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Posted on 03 Apr 2023 @ 10:56am by Captain Markus Hawthorne & Commander Curtiss Drake
Mission:
M3 - Into the Deep
Location: Obsidian Command Sector Space
Timeline: 1705 HRS
2992 words - 6 OF Standard Post Measure
The long, almost predatory form of the USS Alexander floated lazily in the void, in orbit of a massive, gas giant that glowed with an almost neon orange light. It illuminated the hull of the hulking vessel and cast porthole sized slices of flaming light into the ship. It was nowhere more pronounced than on the bridge, to the point that Captain Hawthorne had been forced to order the panoramic viewport dimmed so as not to blind himself and the rest of the bridge staff. He expected they were as grateful for it as he was, particularly those who’s stations faced the glass.
It hadn’t been that long since he’d taken temporary command of the Alexander from Admiral Sepandiyar, but he was already glad that he’d given him this opportunity. It had been a little bit awkward at the start for the crew to see someone else besides Commander Drake take the center chair, but Curtiss himself was quite clear with everyone that he truly felt the nature of their mission demanded a more experienced, battle-tested Captain.
Drake had confided in Markus a secret he hadn’t shared before with the crew, only really sharing with him because he felt Markus needed some explanation as to why he’d made the call to refuse the temporary command. Quite simply: he didn’t want the command of a ship. He was happy in the role he was in, supporting the crew, helping manage the day to day on a ship this size with its complexities, personalities and quirks. Being responsible for it all was not something he wanted. In fact, he had confided that he’d turned down more than one offer to command his own vessel elsewhere in the Fleet. Apparently, Sepandiyar had taken that for loyalty to him, and so when he had refused this temporary command, he understood that his refusal all this time was purposeful. Not blind loyalty.
That did a great bit to assuage Markus’ heart on the matter. It didn’t change the decisions he would make or how he would deliberate on them, but it certainly helped to understand the man he was trusting as his number one during this mission. One he was rapidly coming to respect and rely upon for his leadership of the crew and for the information he was able to quickly provide. Markus was definitely a more ‘by the book’ sort of commander and that suited Drake perfectly and having that quick meshing of command styles did wonders for the rest of the crew, who could see their long-time XO working so seamlessly with him. Professional’s or not, they were still people at the end of the day, and people were prone to simple morale drops and growing animosity if put in awkward situations. Thankfully, it was anything but.
If there was anything Markus hadn’t really gotten used to on this ship, it was the sheer size of everything. That wasn’t to say his command was small, on the contrary, Luna-class starships were more than spacious. But the sheer volume of space available on such a large vessel like the Ascension class made for lots of segments of the ship where there simply was way more space than there needed to be. The Admiral’s Ready Room, to his mind, was one of those places and happened to be where he had spent the least amount of time. Today was actually the first time since he’d gotten aboard, other than his meeting with Drake, that he’d spent any more than a passing moment there.
That was partly because it was the Admiral’s space and of course had all his personal affects all over it, as well as his aesthetic touch. While it wasn’t what Markus would have done with all the space, it certainly wasn’t gaudy or flashy. He’d served with and passed through a few spaces like this that made one wonder what statement the skipper was trying to tacitly make to anyone that came in. Truthfully, the only reason he was here and not on the bridge was because the Admiral had asked for regular reports and the hustle and bustle of the bridge, preparing to rendezvous with a few other ships on patrol, had been too much of a distraction. So he had retreated to the Admiral’s most holy of holies to finish his report in peace. Something he’d finished a good while ago and was now standing by the viewport, looking out at open space away from the planet with a hot cup of coffee in hand, smiling. He was glad to be back out at sea. Sure, he’d gotten used to his space on Obsidian Command, but nothing beat being out on a cruise. Nothing beat that feeling of being alone in the great wide cosmos. Even on a ship as large as the Alexander. As he stood there, silently admiring the new and unfamiliar formation of stars in the distance, a wink of blue light flashed in the near distance and resolved into a small, disc-shaped vessel that immediately banked towards the Alexander’s bow.
Defiant-class starships weren’t all that prevalent in the Fleet and especially this long after the Dominion war, but there were still a few like this one that were still prowling Federation space. This particular one was about as new as the Ardeshir and likely due for a refit itself, but was still no less effective. Nor was her Commander. Both of whom he’d worked with extensively in the past. In fact, it’d been this ship and her skipper that had saved Markus from a particularly dark situation and for that he’d be forever grateful to her and her crew. He couldn’t help but smile as the ship came closer and turned away from the glass to return to the bridge.
“Captain on deck,” someone called as he stepped up the ramp.
