Story:Red Fire, Red Planet/Logical Routines

Operations Specialist, Second Class Kybok Listening Post 204RT Oort Cloud, Sol System 0715 GMT, 2 March 2409

War is illogical. It always has been. It always will be.

Therefore it was fortunate that Opspec Second Kybok had managed to stay well away from it.

204RT was a Paul Revere-class telemetry processing station forty-five astronomical units from Sol, gathering data from microsatellites monitoring a thirty-degree cone of the system edge that reached a third of a light-year from the station in the direction of 40 Eridani and Epsilon Indi. Fourteen enlisted and one officer called it home. The Oort cloud listening posts were seen by most assigned to them as a dead end. War rarely came within a dozen light-years of Sol, the invincible paradise at the heart of the Federation. Few opportunities presented for people assigned there to distinguish themselves.

Kybok welcomed it. He had seen the damage war could do. His father Chu’lak had been driven insane by the random deaths of his comrades during the Dominion War thirty-four standard years earlier and had come to consider murder a logical course of action. The best medical minds on Vulcan had been unable to help him and Chu’lak spent most of his days infused with antipsychotics.

Kybok had no interest in becoming his father. Therefore it was logical to avoid war. But this conflicted with the logical duty of a citizen to serve his country in whatever way he could.

The logical solution? An assignment where there was no chance of actually seeing combat. If one does a mostly unimportant job to the best of one’s ability, one will fulfill one’s duty to one’s country while avoiding inherently illogical situations.

Kybok ran his life by a precise routine. This, too was logical. He awoke at precisely 0715 hours and replicated a meal. Today was a Monday by Earth’s calendar, meaning breakfast was hot plomeek soup and dry-roasted dirka nuts. He arrived on duty at 0745 and monitored the telemetry from the satellites. It was boring, predictable work, monitoring space traffic in and out of the system. Forty ships were scheduled to pass through 204RT’s arc today.

At 0815, Chief Operations Specialist Sally Blackhawk had broken out her deck of cards. This was also routine, although the tanned, high-cheekboned brunette didn’t do it at the same time every day. Kybok liked card games. They were random but still followed logical rules. They mostly played blackjack and variations of bridge, since Blackhawk had forbidden Kybok to play poker with her after the Vulcan cleaned her out seven times in a row. Vulcans have excellent poker faces.

At 0822, Lieutenant Tiyerissel sh’Kreem, the commander of the listening post, turned up. “Deal me in,” he said, taking a seat at the table.

“How is your leg this morning, sir?” Kybok asked sh’Kreem. The Andorian had lost his right leg at the hip when the USS Hamburg was ambushed by the IKS QarchetvI’ while patrolling near Deep Space K-7. The prosthetic never quite knit properly so he wasn’t cleared for field duty. He had another round of therapy scheduled for next month.

“Hit me,” sh’Kreem said after glancing at his two cards. “Better than it was yesterday. That meditation thing you showed me seems to be helping, Kybok.”

Kybok placed some more chips outside his betting box and pointed a finger. “I am gratified to be of service, sir.”

“Okay, one more card for you, Kybok,” Blackhawk said. “One card for me. Damn it, dealer bust. What is that, three in a row? Okay, take your chips.”

“Just isn’t your day, is it, Chief?” Crewman Yasmin Sherazi remarked from a console against the wall.

“Eyes on your board, Sherazi,” sh’Kreem said without looking up. “You want me to deal, Chief?” Blackhawk gave an exasperated nod and passed him the deck.

“Yes, sir.” Sherazi’s board chirped. “Got a warp sig. And the transponder, Tuffli-class inbound from Vulcan. Looks like the SS Ayanami, though I think Captain Ikari’s about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Logged and sent.”

Kybok got two tens. He spread them apart and added chips to his pot, and sh’Kreem drew two more cards. The eight of clubs and the ace of hearts. Blackjack. Blackhawk tossed a total of twenty-three across the table, swearing.

“What the…” Sherazi said.

Kybok hadn’t heard the Iranian use that tone before. “What is it, Crewman?”

“I’m not sure. Some sort of weird ripple pattern on the subspace feed from satellite Charlie-Ten-Thirty. There one second, gone the next. There it is again.”

“Sensors probably got turned around,” Blackhawk commented. “Run a diagnostic.”

