as his heart sank.  “Very well, Lieutenant.  I will be right there.”

The Star Fleet officer shut down his terminal and made certain that all was in order.  Then he reached down and grabbed the hickory cane he had started using to help him walk.  He stood, wincing as his right leg protested by sending a stabbing pain deep into the bone.  And then he left his cubicle and walked over to the tubolift.

“Floor 27,” he said, and the lift began to accelerate upwards.

The lift slowed and the doors hissed open.  Matt exited the lift and gritted his teeth as he limped down the hallway to Parker’s office.  The young Lieutenant looked up and then she whispered into a headset; after waiting for a reply, she nodded at the older man.  “The Admiral is expecting you, Captain.”

Matt walked into the office, where Josiah Parker raised his head and smiled.  “Matt, come on it and take a seat.  You have met Commodore Jurood, haven’t you?” he said as he introduced the blue-skinned Andorian officer sitting in front of Parker’s desk.

The Captain extended his hand to the Andorian and nodded his greetings.  “No sir.  I have, of course, heard of him and his actions at the Battle of Betazed.  I have not had the pleasure to make his acquaintance, however.”

Jurood shook his head, the antennae twitching in amusement.  “I was lucky at Betazed, Captain Dahlgren.  Nothing more.”

“Fortune favors the brave and the bold, Commodore.  And, may I say, you were certainly both at that engagement.”

The Andorian inclined his head slightly, but said nothing as Matt sat down.

Parker frowned.  “So how’s the leg?”

“You probably know more about than I do, Admiral.  Star Fleet Medical keeps hemming and hawing about when I can resume active duty—and none of them will give me a straight answer.”

The Admiral waved that concern away.  “I wasn’t asking about what the doctors think, Matt:  how is it?”

“It hurts like hell, Admiral.  But I can move around and I can do my job.  And it is healing.”  Slowly, Matt thought, but damn it is healing.

Parker leaned back in his chair and exchanged a look with Jurood.  “You know what the doctors will say.”

The Andorian made a rude noise.  “What they always say:  a Star Fleet officer must be at 100% of health and fitness before deployment.  Nonsense.  If he says he is ready, then he is ready.  But you knew that already, Josiah.”

Matt sat up a little straighter.  What the hell?  They aren’t talking like they are going to send me to the beach, they are talking like . . . and then he began to smile.

Josiah Parker returned it with a grin of his own.  “Well, Matt?  Are you up to taking the center seat again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.  I’ve got a ship in Spacedock right now that I am in desperate need of a Captain for.   She’s the Republic, Matt.”

Matt’s grin grew wider.  “She was a fine ship when I served on her as an Ensign fresh out of the Academy, Admiral.  And the Korolev’s just get better with age.”

“I take it then that you have not heard why Republic is in Dock, Captain Dahlgren?” asked Jurood in a sour voice.

“No sir.  I wasn’t even aware she was in system.”

“Last month, she responded to a distress call from Omicron Cygnii II.  A series of Class IV volcanic eruptions destabilized the tectonic plate on which the colony was originally placed, and the colonists required immediate evacuation.”

Matt winced.  “That is right on the Gorn border.”

Parker nodded somberly.  “And forever the opportunists, the Gorn responded as well, planning on claiming the system—and its mineral resources—once the Federation colonists were offworld.  They didn’t interfere with Republic, but as you can imagine, the colonists were not all that happy with the situation.  Captain Linda Bates had sent her executive officer down to the surface to coordinate the evacuation, but once the colony government realized that the Gorn were going to claim the planet for themselves they balked at leaving.”

“Bates transported down to try and convince the leaders that they simply had to abandon the mines and their homes, even as the climatic conditions worsened.”

Jurood shook his head sadly.  “And that is when the stress fields on the colony’s shields overloaded one of their generators, Captain Dahlgren.  It exploded, killing Captain Bates and wounding her first officer.”

“Lt. Commander George Harrison was the officer left in command of Republic.  And he panicked.  Somehow, he was convinced that the Gorn had caused the explosion and opened fire on their cruiser.”

Matt blinked once.  And then twice.  His jaw dropped.  “He what?”

“He took it under fire from Republic, and he disabled her warp drive.  But he didn’t stop her from sending a sub-space transmission that she was under attack by a Federation vessel.  And the Gorn sent reinforcements.”