“Looks like we got our first customer,” Markus smiled, walking towards the center of the bridge.
“They’re hailing us now, patching it through,” the Operations officer called from behind him on the right. Markus glanced back, still trying to get familiar with all the crews names and of course the much larger layout of the bridge. A moment later a holographic man appeared on the deck in front of him, just short of the CoNN station stairs.
The man wasn’t overly tall, but was well-built with a stout physique, like a wildling man trying to be contained by a Starfleet uniform. His hair had long ago turned dark silver, and he wore a matching beard just at the edge of Starfleet regulation that gave him the appearance of a ragged bear just waiting to be challenged. As the holo on his side resolved, he grin widely to see Captain Hawthorne.
“You’re not the Admiral,” Commander Rayce Stanton declared gruffly.
“No, I’m not,” Markus smiled back. “But if you’d rather come back when the Admiral is here, we can find another place to send your supplies,” he chuckled.
Commander Stanton laughed heartily, but shook his head. “We ain’t going to make it much longer without a resupply, Markus. If your Chief can spare the time, Chief Hunter could use a second set of eyes on the core,” he explained.
Markus glanced back at Commander Drake who took the look for what it was, an order to send Chief Barmeadow over. “Secure the Texas on the dorsal docking clamp. Your inactive crew is welcome to use the ships facilities long as you’re here. But I’d like you gone in five hours or less,” Markus explained.
“I think we can handle that,” Stanton agreed, and with that, his holo vanished.
“Do you know Commander Stanton?” Drake asked as Markus walked back towards his seat at the center of the bridge.
“I do,” Markus answered.
“Do we need to be worried about him or his crew aboard?”
Hawthorne shook his head, “I don’t think so. But you’d be better off asking Pepperhall,” he said, gesturing to the CoNN. “He served on the Texas for quite a while.”
In fact, Pepperhall had been part of the outfit that had saved Markus’ collective bacon a few years back. He’d lost track of James not long after when he’d returned to the Texas and she’d gone off in search of whatever trouble Starfleet needed muscle for and he’d returned to life aboard the Ardeshir, navigating the treacherous waters of a command who had thought they lost their Captain, then truly lost his replacement, only to get the first back again. It was a lot to unpack and a lot to deal with both at the time and as time went on. Not keeping up with Lieutenant Pepperhall, Chief Dyachenko or Marshall Gibbons was just a casualty of a busy life, and the responsibilities of a Commanding Officer. It had only been a day or so, but he had intended to have dinner with Lieutenant Pepperhall at some point during his temporary command here. Not just as his Captain for the moment, but as a friend he’d simply lost touch with.
Out in the space beyond the viewport, the Texas swept over the bow of the ship and then aft as instructed to dock with the Alexander and begin the transfer of supplies set aside for them based on the manifest of goods they’d requested. Markus had seen that not all the things that they’d asked for they could provide, but they could meet most of their needs. At least, all of the important ones that is. But that’s what they were out here to do, to support the ships like Texas who were on their combat patrols far enough out from OC that they could use additional support but close enough that they could return home if needed. With the Alexander nearby, it effectively extended the range of their combat patrols as they could steam quickly back to the Alexander and utilize its QSD drive to get back to OC lickety split. Much the way the Admiral had dropped them all in when OC had been under attack.
It was what made this class of ship so valuable to the fleet at large. There might not have been a lot of them, but what few they had were capable of extending the service range of any and all Starfleet vessels within its sphere of influence. Just as Chief Barmeadow had said - they were in floating Starbase mode now.
“Lieutenant?” Drake asked, approaching the CoNN station, presuming he’d been eavesdropping his and Markus’ conversation.
Lieutenant Pepperhall turned about and nodded, “There’s naught to be worried about, sir,” he answered. James Pepperhall was a tall, slender man with dark brown hair, a roguish grin and a strong Irish lilt. But the lilt was misleading as the man was a polygot on par with even the most distinguished comm’s officer. “Commander Stanton doesn’t tolerate any shenanigans on shore leave. The crew won’t be a problem. Especially not in so short a time,” he explained, spinning his chair back around to his station to continue to manage their orbit.
“Guess that’s settled,” Drake shrugged.
Markus nodded, pacing back towards the command chair and sitting down. Drake sat down next to him at his terminal. “Anything new on the crew drills?” He asked casually.
“I think another forty-eight hours of this and I’ll be ready to make my shift changes. It’s not going to be popular,” he chuckled quietly, and somewhat darkly. “Probably going to lose a few friends in the process. But,” she shrugged. “This is a fleet flagship. You’ve got to be the best, and if you aren’t, I’ve got to promote who is.”
