Stardate: 51699.5 (Saturday, August 31, 2374, 0635) Starbase 10 – Visiting Officers Quarters
Betazed had fallen.

The Jem’Hadar had secretly assembled a large invasion force in the Kalandra sector, which Starfleet had believed was too far from Dominion territory to represent a major threat. At the same time, the Tenth Fleet was caught out of position at the start of the invasion because some protocol wrapped idiot had decided that sending them out on a training exercise rather than reinforcing strategic positions was a wiser use of time. That tactical disadvantage was further compounded by the relative weakness of Betazed’s antiquated defenses.

In the end, it had taken the Dominion only ten hours to conquer the planet and its outlying colonies. It was a humiliating defeat for the Federation and, for perhaps the first time in the nearly twenty years he had served, Jack MacTavish was almost ashamed to admit that he was a Tactical Officer with Starfleet. There were now thousands of Dominion troops crawling around on Betazed’s surface, likely thousands of Betazoid’s dead or missing…

An’ tha missin’ll be wishin’ they were dead e’re it’s all done, Jack fumed as he crushed out the nub of a cigar in an Archonian marble ashtray, It’s only been a week but I c’n bloody-well guarantee tha’ them fargin’ Cardassians’ve a’ready pockmarked tha place wi’ interment an’ labor camps an’ shyte!
…In fact, it hadn’t been long after the Dominion forces had claimed Betazed as their own that Intel had begun to intercept bits and pieces of information regarding construction of Sentok Nor – a massive, starbase labor camp in orbit of the planet – just as they had done with Bajor. The opening battle of the Federation-Dominion War, in fact, had seen the recapture of that very station, Terok Nor – or, as MacTavish preferred the Federation designation it was given, Deep Space Nine – by a Dominion assault force led by the notorious Cardassian Gul, Dukat.

Another fargin’ blunder tha’ ye c’n pin on Fleet Brass, MacTavish continued to grumble inwardly, If they’d’ve reinforced tha’ position when tha first o’ tha Dominion fleet started flushin’ through tha’ wairmhole, Sisko’d’ve had a better chance’t holdin’ it. He hauled himself out of his seat, took a quick slug of the coffee he had requested from the replicator, and then shrugged into his uniform jacket. Leavin’ tha poor bastard oot there wi’ naught but tha Defiant an’ a single Klingon Baird O’ Prey… Jayzus!
Of course, Captain Sisko had rectified all of that some five months later when he led Operation Return, soundly defeating the Cardassian/Dominion forces and returning DS9 to Federation control. Despite that victory – and several other lesser battles won – Jack knew that this war was still early in its life and things were going to get a lot worse before they even showed the first signs of getting better; the Battle of Betazed was proof of that.

Jack heaved an exasperated sigh, chased it back into his gullet with another slug of coffee, and then checked his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He studied his image for a long moment, then the Commander’s pips he held in his hand received similar scrutiny before he finally convinced himself to affix them to the collar of his TAC golds.

“Computer,” Jack demanded, straightening the pips just so, “Time.”

=/\\=The current time is zero-six-forty-three hours.=/\\= the synthesized voice of the Starbase computer informed him, =/\\=You have an appointment scheduled with a Starfleet Command delegation in Conference Room Three at zero-seven-hundred, Commander MacTavish…=/\\=

“Aye,” Jack growled, striding for the door, “I’m aware o’ tha’, thank ye.”

Fargin’ bloody meetin’s an’ runnin’ willy-nilly back’n farth, he continued his internal tirade even as he stalked out of his billet and made for the turbolift, Bastards pull me offa my ship ta drag me across the quadrant for a come ta Jayzus meetin’ er sommat when they know damn good’n well tha’ there’s still incursions slippin’ in past tha NZ… This’d better no’ be some bloody rail inta an admin slot er so help me I’ll eat an admiral!
Starbase 10; Conference Room 3 – 0655
Jack hesitated just outside the broad, double-sized hatch that led to the conference room and turned his eyes towards the gently curving viewport across the corridor. The spacedocks that floated in the void beyond that viewport were nearly at capacity – one of them nestling a Galaxy, as well as an Intrepid class vessel, and the other supporting an Akira and a pair of what looked to be light cruisers, though, between the ribs of the spacedock obscuring his view and the distance from the station to the maintenance facility, it was difficult to define the classes of the smaller ships.

For a long moment, he stood there watching the swarms of workpods and shuttles tending to the repair and resupply of the Starfleet vessels, grumbling to himself all the while about being summoned from his post aboard the Warden to dance the bureaucratic mambo with a bunch of idealism-blinded boobs from Starfleet Brass. It’s bad enough ta leave tha girl shorthanded, he inwardly griped, but ta waltz me oot here wi’oot s’much as an explanation as ta why… It’s no’ a wonder tha’ Betazed got o’errun wi’ foolery such’s this.
The conference room doors unexpectedly hissed open behind him, then, snapping Jack out of his cynical reverie. He whirled around and found himself face to face with Rear Admiral Saurik, SQNTAC of the 419th TAC/SC Squadron. “Sair,” MacTavish barked, instantly coming to attention, “G’mornin’, sair.”

One of the Vulcan’s sharply angled brows lifted a centimeter higher than the other and, after a quick study of the Scotsman standing before him, Saurik offered a marginal nod. “It is indeed, morning, Commander MacTavish,” the SQNTAC affirmed, “however, whether or not it can be defined as good, I think, would depend on one’s usage and definition of the word.”

C’n ye no’ jus’ say ‘g’mornin’ back an’ be done wi’ tha thing? The straight-line logic and sometimes overly-analytical thinking of the Vulcan mind often frustrated him. “Aye, sair,” Jack acquiesced, “ye’ve got a point...” Aside from the one on yer head an’ those on yer ears. “Were ye lookin’ fer me, sair?”

“I was,” Admiral Saurik nodded, “we had been informed that you were consistently five minutes early for all of your appointments. It is now 0657 and we were beginning to wonder if, perhaps, you had been misdirected.”

It was Jack’s turn to spike a brow. An’ since I’m only three minutes early an admiral took it upon ‘imself ta prowl tha corridors lookin’ for me? I dinnae think so… “No sair,” MacTavish replied with a barely masked grin, “jus’ got a wee bit distracted by all o’ tha boats hangin’ oot inna open like tha’.” He inclined his head toward the spacedocks beyond the viewport; “Jus’ kinda wonderin’ if tha’ was tha wisest o’ choices given our proximity ta tha Typhon Expanse...”

The SQNTAC’s expression was unreadable but Jack did notice that the Vulcan’s dark eyes shifted for an instant to regard the knot of ships harbored in the docks and that one sharp brow lifted noticeably higher. “I fail to see the logic in your concern, Commander,” Saurik offered, turning to re-enter the conference room, “The Romulans have taken up strategic positions along the Expanse where it borders their space and the Sixth Fleet along with several augments from the Imperial Klingon Forces are buffering the front from Tarod to Argon.”

“Be tha’ as it may, sair,” MacTavish returned following the Admiral’s steps, “I dinnae trust tha Romulan’s – they did originally sign tha’ non-aggression pact wi’ tha Dominion, after all, an’ if t’weren’t fer tha assassination plot, they’d still be lettin’ Jem’Hadar ships gallivant through their backyard. They’ve already annexed Federation space along our side o’ tha NZ from Benzar ta Tarod. Honestly, sair, how long do ye reckon it’ll be ‘afore tha Roms stop stemmin’ Dominion incursions and jus’ rout ‘em o’er ta tha Alpha Quadrant side o’ tha front an…”

“Always the optimist, aren’t you, Mister MacTavish?” It wasn’t the subtle sarcasm in the question that stopped Jack in his tracks as much as it was the warm familiarity of the voice that had asked it.

Noah? Jack blinked, his eyes skimming the faces of the group gathered at the conference table. There were representatives there from Command, Tactical, and Intelligence – all the high brass that indicated something major in the works – as well as a small contingent of lesser officers but the most notable among them, at least as far as Jack was concerned, was Captain Noah Braden Blair; Commanding Officer of the USS Discovery. How in tha hell did I miss the registry onnat Galaxy? I should’ve known tha Discovery on sight!
“Cap’n Blair, sair,” Jack couldn’t help but smile as he regarded the man, “Tis grand ta be layin’ eyes on ye agin. Did ye get tha same ‘beatin-round-tha-bush’ invite ta this party as I did er, perhaps, do ye know wha’ all o’ this might be aboot?”

