DreamSpace Stella Nova SF Index Contents Back - Chapter Two

Stella Nova DreamSpace One To Fly A Proud Ship By the crew of the USS Essex Chapter Three

Thirteen months, that was how long it took.

From initial inspection, through the redesign and refitting, right up until this moment, it was thirteen months. Over seven hundred individuals had been involved, Starfleet personnel, civilian contractors, and advisors.

Now the Essex was whole again.

At this moment in time, she was only twenty-three hours from her confirmed Repair Dock departure time. Most of the crew were assembled on the Recreation Deck, as it was time for the one piece of ceremony that was essential to the ship itself - her official recommissioning.

Over on a raised dais at the head of the large room was a polished wooden lectern, fronting the historical ship exhibit. This ship was the twelfth in human history to bear her name, and pictures of her predecessors, from square-rigged frigates to cruisers to aircraft carriers to starships were on display, giving a needed sense of continuity in this advanced age. Above this was a large viewscreen, currently displaying the logo of the United Federation of Planets.

The atmosphere was one of expectation, having steadily built over the past few minutes. Every ship in Starfleet had undergone a ritual such as this, and it was a first for many of the crew, standing easy in a tidy formation, every one of them decked out in their full dress uniforms. All the ship's senior officers were appropriately in the front row of the crowd, waiting for the arrival of the Captain and Admiral Morrow.

Commander Connor was the last to take his place, next to T'Sara. "Not long now," he said, making sure he was lined up. "They're just coming down the corridor.

"I am afraid that I still fail to see the reasoning leading to the necessity of this ceremonial event," T'Sara said, looking directly ahead. Such ritual seemed far too sentimental for so simple a thing as naming a starship.

"Commander, you've got no sense of showmanship," Connor smiled, almost detecting a tone of boredom in her voice.

"Of course not," the Vulcan replied, after taking a moment to respond.

"Something wrong?" Doctor MacCaull asked Lt. B'Aijha, when she noticed the Caitian was fidgeting where she stood.

"I hate these drress uniforrms!" the Security Chief complained as she tugged at the shoulders of her outfit. "They always mess up my furr and they'rre gods-currsed uncomforrtable."

"Just be patient, this won't take very long," MacCaull reassured her. The Caitian's only response was a low, irritated growl.

As if on cue, the Captain silently strode into the room, and paused by the entrance. "Admiral on deck!" he announced, and almost as one, the crew came to attention, their feet sounding on the floor.

In walked Admiral Morrow, carrying a small data PADD. He had been looking forward to this event for almost a year. It was rare that the Starfleet Commander got to handle a commissioning ceremony, but this ship had been his project, so it was only fitting. One by one, he focused on the ship's senior officers before him, and then at Walters, remembering how he had given up his last ship command for a position as Admiral. Walters was qualified enough for promotion himself, but Morrow had never made the offer, as he knew it wouldn't be accepted. Being on this ship, and looking at her new crew was enough to tell him why.

He and Walters both walked over to the raised dais, and Morrow took the stand behind the lectern. "At ease," he said, and the crew relaxed. He was planning on keeping this brief, but meaningful.

"We are all gathered here, to welcome this ship back into the ranks of Starfleet," he began. "At one time, it seemed that she would be dismantled, but was preserved until the decision to repair her was made. That stage is now completed." He turned to Walters. "Captain...?"

Walters stepped forward, and faced the Admiral. Morrow stared up at him. Walters was one of the tallest captains in Starfleet. Even if you counted non-humans like that Tacaarn woman.

"Captain Stephen Walters, under Article 47 Section 3 of the Federation Charter, I hereby recommission this starship as the USS Essex, and officially install you as Commanding Officer." With that, Morrow held up the PADD, and allowed the small device to scan his thumbprint. He then passed it to Walters, who did the same.

That was the official sanction of the ceremony. It was entered into the Starfleet records on stardate 1424.63, 13:02 hours.

"Congratulations," Morrow said as he and Walters firmly shook hands.

"Thank you, sir," Walters replied.

"Permission to disembark?" Morrow asked, as was now appropriate. His job was finished, and it was traditional for him to leave now.

"Granted, Admiral," came the reply. With that, Morrow turned and walked out of the spacious room. Walters then turned to his silent crew, a broad smile on his face.

"Company - DISMISSED!" he barked, and all decorum vanished. A huge cheer rose from the crowd, quickly followed by rapturous applause and whistles.

Walking away in the corridor, Morrow smiled as the cheers reached him. Some things never change.

An hour later, a rather noisy celebration was well underway on the Recreation Deck. Some crewmembers were dancing to the music that was being piped over the speakers, others were huddled in small groups around the tables, some using the various holotanks to play the library of computer-controlled games. Others were gazing out the angled windows at the great curve of the Earth. Moments earlier they had been treated to a spectacular sight that many different beings from all over the galaxy enjoyed, a sunset from space.

Replicator usage was at a premium at this time, so the main refreshment tables were covered by low-grade stasis fields, which kept the various foods fresh, a common trick for this type of buffet. The replicators were busy enough keeping up with the drinks requests.

The sound of his new crew relaxing was pleasant music to Captain Walters' ears. Admiral Morrow's inspection tour had gone well, and after the his departure, the party had started with a vengeance.

The Captain spent most of his time wandering around the room, mainly for appearances sake. He caught sight of the Chief Engineer dancing with the ship's slender dark-haired Xenopsychologist, whom MacCaull had made the Head Psychologist as well. "First come, first served," she explained when asked. Garn had protested gently, but the CMO persisted, saying that she was more than qualified.

Commander T'Sara was also present for the sake of appearance, quietly conversing with one of her subordinates, a young woman with hair the most brilliant tint of copper Walters had ever seen. Observing the dialogue from a nearby table was Lieutenant Adam Clemance, wearing a strangely wistful expression. He was already jokingly called the 'Head Carouser' on the ship's grapevine, which had developed surprisingly quickly. It was odd to see him without so much as a single companion.

One of the holotanks was currently configured for a phaser battle game, and it was gathering quite a respectable crowd of spectators. A member of the engineering staff was taking on the ship's Chief of Security in a starship sim duel. She was flying a small but quick Loknar class frigate against the young Ensign's Klingon D-7M cruiser. Quite a mismatch, but Walters remembered reading the Caitian's personnel record; she was a Class One-rated console driver, the highest rating attainable, rarely given out by Starfleet. As if to confirm this, the young engineer's holographic Klingon ship suddenly vanished in a silent orange explosion. The crowd gave a sympathetic 'Ahh,' and Lt. B'Aijha held out both her hands, into which were placed several credit chits by various crewmembers. Her offer for a rematch was politely turned down. Neither were there any others willing to take her on.

"Not too loud for you, I hope, sir?" came a voice from behind him. Walters recognised the voice as that belonging to his First Officer.

"No, Number One," he answered. "This is exactly the sort of thing that a new crew needs." He paused, and then chuckled, "I just hope MacCaull has a plentiful supply of anti-hangover pills."

Departure minus two minutes thirty seconds, ship time - eleven fifty seven point five.

"Captain on the bridge!" announced Lt. Jamonn, she being the first one to observe Walters exit the turbolift.

"Carry on," Walters answered, striding towards the vacant centre seat. He moved deliberately slowly, taking in the sights and sounds of the ship's command centre. Unbidden, the image of when he had first seen the Essex again formed in his mind, forcing him to pause at the railing. Then he banished the thought. That was over a year ago, and now was no time to dwell on past events.

Around him, the last minute preparations for departure were being finalised. The system status checks, broadcast over the speakers, were proceeding through the defined list. Almost every station occupant was hunched over their consoles, carefully finishing their own evaluations.

The Captain breathed in and out slowly. The mood on the bridge was not tense, but it was filled with anticipation. For the first time as a crew, they would be on their own, out amongst the stars.

As the time seemed to slowly creep towards zero hour, the final reports came in. Repair Dock Control reporting all traffic cleared, and all umbilicals detached. Departure course programmed and laid in. Maneuvering thrusters holding at station. Impulse power available and ready.

His heart pounding with exhilaration and a sense of belonging, Walters ordered the ship out of the repair dock. Slowly, her impulse stacks purring with restrained power, the only craft in existence classified as a Mark IV-B Constitution Class Starship gracefully slid free of the place where she had been reborn, and into the starred light of space.

Unhurried, she arced around the planet until the appropriate departure vector was attained, then her impulse drive flared a vivid scarlet, and she was on her way.

It was a strangely poetic moment when the Essex departed from Terran orbit. Due to the rotation of the planet below and the orbital positioning of the dock, she left her home planet bathed in the radiant glow of a brilliant sunrise, her metallic hull glistening as if to signal farewell.

"Captain's Log, stardate 1425.24. Precisely four hours from launch. At last on active duty after all these long months of waiting, I find myself easily relaxing again into the role of commander of this vessel. The ghosts I once remembered have been laid to rest, as they should be.

We have just passed the orbit of Neptune, and are now clear for the first propulsive activation of the warp engines. My Chief Engineer has had ample time to complete the warp simulations, and I am assured that there will be no problems."