“Agreed. But it would’t hurt to know who you think those officers will be. So when they come to me, I’ll understand the background.”
“Of course,” Drake agreed as if that was something he hadn’t thought of. It wasn’t quite how the Admiral did things, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t like it. On the contrary, he found it refreshing that Hawthorne wanted to be involved. For so many of these mundane day-to-day things the Admiral preferred not to be involved. He made the big decisions, often in a bubble, and simple told Drake what it was he needed to know.
In a lot of ways Curtiss felt alone in command of the crew of the ship. The Admiral wasn’t the kind of man that he could really confide in or share with socially. He kept well to himself and were it not for his sons who were regular finders of trouble (particularly the twins) he’d probably know very little of that dynamic as well. That wasn’t to say that the Admiral wasn’t kind, or that he didn’t share social time with them. It was just that that time was very well crafted and scripted. Dinner’s with the Admiral were more about the interaction amongst the crew and officers, not with them to him.
Already he felt more comfortable being his normal self with Markus, without worrying for the practiced professionalism that the Admiral expected of him. It might just be for a little while, be he was happy for the change of pace and glad that he’d declined to take the Captain’s chair for this mission as he knew he’d have never been able to be this at ease with Fienneman as XO. If anything, he’d have to have been even more on point.
“Any status reports from Mississippi, Praetorian or de Grasse?” Hawthorne asked, inquiring on three of the other ships operating in their area. There were a few others, to be sure, but the last he had checked the patrol charts, those three were the closest to them in terms of their areas of operation though all three were significantly spread out from one another as all three of them were capital ships more than capable of holding their own for extended periods of time. In fact, had the Pyrryx not been a latent threat in this area there would have been little need to be keeping regular tabs on them.
“Captain Dansby checked in a few hours ago, but I haven’t heard from Captain Parnell or Commodore Fitzgerald,” Drake answered giving a slight shake of his head.
Of all of those names, he had the most experience with the last one. Commodore Kelly Fitzgerald, of the Mississippi, a ship he’d commanded in name for nearly twenty-five years. It had been a Sovereign-class starship, and had seen a great chunk of action during the Dominion war, but had been destroyed in the Badlands. The Ardeshir had been the ship to find their escape pods, and bring them safely aboard. For a brief time in between the Commodore had Captained the Aurora, but was soon transferred back to the newly commissioned Vesta-class Mississippi, which had commanded ever since.
Kelly was a superb leader and an excellent battlefield commander, but he and Admiral Sepandiyar had never really seen eye to eye. In fact, it was Zavareh that had led the Admiral’s review board against Commodore Fitzgerald after the destruction of the first Mississippi and cost Fitz a grade in rank to boot. So Markus knew, that at least for Kelly’s part, he would be glad to know that the Admiral was still on Obsidian Command and that he didn’t have to deal with him directly.
“Do we know where they are?” Markus asked in answer.
Curtiss turned back farther to his left, looking behind Markus to Lieutenant Commander Fienneman at the Tactical console. The man was focused on his work, but seemed to feel the gaze upon him and looked up, “Mississippi appears on scanners. On the far side of their patrol sector,” Fienneman explained carefully. “I… do no see de Grasse on the scans… at least not recently. Their last transponder ping was a few hours ago.”
“Should we be concerned?” Drake asked Hawthorne.
“No,” Fienneman answered.
“And why’s that?” Hawthorne asked waspishly.
Fienneman pointed forward, “They’ve just dropped out of warp off the starboard bow,” he answered. “They’re hailing.”
“On screen, or holo, Mr. Fienneman,” Markus said, standing up.
A moment later a holographic image of Captain Shea Parnell appeared on the deck in front of Markus. The dark-haired, diminutive woman smiled brightly at Markus, the smile not quite meeting her eyes. “Markus. This isn’t where I expected to see you, but it’s a welcome surprise.”
“Good to see you too, Shea. Everything, ok? We don’t have you due for resupply for a while yet,” Markus answered, trying to appear friendly even though he was very worried. There just wasn’t a whole lot of reason for her to be here, now.
“I wish everything was ok, Markus. May I come aboard and explain?”
“Of course,” Hawthorne nodded, “I’ll meet you in the transporter room.”
“Thanks,” she smiled sweetly back. “And… I,” she cleared her throat, “I would recommend Yellow Alert, Captain,” she sighed. “Parnell, out.”
Drake stood up from his chair as Markus turned back to him, the look of surprise evident on his face. He let out a sharp breath and then tracked his eyes right from Drake to Fienneman. “Yellow Alert,” he ordered.
“Yellow Alert, aye, Captain!”