Blair grinned, rising from his seat as MacTavish approached; “Good to see you, too, Jack. I think I might have been enlightened a bit more than you have, my friend. This council, though, should clear that up.”

“Brilliant,” Mac grinned, “et’s no’ a court martial, then.”

“Hardly,” Captain Blair chuckled as he shook the Scot’s offered hand, “How is Chantelle?”

“Ah, she’s jus’ fine, sair,” Jack replied, “Wairkin’ a’ tha univairsity en New Edinburgh. I woulda ne’er expected tha lass ta take ta Caldos as she did, sair, but, bless ‘er, she luvs et...”

“If you would, Commander,” an Intel-gray clad commodore whom Jack recognized as D’vram Tao interjected, motioning to an empty seat at the end of the table, “I’m sure that Captain Blair and you will have the opportunity to get reacquainted after we have concluded our business here.”

MacTavish smirked. Seven years ago, despite the brass on Tao’s collar, the Tactical Officer might very well have offered up a venomous retort to the man’s condescending remark but, due in large part to having served under Blair, Jack had developed a bit more tact in situations that involved superior officers. “Aye, sair,” the Scotsman affirmed, “tha’ we will.” With a nod to his former CO, Commander MacTavish turned and approached the indicated seat.

“A’right, gentlemen,” he smiled and sat, absently scratching at the closely-cropped goatee that he had seen fit to cultivate after receiving his third pip some months ago, “I’d hate ta take up any more o’ yer time than’s absolutely necessary. What’s ol’ Jack done ta warrant the attentions o’ such a delegation?” He wasn’t sure if the smile that blossomed on Blair’s features just then was intended to express approval at the masked sarcasm of the comment or if it was indicative of some secret that the man was privy to.

“You are, of course, aware, Commander,” Rear Admiral Saurik droned, “that the Federation is currently at war with the Dominion…”

Ye dinnae say! Chroist but tha Wisdom o’ Spock ‘imself runs in yer veins, don’ it? “O’course, sair,” Jack nodded.

“…and that said war is proving to be, perhaps, one of the most costly and destructive wars in Federation history, even in what appear to be the infant stages…”

Jack couldn’t help but bristle at that. Betazed’s fallen, more systems an’ starbases than I’d care ta count’re now firmly behind enemy lines, an’ tha fargin’ Romulans’ve annexed a bonny lit’le chunk o’ Federation space under tha pretense o’ a bloody alliance tha’s likely ta fall apart once they ferret out a tactical advantage an’ ye still wanna call it tha infant stages?! “Beggin’ yer pardon, sairs,” he rumbled, “but if this is wha’ ye call tha infant stage o’ this war, I’d hate ta see wha’d have ta happen for ye ta categorize it inna rebellious teenager stage.

Meanin’ no disrespect, o’ course, but I’ve been oot there onna lines o’ this bloody thing since tha Dominion instigated tha rub wi’ us an’ tha Klingons! Tha’ was th’ damned infant stages, sairs! At tha very best, wha’ we’ve got now is a cranky, spoiled-rotten toddler wi’ a full diaper runnin’ aboot needin’ his lit’le arse paddled an’ taught a lesson in respect! It’s obvious ta me, given wha’s jus’ happened wi’ Betazed, tha’ th’ bastards’ve no’ a milligram o’ tha’!”

The command delegation had fallen silent in the wake of MacTavish’s chastisement and more than one stern glare was leveled in his direction. The Scot did notice, though, that Captain Blair was still smiling and that the heretofore silent Admiral from Starfleet Command, who sat at the table’s head, also bore the hint of a grin and was offering an approving nod to the USS Discovery’s CO. Nevertheless, Jack was somewhat surprised when he didn’t immediately get called down for insubordination.

“…Aside from the loss of various resources, in the form of starships, planetary installations, and the like,” Saurik continued as if he had never been interrupted, “one of the most telling indicators of the losses that Starfleet has suffered is the lack of competent Captains to command vessels as they become available.”

Tha’s been an issue as long as I’ve been in Starfleet, Jack fumed, keeping the comment to himself, wi’ a few exceptions ta tha’ rule, o’ course. His gaze shifted to Blair once more, trying to gage the situation by reading the man’s face. Something was going on here that Jack wasn’t expecting and he hoped to pick up on something from Blair that would maybe give him a small clue.

Saurik had begun a tediously detailed review of recent events, tying them in with the lack of command level officers currently available in the active corps of Starfleet. Jack resisted the urge to tell the Vulcan SQNTAC to cut to the bloody chase, opting instead to lean back in his chair a bit and steeple his fingers before his lips in a half-hearted attempt to mask an exasperated grimace.

Mercifully, the Fleet Admiral interrupted; “Thank you, Saurik. I’m certain that Commander MacTavish is more than aware of the casualties that we have suffered as a result of this conflict. I don’t think there’s any need to bore him with details that he’s surely been reviewing as long as we have.”

Saurik nodded curtly; “Admiral Blackmore,” and, without another word, returned to his seat and relinquished the floor to the senior man.

“Thank ye, sair,” Jack nodded.

“Of course, Commander,” Blackmore returned, “I’ve spoken at length with Captain Blair several times in the past few weeks in regards to you and he has informed me that you have little tolerance for the pleasantries and protocol in matters such as this…”

MacTavish nodded again, this time to Blair, as well.

“… he also informs me that, despite your disdain for the politics of it all, you’re an outstanding officer and something of a zealot when it comes to anything that may even hint at being a tactical concern…”

Jack, again, nodded faintly and may have even allowed a sheepish smile to play on his lips, but anything he may have thought of saying in reply to the Admiral was choked into silence by the man’s next statement.

“…To that end, Commander MacTavish, and given the rather verbose reasoning presented in Rear Admiral Saurik’s report, you have been selected to take command of the USS Cerberus effective as of 0800 hours today.”

MacTavish was stunned. So much so that, even though his jaw had dropped open and his eyes were on the verge of bugging out of their sockets, his nervous system couldn’t even register the fact that he looked like a gasping trout, let alone issue the commands to clear the expression from his features. “Command of a ship, sair,” he managed to splutter after an oddly drawn out moment, “Me?” He blinked in disbelief and look questioningly in Noah’s direction; “But… I’m only a… isn’t there…”

Blair was positively beaming, now, and slowly nodding his affirmation of the bomb that the Admiral had just dropped on the Scotsman’s brain.

“The Cerberus is a Steamrunner class ship, Commander,” Saurik informed him, “a light cruiser. She is currently berthed in Dock 2C where she is in the final stages of being configured and outfitted for your mission; the details of which…”

Jack’s head was spinning and he found it difficult to focus on the Vulcan. Me own command…How inna bloody hell…
“…The details of which will be loaded to the terminal in your Ready Room,” Admiral Blackmore cut off the Vulcan SQNTAC once more, “According to Ops, the Cerberus’ modifications should be completed in 36 hours. A good deal of your crew is already on station and will be advised to report to you no later than 0900 tomorrow.”

The senior brass in the room all rose to their feet, then, and Admiral Blackmore came around the table, thrusting a beefy hand in Jack’s direction. “Congratulations, Captain MacTavish,” the elder man grinned as a still blinking Jack accepted and shook his hand, “I look forward to seeing you requisition your command reds and… how did you put it… paddling the arse of that spoiled toddler out there.”

“Aye, sair,” Jack breathed, finally able to get to his feet, “I’ll do tha’ vera thing, sair.”

“Mm,” Blackmore grunted, flicking a wry glance over Jack’s shoulder at Blair, “I’m sure you will, Captain. Again, congratulations.”

The Admiral released his hand then and strode from the room. Following him, the remainder of the Starfleet brass filed past and offered their congratulations, as well, before dogging Blackmore’s steps out into the corridor… and they all addressed him as Captain. He hadn’t been promoted, of course – there would have been a separate ceremony for that, all together, and he knew he wouldn’t be adding a fourth pip to his collar any time soon – but the CO of a starship was customarily addressed as Captain regardless of rank… Jack found it all very disconcerting and unfamiliar…

When the last of the command entourage had disappeared through the hatch, Captain Blair laughed out loud; “You should see the look on your face, Jack! Priceless, I tell you!”

“Ye knew aboot this all along, then, did ye, sair?” There was an almost goofy, blissful grin on Jack’s face as he turned to face the Discovery’s Captain.