Captain Walters glanced around the bridge. All of his senior staff were present. Connor, as First Officer, manned the Damage and Repair console, between Lieutenant B'Aijha at Weapons/Defence and Commander T'Sara at Science. Lieutenant JG R'mashii sat at the Communications station, Lieutenant Commander Richards at Engineering, and Second Engineer Peterson at Environmental. The forward console was occupied by Lieutenants Clemance and Jamonn at Helm and Navigation.

Walters noted the chronometer above the viewscreen. Sixteen hundred hours, one minute. "Lieutenant R'mashii, put me on ship-wide speakers," he ordered.

The Andorian quickly tapped her console keys, then nodded at him.

"Attention, all hands, this is the Captain," Walters began. "We have now passed out of the Solar System. All stations stand by for warp speed." R'mashii closed the channel as he finished.

"Mister Richards?" he asked, swivelling his chair around to face the Engineering station.

"We're ready, sir," the engineer said. "Warp engines are on-line and at your command."

"Mister T'Sara?"

"Programming is set for standard warp entry, Captain," the Vulcan replied.

"Mister Connor?"

"All ship systems battened down and ready to go, sir," answered the First Officer.

"Course laid in for the Arcturus System, sir," Lt. Jamonn said. Their first stop on the shakedown cruise was the Weapons Firing Range, where the ship's new phaser banks would be power conditioned.

"Very well," Walters acknowledged, leaning back in his chair and fixing his gaze on the viewscreen. "Mister Clemance, ahead warp one."

"Aye, sir," Clemance said, tapping the helm controls. He gently eased the starship towards the light barrier, and began reading off the velocity. "Warp point six... point seven... point eight..."

Deep within the ship, the whine of her powerful engines rose steadily, as she got closer to the speed of light. Now was the moment of truth. The tension on the bridge hung thick in the air, as if it were a tangible thing. Walters noticed that he was holding onto the chair arm-rests tighter than he needed to, and that everyone else was holding their breath. The first warp jump of a new ship very nearly always felt like this.

Then, there was a white and blue flash on the viewscreen, and an almost imperceptible jolt of acceleration, as over 205,000 metric tons of starship entered warp space.

"Warp one, sir," Clemance announced.

Walters breathed out. Getting into warp was the most difficult part. He examined the viewscreen for any quantum shifting patterns which proceeded a possible engine imbalance, even though he knew the ship's sensors would detect any such distortion long before it became visible. However there was no such warning, and the familiar pattern of moving stars remained clear and focused.

Richards was engrossed in his warp contouring displays, keeping a close eye on the generated warp field. The patterns were totally symmetrical, and the stream of numbers scrolling by next to them were as he had expected. Textbook-perfect so far. He gave Walters a nod.

"Warp two."

"Warp two, aye," Clemance answered. The young helmsman usually told people that Starfleet was only a hobby for him, and his main job was the pursuit of the fairer sex. But, times like this - really had no substitute.

They proceeded, a single warp factor at a time, up to warp five. This was the pre-agreed limit, and the optimum at which to gauge the tolerances on the engines.

"Status, Mister Richards?" Walters asked.

"Velocity steady at warp five, no warp field fluctuations, stress tolerances well within limits, sir," the engineer replied. He was smiling broadly. They were over the first hurdle and running magnificently.

"ETA to the Arcturus System, Mister Jamonn?" The navigator tapped at her panel.

"Sixteen days, twenty-one hours, and thirty-two minutes, present speed, Captain," she answered.

Walters glanced around the bridge again. Everyone was relaxing after that rather stressful moment. The USS Enterprise had once created a wormhole with a set of brand new engines on their first warp jump, and that stigma had stayed with Starfleet crews ever since. Richards would have scoffed at the notion, Essex had a completely different type of engine, and unlike Enterprise, plenty of time available for pre-testing and adjustments. Still, he had checked the balance settings several hundred times anyway.

Commander T'Sara was quietly working away at her panel, a screen linked to engineering also displaying a warp field. It was yet not in quite perfect symmetry, but the Chief Engineer would no doubt perform further adjustments. She had observed him and his team at work during the upgrade, and his work was... satisfactory.

The call came through just as Captain Walters was going off duty. The Acting Chief of Communications broke off her hand-over procedure, and bent over the console to answer.

"Incoming message, sir," she reported, smiling a little too much. "It's the USS Hood. Captain to Captain only."

"I'll take it in the briefing room, Lieutenant R'mashii," Walters replied. It was closer to the bridge than his quarters. He exchanged a final glance and nod with his First Officer, then strode into the turbolift.

Once down the briefing room, Walters activated the intercom and entered his security code. The screen cleared showing the view of a Starfleet Captain.

"Hi, how's it going, Stephen?" came the drawl. Walters shook his head with a smile. Despite being noted for his strict formality dealing with his command, Brent Hazelwood had always been very straightforward when they talked.

"Good to see you, Brent," Walters replied. He decided to get straight to the point. "So when do I get my new communications officer?"

"That's what I'm calling about," Captain Hazelwood replied. "I'm afraid we're going to be delayed a bit. We're having a bit of bother with the engines and can only make warp four. Unfortunately it's a starbase repair job. You can't get the wood, you know..."

"Right," Walters replied ironically, remembering Hazelwood's preoccupation with old English comedies. "...It doesn't grow on trees."

"Anyway, we're heading for Starbase Five for repairs. Could you meet us there?"

"Say no more. We're scheduled for weapon tests at Arcturus anyway. We could head out in that direction and pick him up. What's your ETA?"

"Three weeks."

Walters sighed. "I hope this guy is worth the wait. I asked for the best."

"Don't worry, he is. Lieutenant K'Tath has taken him 'in paw' as it were."

"Good. At the moment I'm stuck with this Andorian who is beginning to annoy the hell out of me," Walters admitted. "I know she wants the HOD job and I'm sure she'll pull any trick in the book to get it."

"One of those types, hah? Don't worry, we'll soon be there. MacArthur's Bar, Starbase Five, then?"

"Deal. And it's your turn to buy."

"Fair enough. See y'all there."

The channel closed. Walters leaned back in his chair and swore softly to himself. "Thirteen months of redesign, four months of retraining a new crew, and still Starfleet has not assigned me my full complement of officers! What the hell are they playing at?" He tried to make more sense of the situation as he made his way to Deck Five.

He couldn't get Lieutenant R'mashii off his mind. His first impression of her had been favorable, and she was a competent officer, but she had a nasty habit of talking down to junior crewmembers, and didn't seem to be much of a team player. He had always made careful selections and appraisals of his Department Heads and senior officers, as they would be the core of the ship's crew. R'mashii had failed to convince him. Maybe in time, though...

He entered the Officers' Lounge. It was yet un-named, a fact that he wished to see quickly rectified. Back in his native England, an establishment's name was often a reflection of the people who frequented it. It was sometimes considered irreverence to open any type of bar without a name, much the same as setting sail in an unnamed ship was considered a dire omen.

The shift had only just ended, and the restful atmosphere was not yet disturbed by the current off-duty shift. Walters had exercised his prerogative in the choice of decor, bending Starfleet regulations slightly by commissioning a civilian friend of his family to design the settings. As a result, the entire Officers' Lounge was a stylish blend of standard Starfleet design and elements of the English countryside.

The roughly D-shaped room was a laid out in the manner of an early 20th century Public House, complete with wall plaques, solidly-mounted mossy plants, and other authentic details. Its ambient light was sufficiently dark in the recessed corners to create several small, cosy sections, but bright enough to be still easy to see in the main thoroughfares. Two vertical support pillars which neatly bisected the table area were encased with genuine English Oak wood, although underneath they were almost solid tritanium. The burnished mahogany bar itself was an anachronism, restored and lovingly preserved for the past two hundred years. Other small touches like polished brass bracings completed the picture. The fact that the 'brass' was really a reinforced plated duranium alloy was beside the point. This was a true 'off-duty' area in every sense of the word, an atmosphere that he had tried hard to successfully achieve.

And, true to character, the ship's Chief Engineer was behind the bar, tapping away at the replicator controls. He had the sophisticated device in 'learn' mode, and was in the process of storing data patterns.

"I sincerely hope there is nothing wrong with the replicator, Mister Richards," Walters said as he made his way over to the bar.

"No sir," Richards replied, without looking around. "Just trying to teach it how to make a decent beer..."

"Then you have set yourself quite a task," Walters noted, easily perching on one of the bar stools.

"On the contrary, sir, I've just finished," Richards said with a smile of satisfaction, as the panel gave the universal 'acknowledged' chirp.

"Nevertheless, I have yet to find a replicated drink that hopes to match the quality of a genuinely brewed beverage, despite what I hear."

Richards' expression suddenly changed. That sounded a lot like a challenge. He pressed several pads on the replicator panel, and two glasses filled with golden liquid momentarily appeared on the receiving plate.

"All right, sir, try this," Richards said, passing the first drink to the Captain from behind the bar. Walters took it, and had a quick sip.

"Standard Starfleet ale," he said, with a slight grimace. "Serve this back in Stratford and you'd lose your liquor license for ethical reasons." Richards seemed to agree.

"Okay then, try this one," he said, sliding over the other glass. It was the same colour, no visible difference from the last, but Walters' eyebrows went up when he tasted it.

"Now that's good," he judged. "Not bad at all for something that's been replicated."

"You have quite an educated palette, sir." Richards said, slightly surprised. "I would've almost laid money that no-one could guess that wasn't real."

