Last Night On Earth

Posted on Oct 13, 2014 @ 8:37pm by Captain Michael Turlogh Kane & Commander Jacob Crichton
Edited on on Oct 13, 2014 @ 8:37pm

Mission: Absolute Power

"LAST NIGHT ON EARTH"

(Continued from "The End's Beginning")

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"No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be."
- Bram Stoker, "Dracula"

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Location: Manhattan, New York City, Earth
Stardate: [2.14]1002.0515
Scene: "The Queen from Queens" Bar


Aleksei Nikitin was nursing a short glass of vodka and trying to look inconspicuous. The bar's interior was gloomy - the direct morning sunshine had passed through the building already, and long shadows covered the sidewalk outside, leaving the interior dimly lit. There was hardly anyone here, either - not quite lunchtime, a bit after breakfast - and nowadays Grand Street was a little off the beaten tourist track, so walk-ins were few.

The bartender had disappeared out into the back kitchen, and Aleksei again glanced over his shoulder at the front door. His contact was late, and he was getting apprehensive. Being alone in a strange place did not help.

His eye caught the big photographic portrait that hung over the bar. It was of the bar's founder, some battleaxe from Queens who had returned home to New York in her winter years four hundred years ago and opened this place. It had apparently been passed down through her descendants since then, which was an impressive feat for any building in the twenty-fifth century. Modernisation following World War Three, which had left New York in ruins, had left little room for historic buildings like this.

The old woman was smiling, but her eyes stared suspiciously at him from the photograph. For some reason, Aleksei imagined she had an awful nasal accent and a machine-gun laugh.

Focus, he told himself. It had been almost a week since he had begun investigating Bonnie Reardon's murder. Pounding pavement, making calls, calling in favours. She had been killed in the Bowery subway station, a short walk from here, and the few eye-witnesses had seen her in the company of a black man who had stepped off the subway train moments before. The security sensors in the subway station had picked them both up, but according to the local police, the man was a nobody. His face didn't match anything on their records, and without a genetic scan it was going to be practically impossible to identify him. He had been careful - gloves, boots, didn't spit, cough or sneeze, no DNA evidence. He had just waited for him moment and fatally poisoned Bonnie Reardon with a hidden hypo of cyanolin.

Then had come the meeting with Secretary Martine, and her revelation that the Neo-Essentialists were active once again. She had told him that they were spread throughout the Federation bureaucracy, that she suspected them of murdering Bonnie Reardon. Therefore, Aleksei was working on the assumption that the assassin was a Neo-Essentialist.

Finally, it was as plain as day that there was an emormous cover-up going on regarding the fate of the USS Discovery. The ship's Chief Engineer had been publically arrested following his testimony and was being set up to take some sort of fall. The official story - that the Discovery had been destroyed by gravitic turbulence in the Beta Quadrant - didn't add up. The decloakng of the USS Century over Paris and the intergalactic diplomatic fallout was sensational, sure, but it made no sense. Why had the Century's crew done that? It was a bit of a broken line, but Aleksei was sure that there was a Neo-Essentialist link.

The bar's door opened. The sounds of the city invaded the room for a moment, but retreated as the door closed. Aleksei looked around, breath catching in fear.

A tall, thin black man was standing there, looking right at him through dark eyes over high cheekbones. His hair was cut into a widow's peak. The man was wearing gloves under an overcoat, flexing his fingers purposefully. He came forward.

Aleksei made to get up, but the man held out a finger. "No point in running, Aleksei Maximovich Nikitin. I already have your scent. Once I am on a trail, I never lose my quarry."

Aleksei looked around with growing fear, wondering where the bartender was. The black man was beside his table now, and slid smoothly into the booth opposite him. They eyeballed each other.

"Who are you?" said Aleksei.

The black man smiled a smile of blades in an alley. "I am Mr. Johnson."

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Location: San Diego, Earth
Scene: La Jolla Beach


It was a day for secret meetings.

Marie-Claire Martine pressed the door buzzer and waited patiently. The sun was shining down on the sparkling blue Pacific waters nearby, a whole ocean to get lost in. Beach-houses ran the length of the shingle, carrying on around the headlands in both directions. To the north, a promenade stretched out into the water, while a rocky shore appeared to the south. Just a couple of blocks behind her, the city seethed.

The door opened. The man standing there was older than his Starfleet service record had indicated, but he was still tall and strong, skin bronzed from years of living in southern California, blond hair thin as cotton candy. He had obviously been sunbathing, standing as he was in just a pair of swimming trunks.

"Can I help you?" he grated.

Martine tore her eyes off his midriff. "Nathan Halloway? Admiral Nathan Halloway?"

The man nodded.

"I am Marie-Claire Martine, the Secretary of Starfleet. I apologise for calling directly to your home, but it's very important I speak with you. Immediately."

"No guards? No media?"

Martine shook her head. "What I have to tell you is too important."