“I already did.”

Kybok frowned almost imperceptibly. Subspace anomalies were the exact opposite of logical. He laid his cards down, got up, and walked over to his own station. “Odd. I have the same reading. Point-three light-years out and traveling inward at warp 8.”

“I’ve got a warp signature,” Opspec First Bikog Bu-Tal-Rek announced from his bench. “Big ship, same vector as the anomalies.”

“There is nothing of that mass on the schedule,” Kybok noted.

“Hail them, main viewer,” sh’Kreem ordered. “This is Starfleet Listening Post Two-Zero-Four-Romeo-Tango to unidentified ship. Identify yourself.”

Nothing appeared on the monitor, but a slightly raspy male voice came through the speakers. “204RT, this is Captain John Hollingsworth of the USS DeWitt. We’re headed for Spacedock to offload wounded and seek repairs.”

Kybok pulled the files on the DeWitt from the computer. NCC-96047 was one of the big Typhoon-class battleships they’d started building in the early nineties. He passed the file to the lieutenant, who briefly perused it.

“The codes match, Eltee,” Sherazi informed sh’Kreem.

The Andorian’s antennae twitched in acknowledgment. “All right, sir. We’ll let them know you’re coming. May I ask why you’re not using video?”

“Our communications array took some battle damage. We haven’t been able to get the video working again. DeWitt out.”

Lieutenant Commander Brokosh Chel’toK House Fleet Bird-of-Prey IKS mupwI’ Edge of the Sol System 1238 Qo’nos Central Time, Ninth Month, Fortieth Year of the Age of the Risen Emperor

Lieutenant Commander Brokosh closed the channel with a taloned right hand. “Our evil plan is working, Meromi,” the Lethean commented to his first officer. The diminutive Orion said nothing in response.

In point of fact, the Xenexian Hollingsworth and most of his crew had been dead for several days. Poor bastard expired of wounds sustained during his capture, and after taking the 52 survivors off the blazing wreck to which he had reduced the DeWitt, Brokosh had used the Typhoon-class for target practice. Those survivors were now prisoners of the Klingon Defense Force, who at Chancellor J’mpok’s order were dragging their feet on informing Starfleet of their capture.

The last part mildly disgusted Brokosh, despite it being essential for operational security. While he had no particular stake in the Klingons’ frankly targ-shit idea of honor in battle, in his career as a mercenary he had long followed an ethical code of his own choosing. Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to, don’t risk your underlings without cause, and treat your prisoners with decency.

Brokosh bared his teeth in an annoyed snarl and pushed the intercom button. “Ba’woV, how’s the warp core holding up?”

“Very well, loDnal,” her contralto voice came through. “Generating a warp field as strong as a qughDuj ’eyjo’ was difficult but the ship is taking the strain well.”

Brokosh’s snarl turned into a smile. loDnal. Husband. Two years they’d been married now and he still wasn’t used to the sound of the word. He’d met Ba’woV almost a decade ago when she’d been an engineer on the SS Shargrash, a freighter on the Deep Space 9-Qo’noS trade route. He’d been a combat engineer with Hanson’s Harriers at the time, moving between assignments, and that red-haired Klingon, not much more than a girl but a good warp core engineer, had proven a lot of fun to talk shop with. It was only after they’d started dating that she told him she was a noblewoman. Chel’toK was a fairly inconsequential Great House in the scheme of things—currently its only holding of worth was a nearly depleted arc of asteroid belt, and the house “fleet” consisted of two Birds-of-Prey and that ancient relic of a D7 called the IKS Khorazhar which they couldn’t even fully crew—but Ba’woV was still the grand-niece of its leader.

That had been something else, trying to propose to her in the Klingon manner for appearances’ sake. Old man Chel’toK had tried to kill him. Twice. Not right, having a member of the kuve, the servitor races, getting into a position where he might someday inherit the leadership (Ba’woV was second in line behind her cousin Kidu). Not that Brokosh was interested; he didn’t really get, or want to get, all that Klingon political targ-shit. He just loved Ba’woV. Luckily the old racist didn’t have a say in who could marry into the House; that was up to Lady K’Ronu.

As much as he loved her, though, Brokosh was uncomfortable with having his wife aboard. It wasn’t just the two of them he had to worry about. They had a son, K’orTuH, and yes, Ba’Wov’s sister T’Orchal was taking care of him, but it still wasn’t smart putting both parents in danger. But, she was the only one who knew the mupwI’ well enough to pull this crazy plan off.