"Actually," the Captain said, grinning, "If I hadn't seen you call it up, I would be thinking you had a keg under the bar."

Just then, the door slid open, and in walked Doctor MacCaull. She had her uniform jacket partially undone, and was looking rather tired. "Captain. Geoff," she greeted them both, to which they nodded in response, then she slid onto one of the bar stools.

"Bad day?" Richards asked.

"Long one," MacCaull replied, brushing her hair back with one hand and leaning on the bar with the other. "Let's see if you deserve that reputation of yours, Geoff," she said, pointing towards the drinks dispenser.

"I think you'll find that he does, Doctor," Walters said, taking another swallow of ale, as Richards tapped the pattern retrieval and select keys. A plain glass appeared, filled with a fizzing dark liquid.

"One Coruba and Coke, as to specifications," Richards said, passing it to the doctor. She gratefully took it, and downed half the glass in one gulp.

"Yeah, you certainly know your way around the replicator, Geoff," she commented, laying the glass back down on the bar. Richards looked apprehensively at the Captain, knowing he would not be happy about the absence of something between the cold glass and the polished wooden surface.

Walters harrumphed, pushing a coaster across to the Doctor. She looked blankly at it for a second, then made a small noise of understanding and lifted the glass onto it. Walters smiled, murmuring, "After two hundred years, of course you can't get the bloody wood, you know..."

MacCaull and Richards exchanged a confused glance. They had known Walters for over a year, and still he could surprise them. In an attempt to lighten the mood, MacCaull picked up her drink again, and turned to face the windows at the rear. "Nice decor..." she said, "But what is that brass sculpture in the corner there? It doesn't do anything for me." Richards looked away, not wanting to hear what the Captain would say next.

"That, Doctor," Walters answered, "Is an antique micro-brewing plant for real ale," a small tinge of annoyance in his voice.

"Oh," MacCaull replied. "I sincerely hope you're not going to have it running there..."

"No, Doctor. Any attempt to generate the required heat necessary would set off all the fire suppression forcefields, plus the fact that the wort needs to be undisturbed while it ferments. Starships are hardly what I would call a stable environment."

"Wort?" Richards asked.

"The basic and most essential ingredient of a real ale, Mister Richards," the Captain answered with a wry smile. "To brew a decent ale authentically, you need to do it, worts and all."

Richards and MacCaull exchanged another puzzled glance, before all three of them burst out laughing. The other members of the crew who had filtered into the lounge looked around. It wasn't often they saw the ship's senior officers behaving in such an informal manner.

"Well, quaint decor aside, how does this compare with the Officers' Lounge on the old Essex, sir?" MacCaull had never probed Walters on his feeling towards the ship, and thought now would be a good time.

"Not being by the turbolift shafts is certainly an improvement," the Captain replied.

"Well, how about the entire ship in general, sir?" Richards added, his curiosity piqued. Walters just about emptied his glass before answering.

"Well, I tell you, when I first heard that this ship was being reactivated, I thought it was a mistake," he said with some trepidation. "There are just some things that should be left in the past. The Constitution design had apparently had its day. I was resigned to that, hell, I just about convinced myself I could work behind a desk for the rest of my life. Then, Morrow comes along, tells me that he's got some plans, and he wanted me to make the project work. If it had been any other ship, I wouldn't have hesitated to try. But now... I wouldn't have it any other way.

"As for being it being different, well, you're the Engineer, you tell me?!"

Richards merely smiled. Although Walters had strayed from the original question, he had told him exactly what he wanted to know. MacCaull reminded herself to make a note of this conversation in her medical log. This was an interesting insight into the ship's Commanding Officer.

Walters placed his glass back onto the coaster. "Let's have another one of those, Mister Richards, but make it a half. I still have some paperwork to do..."

The door chirruped.

"Come in," Lydia said. Nothing happened.

The door chirruped again.

"COME IN!" She was getting a little annoyed. She crossed the room and keyed the door. It opened to reveal Adam Clemance standing with a bunch of flowers and a little-boy-lost look on his face.

"Please don't burst into tears again," was the first thing he said to her. Lydia took a step back, a little stunned at Adam's presence in her doorway. They stared at one another, neither knowing what to say or how to start. A crewman passed by and took a fleeting look into Lydia's cabin. This annoyed her enough to get her to react.

"Come, if your coming." She ordered.

The comeback line 'I'm not even breathing hard' flitted into Adams mind, but this wasn't the right time for such flippant remarks. The door shusshed closed behind him and there was another awkward silence.

"Are those for me?" She indicated the flowers held in his white knuckled hand.

"UH?" he blinked, and extended his hand stiffly. "They're real."

Lydia took them gently. She was dressed in the sleeveless uniform skivvy and uniform pants. Adams well tutored eye noted the fine muscle tone below the skin of her arm.

Oh, ghod, he thought, I'm getting poetic. His hands went to his head. "I'm sorry. this is stupid. Forgive the intrusion." He turned on his heels to leave.

Blue suddenly burst out laughing. He stopped and turned slowly back. She was killing herself with laughter.

"You find something funny in all this?" Adam asked indignantly.

Suddenly the funny side of the situation hit him. He was behaving like a teenager on his first date.

"I'm sorry," she said "It's just that..."

They both dissolved into the giggles. She flopped onto the foot of her bed. "Come and sit down." She patted the vacant area next to her.

Adam crossed and positioned himself as close as he could get to her.

"I was warned about you," she said, "But you're not as suave and sophisticated as you're made out to be."

"Er - yes. Well, I've - erm - never..." He looked down at his fingernails. Why did he feel so awkward? "Never had THESE feelings before."

"Sounds like a good chat up line. Does it work?"

"It's not a chat up line. I'm in LOVE with you."

She slowly let her breath out. "Well, it beats 'Welcome Aboard.'" Lydia turned toward him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. She looked him straight in the eye. "Listen," she said, "It's very sweet of you to say such a nice thing, but I've had some bad experiences with 'LOVE' in my past and - quite frankly - I've had enough."

"So," he asked and gently moved toward her. "You're giving me the Kiss-Off."

"That's right, bud." She moved toward him. "The Big... Kiss..."

The double doors of the Officers' Lounge slid open. Tharmal Jamonn, the Essex's Head of Navigation, flicked her tail and entered with a toss of her head. She liked making an entrance, and she knew she had the attention of almost every male in the bar, by the fact that conversation suddenly halted. She crossed over to the bar, and turned on her sweetest smile.

"Chavik', please," she ordered.

"You do know that's limited when we're underway?" the bartender warned.

"Yes, I know," the Cygnian crooned as she leant closer to him. "But one little drink's not going to hurt me, is it?" She turned up the warmth of her smile. The bartender smiled back, reached under the counter, and brought up a glass and a dark vessel of fluid. He poured her a good measure of the strange, purple stuff.

"Thank you," Jamonn said. She took the drink and sipped it. It was the genuine article, all right. "Where did you get this?" she asked. Chavik' was only available in one place, that being the Orion sectors. Actually trying to get hold of it was semi-illegal, but it was considered a low priority next to some of the items that came from the Orions.

"Well, it's my little secret," the young man smiled.

"Maybe we could talk about it... later?" she questioned again, her eyelashes batting.

"Sure." The bartender suddenly felt that signing onto the Essex had been a good idea. What he didn't know was that ostentatious flirting with men was one of Jamonn's favorite pastimes.

"Thanks for the drink," she said, and turned to find a table. Looking around for a familiar face, she saw several, but the friendliest belonged to Lt. JG Dean Thomas, one of her new Nav Officers. She crossed to his table, and pulled out a chair. "Mind if I sit down?" she asked, and sank to its surface, flicking her tail to get comfortable.

"Uhh... no... please," Thomas said as he hastily stood up to greet her. He had been too lost in his own thoughts to notice the arrival of his immediate superior.

"I read your report on the upgrade," she smiled, having another sip of her drink. "A nice piece of writing."

"Er... thank you... sir," Thomas replied. He was a little unsure of where this was leading. "Is that Chavik' you're drinking?"

"Mmm-hmm," Jamonn answered, staring him directly in the eye. She considered he wasn't too bad looking for a human. Males of her own species weren't considered as outgoing or ambitious as these Terran men, in fact she came from a rigid matriarchal society. Until Starfleet, she didn't know how much fun flirting with them could be. Thomas looked nervous. She had found out that his first name was Dean, exactly alike in both sound and spelling to part of her family name. A good a place as any to start...

"So, where are you from...? she began.

"NO!"

Lydia rolled off Adam and pulled her top back into shape. "We shouldn't be doing this."

A confused Adam pushed himself up on one elbow. "Well, you seemed to be enjoying it!"

"I know." She got off the bed. "That's the problem. Do you know how long it's been since I've... been with someone?"

He made to guess.

"It wasn't a serious question! You're just too much like HIM!"

"Him? Who?"

"Look, I'll try and explain." She steepled her fingers in thought. "Once, after a particularly difficult half-G solo dance routine I did, I attracted the attention of a certain Starfleet cadet, with whom I fell madly in lust with."

Clemance sat up and swung his feet off the bed. "Go on."