Halloway paused for a moment before nodding. "Then you'd better come in."

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Location: Paris, France
Scene: Le Cafe d'Andor, just off the Champs Elysses


Aerdan Jos didn't really believe his brother when he told him that it existed, didn't truly believe it when they saw an advertisement for it on the Metro, and still thought it was all an elaborate hoax even when a friendly gendarme pointed out the little lane where it was.

A real Andorian cafe in Paris. Here they were drinking shots of Andorian ale. Here they were eating plates of tuber roots.

"Here we are," Arjan said for the third time.

"I had no idea," said Aerdan for the third time. "They even keep the temperature comparable to the homeworld."

"Not too many Terrans come in here," agreed Arjan, selecting the juiciest-looking tuber and biting into it with a splurge of goo. "When is that meeting of yours?"

"The whole thing is very mysterious," said Aerdan distractedly. "I was contacted by a Terran named Drake, who made an arrangement for me to meet someone in this city. Only that meeting has not happened yet."

"You trust this Drake?"

"Yes. I know him. Although he seemed different when we met in San Francisco."

"And who are you supposed to meet?"

"A Starfleet captain named Michael Turlogh Kane."

Arjan stopped chewing his tuber and his antennae shot straight up. "Captain Michael Turlogh Kane?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

Arjan put down the tuber. "Brother, everyone knows him. He was the commander of the Discovery. And the Century. The Board of Inquiry that was on FedCom all last week? That was all to do with him and his crew."

"I have been distracted."

"Evidently." Arjan relaxed again. "I hope you know what you're getting yourself mixed up in. Oh, and I met Sedna the other day."

That got Aerdan's attention. "Where? Here?"

"Yes. At some historical building outside the city. It was a fleeting encounter, we just passed each other by. I think something might be wrong with her, though."

"In what way?"

"I don't know. She seemed sad. Distracted. Uncomfortable. She was anxious to end the encounter and move on."

"That doesn't sound like Sedna. Was she alone?"

"As far as I know, yes." Arjan brandished his tuber at Aerdan's face. "Don't even think about it. Just because you're at a loose end in your career right now does not mean you go poking your antennae into things that don't concern you. Give the woman her space."

Aerdan shrugged. "There is nothing to do but wait. But I dislike waiting."

"Who does? Are you going to eat or not?"

Aerdan picked up a tuber, filing Arjan's news at the back of his mind.

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Location: San Diego
Scene: Halloway's Beach-house


Marie-Claire Martine put the glass of orange juice that she had not sipped from back down on the table. "So now you know everything," she said, and tried to gauge Halloway's reaction. What she had told him - everything - had changed his life in the space of a few short minutes. They were connected on some level now, but Martine knew well that Halloway must be wishing that she had never knocked on his door.

"I feel cold," the older man said, getting up an reaching for a robe. "I crossed paths with Captain Kane once many years ago, when I was head of Starfleet Engineering. We sat together in a meeting when the Discovery was be prepared to leave on her voyage of exploration. I'm sorry to hear she came to a bad end. She was a good ship."

"It's a crew that makes the ship," countered Martine. "Unless Captain Kane and his crew are assigned a new starship, Edgerton and the Neo-Essentialists will probably pick them off, one by one."

Halloway nodded. "I was there on the line when Edmund Dupree stole the Century. I remember that year. We thought the Neo-Essentialists were everywhere. I guess they were."

Martine leaned forward in her seat. "Can you help me, Admiral Halloway? I can't assign Starfleet personnel because I have no authority over fleet operations. But I can initiate or activate special projects. And I know you're not all the way retired, at least not yet, are you." It was a statement, not a question.

Halloway shook his head. "No. After Adam Heyting took over, I stayed around in a consultant capacity, overseeing a couple of special projects that I felt close to. I'm still doing that, and I guess I know which one you're here about."

Martine nodded. "Unless I can assign Captain Kane and his crew to the shakedown of an NX-class starship, they're all dead."

Halloway sighed. Coming to a decision, he crossed the room to his comms panel and keyed in a code, opening a communications channel. The screen winked, and the face of a Tellarite Lieutenant Commander appeared on the screen. {{Gharsh here. Ready for instruction, Admiral.}}

Halloway's voice was firm. "Commander, I'm calling about Project Phoenix."

{{Understood, Admiral. Is the word given?}}

Halloway paused, and turned to Martine. "Well, Madame Secretary? There's no going back if you do."

Martine took a breath. Once Edgerton got wind of this, it meant war. She nodded quickly.

Halloway turned back to the screen. "The word is given, Commander. Bring Project Phoenix online and prepare to launch. Halloway out." He killed the connection and turned back to Martine. "It's done."

"How long?" she asked.

"Twenty-four hours."

"And security? How do you know none of your people are Neo-Essentialists?"

"How do you know that I'm not, Madam Secretary?"

Martine nodded. "Thank you, Admiral."