“By the time they arrived,” Admiral Parker continued, “Harrison had been informed that the explosion was not caused by the Gorn and he attempted to placate them.  He failed.  They moved in to attack Republic—three of their modern Hrass’ka-class cruisers—and Harrison ran.  He abandoned his away team and the colonists and fled.”

“He was a coward, Captain Dahlgren,” Jurood added.  “And the Gorn slaughtered the colonists and the federation personnel he left behind on the ground.  The Council has managed to resolve the situation, but that leaves Star Fleet with the question of what to do with Republic and her crew.”

“Harrison is under arrest, technically.  He suffered a complete mental breakdown after he realized what the Gorn would do to his shipmates and the colonists—he’s been in a state of catatonia every since.  But the ship’s morale is among the worst that I have ever witnessed; the crew blame themselves for following Harrison’s orders and abandoning a Federation colony after they opened fire on an innocent bystander,” the Admiral finished and he shook his head sadly.

“All of Republic’s officers and senior NCOs have been reassigned.  But her crew has not improved; she isn’t a happy ship at all, Matt.  With the Fleet stretched as far as it is, I can’t simply disband and dismiss the crewmen—and they deserve a chance at rehabilitation.  No other ship in Star Fleet wants them, however.  So, we have decided to keep them together, assign new officers and senior non-commissioned ranks, and hopefully restore Republic her honor.  Are you up for the task of doing so?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, even though he stomach lurched.  “When do I meet my officers?”

“1800 hours.  There is briefing scheduled here at Star Fleet Command.  I have to warn you; I pulled in just about every seasoned officer and rating I could from leave, shore assignments, and the Academy, but many of them haven’t been in space for years.  And most of your junior officers are fresh out of the Academy as well.”

“Who is my XO?”

“That is up to you.  I’ve got four eligible officers in this data-file that you can choose from; of course, if you aren’t satisfied with them, I’ll try and find you someone you can trust.”

“What about Chan Shrak?”

Parker raised an eyebrow, and Jurood laughed.  “An excellent choice, if I may say so myself.”

“He is available, Matt, but are you certain you want Shrak as your XO?  The man’s ideas on discipline are positively medieval—and the majority of Republic’s crew is human.  An Andorian executive officer is rare in Star Fleet outside of all-Andorian ships.”

“He’s a solid officer, Admiral; I have known him for years.  And his last assignment was aboard the Korolev-class Andor, the flagship of your Blue Fleet, Commodore.  So he is intimately familiar with the ship’s systems.  I think his ideas on discipline and training are precisely the medicine that Republic’s crew needs right now.  And I know that I can work with him.”

Parker rose, followed by Jurood and Matt.  “In that case, Captain Matthew Dahlgren, I will have the orders cut immediately.  God bless you and your new ship Captain, and good hunting,” he said as he extended his hand, a hand that Matt took and gave a firm shake.

Chapter Two

Matt limped out onto the stage of one of the larger briefing rooms at Star Fleet Headquarters.  Nearly two hundred seats were arranged in stadium seating in a half-circle around him, providing all of the attendees with unblocked line of sight to the speaker and the view screen behind him.  One hundred and twenty-six of those seats were filled by men and women; primarily humans, but there were a few Vulcans and Tellarites and Betazoids and Trill and other Federation races among them.  A white-haired and blue-skinned Andorian standing on the stage nodded and the shrill piping of a bosun’s whistle sounded.  The commissioned and non-commissioned officers in the audience all stood.

Matt slowly crossed the stage, his cane clicking against the polished wood with every step.  Turning his back to the assembly, he stopped next to the Andorian and gave the dour faced man a wink of one eye.

“Good to see you again, Chan.”

“And you as well, Captain Dahlgren.  I trust that you are responsible for this abrupt change in my orders?”

“I am.  Chan, I’ve a problem ship I need help sorting out.  Can I count on you to back my play?”

“Marquis of Queensbury rules?”

“More like a street-fight with a broken whisky bottle, and a length of chain.”

The Andorian’s antennae twitched in amusement.  “So I am to be the Royal Guard drillmaster of Andoria to your what?”

“The hard-nosed son-of-a-bitch, in-your-face Captain who is twice as mean, twice as nasty, and twice as handsome as his ice devil of an exec.”

“Hah!  Humans have no concept of true beauty, pink-skin.  I do believe I will enjoy myself, however,” Chan Shrak continued as he scanned the auditorium audience.  “These are our victims—I mean our officers?”

