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Chapter Thirteen

“How the hell are you, Matt?” a quiet baritone voice asked from behind where the Captain stood looking over the small courtroom where he had been summoned.

He turned around slowly and looked with amazement at the sight of Benjamin Maxwell standing there, wearing his Star Fleet uniform.  Slowly, Matt grinned, the grin turning into a warm smile.

“Cap . . .” Matt broke off, and shook his head as saw the small change in Maxwell’s collar insignia, “. . . pardon me, Commodore Maxwell.  I didn’t know you were back in the Fleet, Sir.  I’m well, thank you.”

“The hell you are, Matt.  I know, I’ve been the one standing here—in this room—and for a lot worse that you’ve been accused of.”

The older man’s face darkened and his eyes glazed for a second.  “Events proved me right, Matt, but the way I went about proving it was wrong.”

“When did you get called back?”

Maxwell snorted.  “Two years ago.  Leyton’s coup attempt and the Dominion War took out more senior officers than Star Fleet had lost for nearly a century—a fact I personally think that might actually be a good thing.  I'll deny ever saying that, by the way. I was asked if I would come back and work with the Strategic Operations Planning Board.  No command, of course, and there are several officers who resent my rehabilitation in the Fleet, but at least I’m wearing the uniform again.”

“It’s good to see you, Sir.  I was worried that you wouldn’t have many visitors when I got orders to take command of Chesapeake.”

Ben shook his head. “No, you were worried I’d wind up eating a phaser.  Those days are over, Matt.  I’ve . . . I’ve had counseling.”

“Yes, sir.  What are you doing here, Sir?  Come to watch your star pupil take his lumps?”

“No, Matt.  I’m sitting on your board.  Admiral Parker’s hand-picked board.”

Maxwell leaned close and whispered into Matt’s ear.  “Like I said, Captain, don’t worry about this . . . this formality.  The fix is in.”

Maxwell stood up straight again and looked over the room.  “I’d better mingle some, before a report gets back to my Counselor that I’m being anti-social.  Keep your jaw up, Matt.”

“And watch out for low blows, aye, aye, Sir.”

Matt watched as one of the two men who had truly taught him how to be a Star Fleet officer moved away—the only Star Fleet mentor he had left since Edward Jellico’s death two years ago.  He was looking far better than the last time Matt had seen him—the call of duty had been good for him.

A chime sounded, and Matt took his seat in the gallery as Maxwell and six other flag officers ascended a small dais—including Commodore Jurood among their number, and presided over by none other than Admiral Hawth Shran, the great-grandson of the legendry Thy'lek Shran, the officer who had almost single-handedly forced Star Fleet to confront their mistakes in the Leydon affair and the handling of the Dominion—and led the Federation to victory.  There were no Vulcans among the seated flag officers, just the two Andorians, four humans, and a Denobulan.

Admiral Shran took a small hammer and tapped a silver bell on his table three times.  “This Special Courts Martial Inquiry in the matter of the USS Republic, her Captain, Matthew Lawrence Dahlgren, and their actions in the Cauldron Nebula, is hereby convened.  Be seated.”

There was a rustle as the observers and witnesses took their seats.

The Andorian glared at Matt.  “Captain Dahlgren, are you prepared to offer your testimony?”

Matt stood.  “I am, Sir.”

“And have you brought copies of your ship’s logs as you were ordered?”

“I have provided the logs to the to the Master-at-Arms, Sir.”

“Then take the stand, Captain.  And let us begin this inquisition into the affair.”

True but he deserved better Picard and the rest of the Tribbles forgot what it means to be Starfleet

That is the true starfleet way

Its nice to be loved so much. 

What is it with rough people on the Republic? Isn't there any nice guys, even the doctor is a bastard. 

Chapter Thirteen (cont.)

“Bridge to Captain Dahlgren,” Chan’s comm badge chirped.  He shifted in his seat in the far more spartan Executive Office immediately aft of the main bridge and closed his monitor screen.

“Commander Shrak,” he said tapping his comm unit.

“Sir?” Grace Biddle’s puzzled voice answered.  “I was trying to reach the Captain.”

“The Captain is getting some much needed rest, Miss Biddle.  What is the emergency?”

“I have a Lieutenant Vasa on the bridge, Sir.  He’s one of the engineers from McKinley Station.  And he wants to set up equipment in a compartment that I felt I needed the Captain’s permission for.”

Chan frowned.  “Is Miss Tsien on the bridge, Miss Biddle?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Turn the conn over to her and escort the Lieutenant to the Executive Office.”

Just a few moments later, the door chimed.  “Come.”

The ship’s Operations Officer entered, trailed by a burly, beefy blond-haired man, who was nodding his head appreciatively.  “Ja, I had forgotten that the old Korolev’s still had a day cabin for the Executive Officer—they don’t do that anymore on modern ships.  Pity.”