Halloway looked at her grimly. "There'a a war coming, isn't there? The worst of all kinds of war."

Martine was already moving toward the front door. "Yes, I suppose there is. But now we have a weapon."

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Location: New Zealand, Papakura Stockade
Scene: Jake's Cell


Day Two.

After a night spent tossing and turning on his cot, separated from the firm metal slab by a flimsy piece of padding and a scratchy blanket, Jake Crichton was roused from a thin sleep when every light in his cell blasted suddenly to life. He clenched his eyes shut, and wrapped an arm around his face.

A recording of a bored sounding voice announced the time from a somewhere in the distance - 0500 hours local - and gave a list of standardised instructions that Jake was too exhausted to understand.

After giving up on finding a setting for warm water on the sink, he splashed some water on his face to perk himself up. Finding no towels in the cell, he resigned himself to wiping his face with the scratchy blanket on his cot. He left the soggy piece of fabric in a bundled ball on his mattress, just as his cell door unlatched and slid open.

"Inspection,” said a gruff voice from outside the cell. Jake wasn’t sure what to do, so he stood there, confused and not fully awake.

"Inspection!" snapped the voice again, harder this time. "Step out of your cell, prisoner!"

Jake stepped out of the cell. Four Human guards stood there, uniforms crisp, their phasers still holstered on their hips. Two of them took Jake by the arms and led him to the side of his cell door, while the other two guards stepped inside.

Jake watched in silence as they tossed the cell. Looking around out into the corridor, he saw a few other prisoners standing outside of their cells, similarly flanked by guards. At the end of the row, through the large windows of the guard station, Jake could see the Vulcan colonel, T’Prell. His eyes were fixed on Jake, and though Jake tried to match his withering stare, his eyes eventually fell to the floor.

One of the guards stepped out of the cell, the wad of soggy blanket held out before him in both hands. The guard held the bunched-up blanket like it was a dirty diaper, and despite his fatigue, the image made Jake smile.

“Something funny?” the guard asked, getting in Jake’s face. Jake tried to step back, but the guards at his sides had his arms in tight grips, and the best he could do is move his head slightly backwards.

“No, officer,” Jake said.

“What’s this?” the guard asked, holding up the blanket so that it was almost in Jake’s face as well. For a moment, Jake wondered if the guard meant to smother him with it.

“It’s a blanket,” Jake deadpanned. He felt a little stupid, but then, it wasn’t exactly an intelligent question.

“It’s wet,” the guard said, as if he was expecting Jake to break down and confess to some horrific infraction.

“There were no towels,” Jake said. “I would have called room service, but I think my comm terminal is broken.”

“This is the property of the facility,” the guard said, still holding out the blanket as though it might explode.

“Nobody told me to bring my own,” Jake replied, trying to figure out where the conversation was going. The absurdity of the situation, coupled with his fatigue, prevented him from appreciating the reality of his situation. He wondered if he was in danger.

{{Is there a problem, Private Douglas?}} came the voice of T’Prell through the cell block’s intercom. Jake glanced down the corridor and saw that the Vulcan was still inside the guard station, his eyes still fixed on Jake.

“Tampering with stockade property,” Douglas said in response.

{{That is a serious infraction, Commander Crichton,}} T’Prell said through the intercom.

Jake almost laughed. “It’s a wet blanket, not an escape tunnel!” he called. “I assume you have a clothes line around here somewhere?”

{{Put Commander Crichton into isolation,}} T’Prell said, maddeningly calmly. {{He can bring his blanket if he likes.}}

“Let’s go,” grated one of the other guards, tightening his grip on Jake’s arm.

As they started to drag him away, Jake began to struggle. “Wait a minute! I’m supposed to be able to speak with my advocate. I have a right to due process!”

Suddenly, the three guards seized Jake by the arms, while the fourth grabbed him by his chin and forced his mouth open, stuffing the blanket inside. Jake gagged on the fabric, tried to cough it out, but the water and Jake’s own saliva made the blanket heavy, causing it to fill his mouth. Feeling like he was drowning, Jake writhed frantically, fighting to force himself to breathe through his nose. The guards hauled him heavily off his feet, dragging him down the hallway. Distantly, Jake heard a voice on the intercom- not T’Prell’s, but one of the other guards- ordering prisoners to form a line and proceed to the stockade yard for morning drills.

Dazed, Jake lost his bearings. The world around him blurred out, and when he came to his senses he was in another corridor. But this one was not decorated in the familiar, comforting Starfleet motif. Metal walls lined either side of the hall, sitting at slight slanted angle, giving Jake a claustrophobic feeling. The wad of blanket was still in his mouth, and as realisation hit him, choking, gagging sounds forced their way up from his throat. None of the guards seemed to notice.

They stopped at a metal door. The door slid open without any prompting from the guards, and they roughly shoved Jake inside, sending him sprawling to the cold metal floor. The door slid shut behind him, and he was alone.