“They are.”

“I think some of the natives are starting to get restless, Captain Dahlgren.  This will be a ‘fascinating’ experience for us all, to quote the Vulcans.”

Matt continued over to the podium, and he finally turned around to face the assembled group.

“As you were,” he spoke into the microphone.  “I am Captain Matthew Dahlgren.  By the order of Star Fleet Command and the direct intervention of all nefarious powers of whatever Hell you believe in, I am also your commanding officer and the Captain of the USS Republic.  Never in my twenty-two years of service in Star Fleet have I seen such a motley, moldy, half-assed collection of so-called officers and senior NCOs.  If I had a choice in the matter, I would send half of you back to your mothers to wipe your noses and rinse off your backsides, and might—MIGHT—make a passable team out of the rest.  YOU!” Matt bellowed, pointing to one female officer sitting attentively in the front row.  “WHO ARE YOU?”

The woman rose; she wasn’t dressed in Star Fleet uniform.  “Ship’s Counselor Andrea Trincullo, Captain Dahlgren.  Let me say it is an hon . . .”

“Why are you out of uniform, Ship’s Counselor Trincullo?   And what, pray tell, is your official rank?”

The woman shook her head and looked puzzled at Matt.  “I am a Lieutenant Commander in Medical Branch, Captain Dahlgren.  And I have found it is useful to dress in a manner designed to sooth those crewmen who come to me for counseling.”

“I see.  As of this moment, Lieutenant Commander, you will wear your assigned Star Fleet uniform whenever you are on duty.  Is that understood?”

“Captain, I am not certain this is an appropriate venue to dis . . .”

“LIEUTENANT COMMANDER!” Matt barked.  “I asked you a question:  was I clear in my direct order to you?  If the answer is yes, respond with ‘aye, aye, Sir’ and shut your mouth.  If not respond with ‘No, Sir’ and then shut your mouth.  Is that understood?”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the counselor muttered through clenched teeth.

“Star Fleet has been, for many years now, an organization which seems to have forgotten its purpose, ladies and gentlemen.  An objective outsider, looking at our ships and our collection of so-called trained officers might instead get the impression that we are running a luxury liner service, ferrying young men and women across the galaxy so that they might enjoy themselves on strange new worlds!”

“That attitude, in Star Fleet Command, in the Federation Council, and on the decks of individual starships cost us dearly during the Dominion War.  We have forgotten that discipline and order is as necessary for our ships as it was in the days of sail.  Instead, we have become a debating society, where everyone has their say and gets to express their opinion.  Where our officers and crew are so concerned with recreation and their own amusement that they fail to do their jobs.”

“Well, that, ladies and gentlemen is about to change aboard the United Federated of Planets Star Ship Republic.”

“Some of you are already aware of the shame that Republic has had heaped upon her by officers and crew who were unprepared and ill-equipped to handle an unexpected tragedy.  Mistakes were made, and the errors were compounded.  And through it all, more than one hundred Star Fleet officers and NCOs, graduates of the Academy and mustangs alike; they stood by and let it happen.  Because we have made them so comfortable we have forgotten that you must also be tough.  Tough in spirit, tough in physique, tough mentally to accept and to cope with the challenges and the dangers that lie out THERE!” He said pointing towards the sky.

Matt paused and he looked across the rapt, horrified audience sitting before him, his face stern and stoic.

“NO MORE.”

“Senior Chief Callaghan!”

A grizzled and stocky non-commissioned officer snapped to his feet.  “SIR!”

“You and I have served together before, haven’t we?”

“YES SIR.”

“And we served upon a good, well-found ship?”

“AN EXCELLENT SHIP, SIR.”

“Our new ship, the Republic, has shamed herself, has shamed our Star Fleet.”

“MOST SHAMEFUL, SIR.”

“But we will fix that.  We will restore her to a proud ship.”

“VERY PROUD, SIR.”

“We will make her once again a fine ship!”

“THE FINEST, SIR.”

“And that proud ship, that fine ship, it will have the best crew in Star Fleet.”

“THE VERY BEST, SIR, EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO PUT YOUR BOOT UP OUR ASS, SIR.”

“We will redeem our ship in the eyes of the Federation; we will restore her honor!”

“AN HONORABLE REDEMPTION INDEED, SIR.”

Matt nodded and Callaghan sat back down.