“I am Commander Shrak, Lieutenant—what compartment do you need access to?”

The engineer shook his head and turned his attention on Chan.  “Gustaf Vasa, Commander,” he said, clicking his heels together and tilting his head slightly.  “I need to install an industrial replicator sent by Star Fleet Command.”

“I am aware that they are sending it, Lieutenant.  Cargo bay two has been design . . .”

“Nej—I mean no, Commander Shrak, pardon the interruption,” the engineer cut in, even as Chan’s antennae twitched.  “The power conduits are completely inappropriate in that location; the equipment must be moved.”

Chan leaned back, twirling his stylus in one hand.  “Commander Malik, our chief engineer, assures me that the equipment can be installed there.”

“He is mistaken.  Normal replicators?  Ja.  Ordnance replicators?  Ja.  Medical replicators.  Ja.  Industrial replicators?  Nej.  The conduits cannot handle the power drain for more than brief periods.”

“And where, then would you suggest that we install this incredibly bulky piece of equipment, Mister Vasa?  We are a working starship—not a station.”

“Ja, that is the problem.  Computer, schematic USS Republic on screen,” he barked and a wire diagram of the ship appeared on the wall monitor.  The cargo holds are large enough—but they lack the proper power feeds.  We could run new feeds, but these would be temporary and lack the proper shielding in the event of damage, like a Klingon-flavored ion storm, eh?”  He chuckled.

“But, in addition there are two additional compartments both large enough in volume and with the proper power connections,” the engineer continued, zooming in on Deck 6 and Deck 10.  “Either would be appropriate for the installation.  I just need to know which you prefer.  Deck 10 is closer to the cargo bays and is somewhat easier to maneuver large pieces of equipment through, but either of these compartments will work.”

Chan’s antennae were now quivering.  “You want to convert Holodeck 2 into your industrial replicator room?”

“Ja.  Plenty of power available, we will remove the holo-projectors and the compartment has ample volume with properly shielded power conduits—the deck and bulkheads are even reinforced, which is a plus.  There is even enough space to add a cargo transporter to beam in raw materials as needed from the cargo holds.”

“Miss Biddle,” Chan said as he looked up.  “I think I know what the Captain would say in this circumstance:  we are a Star Fleet vessel and not a luxury liner.  Surely the crew can get by with a single Holodeck.  Cancel all scheduled activities on Holodeck 2 and inform the crew they no longer have access to that compartment for their recreation time.  Mister Vasa, you have authorization to put your replicator there.”

“Thank you, Commander.  A question, if I may ask?”

“Go ahead.”

“Could this ship use a replicator specialist, Commander?  I would like to transfer aboard if possible—running replicators on a station is so boring.  I do not think this ship will be boring.  Sir.”

Chan’s antennae twitched again, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.  “I’ll consider it, Lieutenant, after you’ve lost twenty kilos.  Now, I’ve got work to do and so do both of you—the clock is ticking, people.  Dismissed.”

Both the junior officers stood up straight and then filed out of the office, leaving Chan shaking his head as he pulled up the next requisition form in his inbox.

Chapter Fourteen

“Commander Shrak, report to the Captain’s ready room.  Commander Shrak, report to the Captain’s ready room.”

Chan looked up at the sudden announcement over the ship’s speakers and he saved the mountain of Star Fleet paperwork he was slowly grinding through.  The cover story that Command had devised was playing havoc with getting torpedo reloads onboard—since all he could put in the requisition blanks that demanded to know why the torpedoes had been expended was CLASSIFIED.  Three times, the requisition had been sent back, electronically stamped DENIED.

The last requisition came with a curt note all but accusing the Andorian of smuggling torpedoes away to be sold on the black market!  And said in no uncertain terms, that there was no reason an ion storm warranted the expenditure of nearly three dozen Mk. 60s.

Chan walked through the bridge, and he took in the quiet efficiency of the crew with a nod of satisfaction.  They had come together, and while there were still rough edges among them, they were acting and conducting themselves like real Star Fleet officers and crew should.  He continued through the port-side door and into the short corridor that led to Turbolift 2 and the door to Captain Dahlgren’s ready room.

He stopped before the door, standing straight and pulling his uniform to wipe away any creases before he pressed the stud.

“Come,” the intercom broadcast.

Chan walked into the ready room—the day cabin that served Captain Dahlgren as his office.  It was twice the size of his own Executive Office, and included not only a desk and two guest chairs, but a comfortable couch, several shelves covered with books and items the Captain had collected over the years, and three transparent aluminum portals through which the executive officer could see the frantic EVA activity of McKinley Station.

“You wanted to see me, Captain Dahlgren?” Chan asked.

“I will presume that you are well aware that our surgeon drugged me, since no one came to wake me for my shift—the shift that you covered.”

“I was.”

“And you approve?”

“Begging your pardon, Captain Dahlgren, Sir, but you needed the rest.  The ship is getting ready for space, the crew are working hard—but none of that means jack if you are not as ready as she is when the time comes to slip away from our berth.”

