The Turning Of The Wheel

Posted on Dec 07, 2015 @ 2:50am by Captain Michael Turlogh Kane

Mission: Civil War

"THE TURNING OF THE WHEEL"

(Continued from "Taking Command")

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Location: USS CENTURY, standing off against the Phoenix
Stardate: [2.15]1207.0650
Scene: Captain's Quarters, Deck 2


Dexter Juraj Marxx unbuttoned his red uniform collar and replicated himself a glass of ice-cold lemonade. The Terran beverage had been a favourite of his for years now, ever since he'd first encountered it during the hot summer of his first year at Starfleet Academy. The little cafe on the Academy grounds (the name of it was lost to memory) had advertised it as being 'colder than winter on Andor', and that little witticism had been enough to make him try it. The bitter taste had been something he was completely unprepared for, but now he savoured the sharp tang, letting it roll down his dry throat as he slumped onto his bunk.

His quarters were sparse. There had been no time to pack his personal effects before the Century left Earth, so he'd had to make do with his new uniform, and precious little else. No holographs of family, no personal toolbox for tinkering, no gi. He missed the latter most of all - similar but slightly different to the Terran version, the Vegan gi was a long red robe worn during the practice of the Vegan martial art of Tosharri. Named after their desert homeworld, Tosharri was a focused, rigid form of unarmed combat that emphasised sudden, quick strikes that harnessed the body's spiritual energy. A bout of Tosharri in the holodeck would clear his head right about now.

Like the All-Father's Great Wheel of Souls, his thoughts revolved, turning back to Commander Heydrich and the current situation aboard the Century. Dwelling on it for too long unleashed a flood of memories and emotions that rank together like paint, making a confused palette of feelings within him. His thoughts were muddied, and he needed to make them run clear.

Putting aside the lemonade, he left his bunk, moved to the centre of his quarters and sat down on the floor. He closed his violet eyes, inhaling deeply through the nose, out through the mouth, trying to centre himself. He thought of the All-Father's wheel again, focused on its slow turning, over and over in an endless circle, that had no beginning, no end. The souls of the dead were spun in the wheel, entering it when they died and exiting it when they were reborn into the next life. One day, his soul would enter the Great Wheel too. Perhaps he would see Breanne again if she was still there, or perhaps she had already left it to begin a new cycle of existence somewhere in the universe. Perhaps, on some peaceful world orbiting a beautiful alien star, she was at this moment opening her newborn eyes to a new world, a new loving family, a new life.

He opened his mind, and let the memories and feelings wash over him. They were not good or bad, they simply were, and in his long life, Dexter Marxx had made many of them.

When Richard Edgerton had contacted him, he had been at home in Tenagra City. The news services had been full of news in the preceding weeks - great upheavals in the capital worlds, a new Romulan invasion, martial law across the Federation - and, while Dex had been concerned, he had not held an opinion one way or another on it. Nothing could stop the march of history, and although retirement had occasionally chafed, it was still smoother than what had been a long life in Starfleet.

The Great Wheel kept turning, and Dexter Marxx felt a shiver of fear down his spine.

Edgerton's plea had been calculated. He could see that now. Edgerton had appealed to Dex's sense of duty, his sense of honour - he had even appealed to his vanity. The All-Father knew there was some of that. Donning the command red uniform again had been a wonderful experience, and being introduced to the assembled press as the 'saviour of the Federation' had been both terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. All the briefings - Project Phoenix, the murders of the President and Vice-President, the desperate straits the Federation found itself in - all of them contributed to his own sense of self-importance, not in an egomaniacal way, but in a way that lent itself to Edgerton's narrative. Dex nodded more often than he questioned, accepted the platitudes and the praise, and never asked questions deeper than those that confirmed what he had been told. When he'd set foot on the Century again it had been like drinking a goblet of water after crossing the Valaren Desert in summer.

He would never have behaved like that in his younger days. The youthful Dexter Marxx - a ghostly figure that now only lived in dreams - looked nothing like his reflection in his bathroom mirror every morning. His violet eyes were no longer bright - they had lost their lustre and were now riveted in place by a dark, downturning mouth and lines that had appeared out of thin. The years, creeping up on him.

The Great Wheel kept turning, and his stomach churned in fear.

Ensign Dexter Marxx had been assigned to the USS Zeus, then the mighty USS Odyssey. Over the years he had fought the Kem D'Neel for the fate of all life in the galaxy, had warred with the Locusta Regime, had risen through the ranks until he had been given the centre seat on the newly-constructed USS Century. He lived the best years of his life as captain of the Century, serving alongside a generation of Starfleet officers that took on the Thal. Names and faces floated by in the darkness of his mind's eye - Deacon Reese, Callista Alaica, Lorn of Borg, Jacen Katana, Robert Collis. All gone now. Some dead, some retired, some missing. They had all passed on, blown away like dust on a desert wind. The universe did that, he knew - it gave you everything, filled up your senses so that you were amazed and invigorated and eager to live, and then it started to take it all away. Little parts of your life fell away day after day, so small that you might not notice, until one day you had nothing but the memories of when you had everything.

And then there was Siobhan. She was out there somewhere right now, he knew. The Zhukov was a part of the rebel fleet, and if the two fleets engaged in battle, there was a good chance that she would die along with her ship, die in fire, die in nothingness. Their relationship had come full circle. When they first met years ago on the Odyssey, they were adversarial towards each other, engaged in a counselor-patient relationship that blossomed into love. A miscarriage during the Romulan Incursion seventeen years ago didn't dampen that love, but life in the fleet did. Both of them had gone career, and as the days apart became months that became years, the fire became a flame, became an ember that faded away into nothing. At the end, he had thought so little of their time together that he had transmitted their divorce papers over subspace.