“Right now, there are two hundred and fifty-four crewmen aboard that ship.  Crewmen that no vessel in the Fleet wants.  Crewmen who are crushed by what their ship has done.  By what they did and did not do.  By how their officers and leaders failed them in a time of crisis.”

“It is my job, and it is your job, to restore to those crewmen their sense of worth.  Their pride.  Their confidence.  Their ability to accomplish their duty when everything around them is going to Hell.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is one job we had best do RIGHT.”

“Department heads, stand.”

Seven officers stood, five humans, a trill, and a tellarite.  “Commander Natantael Malik, Engineering.  Commander Quincy Talbot, Medical.  Lt. Commander Alexis Tsien, Science.  Lt. Commander Pavel Roshenko, Tactical.  Lt. Commander Grace Biddle, Operations.  Lieutenant Erwin Becket, Security.  And Lieutenant Pok Khar’tess, Logistics.”

"Ladies and gentlemen, these officers will enforce Star Fleet regulations and my will upon you.  Or I will have their heads.  And yours for adding to my frustrations.”

"And if you prove too hard-headed and stubborn for the department heads to handle, then you will be paid a visit by my executive officer.  Commander?"

The Andorian walked over and stood by Matt on the stage, and he smiled--a terrifying smile--at the assembly.

"Commander Chan Shrak.  He will maintain discipline and he will ensure that Republic redeems herself.  That you will redeem her."

"And if you are not afraid of him, then you will come to me.  And understand this:  I will command Republic, there will be no committee or council.  And if you screw up bad enough to come to my attention, then you will find yourself sitting in the brig or transferred off my ship to man the most remote, isolated, hard-luck outpost in the Federation!"

“If you think that perhaps this assignment is too much; by all means talk to the officers outside and request a transfer!  If you are lacking in character and spirit and energy, then by all means, get the Hell off my ship!”

“But if you want to be a member of the finest crew in Star Fleet history—if you want to make this crew the finest in Star Fleet history, then welcome aboard.”

“There are several officers waiting outside this briefing room, ladies and gentlemen.  They have your exact department and division assignments.  We board ship at 0600 hours tomorrow morning.  Our crew—all two hundred and fifty-four of them—are waiting on board to see what kind of officers they deserve.  And I hope, I pray, that some of you might become that kind of an officer.”

“Dismissed.”

Chapter Four

“I cannot begin to thank you enough, Admiral,” Matt said as he limped over to Josiah Parker’s table in the private dining hall of Star Fleet Command.  “Bad morale?  Crew are just out of sort?  Hah!  That ship is a disaster, and it is the crew from Hell.  Sir.”

Parker’s fork stopped half-way to his mouth, and he sighed and he sat the steaming bite-sized morsal of a tender piece of fillet down back down on his china plate.  “You do know this lounge is for Flag Officers and their invited guests only, correct, Captain Dahlgren?”

“Yes, sir.  Commodore Jurood was kind enough to put me on the list as his guest for today, after I discovered you were in here having dinner.”

Josiah patted his lips with the napkin and placed it on the plate.  “Ok, ok, Matt.  Take a seat.”

Dahlgren sat.  “What aren’t you telling me, Sir?”

“Damn it, Matt.  You are certainly the same balls-to-the-walls, damn-the-torpedoes officer you were before Kearsage went down.  If only Edward were here to see what his protégée had become, god rest his soul.”

“Admiral Jellico was a good officer, Josiah,” Matt whispered.  “And don’t forget, you served under him on Republic a long time ago as well.”

The Admiral nodded glumly.  “Why the hell did you think I wanted you in command of her, Matt?  One of us has to carry on in his place, and I can’t do it—not after getting this job I am in now.”

“Look.  You know how ill-prepared Star Fleet was before Wolf 359 gave the politicians and bureaucrats a kick in the ass.  And you how long it took Jellico and Shelby and Shran and the rest to get the reforms out to the Fleet.  Well, there was a general feeling at Headquarters that the best way to get the Fleet up to par was to remove the delinquent elements:  to put them somewhere that they couldn’t screw up getting ready for the Borg.”

“I don’t how she was chosen—it was before my time as Chief of Star Fleet Operations, Matt—but Republic was one of the ships that our problem children got sent to.  And she was given milk runs where there was little chance of her running into a crisis of any sort.  She wasn’t the only ship in that state, but hell, she was the only ship you and I ever served on.”