The room was small, easily half the size of his previous accommodation. The interior lighting was dim, and it took his eyes some moments to adjust. When they did, he could make out a flimsy sleeping pad in one corner. No cot or bunk, just the pad. The walls of the cell were as smooth and sterile as the floor - no comm terminal, no internal controls for lighting. Jake spotted a toilet fixed to the wall near the sleeping pad, and was relieved that at least he wouldn't be subjected to that particular indignity.

Summoning the strength back into his arms, Jake willed them to work. He reached up and pulled the blanket out of his mouth. It was moist with saliva and sticky with phlegm. He tossed it onto the sleeping pad, grimly aware that was what got him into this mess in the first place.

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Location: Northern Maine
Scene: Private B+B


Storm Bomba was sleeping. It was a relief that Phia felt too as she made her way down the stairs and out on to the veranda, where Cade was pouring two glasses of fruitwater. At first Storm was confused by his sudden change of surroundings, but a mild sedative had calmed him down and helped him to fall asleep surprisingly easily. So far there had been no awkward questions, but Phia was sure they were coming.

From more than one mouth, she thought bitterly as Cade rounded on her. Phia steeled herself for more rapey bullshit.

"Is baby asleep?" winked Cade. "If so, how about we play mommies and daddies again?"

Phia silently wondered why she put up with this. "Go fuck yourself," she said, walking past him into the garden.

"I'd rather you did it!" Cade called, plopping himself into a deckchair and relaxing with his feet up. "I can wait until dark!"

Phia walked down to the road that ran by the house. The bed-and-breakfast was situated a couple of miles away from the nearest farmhouse, in gentle rolling hills. The day was bright, but the Maine skies had a way of changing quickly, and in the distance Phia could see a band of black clouds lurking in a thick wedge.

"Hello, T'amar," came a voice from her right.

Phia froze in shock. The use of her cover name made her brain jump, and she turned to see Sam Johnson standing in the hedgerow, calm as you please. He was leaning against an old stone wall, playing a game on a PADD like she wasn't there.

Phia looked back at the veranda. Cade could see her, but he couldn't see anything else. He waved at her and pointed to his crotch, smiling lasciviously.

Phia ignored him and sidled a little to the left. "Commander Johnson," she said. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Sam turned off the game and accessed some files. "Straight to business. Well then, listen. A secret Starfleet project named Phoenix was activated an hour ago. In response, you are being activated in turn."

Phia took a beat to absorb it. "Tell me about it."

"The USS Phoenix is an NX Galaxy-class starship being held in drydock on Starbase Three," continued Johnson. "The specs are on this PADD, but believe me when I tell you that she is the absolute pinnacle of our technology, incorporating the best of everything Starfleet has learned from the performance of all active ship classes for the past fifty years. Totally experimental. Originally conceived as a weapons platform for use in the Dominion War."

"A warship?" said Phia, taking the PADD and secreting it amongst her clothes.

"More than that. She's a heavily upgraded version of the Galaxy-class design. Nothing like her exists anywhere else in the galaxy."

Phia nodded. "Who activated her?"

"The Secretary of Starfleet, Marie-Claire Martine. She's pulled strings to get both the Discovery and the Armstrong crews assigned to her. The transfer orders are already on their way. By tomorrow morning, everyone will be aboard."

Phia shook her head. "But the command crew haven't met. There's been no shakedown cruise, no testing - "

"There's not going to be," cut in Sam. "No testing, no shakedown cruise, nothing. Captain Kane managed to persuade the Secretary into taking sides, and she has. Everyone who knows the truth about the Neo-Essentialists will be on that ship in the morning. Including you."

"Me? Why?"

"Come on, T'amar. We're still purging our own ranks. We don't know who's loyal and who's not. By activating the Phoenix, Secretary Martine has declared war on the Neo-Essentialists. There's going to be hell to pay."

"You really think there'll be civil war?"

"We don't know anything yet. All we know is that when Edgerton gets word of the Phoenix's activation, which will no doubt happen in the next hour or two, he'll have nothing to lose. He won't let you escape Earth. He'll kill as many of you as possible first. You've got to get away from this place." Sam indicated the PADD in her pocket. "Your transfer orders are on it. Feel free to modify them for Mister Bomba or not as you see fit. But by tomorrow morning, you will report to Captain Kane as Lieutenant Phia, the Phoenix's new counselor."

Phia nodded. "Got it."

"Think fast, T'amar. You might only have a few minutes before Edgerton sends someone after you." Sam stood away from her and activated his communicator stud. "Keep your eyes and ears open. And good luck."

A shining pillar of cobalt light enveloped him, and he was beamed away, with no trace that he was ever there.

Phia looked back at the veranda. Cade was standing upright, speaking into his communicator, frowning heavily as his transfer orders were downloading. He beckoned her to come, quickly.

Phia got ready to pretend she knew nothing.