The door at the back of the Bird-of-Prey’s cramped bridge slid open and Norigom clanked his way in. Brokosh had no idea why the big yellow Nausicaan went literally everywhere in that corroded durasteel armor, but that thought took a backseat to his observation of Norigom’s and Meromi’s daily ritual, for lack of a better term. “And a very good morning to you, Meromi,” he said, trying too hard to sound sweet as he leaned down next to her face.

“yI’ meQ, petaQ,” the Orion replied in her deceptively girlish voice, before punching him under the chin.

Brokosh walked over and helped his ops officer back up. “What is it with you, Norigom? You a masochist or something?”

“What’s a masochist?”

“One who takes pleasure from being hurt,” Ila’kshath, the oversize Gorn at the sensor station, answered without looking up. It was a fair assessment as far as Brokosh was concerned. When he came aboard last month, having been conscripted from Rura Penthe on a recommendation from the late Ambassador Rozhenko, Norigom’s first order of business was apparently getting laid for the first time since probably the end of the Klingon-Gorn War. And what better target for his affections than the 147 centimeter, 45 kilo red-and-black leather-clad Orion girl acting as—he thought—ship’s entertainment?

Norigom came to half an hour later with four cracked ribs, two broken metatarsals and a nose that was somewhat flatter than it had been when he’d entered the room. What had cemented Meromi Riyal as the object of his affections wasn’t so much the beating itself as how lethally graceful she’d looked on the security feed he’d watched to figure out what the flying fuck happened. Brokosh’s tusks twitched in amusement at the memory as the big Nausicaan rubbed his jaw.

Out the corner of his eye he saw Meromi lean over her board. “Captain,” she said in a very slightly concerned tone. “The Hegh’QeDp is reporting trouble with their fusion reactor. Microfracture popping in the containment bottle.”

“Great. Have them drop out of warp and go dark. We’ll pick ‘em up on our way out.” Brokosh turned to a console and hit the key for the intercom. “General K’Bor, this is Commander Brokosh. Please come to the bridge. Repeat, General K’Bor to the—”

“I am here already, Brokosh HoD,” a gravelly voice came from the back of the room.

Brokosh turned and gave a slight nod to a somewhat overweight graying-haired Klingon in a flowing red battle robe and glittering stainless steel and brass ceremonial bandolier. “General. The IKS Hegh’QeDp is having engine trouble. They’re falling out of the formation.”

“QI’yaH,” the general spat. “Cowards.”

“Respectfully, sir, I don’t consider dropping out of warp because of an imminent reactor casualty to have anything to do with cowardice.”

“More glory for the rest of us, then,” and the general pounded the railing.

The merc resisted the urge to roll his eyes, though he saw Norigom doing so in his peripheral vision. K’Bor, son of QulDun, of the House of J’mpok was one of the old guard, a white-haired Klink nearly a hundred and forty years old who’d been a junior officer under Koloth in the 2290s. Crazy old Dahar Master with more bloodlust than sense, a fierce field commander but a bit short on pragmatism. The raiding party of twenty-five Birds-of-Prey—no, make that twenty-four without the Hegh’QeDp—had picked him up at a border base on orders from his nephew, the Chancellor, who’d put him in charge of the deep-strike after the Lethean ripped the entry codes for the Sol system from Captain Hollingsworth’s mind.

Whatever. As long as his orders didn’t conflict with Brokosh’s own sense of self-preservation, which extended to his crew, he’d respect the chain of command. He shook his head and looked back to the plot on the main viewer. Warp 8 was a bit more than a thousand times the speed of light, over three hundred million kilometers per second. But from where they were, it would still take almost two and a half hours to reach their target.

A lot could happen in two and a half hours.

Author's Notes
The mentioned in Kybok's narrative is the  serial killer from. The whole idea of how a Vulcan could've turned into a serial killer is pretty much borrowed straight from Chuck Sonnenburg's review of the episode.

Chief Blackhawk is meant to be of primarily Shoshoni Indian descent. And yes, I realize "Chief Blackhawk" seems like a really bad pun with that frame of reference. It wasn't intentional, I swear; I only noticed it later.