"I dropped everything, like a naive schoolgirl, and followed him across Federation space. I was in my final year at the Rigel Academy of Dance when I made this foolish mistake, and I let go degrees in Rigellian Dance History, K'maka Dance, DanzPi Chom'i, Terran Ballet of the 22nd Century, and a Masters in Federation History of Dance. Of course, I didn't pass this information onto the Starfleet Recruiting Officers. I managed to convince them that I'd ditched the 'plaything' image and wished to make a useful commitment to the Federation."

"Wow." He crossed the room and faced her. "That's a lot to happen to just one person."

She nodded her head. He drew her to him. "I love you."

"I know, but falling in love is right at the bottom of my priority list at the moment." She looked into his eyes. "Just give me some time."

"Sounds like a great 'Dump' line. Does it work?"

"It isn't." She kissed him. Adam turned in silence and left. She watched the door slide shut.

"Bitch," she said to no one in particular.

Clemance took the elevator to Deck Five. He didn't know what to do now. Carry on as per usual, he supposed.

"Well?"

He almost jumped. Harvey had materialised from nowhere.

"Ah! Harv'!" Clemance clapped the shorter man on the back, "Let me explain the mysteries of life to you, and you can buy me a drink."

"Struck out, huh?"

"A LARGE drink."

The two men moved toward the Officers' Lounge.

The Essex was routinely hailed by the controlling station upon their approach to the Arcturus Deep Space Firing Range. All space travel through this system was strictly monitored, as it was here that most Federation space-borne armaments were first tested. As the Essex was fitted with enhanced versions of a widely-used phaser, the first evaluations were to be carried out here.

The ship was directed into the proper approach pathway for the firing range, even before they were within the orbit of the outermost planet in the system. When they said strictly monitored, they meant it.

For the last sixteen hours, the pace of activity on the bridge had been several times what it usually was. The Engineering department was doing the final operational readiness tests on the phaser banks, and that involved procedures such as power conditioning, coolant distribution, and the like. Technicians had been swarming over the Essex's six FH-10 phaser banks all day, sealing the hatchways off and retreating to a safe distance when the bank was armed, due to electromagnetic radiation hazards. This had been going on repeatedly all day, and was a slow exercise. A single bank was armed, and then disarmed, then the techs would move in and make some adjustments, and it would begin again. Finally, after sixteen hours of hard effort, it was time for the live firing tests.

"Full stop, Mister Clemance," Commander Connor ordered.

"Answering full stop, sir," the helmsman acknowledged. The Essex slowly came to a full halt, at the entry point to the Firing Area. The first tests to be run were basic arm and fire tests, calibrating the phasers. The photon torpedoes would come later.

"Lieutenant B'Aijha, stand by to arm phasers. Mister Peterson, transfer power to weapons." Connor ordered. Just then the turbolift doors slid aside, and Captain Walters strode onto the bridge.

"Captain on the bridge," the First Officer announced, as he vacated the centre seat.

"Status, Mister Connor," Walters asked as he sat down.

"We're in position, sir, and are ready proceed. All we need now is the final clearance from Fire Control." As if on cue, the Comms console beeped for attention. R'mashii answered the hail, and turned to Walters.

"Fire Control on Arcturus III, sir," she said. "We've been cleared for full weaponry testing."

"Acknowledged," Walters answered. "You're relieved, Mister Connor. Lieutenant B'Aijha, commence your testing sequence."

"Yessirr," the Caitian replied. "Arrming forrwarrd upperr phaserr bank." Anyone close enough to see would have noticed that her eyes were gleaming. This was the first time she had fired the Essex's weapons for real. Power calibrating the phasers would take at least three or four hours, and that was a long session of almost continual firing, and then there were the target tracking exercises. She had run simulations of the aquisition/lock software in the seventeen days it had taken them to get out here, and she had to admit, it outclassed anything she had worked with before. That would have to wait, though.

"Power couplings responding normally," Lieutenant Peterson at engineering declared. "Upper array at full operational capacity."

"Tarrgeting set - zerro marrk zerro. Safety interrlocks arre rreleased - rready to firre." B'Aijha looked at Walters, her finger hovering above the fire button, waiting for the final order.

"Fire."

She tapped the red touch-panel, and the Essex's weapons spoke for the first time. Brilliant red-orange bolts of deadly energy instantly leapt from the frontal phaser emitters, and quickly disappeared into the starry void ahead of the ship.

"Rrrrmmmmm," B'Aijha purred to herself. What a burst! Three point two three gigawatts! The best that the Toronto, her former ship, ever did was one point six! There were more powerful phasers around, but that was one hell of a shot from an array this size, and it wasn't even fully conditioned!

"Report, Lieutenant," Connor said, observing her reactions.

"Phaserr discharrge successful, sirr. Total enerrgy expended was overr thrree point two billion watts," she answered. Connor whistled.

"Not bad for a first shot, sir," he said, turning to the Captain.

"Not at all," Walters responded.

Connor lifted his empty hands and said, "This calls for a celebration."

He gave a flick of his wrist, then handed the Captain a cigar and stuck another in his own mouth. Walters looked sideways at him, with an expression of benign puzzlement on his face.

"Cigars all around!" Connor exclaimed, pulling cigars out of thin air and beginning to distribute them to the bridge crew.

Lieutenant R'mashii at Communications had heard of cigars, but there was no way she was going to set fire to one end of it and inhale smoke into her lungs. Commander T'Sara gingerly took hers with a raised eyebrow and delicately sniffed it, obviously wondering what the purpose of such an object was. Lieutenant B'Aijha could smell them before Connor went to hand her one, and she waved him away. Yech!

Connor had given one to Jamonn and Clemance at the Nav and Helm stations before Walters decided that was enough. Lightening the mood was one thing, but they still had some serious work to do.

"Mister Connor, please confine your sleight-of-hand to your off-duty hours, if you don't mind." He wasn't willing to admonish his First Officer for this; he could see the reaction it was having on the bridge crew. It had been a long and tiring shift for all involved.

"Of course, sir," Connor grinned, taking the cigar out of his mouth, and skillfully flicking it around his fingers. An instant later, it had gone. Jamonn and Clemance swapped a quick smile.

Walters gently shook his head in amusement as Connor made his way up to the turbolift. Morale will be no problem with him on board.

A starship traveling at warp speed is undetectable by purely visual means. By the time emitted light, if there was any, made its way to an individual's eyes, the ship would be long passed, especially since vessels usually traveled at such astonishing superluminal velocities. The only way to observe a vessel at warp was to be quite near to it, while traveling at the same speed oneself. The sight would be spectacular, the vessel blanketed in the glow of Cherenkov radiation, the stray tachyon particles of the galaxy giving the illusion of stars flashing by.

The Essex was currently on her way to Starbase Five, her velocity steady at 125 c. The firing tests at Arcturus had gone well, and the weapon banks were at full capability. Walters was pleased with how they had conditioned up, and B'Aijha was less irritable than usual, having used almost a third of the photon torpedo complement. They would have to restock them at the starbase as well as pick up the new Chief of Communications.

Lt. Commander Richards was next duty officer at the bridge engineering station this watch. For him, this was the culmination of a lot of hard work, and the ship was performing splendidly. A few minor adjustments of the warp geometry was all that was required.

"How are things looking, Mister Peterson?" he asked, exiting the turbolift and walking over to the Engineering console.

"Everything is fine, sir," Harvey replied. "There's been no deviation in the coil configuration. Regular level four diags are showing no interruptions to the transfer matrix." Richards quickly scanned the board and nodded.

"Very good. You're relieved."

"Aye, sir," he said, getting up out of the engineering position and entering the turbolift. Geoff sat down, and lightly ran his fingers over the display keys. A double schematic of the warp engines appeared on the screen in front of him, the stress levels highlighted. He pressed another key, and the flow rates appeared. All perfectly normal.

"Status, Mister Richards?" came a Vulcan female voice behind him. He looked up. Commander T'Sara was watch officer this shift.

"Warp engines are performing within expected parameters, sir," he replied. "All systems are nominal." The Vulcan nodded once in acknowledgment. She then turned and made her way back to the command chair.

"Mister Clemance, what is our..."

She never finished the sentence. There was a large bang, and the ship pitched violently. Several crewmembers were thrown from their seats.

Richards was thrown against his console, knocking the breath out of him. When he looked up, nearly all of his status displays had red-lined.

"Aw, hell!" he cursed. "Clemance! SUBLIGHT! NOW!" he yelled at the helmsman.

Lt. Clemance quickly righted himself, and rapidly jabbed his console keys. As the Essex returned to normal space, the pitching subsided.

"Full stop," Geoff continued.

"Aye, full stop," Clemance confirmed. The officer on the communications station quickly bent to his console, as shipwide calls had begun jamming the internal channels.

T'Sara had been thrown clear across the bridge, landing hard against the starboard railings. She finished picking herself up, seeming remarkably unharmed, and faced towards Geoff. "Mister Richards?" she asked. He nearly gulped.

"I apologise for the breach of protocol, sir," he said. "If I overstepped my authority..."

"You acted properly," T'Sara interrupted. "There was a crisis situation and you had insufficient time to consult the Commanding Officer. Now, tell me what has happened."

"At the moment, " he said, turning back the Engineering board, "I don't know." Then the command chair comm whistled.

"Walters to bridge. Come in." T'Sara quickly moved to the seat and answered.

"T'Sara here, Captain."

"What's going on? Is the ship in danger?"