“The goal was to slowly get rid of the bad apples, but events moved too fast.  And the officers who were given command of these ships weren’t the best—because we needed the best on the front lines.  And over time, the bad got worse, even as the rest of the Fleet got better.  And Star Fleet Command dropped any pretense at reform and used these ships a purgatory to send officers and crewmen who screwed up by the numbers.”

“We ran into the Dominion, and their Founders replaced Chancellor Martok and the Changeling convinced the Klingons to invade the Federation.  We were at war, Matt.  And Star Fleet Command didn’t have time for a ship full of misfits.  Or a dozen ships full of misfits, as long as they didn’t interfere with the war effort.”

“Thankfully, we managed to stop the Klingons and recover the real Martok—but then the Dominion invaded in force—a fact that you know all too well.  Well, the war is over now, and I got promoted and have to deal with the aftermath and try to pick up all pieces and make Star Fleet whole again.”

“Yes, I learned about Republic shortly after I become Chief.  And, yes, I sent Linda Bates out there to try and get them back up to standards—but then she was killed.  By a damn civilian shield generator that overloaded, for god’s sake!  And that asshole Harrison nearly started a war with the Gorn.  Matt, I’ve got two choices here:  either we rehabilitate that crew or we discharge them.  And if we discharge them, I don’t have enough personnel to send her back to space—we would have to mothball Republic.  And the other ten ships out there like her.”

“So what I need to know, Captain Dahlgren, is this:  can you turn Republic around or not?”

Matt sighed and he sat back.  “You do like throwing an old friend off the deep end, don’t you?”

The two men just sat there for a few minutes, and then Matt slowly nodded.  “It won’t be pretty.”

Josiah snorted.  “Like she is now?”

“I’ll need a free hand—and if I determine that a crewman can’t be salvaged, he’s gone.”

“Done.”

“I’ll need sixty blank personnel transfer orders, signed and authorized by your office.”

“SIXTY?” the Admiral thundered, causing other flag officers and guests to turn around and stare are the table.

Matt smiled.  “Once we leave Spacedock, Admiral, if I find someone I need in my crew aboard a Starbase, an outpost, or another Starship, I don’t want to have to check back in with your office to obtain the authorization to transfer them aboard.  And if it is a nonspecific transfer order—authorizing me to grab excess crew or officers—do you think any commanding officer is going to give me their best?  They’ll hand me their worst—and you know they will.  I want blank transfers, signed and authorized, that I can fill in at need.”

The Chief of Star Fleet Operations leaned back in his seat, and then he picked up his glass of wine and took a long swallow.  “Done.  Anything else?”

“Only one last issue, Admiral.  The ship needs a challenge—milk runs are too routine and boring to capture the imagination of the officers and men.  She needs to be pushed to her limits so that the crew remembers why they joined the Star Fleet in the first place.”

“Is she ready for that?”

“No.  But, if you keep putting her in safe areas, you are only reinforcing the crew’s beliefs about how Star Fleet considers them.  They will become even more convinced that they aren’t really Star Fleet and that the rules don’t apply to them.”

“I don’t need another incident like Omicron Cygnii II, Matt.”

“You won’t have one.  I promise you that, at least.”

“Talk about sink or swim, Matt.  Good god, man—you just said the crew isn’t ready for this!”
   
“It all boils down to this, Admiral:  do you trust me to keep the ship together and build up that crew into something Star Fleet can be proud of, or not.  Republic needs this—the crew needs this.  I don’t think they believe me when I say we are going back out to the frontiers.”

“Ok,” Josiah said.  “I’ll back your play, Matt.  But I hope you know what the Hell you are doing.”

So do I, Matt thought, so do I.

*******************************************************************************

“I’m still showing a fault in the focus software,” Chris Roberts said as he frowned at the display.  “We need to do a full diagnostic of the system; this shouldn’t be happening.”

The ensign looked up from his station after he realized that none of his personnel had replied.  “Ah, fellows?  Let’s get cracking on this.”

Slowly, the crewmen began to bend back down over their consoles and pull up the schematics—they still didn’t answer him, but Roberts just swallowed.  This was his first assignment out of the Academy—maybe these Fleet types more about how ships operated in the field than he did.  He didn’t push them.

Suddenly, his screen blanked, and then came back on—and the fault was gone.  “What just happened?” he asked.

“I fixed the fault for you, Mister Roberts,” drawled one of the crewmen, who leaned his chair back and closed his eyes again.  “You have a problem with that?”