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Location: Seattle
Scene: Kass' apartment


Kassandra Thytos finally came to, but it wasn't a natural thing. Her communicator was beeping insistently, driving a wedge into her oblivion and forcing her back to reality. She had gone back to bed a while ago, to try to get over the sedative, and now she was being woken again.

She reached out for the device, wondering if Asta and Lysander were around. She remembered that there was a concert tonight, and shook her head blearily. Activating the communicator, she licked dry lips with a tongue that felt furry. "Thytos here."

Nothing immediately happened, but her PADD on the floor lit up as the communicator interfaced with it. As Kass picked it up and looked, a transfer order appeared. She ran her eyes down it, and keywords flared out at her brightly. Tomorrow's stardate. Marine Unit Commander. Starbase Three. USS Phoenix. Classified Highest Level.

"A new ship?" she said, her brain fuzzy. She saw Kane's name and frowned. What was going on? Had they got a new ship?

"Holy shit! We got a new ship!" she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.

Then the urgency of the situation took over, and she hauled herself out of bed, looking for a bag to pack.

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Location: Venice, Italy
Scene: Bonviva Palace


Sylvia Warren and Thomas Varn were dozing after dessert, with bellyfuls of Xana's timamisu making them sluggish. Celebrating Thomas's release into Sylvia's care had involved oh, three bowls apiece and profuse thanks to Captain Reardon for making it happen. So when Sylvia's communicator chirped, she didn't immediately answer it.

Thomas opened an eye. "You have a call," he said.

"Don't care," Sylvia said, turning over.

The communicator chirped again.

"It might be important," prodded Thomas.

Sylvia opened her eyes, then rolled them. She activated the communicator, watching as her PADD's screen winked on. Reading down through the transfer orders, her eyes widened.

"What's going on?" asked Thomas, leaning up on his elbows.

"I'm being recalled. I've been reassigned to the USS Phoenix as one of her assistant chief engineers." Sylvia sat bolt upright. "I have to report on board in less than eight hours!"

"That's very sudden," said Thomas.

Sylvia swung her legs out of the bed, throwing the PADD onto the mattress beside him. "Let's get going! Pack a bag, put some clothes on!"

Thomas was still reading the PADD. "It doesn't say anything about me," he said.

Sylvia stopped. "So what?"

"Well, I'll be staying here - "

"No you won't!" Sylvia exclaimed, taking his head in her hands. "I told you, I am not going anywhere or doing anything without you! You're coming with me, I mean it!" She held up Starfleet's medical asessment. "You're my partner for life. Starfleet sees that, they won't break us up. Now come on, let's get going!"

For the first time in ages, Thomas felt himself smile. "Alright," he nodded.

Together, they moved to their task.

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Location: Papakura Stockade, New Zealand
Scene: Jake's new cell


Jake Crichton had spent almost twenty-four hours in isolation. He had not eaten during that time, nor could he manage anything but the palest imitation of sleep. At some point in that lost day, he went to the door of his cell and banged on it uselessly, shouting for a guard. Nobody came.

Without warning, the door slid open, scaring the shit out of him. Jake closed his eyes against the bright light pouring in from the hallway, and when his vision cleared he saw four guards standing outside the cell door. They beckoned him to step outside. Reluctantly, Jake complied.

They marched him down strange corridors and into a turbolift. When they emerged at the other end they were in the infirmary. An Asian male Human doctor approached him, scanned him with a tricorder, and nodded a clean bill of health to the guards.

"What's going on?" asked Jake to the doctor. "Why am I here? Why have I not seen my advocate? Why have I not been allowed to make a call to my family?"

The doctor ignored him, gesturing to the guards, who only smiled piggishly in response.

"Will you at least tell me how I am?" Jake asked uselessly.

"You're fine," said the doctor. "A little undernourished."

"I haven't eaten properly in two days!" exclaimed Jake.

"You can take him out of isolation and back to the line," said the doctor.

Jake shook his head furiously. The guards led him back into the turbolift, and they exited in the main cell block. After spending a timeless blur in isolation, Jake was almost looking forward to getting back into his bunk. His insides turned to ice when he saw that there was another inspection ongoing. The guards were searching his cell, and once again, Colonel T'Prell was watching from the control room at the top of the hall.

As Jake stood there, the guards exited his cell. He recognised one of them - Bluto, the guard who had welcomed him to the facility. But Bluto was not smiling. He held up a long, thin sliver of metal with bits of fabric tied tightly around the end of it.

"That's not mine!" yelled Jake.

{{That’s a very dangerous piece of contraband,}} T'Prell's voice boomed over the intercom. {{Who were you planning to stab, Commander Crichton?}}

“This is bullshit!” Jake shouted, his anger putting enough strength back into his arms that he almost managed to pull free. The guards were on him in a second, all four of them, and Jake shrieked his innocence as they dragged him all the way back to isolation.