“I did,” Noah answered, “and, if I hadn’t been ordered to do otherwise, I wouldn’t have let them ambush you like they did. Although, seeing you rendered sputtering and speechless is a thing that I’m terribly glad I did not miss…”

Blair was standing closer now, his own hand extended to and accepted by the Cerberus’ new CO. “…Congratulations, Captain,” he smiled warmly, clapping his other hand on the Scotsman’s shoulder, “you’ve earned this one, Jack.”

“Aye,” Jack snickered, “buy us a Scotch or three an’ tell me agin, sair. Per’aps then I’ll believe et…”

Stardate: 2374.08.31
Starbase 10 - corridor outside of main security - 0900
A huge, hulking, tiger-like beast stalked down the corridor, its foul mood apparent to everyone in its path. Not surprisingly, the various staff found reasons to be places other than the creature’s direct path, not that it seemed to pay them any mind one way or the other. Instead, the large felanoid clad in a gold Starfleet uniform top scowled darkly at the PADD it clutched in its right paw as it covered the distance to main security.

The door hissed open, admitting the brooding kzinti, but to his disappointment, everything appeared to be in perfect order. Denied the opportunity to vent his displeasure on some poor enlisted lackey, Lieutenant Commander Rrowl moved directly to the office designated “Chief of Security” and began removing his few personal possessions.

The chore took very little time – Rrowl was not one for collecting knickknacks, and he hadn’t been stationed at Starbase Ten for very long. It wasn’t the abrupt reassignment itself that had the kzinti in a foul mood; on the contrary, he welcomed the opportunity to leave this handholding guard posting behind for the opportunity to assume meaningful duties aboard a warship. No, it was more the fact that he would be expected to babysit some wet-behind-the-ears monkey even as they flew into situations that would likely end their lives. Rrowl did not fear dying, but he loathed the idea that he would be forced to do so to no real purpose.

As the station’s outgoing security chief packed the last of his sparse possessions, a man in the doorway cleared his throat. Rrowl looked up, his teeth slightly bared. The human lieutenant, also clad in security gold, blanched slightly due to the fact that he was well aware that kzinti did not show their teeth in a gesture equivalent to a human smile – this sort of expression instead meant aggression and anger. Nevertheless, the man held his ground and spoke. “Congratulations, Commander Rrowl. Just what you were hoping for, right? A posting on a warship, I mean.”

Rrowl snorted. “Hardly, Lieutenant Giles,” he replied. “I had hoped to gain a posting on a vessel with a known – or at least experienced and capable – captain. Instead, I understand that my new commanding officer has yet to even attain the rank!” He shook his head. “If our commander is so inexperienced, odds of us surviving combat – or at least, being effective in it – decrease, I fear.”

Impudently, the lieutenant chuckled. “Fear? You? Commander, I thought you weren’t afraid of anything!”

Rrowl’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tongue, monkey, lest I take it with me as a trophy! You know I do not fear death; I do despise the idea that it be for naught.”

Unperturbed, Giles continued. “You know, I think that I will almost miss those threats. I’ll say this – whoever replaces you just won’t have the same effect when they toss around extra shifts or KP duty as consequences!”

At that, Rrowl’s ears flickered slightly – a kzinti gesture of laughter. “I will miss you, as well, lieutenant. Hopefully, my replacement will find this department in better shape than did I.”

Giles nodded; Rrowl was intimidating, and you didn’t want to be on the wrong side of his temper, but he was a fine officer, and had indeed drastically improved security on Starbase Ten. He genuinely would miss the shaggy security chief.

“Well, best of luck to you, Commander Rrowl,” spoke Giles. “Cheer up; you never can tell. Just because this is MacTavish’s first command doesn’t mean he won’t be capable.”

Rrowl froze and fixed a predatory stare on the lieutenant. “What did you say?” Met with a blank stare, he prompted. “MacTavish? As in, Jack MacTavish?”

Giles fumbled for a moment as he double checked his own PADD. “That’s right,sir… MacTavish, Jonathon R. XO of the Warden, formerly of the Discovery…”

Rrowl held up a paw as his ears broke into a fit of twitching. “Enough! I know him well. This changes everything!”

Suddenly, Rrowl’s entire disposition had changed. We will kill many of the bastards, Jack, you and I, the kzinti thought to himself.


As it turned out, this was exactly the posting that Rrowl had been waiting for.

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus – Main Bridge – 0758 hours
As he stepped off of the turbolift and onto the bridge of his first command, Jack MacTavish couldn’t help but gaze, entranced, at the bronzed commission plaque which was mounted on the bulkhead just outside the lift doors. ‘U.S.S. Cerberus,’ it stated in proud, bold silence, ‘Steamrunner-Class; Starfleet Registry NCC-83964; Launched Stardate 51332.6; Balkinur Kosmodrome, Earth. United Federation of Planets.’

Aye an’ yer but a bee-beh, yet, aren’t ye, Jack mused, noting the launch date of the ship…his ship… was only four months past. Almost tentatively, and feeling a little more than silly for actually doing it, the former TAC officer reached out a hand and let his fingertips brush over the embossed words on the plaque. As his steel gaze took in the plate’s obligatory mentions, by name, of the members of Starfleet Command, Fleet Ops, R&D, Science Ops, Tactical Ops, Yard Engineers, and, of course, the Chief of Staff, who had contributed to the Steamrunner’s design and construction, he imagined his own soul linking with the energies that flowed through the vessel. Imagined it but didn’t feel it… not until the seemingly endless list of names slipped out of his sight and his eyes caught the ‘dedication quote’ that was unique to each ship in Starfleet…

…A monster not to be overcome and that may not be described, Cerberus who eats raw flesh, the brazen-voiced hound of Hades, fifty-headed, relentless, and strong. – Hesiod, Theogeny 310

His fingertips glided over the quotation as he re-read it. His first thought was that, as compared to most dedication quotes he had ever read, this one was very uncharacteristic of any that Starfleet had ever approved. Where most others he had seen or even heard of made references to discovery, peace, universal harmony, and other such esoteric ideals, Cerberus’ dedication was aggressive, bold, and almost overtly violent and warlike in its message (if one chose to interpret it that way). Now, though, reading it again, Jack realized that it was a most fitting passage. “They must’ve known ye’d end up wi’ me, lass,” he smiled softly, pressing not just his fingertips but, now, the entire palm of his hand against the plaque. The metal was cold but the feeling that rushed through him at that moment warmed him more than the finest scotch he had ever swallowed.

This was his ship. He felt it, now, and any uncertainty he had entertained in the past ninety minutes or so since he’d been informed of his impromptu promotion was gone. Three pips on the collar or four, it didn’t matter, Jack MacTavish was the captain of his own ship and, by God, he was going to make that matter. “Ye an’ me’ll get along jus’ fine,” he whispered, gently patting the plaque before finally allowing his gaze to break from the thing and take in the rest of the bridge, “Jus’ fine indeed.”

This lift had admitted him to the bridge between the Tactical and Engineering stations, it appeared, and presented him almost immediately with a short ramp leading down into the command pit where CONN, the XO’s seat, and the ‘Big Chair’ awaited. Bloody interestin’, he thought as he cast an appraising glance at the u-shaped alcove that comprised the TAC station before allowing a cursory inspection of the other posts around the bridge, a wee bit like th’ bridge onna Intrepid-class, innit? Per’aps a bit closer an’ mebbe a sight more inclined ta th’ mission a’ hand…
“…help you, sir?”

Jack was so engrossed with his study of the Steamrunner’s bridge configuration that he’d completely bypassed (and almost ignored) the young lieutenant, clad in Engineering gold coveralls, who had just finished replacing an access panel on the CONN station. The junior officer was eyeing MacTavish curiously as though he hadn’t been expecting anyone to interrupt his work today… especially not an anyone wearing TAC colors.

“Commander Jack MacTavish,” the Scot rumbled, fixing the looey in his hardened gaze as he strode into the command pit, “Assumin’ command of the USS Cerberus.”

“Oh,” the Ops looey blinked and snapped to attention, “Of course, sir. I mean… Aye, sir. You have the bridge!”

“Carry on, Lieutenant,” Jack nodded as he settled himself into the captain’s chair, “dinnae lemme take ye away from yer wairk.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the Lt responded, still a little sheepishly. “Sorry about that Commander,” he said as he stooped to ascertain that he had properly secured the panel, “They told me to expect a visit from the new CO… guess I was just expecting a red-suit…”

“I’ve no’ requisitioned ‘em, as yet,” Jack stated, not looking up from the terminal inset into the arm of his chair, “B’tween gettin’ this command dropped in me lap an’ th’ time I were ta repairt, I dinnae ‘ave th’ time.