"There has apparently been a malfunction in the warp engines, sir," she replied. "Mister Richards is at present endeavouring to locate the difficulty."

"I'm on my way up," Walters said.

"Very good, sir."

"All right, Mister, what happened?" Walters asked, his eyes narrowing on Richards, who was standing beside the display screen. He pressed a switch, and a front-on view of the Essex appeared, inside a swirling warp field display.

"This is a normal warp field," Richards began, gesturing towards the contorting lines. "What happened was, the field generated by the port engine suddenly - pulsed for about a nanosecond." On cue, the display lines burst slightly out of proportion, bulging outwards from the ship. "It was only a small deviation," he continued, "about eight millicochranes, but at warp five it was enough to throw the ship around."

"I'll say," said a slightly aggravated Doctor MacCaull. "I was engaged in something very - delicate, when the ship suddenly decided to play cement mixer." Hearing this, T'Sara raised an eyebrow in puzzlement.

"Cement mixer, Doctor? I am not familiar with such a device." MacCaull turned her head slightly to look at the Vulcan.

"Forget it," she replied. Any other occasion she would have taken delight in leading T'Sara along, but now really wasn't the time for levity.

"All right," the Captain said, "that's what happened. Now tell us why."

"At the moment, sir," Richards replied, taking his seat again, "I can't."

"And why not?"

"Because everything is checking out fine," the engineer said with some anxiety. "Level one diagnostics, program entry coding, intermix levels... they all say there's nothing wrong with the engines. All this is really only initial findings..." He sighed in frustration. "It's going to take a little more time."

"Very well," Walters said. "Go and see to it. Dismissed."

"Yessir," Richards answered, then stood up and left the briefing room.

"Were there any casualties, Doctor?" Walters asked.

"A few sprained ankles, one broken arm," MacCaull replied, shaking her head. "All being taken care of. Otherwise it's just minor bumps and bruises."

"Good. Commander, was the ship damaged, at all?" Walters continued, turning to his First Officer.

"Luckily, no, sir." Connor answered. We're back to running on auxiliary power, on recommendation from Mister Richards. Engineering is powering down the matter/antimatter power system, so they can inspect the engines firsthand."

"Very well. Would you contact Starfleet and inform them of our situation. Report that we will hold our present position awaiting further orders." Walters said. Connor nodded in response. "That's all. Dismissed."

He did not watch the remaining Department Heads as they filed out of the room. After the door slid shut, he rested his chin on his hands and breathed out, slowly, contemplating. Perhaps having the Essex back under his command was too good to be true. Fate, it seemed, was conspiring against him once again.

"Sir, message for you coming in," the Comms officer said. "It's Starfleet Command, Admiral Morrow."

"I've been expecting this," Walters mused to himself. "Onscreen." The view of deep space vanished, replaced by the solemn-looking features of the Admiral. Walters could tell that this was not a good sign, as they had known each other for sixteen years, and were fairly adept at reading each other's expressions.

"Hello, Captain," Morrow began.

"Admiral," Walters responded, nodding his head. This was looking worse.

"I need to talk to your Chief Engineer," the Admiral said. Walters turned to the Comms station.

"Get Mister Richards up here, now." he ordered.

"Aye, sir." Then the Admiral spoke again.

"Your new orders are to continue to Starbase Five under impulse power, until we can send out a tug to tow you in. There the Essex shall be re-evaluated before being returned to Earth."

"Re-evaluated?" Walters asked. "What do you mean by that, sir?"

"I mean, Captain, that Starfleet Command is keeping a close eye on your ship. Those engines of yours represent a considerable change in policy. As I'm sure you are aware, all new ships are being fitted with Leeding Technologies FWG series of warp engine, substantially different from the Shuvinaaljis design."

"Yes, sir, I'm aware of that, but..."

"What I'm really saying," Morrow interrupted, "Is that if there IS a major design flaw in these engines... the Essex will not be fitted with new ones." Walters felt his jaw drop, slightly. He heard an sharp intake of breath from the bridge crew, collectively. The helm and nav officers quickly exchanged glances, also looking shocked.

"After all the time and expense put into the upgrading, sir?" he asked, incredulously, standing up and walking in front of the nav console. "Why?"

The Admiral only looked forlorn in response. He had no explanation himself. This whole refit had been his idea, and even the Starfleet Commander had to report to the Admiralty Board. Morrow was fervently hoping that the decision was not final.

At that moment, the turbolift doors opened, and Commander Richards stepped onto the bridge, still wearing his radiation suit. He immediately guessed something was wrong, from the despondent expressions everywhere. The Admiral was the first to speak.

"Commander Richards," he said.

"Yessir," Geoff acknowledged.

"Are you still investigating the warp engine fault?"

"Yes, sir. Nothing definite yet, but we still have to inspect..."

"All investigations must cease immediately," Morrow interrupted. Richards flinched, as if someone had just hit him with a bucket of ice water.

"Sir!?" he questioned, stepping down to the helm station.

"By request, the investigation will be handled by representatives from Shuvinaaljis," Morrow said. "As these are untested prototypes, Starfleet has agreed to this."

"But sir, that could take months!" Richards said. "I know the Andorian management system, it takes them forever to come up with any measures!"

"That's enough!" Morrow reprimanded. Geoff remembered he was talking to an Admiral here, so quickly shut up and stood straight.

"Sorry, sir," he apologised. Morrow seemed to relax slightly, and turned back to Captain Walters.

"Captain, you have your orders. Starfleet out." With that, the transmission ended.

"That was very nearly a faux pas, Mister," Walters said, striding back to his chair.

"Yes, sir," Geoff replied. He turned to face the Captain's chair. "But that's not all, is it?"

"I'm afraid not. If these engines really do have a design flaw - we're not going to get any more."

"They've got to be kidding!" Richards exclaimed, momentarily forgetting protocol. This had to be a bad dream.

"Mister Thomas, plot a new course for Starbase Five," Walters said, turning to the nav officer.

"Plotted and laid in, sir," he replied with a sigh.

"E.T.A?" Walters asked.

"At full impulse - four weeks, three days," Thomas responded. "Lucky we were so close."

"Engage, Mister Clemance," Walters said to the helmsman. As the ship resumed its course, he turned to Richards again. "Just between you and me, Commander, I want you to keep looking," he said quietly. "Something about this doesn't feel right."

"Yessir," Richards answered.

Commander Dafyd Connor was not in the best of moods. Anybody who thoroughly knew him could make it out, but to anyone else, it appeared he was walking calmly down the corridor. His training in diplomacy kept his face automatically impassive, instead of his usual jocular self.

He had just spent the last few hours of his shift in Engineering, helping the Chief Engineer in the investigation of the warp engine failure. When he left, the place was in an absolute mess, panelling removed, direct interface links everywhere, and Lt. Commander Richards almost tearing his hair out as one explanation after another was discounted.

Everyone has different ways of dealing with frustration. Connor had the ability to step back from it all and calm himself down, but now... now it just wasn't working. He wanted to expend a little physical energy.

He took a turbolift to the Rec Deck, which comprised virtually the entire area of Level Eight. Large and extensive, there were several areas which could be individually configured for certain requirements. One was set up as a personal combat arena, and although it was in use, the door was not locked. He went into the locker room and changed into a standard practice outfit, then entered the enclosed room.

There was a special function of the combat arena, being a computer simulated opponent. Actually, it was more of just a nice-looking punching bag, as it had no ability to move or strike back. It was created by holographic imagery diodes and precision forcefield projectors, giving a reasonably realistic simulation. The software to make it fully articulate was only just being perfected by some of Starfleet's brightest minds, and apparently one or two other ships had fully-active prototypes, but not the Essex, although she had the computing power readily available. Next upgrade, maybe.

This computer generated 'adversary' could be set to 'give' with a blow, or stop it all together, for resistance training. It had a rather grisly but appropriate option; the computer could instantly analyse the attack and inform the user if the blow was effective and what damage it would have done, depend on certain set parameters.

This was the first time Connor had seen it in use. He watched as the occupant leapt upwards at the target from a low on-guard position, and there was a surprisingly loud and realistic thwack as a padded foot slammed into the side of the target's 'head'.

"Attack effective," the computer announced. "High likelihood of cranial trauma."

"Doesn't sound verry prretty, does it, Commanderr?" Lieutenant B'Aijha said after she nimbly landed back on the floor.

"How did you know it was me?" he asked, walking onto the slightly padded surface. He noticed that the Caitian was not wearing her full uniform, instead she wore a yellow-trimmed sleeveless black tunic in place of her modified maroon duty jacket. There were several insignias sewn onto it, one with a number of Caitian writing characters, the others with cursive Chinese symbols.

"You have a verry distinctive scent," she answered, relaxing her fighting stance, still facing the dummy.

"Really? Should I be flattered?"

"No, just change yourr afterrshave. It stinks. Sirr," she added, almost as an afterthought. Connor let that one slide. Her record had indicated that she had several light reprimands for speaking her mind, no matter who to, but he recognised that she was the type of officer that would advance quickly up Starfleet's ranks. He decided to tolerate a few minor infractions... up to a point.

"Lieutenant, if you've finished, I'd like to have a try," he said, firmly resolving not to take offense.

"As you wish. But, perrhaps you would rratherr sparr?" she said, flashing him a smile, a gesture that she had no doubt learned from Humans.