The Great Wheel kept turning. His daughter had died in the Gamma Quadrant years ago, but it would always be only yesterday that he last saw her. His love for Siobhan Reardon had sputtered out years ago, but he would never forget her smile, her touch, and the way she moved underneath him when they were alone. He had made the Century his own years ago, and now she was something he'd never known before.

By the All-Father, he mused, has my time passed? Am I so old as to have outlived my usefulness? An old man was a paltry thing, a tattered cloak upon a stick, unless he found it within himself to keep pushing onward.

The young officers on the Century were a generation unfamiliar to him, with a new, aggressive ideology he disliked. Heydrich especially knew more than what he was letting on, that much was plain. Edgerton needed a public face to lead this fleet, and Dexter Marxx, the ageing hero, had supplied it. Now two fleets of Starfleet ships were aiming their guns at one another in some isolated system a million light-years from the nearest Federation colony, and Dexter Marxx's orders called for him to engage and destroy the rebel fleet. Heydrich wanted to attack out of hand. That was not the Starfleet Marxx knew, not the rules of engagement he followed, and so he found himself here, in his quarters, sitting on his floor.

He opened his eyes. He would not be that paltry old man wrapped in a cloak of impotence. He would not be who Richard Edgerton and Ronald Heydrich wanted him to be, no matter that they took away his career, his reputation, or even his life. He could only be, and would only be, Dexter Marxx.

He no longer feared the turning of the wheel.

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Location: USS PHOENIX, facing the Century
Scene: Bridge


Michael Turlogh Kane had barely time to process what had happened. Thoris P'Trell, the President of the United Federation of Planets, was secretly a Neo-Essentialist, and had beamed himself onto the Century along with the chronoton artifact and all of Selyara's information on the Neo-Essentialists.

He thought furiously. The Neo-Essentialists would not be able to use the chronoton artifact anytime soon - it required time and effort to attune itself to its new surroundings. Selyara's information would only go so far as to led them know what the rebels knew, and if they had any brains, they'd have tactically planned for the worst in advance.

"Captain," reported Virgo Silsby from Tactical, "the Demeter has activated her shields and weapons systems. She's targetting the Century! Should we arm weapons?"

Kane got up from his seat. "Negative! Open a channel to the Demeter, Mister Silsby. Tell them to stand down."

{{The Century has activated its own defensive systems,}} reported Byte. The android's gray-skinned features were twisted in an approximation of worry. {{The USS Monarch is detaching from the Neo-Essentialist battle-line, and has set an intercept course.}}

Kane set his jaw. The Monarch was one of the two Sovereign-class battleships in the Neo-Essentialist fleet.

"Time to Monarch's weapons range?" asked Aerdan.

{{Nine minutes, eighteen seconds.}}

"Kane to BaShen."

[[BaShen here. Go ahead, Captain.]]

Kane made fists of his hands. "The situation is deteriorating rapidly, Mister BaShen. You now have less than ten minutes to accomplish your mission. I say again, you now have less than ten minutes to accomplish your mission. Do you understand?"

[[Ten minutes?]] Russ sounded uncertain, but quickly rallied. [[Understood, Captain. We'll do our best.]]

"Demeter is responding," said Silsby. "It's Colonel Towers. On screen now."

The main viewer winked, and the grim visage of the marine commandant filled up the screen. Behind him on the Demeter's bridge, Kane could see both Sardak and Marie-Claire Martine.{{Captain Kane,}} he said.

Kane strode forward. "Colonel Towers, I realise that what has happened has come as a shock - "

{{You've got that right, Captain,}} snapped Towers. {{Selyara has escaped the Demeter and Thoris P'Trell has defected to the goddam enemy with the goddam chronoton artifact! We're at battle stations here!}}

"Stand down!" exclaimed Kane, holding out his hands in a supplicatory gesture. "The Neo-Essentialists cannot use the artifact at this moment, and Selyara is not a threat to us, Colonel. I personally vouch for her."

Towers was frowning. {{You... *vouch* for her?}}

"I trust her to do the right thing," said Kane. "But we also have another problem. Three of my officers are preparing to launch a mission against the Century at this moment. If it is accomplished, we'll have gained a significant tactical advantage against the enemy fleet."

{{What is this?}} asked Towers. {{Are you playing some kind of game? What mission?}}

"We don't have time to explain!"snapped Kane. "Colonel, the situation is critical! The Monarch is on her way, and we're facing a bloodbath of unprecedented proportions if someone loses their head and starts shooting! Give us ten minutes, Colonel, just ten minutes! Don't provoke a confrontation that we have no hope of winning!"

Kane could see Towers looking around at Sardak and Martine. The Vulcan nodded to the marine, and Towers looked back to the main viewer again. {{Alright, Captain Kane,}} he said. {{Ten minutes. But I sure hope your people come through for us. Otherwise this is going to be the bloodiest day in the history of Starfleet.}}

Kane nodded, motioning to Silsby to cut the transmission and looking at Aerdan. In the distance the Monarch was coming on, her distant outline bringing the promise of death and destruction.

He glanced at the chronometer. From twenty-four hours to ten minutes.

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NRPG: Moving things along... all this tension!!


Jerome McKee
the Soul of Captain Michael Turlogh Kane
Commanding Officer
USS PHOENIX


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

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