Story:Bait and Switch/Civil Defense Patrol Is Boring, Too

We’re three days out from DS9 and an hour and a half from Malon VII. I’m in the Bajor’s officers’ gym running on a treadmill. According to the meter I’ve been on it for half an hour and I’ve gone about seven klicks. I like running. The rhythm takes your mind off of things.

I hear the door slide open behind me and I slow down and stop and turn to my left, leaning against the handrail as I reach for my water bottle. Seeing who it is, I freeze. It’s Gaar—Commander Reshek, damn it, in sweats and a light gray University of Alpha Centauri T-shirt. He sees me staring and stops messing with the settings on the bench-press machine’s gravity generator. “Um, I hope you don’t mind, Captain. I was hoping to get in a workout before we got to Malon IV.” He moves to take off his earring.

“I was just leaving.”

“No, you weren’t,” he says in Kendran dialect, my native tongue. “You were in the middle of a ten-kay run.”

“You speak Kendran?”

“Permission to speak candidly, ma’am?” I nod and take a gulp of water. “You’re changing the subject. You’ve been avoiding me since we left port.”

“I have?”

He walks over to my treadmill. I move to the opposite rail. “Case in point,” he says, waving a hand in my direction. “And it’s not just that. Any time I try to make a report, you use Commander Phohl as a buffer, and I notice you do the exact opposite with Korekh, Ehrob, and Riyannis. I get what the problem is, but I have to be able to do my job, at least.”

I take a breath and let it out. “I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s not fair to you.”

“Well, look at it this way: You think it’s any easier for me? Flip it around. You fucked your ops officer, I fucked my commanding officer. And neither of us knew who the other was until the next day.”

“You hadn’t read my file, either?”

“It never even turned up in my inbox,” he says with shrug and a “what the hell, Starfleet?” look on his face. “I had to look it up on the Bajor’s computers after we spoke in your ready room.”

I roll my eyes, stifling a laugh. “Typical Starfleet.”

“Seriously, though, if it’s going to be too difficult to work together I’m sure I can find another ship.”

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head. “Well, not right away at least; we can at least try to be professional. We finish this patrol and we’ll eval how well it went, then decide. Deal?”

“Deal.” We shake on it. “Now, can you give me a hand with this thing?” he says, gesturing at the bench. “The grav controls are a little different than I’m used to.”

“Trying to set it to New Bajor gravity?”

“Yeah, don’t want to lose the edge.”

“Hang on.” I swallow another mouthful of water, then drape my towel over my neck and walk around to the machine. “These two are the gravity, this is the safety field, and this is for the health monitor which is... over there hanging on the wall, of course.”  I walk over to the wall, grab one of the cuffs, and toss it to him. “Ship regs; you’re supposed to wear one of those. It’ll call sickbay on the off chance there’s an issue.”

He nods and snaps it closed over his wrist. “Do I need a spotter, too, regs-wise?”

I flick a thumb at the security camera. “It’s programmed to detect if there’s a problem.”

“All right.” He sets the bench, lies down on his back and takes the bar off the rail. He runs a few quick reps as a warmup, then replaces the bar, ups the weight, and starts pumping the iron with a look of intense concentration on his face. ‘Course his face isn’t the only thing I’m looking at—Prophets, get your head out of the gutter, Eleya.

Nope. Despite my best efforts I can feel my nipples hardening against my sports bra so I grab my water bottle and leave the room. Maybe we’d best just try to avoid being in the gym at the same time.

A cold shower and lunch later, I return to the bridge. “Captain on deck!” an ops petty officer calls.

“Carry on.” The viewscreen currently shows our progress towards Malon VII and the start of our patrol route. We crossed the system’s heliopause while I was in the turbolift and are now only a minute out. “All hands,” I say into the intercom, “prepare to drop out of warp.”

The conn officer on duty, a Karemma named Pakniso, confirms and starts deceleration, calling out the numbers. The stars redshift and a green-tinged blue gas giant with a somewhat anemic ring system inflates into view. I double-check our mission profile for the system. We’ll be checking on the various mining operations in the Malon System planet by planet for the next twelve hours or so. “Conn, transmitting patrol route to your station. Ahead one-half impulse power.”

“Conn, aye,” Ens. Pakniso confirms again. “Half impulse.”

“Comms, burst message to DS9, Admiral Marconi’s office, text only. Begin transmission. ‘We have arrived at Malon VII and are starting our patrol route. Continuing to Regulon at 2030 hours.’ End transmission.”

“Transmission away,” the spot-faced Saurian comms ensign, Esplin, I think her name is, responds.

Patrol duty consists of long stretches of abject boredom occasionally punctuated by some desperate threat to life and limb. An entirely uneventful four hours later we’re at Malon IV, a planet that would be considered Class M were it not for the frankly ridiculous levels of chlorine in its atmosphere. Got a lot of life but nothing remotely sapient, though I’m told the Benzites are looking at putting a colony here.

In the meantime our sensors are picking up a small flotilla of ships of varying size and configuration chipping away at the asteroid field orbiting the planet.