"I'm rather irritated at the moment, Lieutenant. I don't want to hurt you." B'Aijha's smile only broadened.

"Perrhaps this idea, sirr" she suggested. "If one of us can avoid the otherr without being tagged on the shoulderr for five minutes, the loserr gets the drrinks in the Officerrs' Lounge."

"Semi-contact... and no claws," he added as a condition.

"Done," she said, her teeth showing. "As you'rre the rranking officerr, I have to tag you firrst." Connor nodded, and began to warm up by the side of the ring. Practicing with a live partner was far better than just repeatedly hitting a target.

"Computerr, end tarrget sim," B'Aijha said to the air, and the humanoid dummy silently vanished. "Five minute rrounds, notify when time expirred, begin on my marrk," she continued, and the computer gave its customary audio chime in acknowledgement. She waited while Connor finished stretching, then stepped back to allow him space on the mat.

"I think you ought to know, Lieutenant, I've practiced with Caitians before," Connor warned her with a smile. "I know how your people fight."

"Is that a trruth?" B'Aijha replied. "And I think you ought to know - that I like Saurrian Brrandy." She flashed him that wicked grin once more, and quickly added, "Computerr, begin!" She didn't come at him until the computer's chime ended, giving the First Officer that second to slip to combat mode, deliberately trying not to take him by complete surprise. It didn't escape his notice.

As Connor predicted, she started off with the typical attacks favoured by Caitians, using the classic splayed-hand style which gave maximum claw distribution, even though hers were still enclosed in their fingertip sheaths. He blocked or ducked the multiple blows, noting that she was more than likely starting off easy on him, not using her full speed. However, the strikes were precisely aimed and well executed, and Connor found himself constantly defending, not able to find an opening to retaliate. Finally he spotted a gap and lunged at her, but she almost seemed to disappear from where she stood. He felt a hand grab onto his upper arm, saw a sudden dark blur, then a weight landed on his back.

"Tag, sirr. You'rre the one." He quickly glanced up, and saw the Caitian perched on his back, wearing a very sassy smirk, and gently prodding at his left shoulder.

You cheeky little furball, he thought, as she flipped forwards off his back, did a half twist in mid-air, and lightly landed facing him.

"Computerr, rreset time," she said, still looking at him. "You'rre turrn, Commanderr," she added. "Let's worrk off that frrustrration, shall we?"

"Computer, begin!" Connor exclaimed, her remark causing his former mood to return with a vengeance. However, he quickly discovered that trying to touch her was not easy. The Caitian moved like quicksilver, darting out of his way as if she knew what he would do next. No matter what technique he tried, he ended hitting nothing but air. He stepped back for a second, and saw her flick her ears at him. Connor recognised a challenge when he saw one.

He attacked again, giving it his all, but this time she ducked under his hands and onto the floor, sweeping her legs underneath him, pitching him forward and onto the mat, face first. He rolled to his feet, on guard, expecting the wily Caitian to come at him from behind, but she was lying almost casually on the floor, her head propped up on her left hand. She looked almost bored.

Time to show her what I can do, he thought, and jumped forwards onto his hands, somersaulting toward her. He had planned it as a surprise maneuver, using the quick flip to close in, and it worked.

B'Aijha had not expected him to do that, but it ultimately made no difference. As he landed on the floor again and arced towards her, she batted his hands away and gently placed her feet onto his chest. It was a simple matter to redirect him up and over, and he landed on his back with a rather solid 'Ooof' a metre or two away.

This time, both of them bounced to their feet at the same time. Connor came right at her again, and this time she sensed that he was really trying, and not just going for her shoulder, either. Maybe she had played with him a bit too much.

Connor was fuming. Between the frustrations of sorting out what had happened to the warp engines and a cheeky Security Chief, he was in no mood to play around. So, he was quite glad when he realised that B'Aijha was not likely to be hurt by any attempted attack of his. So he threw himself into the combat whole heartedly.

Right, try this on for size, he thought.

With a quick spin he swung his leg around to sweep her legs out from under her, then in mid spin leapt forward off his supporting leg pulling his feet in. This increased his rotation rate, and when he hit the ground, crouched in a ball, he rolled straight at her, where she had wound up after jumping his spinning footsweep. He had a brief glimpse of her astonished face before he caromed into her legs, knocking her completely off her feet. She ended up flying over him, her hands outstretched, ready to land on the floor. Connor finished the roll by leaping up, feet together and arms extended up in the air.

Oops, wrong reaction, he suddenly realised, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He spun around to see the Caitian looking at him with a quizzical expression.

"That's two tags to me," she said, still looking puzzled.

"Uh, yeah," Connor said shortly.

"Sirr, what in hades was that last maneuverr?" she asked.

"Uh... well... that move that bowled you over was the final portion of an act I used to do, and at the end I held that pose while the audience clapped. I guess old habits are hard to break." Connor explained.

"Rrmm. I'd suggest that you brreak that habit though, because it might get you killed someday," she advised.

"Not really. I don't think that move would be much good in a real fight," Connor answered, scratching his head. He had only used it because he had run out of orthodox things to try.

"Well, sirr, it did take me by surrprrise. Could you teach it to me? A move like that could turrn the balance in a fight some day."

"I'd be glad to," he smiled. He began to change his opinion of the Security Chief. She was still willing to learn new techniques, even thought she had him outclassed. "Maybe we can go over some other moves as well that you were doing...?"

"As you wish, sirr," she nodded back.

"Now," Connor said, moving back to the edge of the mat, "The first thing is to learn how to do that roll without breaking your neck..."

"Rrr, Commanderr?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forrget you owe me a Saurrian Brrandy," she reminded him.

"I probably don't have any option about forgetting that, do I?"

"No, sirr."

"Mmm... okay, here's how you do the roll..."

Alone in the Library, Ensign Sole frowned and leaned closer to her desktop terminal. The door was locked, and she was meticulously going through the personnel roster. Trying to collate information like this was almost a full-time job in itself, and she was trying to prove a nagging feeling that something was very wrong. She was currently reviewing some of her flagged entries.

The record of this crewman was definitely not normal. It looked far too - clean? No, edited. She fervently wished her clearance was a little more substantial in the ship's computer hierarchy, then she could try to get the real answers on this setup. She made a mental note to talk to the Science Officer about expanding her Librarian's access level. She could log in with her Intel clearance, but that would fire off alerts all over the bridge, and it was vital that she remain unnoticed at this time.

"Damn it," she murmured, "I know there's something about to hit the fan, and I know, well, I'm reasonably sure that some of these guys are going to be..." She let the sentence trail off. Be what? A feeling was hard to quantify, and even harder to prove.

The computer display suddenly pinged. In one fluid motion, Sole quickly hit the keypad that deleted the records from her screen. The security program automatically did a access command seek, but whoever had tried to log onto her terminal had vanished just as quickly. Her eyes narrowed. "Blast! They got away!" she cursed out loud. Was she compromised already? Hard to tell.

"That settles it. Time those guys and I had a wee chat..."

Chief Engineer Richards stared at the engine schematic in front of him. His eyelids had grown heavy from the long hours he had put in this shift. He had hoped to prove that these new engines had some correctable fault, not what the mounting pile of evidence seemed to so easily contradict. The Engineering department had gone over everything they could think of in the past few days - the theory, the designs, the hardware - he'd even gone over the warp equations. They all kept screaming 'nothing's wrong' at him. The only thing he hadn't done was go up the Jefferies Tubes and take a look at the engines themselves. The radiation had only just dropped to tolerable levels, but they had been 'requested' by Shuvinaaljis not to go up, anyway. That was the most frustrating part, they wanted to sort it out themselves, and he wasn't even allowed to try. Bureaucracy - feh!

He rubbed his eyes, and realised the screen was beginning to wander out of focus. Shaking his head cleared it, but he wasn't getting any further. Time to call it a night.

"Off," he said at the terminal, and it winked out. Walking out of his office, he began to make his way to the turbolift. He was not in a very good mood. As far as the Engineering department was concerned, this shakedown cruise was one big disaster. Yawning, he touched the lift call button, and leant against the wall while waiting.

CLUNK!

He froze. What the hell was that? The warp engineering room was completely closed down, all of its functions re-routed to the impulse deck. Even the M/ARC was powered down, so no power was being supplied to the warp engines. He forgot his tiredness, and walked silently back towards engineering.

"Dammit, be careful with that thing!" a voice lightly drifted up from the deck below.

"Give me a hand, then. It's heavy!" another answered. Richards recognised the voices. He crouched down next the transparent aluminum flooring around the vertical intermix chamber and saw two figures wearing radsuits, carrying a rounded object with several short cables hanging from it. They were slowly making their way towards the main door. Quietly, he slipped away from the railing.

"I don't see why we have to take this thing out now. Why couldn't we get rid of it at the Starbase, like we planned?"

"Because this is an even better opportunity, McCready," his companion answered. "We disable the transporter logging, draw the power off slowly, and disperse it into space. Nobody will ever know."

"Humph," came the reply.

"I don't see why you're so touchy. We pulled it off," he said with some elation. This engine design is going to be gone over with a microscope. By the time they discover there was nothing wrong with it, Starfleet would have dropped all plans to purchase them."

"What about this ship, though?"

"Who cares? Should've been scrapped a long time ago. Now, get the door."