Matt grunted, and then gestured to one of the seats.  He began to open his mouth, but then the doors hissed open and Yeoman Sinclair walked in with a covered serving tray, which he carried across to the desk.

Matt sat back and frowned as the middle-aged man set down the tray, a napkin, and a set of silver utensils, and then he whisked the cover off to reveal a china plate covered with hash-brown potatoes, scrambled eggs, strips of crisp bacon, sausage links, and two slices of hot buttered toast with a small open jar of red plum jam.

“Nelson, I don’t have time for breakfast . . .” Matt began before the yeoman interrupted him.

“Make time, Sir.  Chef Watanabe will be rather upset if his real—not replicated—meal has gone uneaten, Sir.  Would the Captain prefer juice or milk, this morning?”

Matt smiled, and his stomach rumbled as he inhaled the rich steam rising from the plate.  “Milk, and . . .”

“Milk, 500ml, chilled,” the yeoman instructed the small replicator unit in the wall, taking the glass that suddenly materialized.  “Iced tea, southern style, sweetened, no citrus, 750ml.”  Taking the second glass as well, Nelson Sinclair placed both on the right side of the platter.

“Will the Captain be needing anything else this morning?” he asked.

“No,” Matt said as he placed the napkin in his lap.  “That will be all, Nelson.”

“Aye, aye, Sir; I’ll be back for the plate in half an hour.  And I will check the replicator disposal log to see if you actually ate it, Sir.”

Where upon he turned on his heel and exited the ready room.

“The entire bloody crew wants to treat me like I can't care for myself, Chan,” Matt mumbled as he scooped up a forkful of eggs and potatoes and took a bite.  He patted his lips with a second napkin.

“Repair status?”

“On schedule,” the Andorian answered with his antennae twitching.  Commander Malik believes that the last hull plate will in place and molecularly welded by 1200 hours, after which we can repressurize the compartments opened in the breach.  Our new industrial replicator has been installed in what was formerly Holodeck 2, and should be operational within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Holodeck 2?”

“The power supply there meets the needs of the unit better than the cargo bay.  Or so Lieutenant Vasa assures me.”

“No great loss; have you . . .”

“Captain, please.  All scheduled activities have been moved to Holodeck 1 and rotation assignments have been posted.  I’ve also scheduled a close-quarters combat drill, defending the ship versus boarders for off-duty personnel at 1900 hours tomorrow.  Lt. Beck's Marines will be the aggressor force.”

Matt sprinkled some pepper across the steaming eggs, and then he began to mix them into his potatoes.  “Let’s plan on a fire drill for tomorrow afternoon as well—we’ve got a lot of new people onboard and some exposed conduits and circuits.  Get a feel at least for how they respond in a crisis.”

“I’ll schedule it, Captain Dahlgren,” he said as Matt lifted a strip of bacon and bit off a piece.

“There is the slight matter of our torpedo reloads, however.”

“Oh?”

“McKinley’s ordnance section doesn’t seem to want to believe that we expended thirty-four torpedoes in an ion storm.  He denied our request for reloads.”

“I’ll speak with Commodore Sampson—I have a video conference with him in forty minutes anyway.  But we’ll get those torps, Chan.”

“Indeed, Captain Dahlgren.  I was quite ready to send Senior Chief Callaghan and some torpedomen over to obtain them.”

“Chan,” Matt said as he shook his head with a grin.  “That is not how Star Fleet officers are supposed to operate.  I’ll speak with Sampson—and Sampson will deal with that dunderhead.  But have our torpedo crew stand by to check the reloads before they go into the magazines—he might try to pawn off damaged goods on us.”

“Of course—and if he does?”

“If he does, then inform the Senior Chief and grant him forty-five minutes of station leave,” Matt answered with a humorless smile as he lifted one of the sausage links.  “Anything else I need to know from my hibernation?”

“No, sir.”

“Alright, Chan.  We’ve got four hours to finish as much as we can, and then we are out of here.  So crack the whip.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Chan answered as he rose, Matt spreading jam across one of the slices of toast as he turned to leave.

“And Chan?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Thanks for keeping things running smooth in my absence.”

The antennae twitched again.  “Indeed.  I didn’t even need to threaten a flogging—you’ve scared the crew into jumping to obey my instructions.  You pink-skin tyrant, you.”

Matt chuckled.  “Miss Tsien has the conn?”
“Yes, sir, she does.”

“Fine, I’ll be out there after my talk with Commodore Sampson.  Let’s get the old girl ready for space, Chan.”

“Ready or not, we will leave the station on schedule—you have my word, Sir.”

“Of that, Commander Shrak, I have not the least doubt.”

Chan half bowed as Matt took a deep sip of the cold milk and then another hefty bite of potatoes and eggs.  And then the doors slid closed behind him.