Somethin’ th’ matter wi’ CONN?”

“Wha..? Er…uhhh…” the looey stammered, obviously taken off guard by the simple question, and earned a stern but expectant glance from the new CO before recouping, “No sir. No, nothing wrong with CONN at all. Just some calibrations that the FCO wanted looked at…”

“An’ is et done?”

“Yessir.”

“An’ ye’ve go’ nothin’ else ta do, then?”

“Yessir, plenty to do,” the looey said, “The MSD needs to be synced with the spacedock’s engineering computer again, the SIF display still sputters when…”

“I dinnae ask fer yer entire agenda, Lieutenant,” Mac chuffed. The young man had failed to pick up on the rhetorical nature of that last question and, worse, the implied order underlying it, “Quit lolligaggin’ aboot me bridge an’ get me bloody boat in order!”

“Aye sir,” the lieutenant sounded off smartly and, without another word, hurried off about his duties. As the young man headed for the Jeffries tube access port on the opposite side of the bridge, MacTavish heard him tap his commbadge and start delegating orders down the chain, finalizing the directives with; “…the CO’s aboard and wants his ship online pronto! Let’s make it snappy and make it sharp, people!”

Good lad, a faint grin tugged at the corner of Mac’s mouth, Wi’ luck, he’s no’ Starbase crew an’ll be comin’ wi’ th’ boat, aye? As the man disappeared from the bridge, the Cerberus’ new CO tapped a finger against the chair-mounted console and the computer responded with an electronic chirp.

“Cap’n’s Log,” he stared, finding it somewhat surreal to be uttering those words and, for an instant, almost unsure as to what the first entry in a Captain’s Logbook should be, “Stardate five-one-six-six-nine-tac-five. I, Commander Jonathon MacTavish, as d’rected by Starfleet Command, ‘ave taken command o’ th’ USS Cerberus; Fleet Registry NCC-83964. Et’s an unexpected post, I ‘ave ta admit, an’ I’m no’ quite clear onna whys an’ wherefores o’ it all, as yet, but, as I sit here, now, I get th’ feelin’ tha’ there’s somethin’ vera special aboot this ship an’ aboot the mission’s tha’ ‘ave been assigned ‘er.

Initial tour of the Cerberus indicates tha’ she was launched en an no’-quite-all-tagether state but tha’ wairk has continued en earnest by ‘er existin’ crew en route from Airth. I’ve been told tha’ modifications necessary ta th’ Cerberus’re ta be completed wi’in thairty-six hours… an’ tha’ a good portion o’ me crew should be repairtin’ as of oh-nine-hundred tomorra.”

Which gives me jus’ o’er twenty-four hours ta review service jackets an’ review th’ mission read-in, he appended mentally as he closed the log and turned his gaze in the direction of the door labeled Captain’s Ready Room. He heaved a sigh that expressed a mixture of exasperation at having so much to do in so short a time… nothin’ tha’ ye’ve no’ dealt wi’ yer entire career, Jackie-lad… lingering disbelief at having been given command of his own ship… sure an’ they’ve blown smoke up yer kilt tryin’ ta explain tha’, then, ‘aven’t they? I reckon once I’ve reviewed the mission package, the fairst layer o’ tha’ onion’ll be peeled away an’ we’ll be closer ta th’ truth… and the sudden realization that there was one other thing that took precedence and priority over anything that Starfleet might have in store for him.

“Aye,” he muttered as he rose from the Big Chair and strode purposefully for the door the the Ready Room, “ye’ll need ta be lettin’ Chan know tha’ yer prob’ly no’ gonna be ‘ome fer Christmas, eh?”

((More soon... ))

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Incubi - Officer's Quarters - 0800 hours
Sitok reviewed himself in front of the mirror. His ears came to point showing strong Vulcan blood running through his veins. His eyebrows came to the same point as his ears and his nose nearly came to the same point. His mouth was smoothed in a line parallel to the wave of his hair. His shoulders were straight bringing the uniform to a very respectable linear sharpness. It would be his last day aboard the USS Incubi and Sitok was not displeased to leave. In fact he was excited to leave. Not that it showed in his demeanor but he defiantly felt it. His heart rate was slightly accelerated and his mouth felt a peculiar urge to curve. Sitok had learned that the accelerated heart rate could tell him something but that the curve to his lips was seemingly obscene even if humans often did it. The obscenisity of the smile on a Vulcan face was tied to the teachings of Sarik. Of course Sarik taught that emotions were weakness, but Sitok did not believe that. Certainly humans were not always weak and they had and showed these emotions, and Sitok himself discovered that often emotions were more a warning to something the subconscious had noticed that for some reason the conscious had not. Many Vulcans would and had in the past argued with Sitok that this was not logical. That it was illogical to abandon reason simply because emotions said to abandon it, and Sitok agreed with that logic; that reason should not be abandoned. Sitok believed that emotions should be used in the logical process as though you were telling yourself something. The end result Sitok decided was that it was a weakness to show emotions, not to have them. And The emotion Sitok was experiencing was excitement. He was to be First Officer of the USS Cerberus, a warship. And what’s more is that he was to serve under Commander MacTavish. MacTavish was rumored to be one of the top tactical officers Starfleet has ever seen. To serve under him on a warbird would be very educational. Though I’ve been reassigned there is still work to be done today. Sitok opened his room door and walk out of his quarters. He walked the short distance to the turbolift.

“Bridge” He said calmly even though his stomach was full of butterflies. The lift ride was shorter than usual at least that’s what it felt like but Sitok knew that it was illogical that it would be so. When the lift opened Sitok stepped off. Since the Captain was already on the Bridge Sitok’s presence demanded little respect. He walked to his usual position.

“So leaving us are you Sitok?” The Captain asked warmly.

“Yes sir.” Sitok replied “I am packed and ready. I will disembark upon landing at Starbase 10.”

“Well I’ve got things under wraps here. Why don’t you get your stuff down to the trans and await our landing?”
And by under wraps he is of course using one of human’s idioms. I still don’t understand why human’s use them “Of course sir thank you.” Sitok rose from his commander’s chair aboard the Incubi for the last time. I suppose it is a little sad that I am leaving but the chance to be a ship’s first XO with a brand new crew is exciting. Sitok entered his quarters and grabbed his bag. It was only one bag because Sitok didn’t believe in having many items. He kept meditation candles, a blanket a family that he had visited made him, and his extra uniforms and that was pretty well it. He went down to the shuttle bay. It was illogical to transport a single bag when it was easier to carry it. He waited in shuttle bay for what seemed an eternity. When the ship had finally docked and the shuttle bay doors opened Sitok was well ready to launch his shuttle. Giving a nod to the Ensign who was actually piloting the shuttle Sitok left the USS Incubi.


((Mod edit: Added post header... don't forget those, people, it helps everyone else keep track of who's where and when. ))

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus - Captain’s Ready Room – 0813 hours
The hatch slid away before him and MacTavish stepped into the smallish, dimly lit ready room. “Lights,” he demanded as he crossed the threshold and swept an appraising gaze over the suite. Even before the computer blipped its acknowledgement and the room’s lighting waxed gradually brighter, Mac had picked out the gentle arc of the desk that swept out from the forward bulkhead, and the pair of standard issue chairs that were placed in front of it. A single portal was set into the bulkhead behind the desk and, at the moment, afforded him a view of the workbee and shuttle traffic one would expect while berthed in spacedock. An almost nostalgic grin curled his lips as he caught sight of the Discovery’s lower hull and the registry number applied to it… I would nae be here were it no’ fer ye, he mused, offering a respectful if unseen nod to the big Galaxy class, o’ tha’ I’ve no doubt.
As his gaze finally drifted away from the view beyond the window, Mac caught sight of the replicator, nestled between the portal and another hatch that, he assumed, led to his private head and refresher. “Coffee,” he rumbled to the device as he peeked through the hatch to verify his assumption, “Blue Mountain. Double Black.” There was a slight delay (most likely the computer searching for and adding the requested beverage to the ship’s inventory) before the coffee was produced but it was scarcely noticeable. Now, with a red-enameled mug in hand, MacTavish finally settled himself into the chair behind the desk and entered the access code that Admiral Saurik’s aide had provided him with.

=/\\=Welcome, Commander MacTavish,=/\\= Cerberus greeted him, =/\\=Stand by for biometric verification.=/\\=

Aside from a slow nod of his head, Mac sat still as the computer performed retinal and other biometric scans to confirm and finalize his identity and security clearances. After several moments, punctuated by almost musical series of beeps and chirps from the myriad consoles embedded in the surface of his desk, the default displays changed, providing him access to functions reserved for his authorized security level.