McCready detached himself from the object, leaving his companion holding it, albeit with some difficulty. He quickly accessed the door codes, and they slid open. Revealing a rather irate Chief Engineer Richards.

"McCready! Blackburn! What are you doing?" he snapped. The two Midshipmen quickly looked at each other, surprise evident on their faces.

Then, without warning, McCready growled and leapt at Richards. Unprepared for the attack, Geoff only had time to raise his hands before McCready slammed into him, the force of his momentum carrying both of them into the corridor.

Blackburn hurriedly dropped the object, dashed to the door controls and pressed the Emergency Shut button. The heavy doors quickly slid closed, locking Richards and McCready off from engineering.

Of the two, McCready had a slight advantage in size and weight. Geoff hit the wall with a heavy thud, and all of McCready's weight on top of him. He barely recovered from the shock of the impact in time to see a fist pull back and begin its journey towards his jaw. Instinctively, he jerked his head to the left, late enough for the blow not to be pulled, and there was a sickening crunch as his opponent's left hand met with the reinforced wall panel.

McCready yelped in pain, which was instantly cut off as Richards slammed the heel of his hand under his chin. McCready stumbled back against the opposite wall, cradling his broken hand.

Still winded, Richards quickly turned and pressed open a channel on the wall communicator. "Security Alert, deck sixteen!" he gasped into the mike. He turned back to McCready, who was staring at him with what could be called a fairly enraged look.

"You broke my goddam hand!" he yelled, and charged once again, his right arm drawing back. As he closed in, Geoff quickly dropped to one knee, and drove a fist into McCready's midriff, stopping him dead in his tracks and knocking him backwards onto the floor.

Then Geoff heard the sound of running feet behind him, and saw two security guards turn the corner, their phasers drawn. "Good," he thought. "At least B'Aijha has her people on the ball."

"What's happening, sir?" one of them asked, stopping a few metres away, on guard.

"There's been a breach of security," Richards replied, still breathing with some difficulty. "I saw McCready and Blackburn taking some sort of device out of here. He jumped me," he continued, nodding to the gasping form of McCready on the floor. "Blackburn is still in engineering."

"So we have to go get him, rright?" said a melodic voice. Geoff spun around, and saw the Security Chief slowly walking towards him with the graceful, sensuous movements common to her felinoid race. He hadn't heard her approach from the other end of the corridor. Two more security people quickly appeared behind her. "Get him to Sickbay," the Caitian said, gesturing at McCready, who was quickly pulled to his feet and led off. "When they've finished with him, put him in a holding cell. Now, what's going on, sirr?" she continued, turning to Richards.

As soon as the heavy doors had slid shut, Blackburn sprinted over to the Weapons Locker. There was still a chance he could get rid of the small device, and without that, they would have a hard job ascertaining exactly what he and McCready had been doing. He could claim it was an unauthorised experiment, or some sort of mistake had been made and he was trying to cover it up. The worst they could prove would be destruction of property and assault on an officer. They would both be thrown into the brig, but without any hard evidence nobody could prove anything major. Damn the Chief Engineer for showing up! And damn McCready! Why did he have to lunge at Richards like that!? It complicated a bad situation even more, but not beyond the point for explanation. He hoped. So much for a smooth operation.

He tapped in an access code, and swore when it didn't open. He had to try four different ones before it did, thankful his contact had gotten him the most recently-input sequences. Pulling out a shiny new Phaser Six unit, he quickly dialled it up to setting eight, and took aim at the apparatus sitting unsuspectingly on the floor. McCready allowed himself a faint smile as he began to squeeze the trigger.

Then the doors in front of him began to slide open. "Christ!" he yelled in surprise, swung the phaser at the widening gap, and started to pump at the trigger.

The main engineering isolation doors on the Essex were made of reinforced duranium, incredibly resistant to hand-held weapons. Several shots hit the doors, causing only small flashes against the toughened surface, but an equal number passed through the rapidly growing opening in the centre, causing the security personnel waiting outside to dive for cover. One of them shrieked as one shot took a couple of epidermal layers off an arm, and continued on to carve a medium-sized chunk out of the wall.

"Coverr! COVERR!" he heard an alien voice say, as the doors came to the end of their slides, and he saw shadows retreat back further, out of the way of his line of fire. He had no time to think, they would start returning fire in barely an instant, so he obeyed the first panicky thought that entered his mind, turning and running as fast as he could down the darkened horizontal intermix room.

Back in the corridor, Lieutenant B'Aijha slowly poked an eye around the door frame, crouching down so her head was at knee height. She had a brief glance of Blackburn legging it, before he was obscured by the intermix shafts. She gave a quick 'go!' sign to two of her people, waiting with their weapons drawn on the other side of the doors, then quickly leapt into engineering herself, coming to a relaxed, catlike crouch in front of the matter/antimatter reaction chamber. The other guards dashed, one by one, across the open gap and took up positions on the other side, their weapons ready.

B'Aijha heard someone else stop behind her, his scent identifying him as the Chief Engineer. "You said he wouldn't be arrmed," she hissed as she discreetly peered around the chamber, her tail irritably lashing back and forth.

"I said he shouldn't have the access codes," Richards shot back, just as annoyed as she was. The last thing he wanted was high-intensity phaser bolts flying around his section.

Just then Blackburn started firing again, the shots directed towards the guards on the other side of the room, and missing wildly. In the current absence of any great amount of light, the blue-white beams were flashing an eerie cobalt-coloured hue all around the engineering section, illuminating the participants like a strange kind of intermittent alert had been declared.

The Security Chief turned her ears outwards and listened intently to the distinctive phaser whine. "Smarrt guy," she said. "He's switched down to stun. Starrting to get his wits about him." She made another quick hand signal across the room, and the senior of the two guards nodded in understanding, beginning to return fire down the corridor.

"Wait herre," B'Aijha whispered as she holstered her own weapon, moved away from the reaction chamber, and carefully started to edge down the other side of the intermix shaft.

"Where are you going?" Richards asked, talking to her back. She turned around and smiled at him. It was the expression of a predator going after some unsuspecting prey.

"To have some fun," she purred, and Richards suddenly realised how glad he was that they were both on the same side. He watched her go, and then turned to regard the round device lying a few metres in front of him. Why was Blackburn so anxious to destroy it?

He glanced after the Security Chief again but she had vanished, not even visible in the flickering sapphire light being briefly cast around the room.

Unarmed, he could only watch as the security guards exchanged fire with Blackburn, feeling the most useless he had in years.

Blackburn fired off another shot, and ducked behind a structural support as two phaser beams flashed past him. He was getting closer to being trapped. If they had sent another security team to the shuttlebay, and he was sure they would have, this fight wouldn't last much longer. There was no real point in continuing, but he couldn't bring himself to surrender. He glanced across to the other side of the intermix shaft, and saw nothing.

"Hi therre," a soft voice suddenly purred behind him. He whirled, and a black and white hand swatted the phaser from his grip. It skittered away, uselessly. He gasped, meeting the unearthly gold eyes of Lieutenant B'Aijha.

"Damned Caitian!" he thought, swinging a fist at her. The blow was hastily aimed, and easily avoided. He wasn't exactly sure where she went, but a scant instant later, her hand whipped by his face so quickly he barely saw the blur. He leapt back several metres, she did not follow.

"Goddammit, she's fast!" his mind warned. But she hadn't connected. "You missed!" he smirked, thinking he had managed to avoid her.

"You surre?" B'Aijha questioned, narrowing her eyes at him. Puzzled, Blackburn put a hand up to his cheek, and was surprised at the sting of pain that it caused. He jerked his hand away, and saw a single thin line of blood on his fingers. She HAD cut him! The wound was not particularly deep, but now it hurt like hell. He angrily curled his hands into fists, and made to lunge at her.

"Just trry it," she icily cautioned him, standing ready, her hands outstretched, her needle-sharp claws now fully extended. It was a gesture designed to intimidate, and it had its desired effect on Blackburn. He'd always considered himself to be pretty good at hand-to-hand, but hand-to-claw was entirely another matter. No way was he a match for the ship's Chief of Security. Not even close.

Just then, the other security guards came running up, closely followed by the Chief Engineer. "Coverr him," B'Aijha said, flicking her claws back into their sheaths. One security guard grasped Blackburn by the shoulder and stuck his weapon into his ribs, while the other stood a discreet distance away, her phaser at the ready.

"So, what is this thing?" Captain Walters asked, gesturing the device that Blackburn had failed to destroy. He was standing nearby, flanked by two of B'Aijha's security people.

"The technical term, sir," Richards answered, "Is a flow induction actuator." Seeing the Captain's perplexed expression, he continued. "What it basically did, was throw the plasma flow traveling through the port engine out of cycle, albeit only for a microsecond. As you know, the plasma must attuned to an incredibly precise frequency. That difference was enough to throw the warp fields out of alignment."

"What about the diagnostic programs?" Walters asked again. "Surely they would have picked up any imprecise power flow."

"That got us for a while, too. Then I checked the software that was in this thing's own little processor, and ran a diagnostic program with a command trace monitor on it." He tapped the small control unit mounted on the device. "It looks like all our diag programs have been modified to send out a shutdown command to it, before any checking was done, and another to start it up afterwards. Diagnostic modules are virtually all standardised, so no-one thought to originally check them."