Chris frowned.  There hadn’t been time for the diagnostic to run its routine . . . he sucked in his breath.  “Channing, you cut out the primary circuits!  This is the secondary system.”

“Yeah.  Look, Mister Roberts, our shift ends in five minutes.  If we run the diagnostics, then we have to stick around and fix the problem.  I’ve had it up to here with working in my off-duty hours, so there is no way in hell I’m going to volunteer for more.”

“It’s our job to fix the fault!” pleaded Roberts.

“Look, the secondary is on-line, the deflector is at 100%, and if it goes bad, well that is why we have a tertiary system.  Next watch will fix the fault and we’ll all be happy.”

Roberts gaped, and he started to speak again when the ship’s intercom suddenly came to life.

“Ensign Roberts, report to the Operations Office.  Ensign Roberts, report to the Operations Office.”

Channing winced.  “Why that gimp captain can’t use com badges like every other person in Star Fleet is beyond me.  That damn thing has been going off all day.”

The young man looked pained at this description of their captain, but the crewmen assigned to Deflector Control with him only laughed.

“Best you get a move on, there, Mister Roberts,” drawled Channing.  “Momma Biddle won’t like having to wait on a snot-nosed kid taking too long.”

Confused about what he should do, Roberts shook his head and he exited the compartment.

“How long do you think this shit will continue, Pete?” another crewman asked Channing.

“Until the gimp wises up and learns that Star Fleet ain’t gonna use us for jack.  There’s no sense in doing more than we absolutely have to—he’ll get tired and either retire or lose it like Harrison did.  Either way, no skin off of my nose.”

Channing and the others sat upright as they heard a dull THUD coming from the base of the ladder up to the deflector dish acutator systems a deck above. 

“Is that so?” asked a man that Channing slowly recognized.

“Hi, COB,” he called out to Chief Callaghan.  “We were just finish . . .”

“I know what you were doing, Channing.  And I don’t care for it.”

“Look, Chief,” Channing began.

“Senior Chief,” interjected Callaghan.

“Whatever.  We’ve got a routine—and we ain’t gonna disrupt it because the new captain has got his panties in a wad.”

Callaghan smiled grimly.  “Clear the compartment—everyone but Channing.  And you stay your asses in the corridor outside until I call you back in.”

One by one, the crewmen stood and left, leaving only Callaghan and Channing.  “Crewman, I don’t like your attitude,” Callaghan said.

“Well, you’ll get over it, won’t you?”

“You’re a real hard-case.  A certified bad-ass spacer, am I right?”

“Yeah.  And I don’t think Roberts or you wants a piece of me.”

Callaghan shook his head.  “Channing, you are too dumb.  You are far too dumb to be standing there and saying things like that—why, it could be interpreted that you just threatened two superior officers.  Things like that get you tossed in the brig.”

“I’ve done brig time before—no big deal.”

“Yes, you have.  I checked your record, you see.  And I am sure that you are thinking about how Star Fleet won’t ship you off to a real starship, because no one wants you in your crew.  You’re thinking about how a transfer to a ground base just means you have more chances to pick up a willing sophont in a bar.  You’re thinking that neither this ship nor this captain can do a damn thing to you that would make you regret your words and your actions.”

“Yeah.  So what?”

Callaghan slammed his fist into Channing’s belly and the crewman doubled over, his gasp for breath suddenly ending as Callaghan’s knee smashed into nose.  The crewman fell over and lay on the deck plates, bleeding.

“Ya bas’tad!” he squealed.  “Ya cat do tat!  Regs say ya cat do tat!”

“Screw the regs, Channing,” Callaghan said as he hauled the crewman to his feet and buried his fist into the younger man’s ribs.  “You threatened me!”  Punch.  “You threatened Mister Roberts!”  Punch.  “You called the Captain a gimp!”  PUNCH.

The Chief stepped back and released Channing’s uniform—the rating fell to the deck again and didn’t try to get up.

“Let me tell you something, Peter Channing.  I served with Captain Dahlgren and I know exactly how he got that injury to his leg.  You aren’t going to the brig—you aren’t getting a transfer off this ship.  No sweetheart, you’re ass is mine and you belong to me.  For the duration of your career.  Or you can resign from Star Fleet; you've only got three months left on your enlistement.  Hell, I would endorse that request.”