=/\\=Verification complete,=/\\= the computer intoned, =/\\=Level 10 security access approved. MacTavish, Jonathon R; Commander. Service number Alpha-three-seven-…=/\\=

“Thank ye,” Mac grimaced, dismissing the computer’s audio as he lifted the coffee mug to his lips with one hand and, with the other, started accessing the mission briefing, crew roster, and sub-space communications channels. As he perused the crew roster – it was the file that had appeared first – he couldn’t help but nod and smile in appreciation. The fleet had been kind to him, it appeared, and Commander MacTavish was pleasantly surprised when a few more than recognizable names and service jackets caught his eye. Rrowl he was smiling almost too much to take another sip of his coffee, bless me soul, th’ Rug’s ‘ad th’ misfortune ta pull a tour on me fairst command! Fleet’s either payin’ bloody close attention ta th’ fact tha’ there’s a war on er they’re sensitive enough ta ensure most o’ me staff’s a’ready been exposed ta th’ MacTavish way o’ doin’ thengs… an’ Arevaci ‘s well?! Ach! Per’aps me impression o’ Fleet Ops’s been misguided all these long years, eh? Chroist! Th’ lad’s wi’ th’ bloody Dips Corps? Dinnae s’prise me, I s’pose… the li’l shagger did ‘ave a way, dinee? Th’ way th’ galaxy’s gone inna years since we we’re abaird Discovery, Fleet’d’ve been bloody mad ta no’ use th’ Chris’ skills fer sommat other’n ‘ead-shrinkin’…
A three-note whistle from the console told him that the mission briefing had been accessed and was awaiting his review and, almost simultaneously, the sub-space frequency he had requested returned a ping and the viewscreen that topped his desk flicked to life, momentarily displaying the Starfleet emblem before transitioning seamlessly to display a view of a cozy looking living room some light years away. There was a pang of longing as he imagined… no, remembered… sitting on the overstuffed sofa that he knew was stretched out before a large, stone fireplace just off the right side of the screen’s scope of view, Chantelle in his arms watching the flames dance on the hearth as the Caldosian winter froze everything outside the doors of their home. Mac’s latest tour aboard the Warden had been slated to expire in just six, short weeks, and the plan after that had been to return home, spend the holidays with his wife and parents, and, perhaps, actually entertain retiring from Starfleet…

I should’ve known tha’d no’ be ‘appenin’ even before th’ Warden detoured ‘ere, he sighed, swallowing another mouthful of coffee. His eyes ticked towards the still scrolling crew roster, the list prompting a scowl to form around the rim of the mug as an appendix labeled ‘Romulan Contingent,’ caught his attention…

“Wha’?!” The coffee mug banged against the desktop as Mac dropped rather than sat it down and momentarily forgot about the communications channel that had recently opened. “Ach! Fer th’ luv o’ heather! Wha’ inna foo…”

“Jack! Oh my gosh!”

The expletive ridden tirade that had been poised to explode past his lips – not to mention a rather colorful retraction of his earlier professed misjudgment of Fleet’s wisdom – was cut suddenly short by the sound of Chantelle’s voice. The clenched fist he had raised and was poised to slam down on the mirror-polished surface of his desk instead slowly unfurled and sank, rather slowly, to curl around the half-empty coffee mug and he forced his disbelieving frown into a warm, loving smile, that few beside the woman on the screen ever had he pleasure to witness or, for a long time, believed the Scot was even capable of. “G’mornin’ me bonny apple-blossom.”

Chantelle’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink and her liquid eyes seemed to sparkle even brighter as she broke into a beaming smile. “Oh my gosh,” she repeated, frantically smoothing her hair back and gathering it, probably for the fiftieth time in the day, back into the elastic band that was supposed to keep her mane of still dark hair in check, “I can’t believe it… I wasn’t… you weren’t… I mean… six weeks are.. Oh my gosh, Jack! Where are you?”

“Starbase 10,” he answered, reaching out his own hand to touch the place on the screen where her own slender fingers now lingered. Even though it was little more than light, captured, scrambled, transmitted, and resolved into an image halfway across the galaxy, Mac could swear that he felt the warmth of those fingers meeting his own.

“Starbase 10,” she repeated. There was a hint of concern in her eyes even though her smile had yet to fade at all and Jack knew that she was likely forming hypotheses and working equations in her mind trying to make sense of it. “Is the Warden in for repairs? We’re you in a battle? The UFB news feeds are filtered, now, you know and, there’s been little real information… Are you… Are you okay, Jack?”

“Aye, Chan-luv,” he murmured, “I’m fine. Dinnae worra yer lovely ‘ead aboot ol’ Jack. An’ th’ Warden’s fine’s well… I s’pose she will need ta restock a few thengs bu’ we’ve managed th’ latest leg o’ th’ tour wi’ scarce a ding er a scuff.

O’ course,” he shrugged, finally allowing his fingers to fall away from the screen as he lifted his mug once again, “th’ Warden’s no’ me consairn, any longer.”

“Oh…oh, Mac,” Chantelle looked really concerned, now, and, perhaps, a little disappointed, “You didn’t… tell me, please, that you… you didn’t bash someone… and… and… that you’re not calling me from Base Security…”

Jack’s face split into a mirthful yet reassuring grin. That grin only held back his laughter for a nanosecond, though. “No, Chan-luv,” he chortled, “I’m no’ callin’ ye from security, I’m no’ callin’ ye from th’ infairmary, an’, bless ye, darlin’, I dinnae ‘bash’ anyone… Far from et, ta tell th’ truth.

I’m callin’ ye from me ready room. I’ve… uhh…”

Tell ‘er, Jackie-lad, his mind recommended, ye know ye cannae keep this channel open fer long an’, fer th’ luv o’ Charlie, ye cannae keep et a secret,
“Ready room?” Chan looked positively baffled, now.

“…been given me own command.”

Chantelle could make no other reply than to blink, rapidly and repeatedly, and that look of bewilderment melted into an amalgam of half a dozen other emotions. The waifish woman’s features were a clumsy dance of pride, shock, excitement, and sadness and, when her lip began to tremble, Jack’s heart sank just a little.

He lifted his fingers to the screen, again, hoping that he might be able to press a finger to those so-very-missed lips and still the quivering that, he knew, would summon tears of worry before long. “I’m sorra, luv,” he whispered, “I know we ‘ad spoken aboot me resignin’ me commission after this…”

“Don’t…” Her eyes dipped for an instant, looking at something in her lap, and Jack realized that she was fidgeting… her tiny hands trying to twist themselves into knots as her mind tried to reconcile that tangle of conflicting feelings. At last, she lifted her azure gaze back to meet his and offered him a knowing, albeit weak, smile. “Don’t apologize, Mac,” she whispered, “I know… I’ve always known, I… I guess. Sometimes, especially lately, I’ve even wondered, as silly as it sounds, if this war wasn’t meant, somehow, to make sure that you… get…” She swallowed hard, concealed a sniffle, and glance away, again for a second. “To make sure that you… um… didn’t retire before you made Captain. It’s something you were made for, Jack MacTavish… I’ve always known it, no matter how much you denied it, I knew… Captain Blair knew… Arevaci… and… and… this war knew it, too. You deserve this…I…”

“Chan… apple-blossom…”

“…I’m happy for you, Jack,” she smiled despite the tear that traced a lonely protest march across her cheek, “and you don’t have to apologize or explain… because… I know.”

It was Jack’s turn to swallow the lump in his own throat and to be rendered speechless. In a span of seconds he relived every moment they had shared over the past years – from the day they had collided outside of Discovery’s shuttle bay, resulting in a full cup of coffee being spilled all over his uniform, to the away mission on Gavin III when he realized that he might actually have more than a simple fondness for her, to the ruckus with Ian and the BTF that had nearly gotten them both killed, to the day they finally married and every moment between and after. Chroist, an’ o’ th’ pair o’ us, most think tha’ I’m the ‘tough one’…
“Missus MacTavish,” he croaked after finally managing to restomach that damned lump, “Ye’ve go’ ta be th’ strongest an’ mos’ understandin’ lass tha’ th’ Laird e’er saw fit ta bless a undeservin’ bastard such as me wi’.”

She blushed again and giggled a little. “Don’ ye be blowin’ sunshine up me kilt, MacTavish,” she chided, “I said that you didn’t have to apologize or explain but I do expect you to do one thing for me where all of this is concerned…”

“Wha’s tha’, luv?”