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Location: San Francisco
Scene: BaShen home


Russ BaShen was sitting with his head in his hands, thinking about all the things that could go wrong for him. Bonnie Reardon was dead. Shamefully, he didn't feel too badly about that, because she had threatened to tell the Neo-Essentialists all about him once they got back to Earth. But a small part of him was worried. What if she had told someone before she ended up dead? What if whoever killed her was angling for him next?

That part of his life was over now, it was closed and locked away forever. If someone from the Neo-Essentialists tried to make contact with him now, he wouldn't be able to deny it, but he could tell them that he was out of the game. His time with them was through, and he was pledging his life and loyalty to Starfleet and the legitimate Federation government, with all its flaws.

It might mean a confrontation. It might mean spilling his guts to his shipmates, telling them everything about himself that he never wanted anyone to know.

So when his communicator beeped, it threw him. For a moment Russ BaShen was convinced that he was under arrest, or that the Neo-Essentialists had made contact with him again. When he activated it, downloaded the transmission to his PADD, and read it, his heart leaped.

A new ship. A new crew. Perhaps a new life.

Russ BaShen roused himself and started packing his clothes.

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Location: Papakura Stockade, New Zealand
Scene: Colonel T'Prell's office


Admiral Richard Edgerton was not happy, and Colonel T'Prell knew it.

{{I am not having a good day,}} snarled the leader of the Neo-Essentialists. {{It seems that our enemies are moving against us with this Project Phoenix that I knew nothing about until an hour ago. And when I said I could keep anyone from looking too closely at your operation, I didn’t mean indefinitely. Take care, Colonel.}}

“Commander Crichton’s resolve has weakened considerably,” T’Prell said, his tone perfectly neutral. “We may have to consider that he does not actually have the information we suspect he does.”

{{Or you just haven’t made him give it up yet,}} Edgerton said.

“In which case, I will simply need more time,” T’Prell replied. "The logic is clear. Either Crichton knows something, or he does not. And if he does, it is either worth getting from him, or it is not."

{{You don’t have a blank check,}} Edgerton said testily. {{Crichton’s bitch of a wife is flooding every channel she can think of with requests to see her husband. And that son of a bitch Kane is doing his own digging through Starfleet Command. I’ve had to call in a lot of favours just to keep them at bay, and it’s not going work forever.}}

“Understood, Admiral,” T’Prell nodded. He wondered why they were still talking about this, when the goal and the stakes were perfectly clear to both of them, but of course it wouldn’t do to point this out to Edgerton. Human egos needed to be protected, after all.

{{Get him talking,}} Edgerton said. {{Use his wife and kids if you have to. In the meantime, expect to have to dump either a few more corpses or take a few more temporary guests. I'm sending our people after the Discovery and Armstrong crews tonight, before they can get to the Phoenix. Edgerton out.}}

Edgerton cut the transmission, and T'Prell steepled his fingers in front of his own face. Logic would dictate that an individual would take steps to preserve their safety and comfort, especially in a situation where no additional opportunity for action existed. T’Prell had reasoned that Crichton would break under extreme pressure, aided by an increasing sense of hopelessness about his situation. But T’Prell had not considered that outside factors might prevent Crichton from talking, such as a desire to protect his family from reprisals by Edgerton if the truth demanded it.

T’Prell called up Crichton’s service file on his computer. He spent the next hour examining Cricthon’s personal history, and that of his family, and sent a private message to Edgerton's office for any further details that might help an interrogation.

Later, he went to Jake's cell for his own private talk.

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Location: Manhattan, New York City
Scene: The Queen of Queens Bar


"Am I supposed to know you?" Aleksei asked nervously. The man sitting opposite him fitted the description of the murderer of Bonnie Reardon. Of course, millions of people did, but there was something odd about this man that sent a shiver of fear right down into Aleksei's core.

Mr. Johnson shook his head nonchalantly, like he had all the time in the world. "You have been asking questions about Bonnie Reardon. You have been asking questions about the Neo-Essentialists."

Aleksei wanted to run so badly. He forced himself to speak. "Are you going to answer them?"

"You already know the answers, Aleksei Maximovich. You've stumbled into the web. And now the spider is here to make the kill."

Aleksei's voice shook. He stuttered a desperate laugh. "You can't kill me. I'm a reporter. I've kept notes. If I go missing, local law enforcement will take up my investigation. The whole thing will mushroom. You'll be exposed."

Mr. Johnson smiled languidly. "No. Your death will be covered up. It will be explained away, like a strange sound on the air that is heard just once and is gone forever. If it's any consolation, I am a surgeon of death. I kill quickly. There will be no pain, and no blood. I dislike messes."

Aleksei Maximovich Nikitin bolted out of his seat and was in the aisle witin two strides. Two more, he thought, to the front door. Then he'd be on the street and screaming blue murder for a cop. Terror lent him strangth and he transferred it to his legs, pounding them like pistons as he ate up the distance to the front door. His contact no longer mattered. He just wanted to get the hell out of here alive.