“Skipper,” Master Chief Wiggin calls from sensors, “I’ve got four contacts on scan. Breen warships eight thousand kilometers off the port bow.”

“Yellow alert. What are they up to?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell. We’re definitely in their sensor range but they’re making no hostile moves at all. Weapons and shields are charged but not armed, repeat, not armed.”

“All right, what are we dealing with?

“There’s three Plesh Brek-class frigates running a circular route around the mining operation, and a Sarr Theln-class warship holding station in the center.”

“Tess, load torpedo bays and charge up the phaser strips and shields. Be prepared to go to battle stations any second.”

“Aye, Skipper.” She presses her intercom key. “All hands, this is the XO. We may be entering combat in a matter of minutes, but we’ll try to avoid it. All tactical crew, report to your stations immediately.”

Relations with the Breen Confederacy have been extremely tense since they fought for the other side in the Dominion War. Granted, they’ve recently been more interested in antagonizing their old enemies the Deferi than us, but them being this deep in Federation territory could still be an act of war. We approach quietly, passing a Romulan shuttle nibbling away at an asteroid and enter communications range of the Sarr Theln. “Open a channel.”

“Channel open,” Ens. Esplin says.

“Breen commander, this is Captain Kanril Eleya of the Federation starship Bajor. Respond, please.”

There’s tense silence for a moment, then a masked Breen with an blue visor appears on the viewscreen. He speaks in accented but perfectly intelligible Federation Standard English. “USS Bajor, I am Thot Chu of the BCV Dorek. State your business, please.”

“Just a routine patrol. Can I ask a few questions?”

“One moment, please. I am transferring you to my commanding officer.” The screen goes staticky for a second, then another Breen, this one with an orange visor, appears. “Captain Kanril, I am Dalsh Kong of the Breen Confederacy Navy.”

“What are you doing this deep in Federation space?”

“Commerce protection,” he says matter-of-factly. “Ragesh Mining is under contract with the Breen Confederacy and has requested additional security.”

“Biri, pull the files on Ragesh Mining.” I turn back to the screen. “Do you have clearance to be on our side of the border?”

“Transmitting credentials now.”

I check my PADD. The credential Kong sent over is pretty straightforward diplomatic boilerplate stating that 104 Squadron, Breen Confederacy Navy, is authorized to conduct military operations in defense of Ragesh Mining LLC personnel in the Malon System. The document bears the signature of Alžbeta Nedvedová, the Federation ambassador to the Breen, and all the metadata reads as genuine. I shrug and ask Kong if he’s heard anything about the Jem’Hadar attacks Marconi told me about. “I can confirm,” he replies. “They attacked this operation early this morning, 0147 hours your time, but fled back into warp after exchanging fire with the Dorek and two of my frigates.”

“Which way did they go?”

“Their exit vector was 88 by 106.”

“Nav?”

The nav officer, Lt. Jennifer Ivanovich, responds, “That would take them sunward but there’s no way of knowing how long they stayed at warp.”

Biri steps over to me and shows me the file on her PADD. “Nothing out of the ordinary, just an asteroid mining company. They’re registered out of Betazed.”

“Nope, nothing out of the ordinary.” I turn back to the screen. “Thank you for your time, Dalsh Kong. I’ll get out of your hair.” I make a slashing gesture across my throat to Esplin and she cuts the channel.

Pakniso sets the ship back on its course and goes off shift, and JG Park takes her place. We continue around Malon IV with our vector taking us to a dwarf planet in the mid-system asteroid belt when Esplin’s console chimes. Her eyes widen and she turns to me. “Captain! I’m reading a distress signal from a freighter near Malon II!”

“Onscreen!”

The visual part of the transmission is snowy but I can make out the crocodilian face of a very large Gorn. The audio is briefly a cacophany of hisses and growls, then the universal translator kicks in in mid-word. “SSSRrgarg—day! Mayday! This is Captain S’bek of the independent freighter Shargrash! We are under attack by Jem’Hadar vessels! Requesting immediate assistance from anyone receiving this signal! Cargo manifest follows!” I recognize the indie freighter practice of transmitting one’s cargo manifest as an offer of payment. The transmission continues on a loop and Esplin mutes it.

“Skipper,” Tess says, “under any other circumstance I’d be inclined to let Gorn and Jem’Hadar blast each other to bits, and we play winner, but that’s a civilian. We can be there in less than a minute.

I nod and hit my intercom key. “All hands, battle stations.” Klaxons sound throughout the ship as I release the key and order Esplin to hail the Shargrash. “SS Shargrash, this is the USS Bajor. We have received your signal and are responding. ETA”—I run the math on my PADD—“twenty seconds.”

“Thank you, please hurry!” S’bek responds, then vanishes from the screen.

“JG Park?”

“I’m on it.” After a moment, “We’re clear of the planet!”

“Warp six, engage!”

Author's Notes
Dalsh is a Breen rank I made up for this fic. The closest translation is "squadron commander", and it roughly equates to a rear admiral (upper half).