“When this is all over,” she was smiling now, trying to mask her sadness and not being very successful but smiling nonetheless, even as she fumbled for a kerchief to blot the tears from her face, “you have to come home to me. That’s… an order, ha…haggis!”

“Sair,” Mac barked, smiling himself even though all he really wanted to do right now was hold his wife close and not let go until the Dominion had been sent back to the Gamma Quadrant with their tails between their legs and the corpses of Jem’Hadar lodged deeply and firmly in their arses, “Aye-aye, Sair!”

“I know better than to ask where you’re going,” she sighed after the two of them hesitantly let go of the laughter inspired by that exchange, “but…”

“Aye, lass,” he nodded, “et’s a classified mission an’ I could no’ say even ef I’d gotten around ta readin’ th’ file b’fore I called.”

“…can I at least know the name of the ship my husband now commands?”

“Cerberus,” Mac answered, “She’s a Steamrunner… a wee bit onna small side as compared ta the Galaxy an’ the Akira, o’ course, but she seems ta be capable…”

“Cerberus,” Chantelle echoed, “Guardian of the Gate of Hades… That’s… appropriate…”

“Aye, Chan-luv; I s’pose et es.”

“When…umm… when do you ship out?”

“We’ll be betwixt th’ ribs fer another three days,” Jack offered, slipping reluctantly into the Fleet banter in an attempt to make the whole situation seem a little more like day-to-day business as opposed to an event that would serve to keep husband and wife apart for longer than either would have liked, “there’s still some prep-wairk ta be done… spit an’ polish, aye?.. an’ then we’re ta ship oot ta DS9 fer final shakedown.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of work to do,” she smiled, nodding her acceptance of his answers, “and not much time in which to get it done.”

“Aye. I’ve no’ yet reviewed the orders all through, go’ ta get me crew aboard an’ acclimated…”

“You should probably go, then.”

He hated it, all of the sudden, but she was right. “Aye,” he nodded, “I’ll do me best ta contact ye again ere we port a’ DS9. I luv ye, Chan.”

“I love you, too, Jack.”

((OOC: Longer that I had expected for this bit but that's how it goes when I write for Mac, I guess... One more coming to follow this up and dig into the mission file...))

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus - Captain’s Ready Room – 0852 hours
Mac sat staring at the display, one hand clamped to his chin – thumb and forefinger absently stroking the bristles of his beard – and the other resting just beside the panel on which the crew roster had appeared – the fingers of that hand drumming out an almost irritated tempo on the desktop. While he was, of course, interested in the Starfleet and M.A.C.O personnel on the roster, it was the appended ‘Romulan Contingent’ file that demanded his attention first. Why inna bloody hell’d we need Roms abaird? he wondered as he opened the appendix and started skimming the dossiers of the RSE attachment, Sure an’ we’re supposedly “allied” wi’ th’ bastards… tha’s one theng… et’s another ta allow ‘em ta go gallivantin’ aboot our ships an’ installations as ef they were ta be trusted wi’oot question!
From what he could determine, it appeared that the… thankfully… small delegation would be serving in a technical/advisory capacity. The dossiers of the majority of the group detailed operational specialties in engineering and sciences… No’ tha’ tha’ means much o’ bloody anythin’ where Romulans’re consairned, he scowled, skimming over references to ‘gravitational lensing and field matrix familiarity,’ ‘EM radiation and energy emission control structures,’ and ‘warp nacelle emissions synchronization’ listed in the skills and qualifications entries, they’ve all go’ bloody RSE rank, whether they be egg-headed point-ears er no’!… but there were two jackets that concerned him more than the others.

One was that of a Centurion Khnialmnae; apparently the officer in command of the delegation. Her listed qualifications, like those of the rest of her team, indicated knowledge and experience in science and engineering fields but, unlike most of those serving under her, the Centurion’s dossier had obviously been severely redacted, leaving large gaps in her service records and conspicuous, nullified entries in other spots that served to do little more than raise MacTavish’s blood pressure as he tried to piece it all together. The jacket of Centurion Khnialmnae’s ‘second’ (a Sub-Centurion with a similarly unpronounceable name), also, was liberally edited. Mac’s experience with the Romulans over the years, of course, immediately led him to skim the two records for any indications that these two were somehow affiliated with the Tal Shiar but, after long, eyeball-hardening scrutiny (peppered with a bit of conjecture) of both dossiers, he couldn’t find (or so much as infer) anything to support such ties.

That being the case, Jack read through all of the RSE dossiers once more. The latest entry in each of them stated that the current assignment of the group was to “ensure the installation, calibration, peak functionality, and overall security of two Generation 5 cloaking devices. One to be provisionally installed aboard Federation Starship NCC-83964; the other on Federation Starship NCC-79358”...

Cloaks?!? Now Mac was even more perplexed. Wha’, in th’ name o’ bonny Prince Charlie, would we ‘ave need o’ cloakin’ devices fer? Starfleet’s no’ advocated cloakin’ technology abaird Federation vessels fer fifty years er better.
There was only one other active vessel in all of Starfleet that Mac knew to currently have a Romulan cloaking device installed; the USS Defiant, currently posted at Deep Space Nine. An’ gettin’ tha’ done required tha’ we feed th’ blinkin’ Roms wi’ wha’ intel Fleet had on th’ Dominion! Ef the point-eared sheep-shaggers’d bother ta gather their own intel rahter’n jus’ be content ta let Jem’Hadar ships traipse through their bloody garden thinkin’ tha’ th’ Founders’d leave ‘em be forever, we’d no’…Oh, Jayzus!... It was just then that Commander Jack MacTavish remembered exactly why the Defiant had been fitted with that cloak…

“…B’cause she flew reg’lar sorties inta the Gamma Quadrant ere th’ mine field was deployed a’ th’ Bajoran Wairmhole!”

His aggravation at having Romulans posted to his ship suddenly fell a notch or two, suddenly replaced with a more urgent need to review the mission briefing. Unceremoniously dismissing the crew roster for the time being, Mac accessed the mission file that had been patiently awaiting his attention and scoured the orders.

“Operation: Persephone,” headed up the file. Beneath that were the standard verbose classification, dissemination, and restriction clauses and, following a nearly tiresome scroll through those, the document, at last, began outlining the particulars of Cerberus’ inaugural assignment:

1. …receive RSN liaison and technicians at SB-10… facilitate and assist in installing Gen V cloaking device aboard USS Cerberus: NCC-83964…
   
2. …deploy for Federation Outpost: Deep Space Nine… perform testing an final calibration of installed cloaking device en route… ensure security and integrity of second Gen V cloak…
   
3. …rendezvous with USS Charon: NCC-79358… oversee transfer and installation of GenV cloak aboard the Charon…
   
4. …Coordinate with DS:9 Tactical Operations (Captain Benjamin Sisko; CO) for temporary deactivation of minefield… access to Bajoran Wormhole…
   
5. …infiltrate Dominion space…locate ‘Detention Facility’ (SF designation: UO/PF 191-38-7-4.19202)…
   

“Jayzus!”

The directives went on and on. The verbiage consistent with what Jack would consider a “black bag” operation that would be sending his ship, his crew, and that of whatever poor soul’s whom had been given command of the Charon , not just through the wormhole and into the Gamma Quadrant but deep into Dominion Space and, if he was reading the orders properly, possibly even suicidally close to the purported location of the Founders homeworld. Of course, all of the “plausible deniability” clauses were in place and reiterated over and over again throughout the file. Mac hadn’t needed to give the briefing a thorough reading to know that. In fact, as suddenly dumbfounded as he was, he likely couldn’t have read them all even if he’d wanted to… not right now… not when there was suddenly much more to consider than the simple possibility that they would be seeing combat with the Cardassian lackeys of the Founders (a prospect that was grim enough on it’s own).

Ach, an et would’nae make sense ta gimme a command an’ expect standard combat duties, would et? No, give MacTavish a command an’ make fargin’ sure ‘e’s deployed ta a front where there’s ta be no ‘ope o’ support or reinforcments from Fleet aside from the lone frigate tha’ they’ve seen fit ta cover yer ruddy arse! he grumbled inwardly, stabbing a finger down harshly to close the briefing file and transfer it to a more portable PADD.