He nearly made it.

Spider-like, Mr. Johnson scuttled forward, lashing out with his foot, connecting with the back of Aleksei's right knee. The Russian was knocked off-balance immediately, falling to the floor in a heap.

Mr. Johnson took out a slim-bladed knife and a hypospray. He stood over Aleksei like a colossus. "Now hold still, Aleksei Maximovich, or I will put your eyes out with my little dagger," he said firmly. "Death has come. It's time to die."

It might have been luck, or it might have been fate, but at that moment the bartender emerged from the back kitchen with a tray full of clean beer glasses. He stopped dead in his tracks at the scene before him, mouth gaping.

Mr. Johnson's arm flickered, and the knife was suddenly in the bartender's throat. The tray and glasses fell to the floor with an earth-shaking crash, shattering glass in a great wave all over the floor. The bartender collapsed to the floor, choking on his own blood, making awful gulping noises as he tried to catch his breath.

Frozen in mid-pose, Mr. Johnson brandished the hypospray. "I dislike messes," he murmured, but when he looked back to the ground, Aleksei Maximovich Nikitin was gone.

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Location: Papakura Stockade, New Zealand
Scene: Jake's cell


Jake Crichton’s face was puffy and swollen. His eyes were ringed with a sickening purple hue, and his jaw had been broken and re-knitted by Bluto so many times in the last few hours that he couldn't open his mouth without hearing a click of bone from somewhere inside his head.

Bluto and Douglas and the other two stepped outside, leaving Colonel T'Prell alone with Jake. "Tell me about the destruction of the USS DISCOVERY,” T’Prell said. “Omit no details, please.”

“…already have…” gasped Jake.

“Not the official version,” T’Prell said. “What really happened.”

“…already have….” Jake repeated.

T’Prell's features flickered as he wondered if the engineer was actually listening to him. He tossed the PADD he’d been carrying at Jake’s feet. Jake didn’t even stir at the harsh sound of the device clanging against the metal floor.

“It is something you should see, Commander,” T’Prell says. “Pick it up.”

Jake didn’t move, didn’t reply.

The Vulcan marine stepped forward. He moved fast, deceptively so for his size, and an instant later Jake’s feet were kicking uselessly in the air as T’Prell hoisted him up by the neck with one iron hand. T’Prell picked up the PADD as he went, and he calmly held it up with his other hand for Jake to see.

“You really should look, Commander,” T’Prell said in that maddeingly calm Vulcan voice. “It concerns your situation here.”

Jake’s vision was blurry, but he forced himself to look at the PADD. Through the haze, he saw what appeared to be still picture images of Xana, Dahlia, and Ben. He recognized the school that Dahlia and Ben attended, and in a flash of panic he realized where these pictures were taken.

T’Prell pressed a command on the PADD, and the image changed. Now it was Dahlia and Xana, in what Jake immediately recognized as their own kitchen in their own home. This picture was taken from *inside* the house, and it looked as though neither Xana nor Dahlia had any idea they’re being photographed.

T’Prell pressed the control one last time, and it was more of the same. Jake’s family, both in public and private. The message was clear, even to Jake’s swimming, disconnected consciousness.

Through his fear, through his panic, he shook his battered head. “No,” he said, forcing the word out from underneath T’Prell’s unforgiving grip on his throat. "Fuck you."

“I do not understand,” T’Prell said, raising an eyebrow.

“Leave. Them,” Jake managed to say, but he couldn’t get the final word out.

T’Prell suddenly released Jake, who fell to the floor in heap. T’Prell once again dropped the PADD at Jake's feet and stood over him, staring down at him with no hint of anger or malice.

“You want your family to be left alone,” the Vulcan says. “That is a logical request.”

“They don’t know anything,” Jake said. His voice was harsh and scratchy, and he rubbed at his throat. “They weren’t there. They don't know anything.”

“You misunderstand,” T’Prell said, kneeling down on his haunches to be level with Jake's bloodied face. “These pictures were taken for your benefit, Commander. We had to demonstrate that we can get to them, if necessary. I am aware that your children were recently kidnapped, but apparently that was an insufficient display of the scope of our influence. We hope this will drive the point home.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jake asks. A dreadful sense of hopelessness welled up inside him. The Neo-Essentialists were everywhere. They were capable of anything.

“I have my orders, Commander,” T’Prell says. “And I have faith that I am serving the Federation’s best interests.”

“Faith is illogical,” Jake grunted through his pain, his eyes finally meeting T’Prell’s gaze.

"You are wasting your time and mine, Commander Crichton. I have long ago made peace with my twin devotion to logic and the Marine Corps." T'Prell stood up again, imperious. “You will tell us what you know of the DISCOVERY’s destruction - the real story, not the fiction that landed you in here - or your family’s lives will be forfeit,” T’Prell says. “Be assured that there operatives amongst us who would make their deaths long and painful and bloody. Your children would scream their little hearts out for succour that would never come. This is your one chance to avert that, Commander. Or should I say it’s *their* one chance?”