"Very clever, Mister Blackburn," Walters said, turning towards him. "Now, I want some answers."

"Tough. Because you're not getting any... sir." Blackburn replied, contemptuously, his arrogant pose back again. Walters saw Richards shoot him a dirty look. The Chief Engineer was obviously not pleased.

"You realise this is the end of your career in Starfleet."

"Starfleet!? Hah!" Blackburn sneered. "I couldn't care less about Starfleet, or this ship. As far as I'm concerned, it's just a job that went wrong."

"A job?" said Walters. "For whom?"

"Myself," Blackburn replied.

"You're sabotaging starships for yourself?" queried Commander Connor. Blackburn did not reply. It seemed as if he had volunteered all the information he was going to. The First Officer turned away, as if mulling over what had just been said.

"You could make it easier on yourself, Mister Blackburn," the Captain offered. Again, there was no reply.

"I think I've got it, sir," Connor said. "Our engines are made by Shuvinaaljis, and are prototypes, with a slightly better performance than what is currently being fitted to other Starfleet vessels. If they failed their testing programme, somebody working for the rival industry might be extremely grateful..." All eyes in the room converged on Blackburn.

"You've got a really sharp crew, Captain," he admitted.

"You're an industrial spy?" Walters asked, standing up.

"It's a living," Blackburn sarcastically smiled. "Can be quite lucrative, once you know how to market yourself."

"Lucrative?" the Captain asked, his voice tinged with anger. "You sabotage my ship and call it lucrative?"

"Do you think I care about Starfleet, or anything in it?" Blackburn shot back. "You're not the first ship I've done. Don't you know that some people think that this piece of junk should be cut up, like it would've been before all this upgrading nonsense happened? I'm actually doing Starfleet a favour by getting rid of this old... ULK!!"

Commander Richards had been quietly smouldering all the time Blackburn had been talking, but now he quickly lunged at the man. Grabbing Blackburn by his jacket and cutting him off in mid-sentence, Richards yanked him away from the guards and flung him back against the bulkhead. The security guards and Connor moved to pry him off, but Walters waved them back. He had seen this coming, and frankly, had almost wanted to do it himself.

"Now you listen to me, fella," Richards snarled, almost nose to nose with Blackburn. "I don't care about anything you've done before, but this time you tried it on MY engines. And if I had my way, I'd toss you out the nearest airlock right now, and call it an accident!"

Blackburn's arrogant pose instantly disappeared when he realised the Chief Engineer was serious; he could only stare back at him, a shocked look on his face.

"Luckily for you, I don't," Geoff finished. With that, he threw Blackburn back to the security guards, who caught him with some difficulty.

"Brig," Walters ordered, nodding with his head, and the security guards marched Blackburn away. After the door had closed behind them, he said, "That might have been a bit excessive, Mister Richards."

"Sorry, sir," Geoff replied. "But when I think that the Essex almost got decommissioned because of him..." He looked at the Captain.

"That was never a certainty," Walters answered.

"But it was a damn good possibility," Richards said. "Whatever the case, it meant over a year's work by a lot of people would've gone to waste."

"And it would satisfy more than just a few people in Starfleet who thought this ship should have been scrapped, sir," Commander Connor agreed. Walters nodded, as if drawing the same conclusion. This was definitely something to discuss with the Admiral. Later.

"How long until the warp engines are back on-line, Mister Richards," he asked, getting back on track.

"Several hours at least, sir," the Engineer replied.

"Better get started then, hadn't you, Mister?"

"Yessir."

"Oh, and Mister Richards?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Assaulting a crewmember like that might just land you in front of a court-martial board if anyone saw it." Chastised, Richards looked down at the floor. He didn't like behaving like that, but Blackburn had touched a nerve, and he had acted without thinking.

"However, it's your good fortune that nobody saw anything," Walters added. The Chief Engineer straightened up and smiled.

"Thank you, sir!"

An hour and a half later, Richards stood on the edge of the transparent aluminium platform ringing the horizontal intermix shaft, now glowing with power, exactly where he had discovered the two midshipmen attempting to dispose of their little sabotage device. Crewmen were milling about down below and around him, making preparations to get the warp drive back up and running. Once Starfleet Command had been informed of the goings-on aboard ship, they had cancelled the engine inspection by Shuvinaaljis, and given the Captain free rein to continue with the shakedown cruise. And the Chief Engineer couldn't have been happier.

He turned away from the hustle and bustle, and made his way back to his office. Stopping outside the door, he noted that the green light on the entry panel was only half its normal brightness. He quickly glanced around, making sure he was alone in the passageway, then quickly tapped in the entry code, and the door slid open.

"I thought it might be you," he said to the room's single occupant, as he walked inside.

Commander Sole didn't answer until the door was closed. "I just wanted to thank you," she said, sitting in the seat behind the desk.

Richards sniffed. "For what?" he said indignantly. "Doing your job for you?" Sole didn't even flinch at this remark.

"Now, now," she quietly smiled, standing up. "No need to get testy. They made their move faster than I expected."

"You knew about Blackburn, didn't you?" Geoff asked, walking forward to lean on his desk, locking eyes with the Essex's Intel officer.

"Yes, I did," she admitted, returning his gaze. "But he's only part of what I want to talk to you about." She moved out from behind the desk, and walked over to the inboard profile display of the Essex on one the walls. "We've known about Blackburn, which isn't really his name, for sometime now, and he finally got too careless in covering his tracks when he came aboard."

"Good enough for standard Starfleet checks," Richards suggested.

"But not good enough for me," Sole responded, turning towards him. "On a ship with as much prototype equipment on board as this one, everybody gets checked out thoroughly. Anyway, we have him now, thanks to you." Richards nodded, accepting the partial compliment.

"But what I'm concerned about is the software he was able to acquire," she continued, frowning slightly. "That was a Starfleet diagnostic program, altered to interface with his little device. Could he have just changed our copies of it?" she asked, turning to face him.

"No way," Richards answered. "He had to replace them. We don't have the source coding, and it's impossible to decompile what we have."

"How impossible?"

"Decompiling is difficult enough itself, but the original code is encrypted back at Starfleet using several double-indexing algorithms. Our ship's computer would take nearly half a million years to run through every possible combination," Richards answered.

Sole humphed in response to this. "I thought so. Then where did he get it from?" Richards' eyebrows went up as he realised what she meant.

"But the original code is guarded almost beyond belief," he said.

"Exactly," Sole answered. "This little incident might be just the tip of the iceberg." She took a short breath. "Someone tried to access my terminal earlier. I've got an intercept monitor set up for when I'm doing my... work, so whoever it was didn't find out anything. Now," she continued just as Richards was about to speak, "If they were just accessing the Library through my terminal, unusual, but possible. Only it was at the same time that those two were fooling about in your engine room. So someone was snooping..."

"Who was it? Only the Department Heads are supposed to know what your real job on the ship is." finished Richards.

"Yes, but I hope someone else does, if you get my drift."

Richards leaned against his desk and breathed out. "That means there's someone on board who you missed. A very deeply-placed someone at that."

"Pobody's nerfect," Sole quipped, trying to ease the frustration that she felt. Intelligence was by nature, an extremely messy, convoluted, and unpredictable business, and this little episode meant that they would all have to watch themselves doubly well. It also meant the Essex was a high priority on somebody's list, or else they wouldn't have bothered.

"The logical course of action is to take no action. The party or parties concerned will eventually reveal themselves. That much is certain," the Vulcan Science Officer calmly stated. Hers was the coolest voice in the room, giving a thoroughly analytical response to the bombshell that Sole had just dropped.

The Intel officer sighed and looked up at the Captain, then she nodded in assent. "I'm inclined to agree with Commander T'Sara, sir," she said. "Trying to ferret out somebody placed that deeply would only tip our hand."

"But that leaves us in the unenviable position of waiting 'til something else goes wrong before we can nail them," added the First Officer. Connor was not pleased. Having a representative from the Intel Division aboard only seemed to confirm his feelings that where they went, trouble followed. This was not Sole's fault, but still...

"We can be sure of one thing, and that is that the only people that can be fully trusted in this matter, are the senior officers." Walters noted. "I don't like to run a ship with this hanging over us, but, needs must..."

"And we certainly have a devil of a thing on our backs," the First Officer added.

Walters and the others looked surprised at Connor's comment.

T'Sara frowned. "Pardon me..?"

Connor looked at her. "Needs must, when the devil drives...? Oh, never mind!"

Walters rode back to the bridge in a darkened mood. This ship always seemed to have some ongoing problem that was never adequately resolved. A lot like life, he thought. He clenched his fists in frustration. They would handle this and any other bloody nonsense that the universe would throw at them. The Essex was his ship and by God, he wasn't about to let saboteurs get in her way again.

The doors to the bridge opened. His seat, the centre seat, awaited.

"Sir, engineering reports that the warp drive is now fully functional," piped up Clemance.

"Course plotted for Starbase Five?" he asked of Lt. Thomas, as he took his seat.

"And laid in, sir," the navigator replied.

"Very well." Walters fixed his eyes on the main viewer. At the moment, the movement of the stars was barely noticeable. That would change in an instant. He sank back into the command chair.

From that moment on, the Essex was truly back.

"Warp four. Engage."

And, spurning with her foot the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!

The End

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