There be a litany o’ thengs where such a’ tour’d make sense fer you, Jack-lad, but I wonder wha’ th’ poor bastard who’s commandin’ th’ Charon did ta pess in the coffee o’ Fleet brass an’ earn ‘is ticket ta hell?
He snatched the PADD off his desk with one hand, reopening the mission file before snatching up his coffee mug with the other, and stomped for the door. Had he allowed his gaze to drop back to the orders before the door hissed unexpectedly open, he might have bowled right over the Petty Officer who had been making her way in as he was on his way out.

“Wha’?!” he demanded, when the woman took more than a second to look surprised and took even longer to say anything. She was obviously surprised to have found someone on the other side of the Ready Room door, that much showed in the widening of her deep brown eyes and the sudden parting of her coral tinted lips.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she managed after a moment, composing herself, and taking two steps to the left to allow room to exit his office, “I didn’t know that you’d come aboard already.”

“I ‘ave,” he returned, “Somethin’ I c’n do fer ye, Petty Officer…?”

“Weatherly, sir. Petty Officer Lorraine Weatherly. No sir. I had taken the liberty of requisitioning your reds for you, sir, and was going to hang these in your closet… I’ll be your Yeoman, sir… Is there anything that I can do for you, sir?”

His steel-eyed gaze slid from PO Weatherly’s face to the stack of uniforms she carried and back again. “Aye,” he nodded, “ye c’n ‘ave me effects from me quarters on th’ Starbase transferred over, Weatherly. Once ye’ve go’ tha’ managed, ye c’n send oot a bulletin tha’ any personnel presently on station c’n begin repairtin’ in well ahead o’ the stipulated 0900 deadline set fer t’morra mairnin’, an’ ye c’n point me ta engineerin’.”

“Aye-aye, sir” Weatherly replied sharply, moving past him to stow his uniforms even as she spoke, “Consider it done. Main Engineering is located on decks six and seven, sir.”

“Thank ye, Weatherly,” he rumbled, “Carry on.”


((OOC: and there we have it folks... a hint at what might lie ahead... a peek at Mac's reaction and concern... and plenty of space for those of you who are just waiting to post to work up those intro and/or coming aboard posts... ))

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus - Captain’s Ready Room – 1800 hours


Sitok stepped off the shuttle onto one of the various shuttle bays that a starbase is equipped with. Grabbing his bag Sitok headed to Registration, since he didn’t have to report to a higher officer until 0900 hours tomorrow all he needed to do was report that he had indeed made it to SB 10 and then he could enjoy a quiet evening of music. Which is a wonderful way to end the day. Sitok had discovered music from earth’s 1980 era and had decided that he enjoy bands such as Eagles, Styx, and Journey. To that end he often ended his day listening to Hotel California.

“Commander Sitok reporting in” Sitok said clearly in an almost british accent. It was an accent he had picked up from one of his teachers in the Academy. He found that it had a startling effect of putting people at ease, and when you’re a Vulcan with superior logic it was often necessary to put the rasher species at ease when you displayed that superiority.

“Yes sir.” The Lt. said as he reviewed his PADD. “Sitok let’s see here…You’re on deck 10 and there is a message for you to report to the USS Cerberus as soon as possible, which is docked in dock 2c.”

“Thank you.” Sitok headed in the direction everyone was going figuring it to be the way to lift. As he entered the lift he moved into one of the corners so that he wouldn’t squished by any others catching the same lift. “Dock 2c” As soon as possible means five minutes ago, if what I hear of MacTavish is correct The ride was a long one which gave Sitok time to compose himself and think. Sitok like any Vulcan wasn’t one to day dream or attempt to imagine what the future held, there were far too many possibilities and variables to attempt such a thing logically, but he still wondered why he would be asked aboard before the 0900 reporting call. Still as a Starfleet officer it isn’t up to me question my superiors, it’s up to me to do as asked and thus give a good example. When the lift finally opened announcing it was his turn to get off Sitok calmly and deliberately walked towards the first shuttle the saw.

“Commander Sitok of the USS Cerberus. I need a lift over.” There is little reason to believe anyone except the Captain will be on board. It is better to ride a shuttle than attempt to get someone to transport me over.
“The USS Cerberus isn’t supposed to have anyone until 0900 tomorrow.”

“I was not asking, I was giving an order and it will be carried out. I need you to give me a ride over to the USS Cerberus.”

“Yes Sir.” Discipline seems to be lacking on this Starbase I sincerely hope our crew does not come strictly from here. Speaking of which I need to review the jackets of at least the command Staring out the window Sitok admired the ship he was assigned to. A Steamrunner class ship the USS Cerberus was outfitted for combat. Steamrunners were a peculiar design. They were an old design that had been retired nigh on twenty years ago, but having been refitted with modern weapons they were now the highest armed vessel of their size. Speaking of size the Steamrunner was not the largest vessel Sitok had seen, having come off a Galaxy class, but it also wasn’t the smallest. It also isn’t complete Sitok noticed as he disembarked from the shuttle and noticed a couple of engineers putting together some of the flooring.

“Computer, where is the Captain?”

=/\\\\=He is in the Captain’s office=/\\\\=

“Thank you.” Sitok headed to the turbolift. “Bridge”
Coming off the bridge Sitok noticed that it was complete and sparkling. He beeped the door to the office. (assuming permission to enter)

“Commander Sitok reporting in sir.”

Stardate: 2374.08.31
Somewhere in the Vastness of Space - Type 10 Shuttle, Living Quarters – 1719 hours
“You want to join Starfleet?” It was more of an accusation than a question from the Andorian woman who sat before her. She was clad in one of the graceful dresses that Vaela remembered from her youth, but in spite of that she seemed older and more vulnerable than Vaela remembered. A sigh that was pregnant with the disappointment that the woman felt escaped from the deep blue of her lips, and she slowly rose to her feet and walked away. Vaela found herself calling after the woman as she was enveloped in the dusk that was falling, but, if she heard her, the Andorian woman did not turn back….
“Sir?” The voice became more urgent when she did not respond, and was soon joined by a firm hand that fell upon her shoulder and shook her awake. “Lieutenant P’Tammah?”

Opening her violet eyes Vaela found herself staring up at the grizzled human face of the shuttle pilot she had been traveling with since she had left the Indefatigable. “I’m awake Crewman Sato,” Vaela mumbled in response, in a voice still heavy with the sleep she had been woken from. “What is it?”

“We’re almost there,” the Crewman replied as his face creased into a broad smile. “We’ll be at the Cerberus within the hour.”

“Give me a moment to freshen up and I’ll be right out,” the Andorian Ensign stated as she dismissed Sato with a wave of her hand and stumbled over to the mirror placed in the cramped sleeping quarters of the shuttle-craft.

‘I look so similar to her,’ she mused, as her thoughts still lingered on the dream she had experienced. She slowly traced the same high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and thin face that she had seen in her dream and which she now saw in her own reflection. That moment of reverie, however, was broken when her gaze fell upon the reflection of her tousled hair. ‘Well maybe not exactly the same,’ she added with a smile as she began to change into her Starfleet uniform.


Some twenty minutes later Vaela found herself seated at the front of the small Type 10 shuttle gazing out at the star system the shuttle had entered only moments before. It had been three weeks since the Andorian had set out from the Indefatigable after the Akira-class starship had been crippled in a Dominion raid, and much of its crew had been reassigned to more battle-worthy vessels. It had been three full weeks of traveling on cramped shuttles and even more cramped public transports. So that now she had finally reached the system in which the Cerberus was docked with Starbase Ten, Vaela couldn’t disguise her relief that the journey was over.

“Have you contacted the Cerberus?” Vaela asked the Crewman seated next to her, suddenly anxious that the ship may have left on its mission without them.

“Aye Sir. They’re still in dock and having finishing touches readied at Starbase Ten,” he replied simply as he punched up the coordinates on her console, gave her control of the small craft and sat back in his chair.

The Andorian Ensign merely smiled in response, as she gently coaxed the vessel through the system on its impulse engines, and towards the third planet in the system. As they drew nearer what had first appeared as a small speck hovering over the planet, grew larger and larger until it showed itself to be the Starbase.

“Now there’s a welcome sight”, Vaela murmured, admiring the bright lights that suddenly lit up the deep blackness of space and then the sleek curves of the Cerberus as she swung the vessel around the back of the starship and into its shuttlebay.

After the ship had safely landed with a gentle thud, Vaela gathered what belongings she had aboard the shuttle, straightened her uniform and stepped out into the Cerberus and her new life as a CFCO.