Callaghan stood straight and tapped his comm badge.  “Sick Bay.  Medical emergency in Deflector Control.”

“En route,” answered a voice on the far end of the link.

“You see, Pete,” Callaghan whispered as he knelt beside the battered crewman on the deck.  “There are all sorts of regulations about how bad it is for someone to strike a superior officer—but there ain’t one about a superior officer striking a subordinate.  Now, you could press charges against me for conduct unbecoming or for criminal assault.  And I could press charges against you for dereliction of duty as to your shutting down the primary array.  Either way, I will get a slap on the wrist—or do you think the XO, our Andorian XO, is going to toss me into a brig cell for slapping a piece of shit like you around?”

“The times, they are a-changing, Pete.  And you better adapt real fast or you’re gonna find yourself extinct.  Real soon.”

**********************************************************************************

DING.

Matt didn’t look up as his chime on his door sounded.  “Come!” he yelled.

The doors slid open and he heard footsteps, but he continued to frown at the computer screen, changing a few words in his latest readiness report to Admiral Parker, and then he saved the data and closed the unit.  He raised his head and saw Ship’s Counselor Trincullo standing in front of his desk.

“Take a seat, Counselor.  I see that did manage to locate your uniforms.  Commander Shrak said that you wanted to speak with me.”

The woman sat.  “Thank you for seeing me, Sir.  I have been trying to do so for the past three days.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Counselor, I have had precious little free time since we boarded ship.  What’s on your mind?”

“Sir, I think there has been an error in my assignment during alerts.  I have been informed that I am assigned to Sick Bay under Doctor Talbot.”

“Go on.”

“Captain, I think it would be obvious.  Tradition requires that the Ship’s Counselor be stationed on the bridge to provide advice to the commanding officer.  But I have been posted elsewhere.  Thankfully, we are in still in Spacedock, since this antique vessel lacks a seat for me as well.”

Matt leaned back.  “Doctor Andrea Trincullo.  Age 34.  Graduated Star Fleet Academy with a degree in Psychology, attended Star Fleet Medical where you received a medical doctorate in both Psychology and Psychiatry.  Excellent grades in both institutions.  You would have graduated top in your class at the Academy except for your poor marksmanship—it took you five attempts to pass basic phaser training.  However, you do have a 3rd-degree black belt in Aikido.”

“Four postings to starships over the past twelve years as a junior counselor for which you received a consistent string of Excellent ratings from your supervisors and commanding officers.  Last posting to Star Fleet Academy where you taught Intro to Psychology until Admiral Parker shanghaied you aboard Republic.  Did I miss anything, Counselor?”

Andrea stared at Matt in amazement—the man had memorized that!  “How . . .”

“Did I know all of that?  Doctor Trincullo, I have three hundred and eighty-one officers and crew assigned to my command.  I have thoroughly gone over their records.  Did I miss anything, Counselor?”  Matt asked a second time.

“No.”

“I wondered, since you marched in here and seem determined to be stationed on my bridge.  Counselor, there are two types of officers and ratings assigned bridge duty:  those officers and ratings who jobs require them to be on the bridge and those officers who are able to assume command.”

“I mention this because I noticed that you have not attended Command School.  You had the opportunity, but you refused, preferring instead to teach at the Academy.”

“Captain, those requirements have been waived in the past . . .”

“Not aboard this ship, Counselor.  You want a station on my bridge you have to be trained and ready to pick up the pieces if everything falls apart around you.  You must be prepared to immediately step into my place or Commander Shrak’s place and assume command of this vessel, with three hundred and eighty lives being just one of your many responsibilities.”

“You are not so trained and I doubt that you have the command mentality.”

“Sir, I resent that!”

“Resent it all you want, Counselor; I was not referring to your intelligence and capability—I was referring to your attitude.  Here is a hypothetical:  you are on the bridge, I am dead, Commander Shrak and Commander Biddle are undergoing emergency surgery in sick-bay.  Luckily, Republic destroyed the last of her attackers before you assumed command.  Engineering reports heavy casualties and Commander Malik is gravely wounded; Lieutenant Bowen has assumed command of the engineering spaces.”

“The warp core has been damaged and is only moments away from breach—but Bowen tells you that the core can be shut down.  However, to do so will require a member of this crew to enter a compartment flooded with radiation, effectively committing suicide in order save everyone else.  You have fifteen seconds, Counselor—what are your orders?”