“You bastard,” Jake gasped. He reached out to the sink for supprt, and slowly, painfully slowly, he hauled himself to his feet. It took him almost a minute, and he swayed unsteadily once he got vertical, but through gritted teeth and sheer iron will, Jake Crichton stood up.

T'Prell raised an impressed eyebrow, wondering for a moment if Jake was going to attack him.

But then Jake started talking. And when he started talking, T'Prell listened closely. The Vulcan didn't need to write anything down, and anyway, he didn't want to stop his captor's train of thought. T'Prell just stood there, listening intently, while Jake Crichton told him everything.

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Location: Paris
Scene: Jardin de Tuileries


Aerdan Jos had almost given up. A fruitless day in Paris with no contact with anyone had driven him almost to despair. His life was at a useless crossroads, caught between a burgeoning Neo-Essentialist conspiracy and a Starfleet that was taking too long a time in figuring out what to do with him.

So when strange new transfer orders had appeared on his PADD, he had at first rejoiced, thinking that things were straightening out again, as Terrans put it. However, a call from Drake scant minutes later had led him here, to this public garden, to this strange conversation.

In the evening light, Aerdan could see that Drake had changed. He looked twenty years older, and he had a strange habit of talking about things like they had already happened. It was making Aerdan somewhat anxious.

Drake was drumming his fingers on the armrest of the park bench. "There was supposed to be a meeting between you and Captain Kane," he said quickly. The words were falling from him like water down a ravine. "That's not going to happen now. Something is out of sync. Secretary Martine has activated Project Phoenix a day earlier than before. Everything has already been altered."

"Drake," said Aerdan, "why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"I don't have the time!" exclaimed Drake suddenly, sitting up. "A slight deviance here could mean an enormous deviance there. A butterfly beating its wings in Paris one hundred years ago could cause an intergalactic war today!" He focused, and his attention moved outward. "I'm sorry, Aerdan, I really am. This was all supposed to happen, but not so quickly. What a difference a days makes!"

Drake stood up and looked down at the Andorian. "Follow those orders if you want to live. Say goodbye to your brother, you won't be seeing him for a long time. I'll see you in the morning aboard the Phoenix." He turned and hurried away.

"Drake!" called Aerdan, but the man was gone, leaving his questions stillborn. Aerdan took out his PADD, reading it again. You are hereby requested and required to report for duty to Starbase 3 as Executive Officer of the USS Phoenix, NX-5199.

Aerdan Jos stood up. NX meant an experimental test bed. He would have like to find out more, but the PADD's chronometer told him that this was his last night on Earth.

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NRPG: This also feels like my last night on Earth. The fingers are falling off me and I need sleep. Dawn is only an hour away. Please read this NRPG carefully, and especially the scenes above that featured your characters.

It's now time to wrap up your characters' subplots and get to Starbase Three to join the Phoenix. End your next posts with your characters docking in the Phoenix's shuttlebay and meeting each other. You can work it like a round-robin - whoever posts first will see an empty cargo bay, and whoever posts last will see one with lots of people, some strange, some not. Kane will not be there, so Aerdan will be in charge. Don't press any buttons and for fecksake don't launch the ship.

This is your characters' last night on Earth. Make it count. Does a Neo-Essentialist death squad come for them? Do they spend the last few hours with their friends and family? Do they use up every available moment sorting out their own affairs?

Only the command crew is boarding the Phoenix right now. Those are your PCs and NPCs, namely:

Aerdan Jos
Kassandra Thytos
Russ BaShen
Cindy Rochemonte
Sylvia Warren
Thomas Varn
Phia
Cade Foster
Storm Bomba (optional)
Xana Bonviva and family (optional)

SARAH: I was still a bit unsure about what you want done with Xana and the Crichton bratlings. If Xana is coming aboard, then you'll need to figure out how she goes about it, but she needs to be there with everyone else. We ain't picking up no stragglers once we're moving. I thought something along the lines of finding out about it from Sylvia and Thomas and muscling her way in, but you can decide yourself.

SUSAN: Aleksei Nikitin is pretty much your character now. As promised, he's not dead. What's his next move, knowing he's being hunted? Also, now that Martine has sparked a reaction from Edgerton, she needs to protect herself. The Secret War can begin - find allies, play politics, work to stymie Edgerton's influence.

The scenes with Jake were written by Shawn. The character of Admiral Halloway and the specs of the Phoenix were done by Taylor.

TAYLOR / ALIX: I'll use more of the material you gave me in my next post.

Also, how many of you noticed that Mikey wasn't in this post? ;)


Jerome McKee
the Soul of Michael Turlogh Kane
A Captain in Starfleet


"He speaks an infinite deal of nothing!"
- Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice", Act 1, Scene 1.117

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