Trincullo blinked.

“Twelve seconds.”

“Eject the core!” she shouted.

“Ejection mechanisms damaged and off-line.  I’ll still give you twelve seconds.”

“Abandon ship.”

“Congratulations, Counselor.  Everyone is now dead.  The life pods can’t get far enough away in twelve seconds, even if they launched the instant you gave that order—which they won’t.”

“That is not a fair simulation, Captain . . .”

“On the contrary, Counselor, it is the type of decision that someone, somewhere in Star Fleet has had to make.  It is a decision to deliberately sacrifice one or more members of the crew so that the rest of the ship's company and the ship herself survive.  It is a decision that anyone sitting on that bridge, who pulls a watch in my chair, who wants the privileges of command has to be able to make in an instant.”

Matt shook his head.  “No, Counselor.  Your job is to keep this crew on an even keel while I command my ship.  If you decide one day to opt for Command School, perhaps I will have a different answer, but for now your station will remain in Medical, assisting Doctor Talbot.”

The woman squirmed in her seat, and Matt sighed.  “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, sir.  You are pushing the crew too hard.  They aren’t machines, and the stress you are putting them under is too much.”

“Counselor, stress—believe it or not—is good.  Stress and resistance is how we build our muscles, develop our bodies.  And mentally, stress forces a being to focus, to learn to concentrate even when he might be distracted, to pay attention to his duties.  The crew are all more resilient than you think—and the ones that are not?  They don’t belong here.”

“Captain, some of them are on the verge of breaking.  And not just crew—but you are pushing the NCOs and officers equally hard.  Eighteen red alert drills in the past seventy-two hours?  No one on this ship has had more than four hours of sleep each night—including you.  All of the recreation facilities are shut down—the Holodecks require a command level override to activate.  They are not used to this level of pressure.  And, I have seen someone down in sickbay being treated for injuries.  I think someone snapped and resorted to violence due to your stress test.”

“Crewman Channing.  Yes, I am aware of the situation, and no, no one snapped.  He was being disciplined by Senior Chief Callaghan and matters went a little too far.”

“DISCIPLINED?  Channing had seven broken ribs and a shattered nose!”

“Like I said, a little too far.  I would note, however, that such injuries are quite common on Andorian ships—and they have little difficulties.”

“Andorian’s have a different psyche—they are culturally and genetically aggressive and are prone to outright hostility; and neither Callaghan nor Channing are Andorian, they are human.”

“Counselor, the rot on this ship is like gangrene:  it has to be cut out, as painful as that may sound.  I have privately reprimanded Callaghan, but he will remain as Republic’s senior NCO.  Commander Shrak has fully exonerated him in the matter, and it remains up to Channing whether or not the crewman wishes to remain aboard, or resign in disgrace.  I will not apologize to you or anyone at Star Fleet for running my ship in the fashion I think best.”

“You still need to a ratchet down the pressure, Captain,” Trincullo continued.  “The crew won’t stand for much more.”

“Counselor, we now have a deployment date for shake-down—and it is three days from today.  In sixty-eight hours, to be precise, Republic will exit Spacedock and we will conduct drills until the crew drops.  Or they meet with my standards, whichever comes first.  We will have three full weeks of drills and weapon tests and warp tests and emergency simulations and this crew will become proficient or they will be removed.  I’ve got to know what their limits are, Counselor, and the only way for me to discover that is to push them.”

“Now, I want you to keep a close eye on them—don’t baby them, don’t coddle them, but make sure they are mentally stable.  Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered glumly.  “And speaking on that subject, Captain . . . how are you feeling?”

Matt laughed.  “Oh, no, Counselor. Don’t even try that.  Now, if that is all, I have work I must get back to—and you have a crew to watch.  You are dismissed, Counselor

Good stuff!

Just wanted to let you know MA hat according to Star Trek Star Fleet Technical Manual the first united star ship Republic was a Constitution class (along with the original Enterprise) NCC-1371.

Good stuff!

Just wanted to let you know MA hat according to Star Trek Star Fleet Technical Manual the first united star ship Republic was a Constitution class (along with the original Enterprise) NCC-1371.

Yep.  Knew that one.  I find it strange that the name was never repeated in Star Trek canon, so I chose it for my story.  This is probably it for the rest of the weekend.  Ya'll take care.

MA

Well I anxiously await your return on Monday then.

One more short snippet.