-----

The first thing Vaela noticed as she stepped onto the Cerberus was that the ship was not ready for active service. Even though the vessel was due to depart on its maiden voyage in a day’s time, the docking bay door had ground to a halt when it was only half-way closed with an ugly screeching sound. The berths next to the shuttle the Andorian had arrived in were empty, when it should have been occupied by four Type 8s, three Shuttlepods and two other Type 10s. Finally there was no sign of any FCO crew in the shuttlebay, at a time when they should have been running final checks on all systems.

Vaela’s antennae twitched in annoyance.

“Sato!” she barked at the Shuttle Pilot that had accompanied her, and who had only just emerged from the rear of the shuttle they had travelled in.

“Sir?” he replied, warily.

“I know you’re tired Sato, but I need you to begin a Level 1 diagnostic on the shutte’s systems immediately. As soon as I track down the FCO crewmen I’ll have them replace you.”

To his credit the weary Chief Petty Officer only let out a slight grumble in protest. “All right, Sir.”

Vaela nodded her thanks, slung one of her bags over her shoulder and tucked the other under her arm.

‘Time to find the Captain,’ she thought to herself as she left the docking bay.

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus - Outide the Captain’s Ready Room – 1805 hours
It was only after the Andorian had sounded the chime outside of the Captain’s Ready Room that Vaela realized she knew little of her new Captain. She had glanced at his service record of course, and knew of the distinctions he had won, but no one on board the Indefatigable had served with Commander MacTavish and Vaela had little idea of what type of commanding officer he would be.

‘Well I’ll soon find out,’ she mused, as the doors to the Ready Room swung open.

“Lieutenant P’Tammah, CFCO, reporting for duty Captain,” Vaela remarked matter-of-factly as she placed her bags behind her and came to attention before the figure seated behind the desk of the Ready Room. To her surprise Vaela found another figure – a Vulcan – was already in the office, bearing the insignia of a Commander.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting, Sir,” she added to the Vulcan, as she placed a PADD on the Captain’s desk.

“Captain, you’ll find on the PADD the details of my transfer from the Indefatigable, the transfer of a Chief Petty Officer Hidetoshi Sato from the same ship, and the re-allocation of a Type 10 shuttle. I’m also sorry for my late arrival, Sir,” she added, her antennae twitching defensively, “the Indie was attacked in a Dominion raid before my departure, and when we did leave we had to take a circular route to avoid other possible incursions.”

“Finally, Captain, I’d just like to say that I look forward to serving under you.”

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus – Deck 3 – 0934
In a considerably better mood, Rrowl stepped out into the corridor, the door behind him closing with a metallic whoosh. The Cerebrus’ new tactical chief hadn’t bothered to unpack, settling instead with casually tossing his duffel down upon the surprisingly satisfactory bed he found in his quarters. The kzinti’s tail twitched in a gesture of appreciation; it was almost unheard of for him to find a bunk wide enough for his girth, a fact that had resulted in more than one night spent curled up on the floor of his quarters as a proper size was requisitioned. Later, he would go about settling in, but for now, he was anxious to go on and get the security registration process out of the way. Steamrunners were warships, pure and simple, and Rrowl was ready to get a firsthand feel of the capabilities of his new assignment.

The ship was rather empty at this point, with a large portion of the crew apparently yet to report. Not surprisingly, that fact didn’t bother the kzinti in the least; he had learned to tolerate the company of humans, to even enjoy it in some cases, but most of the time, he preferred to be left alone. Rrowl had earned the respect of humans everywhere he had served, but made few friends; his own outlook was simply too different for most to feel comfortable around the big felanoid.

The new TAC officer reached the turbolift and ordered it up two decks, where he intended to examine his new duty station. His ears flickered slightly – he knew that, provided Jack MacTavish wasn’t already making the rounds – and making everyone’s lives miserable – Rrowl would likely find him close to the seat of his new command. MacTavish was probably as close to a friend as Rrowl had; he and the gruff Scotsman had spent many an hour sparring back when both served aboard the Discovery, and MacTavish had earned the kzinti’s respect as a warrior then, and later several times over during missions. If he had ever been intimidated by Rrowl’s size or physical prowess, the man had never showed it, and had given as good as he got more than once. The kzint’s ears flickered mirthfully as he recalled just how much of a dirty fighter Jack MacTavish was – which was naturally necessary when sparring an opponent half a foot taller and more than a hundred pounds of muscle heavier.

Quite frankly, Rrowl owed a great deal of his success as a Starfleet officer directly to Jack MacTavish, and the kzinti knew it. In the early years of his career, Rrowl had been viewed as an unquestionably brave, unquestionably competent warrior – but one with a simple lack of tactical imagination or understanding. He had been rightfully stamped as a typical kzinti – master of ambush, of the infamous “scream and leap” strategy, but incapable of anything more.

MacTavish, by example, had taught Rrowl that there was more to combat than strength or skill alone, that cunning and a well-crafted plan meant as much, or even more in the case of space combat. Working under Jack, first as assistant security chief, then chief of security, and finally, as a tactical officer, a seed was planted, and the kzinti had cultivated it.

No longer was he one dimensional. Rrowl had earned this assignment, and he knew it. Now, with the combat that would surely await them all, he would prove this fact to MacTavish, to Starfleet, to himself.

******************************
The door hissed open in time for Rrowl to almost run directly into the still gold-collared MacTavish. “Commander!” Rrowl exclaimed, coming to attention. “Er, rather, Captain MacTavish.”

OOC: any response…

Rrowl glanced around the almost empty bridge. “Lieutenant Rrowl, reporting for duty, sir. And if I may say so, I am pleased to be doing so.”

MacTavish would almost certainly have caught the hidden meaning behind those words – Rrowl believed in doing his duty, and would never question a commanding officer directly, but there were perhaps a handful of officers he would actually describe as being “pleased” to serve under. The kzinti’s statement was meant to reflect deep respect.

OOC… any response…

The moment of seriousness passed, Rrowl took the slight opening to prod an old comrade a bit – at least, as much as one could prod one’s captain. “Still in the gold, captain? I was unaware that uniform code had changed, sir. I would have expected command red on you.” Only the very tips of the kzinti’s ears twitched at all; a casual observer might have mistaken the motion as a reflex reaction to the bridge’s ventilation system.

OOC… Jack’s take…

Rrowl nodded. “I trust you have more important concerns at the moment, captain, so I will keep you no longer. I wish to run a diagnostic on our systems, and then need to attend to my department’s roster. If you need me, sir, I will either be here on the bridge, or in my office.”

The kzinti gave a salute, then moved out of MacTavish’s way en route to the TAC station. Sure that no one was looking, he allowed his teeth to be bared for a moment.

Ah, the tales we will tell when this cruise is done!

Stardate: 2374.08.31
Romulan Warbird Kalad Near SB 10 - 0930 hours

A knock brought Sienae up from her seat is the sparse, utilitarian cabin she had been assigned for the trip to SB10. An Uhlan smartly saluted her. “Captain requests you presences in his ready room.”

Sienae snapped back a salute, “See that my bags are taken to the transporter,” then she reaches down a picks a long wooden box, 40 inches by 18 in by 5 in.

Sienae quickly moved to the ready room and pressed the door com, Arrain Sienae i’Mhiessan Khnialmnae, retorting as ordered, Sir.”

“Come in, Centurion.” came the Captain’s deep throated reply.

The door opened to her and she stepped in smartly saluting the officer at the table and he saluted back. The door closed behind her and the captain tapped a code into his computer.

“Now we may speak freely.” He stood a came over to clasp Sienae’s shoulders. “Is all well, niece by marriage.”

Sienae looked down into her favorite uncle’s eyes as he was shorter that she, and saw the look of concern there. “All is well, the team is ready and at the transporter with the cloaking devises” She knew he meant something more, but it was still a touchy subject for her.

“I know you were hoping for something better after the Kerknow Incident, but wiser minds thought that out of sight would be out of mind.”

“I understand, sir,” It was useless say anything of the situation, nor did she protest against such a worthless position as escorting pieces of equipment, even if it were 2 cloaking devices that would be installed onto Federation starships. Alliances, she twitched, Diplomats need alliances, not the Romulan Star Navy.

“The Tal Diann has screened your contingent,” went on her uncle, “even to the science tech. No hints of Tal Shiar connections have been found. It is not as though our family has not dealt with them before, but the Centurion who committed suicide after he lost his Mnhei’sahe as a result of the Kerknow Incident was of a noble family and a Tal Shiar operative. It was not the family that demanded the Court Marshal of your cadre, but the Tal Shiar.”

Sienae went tight, her body becoming like a rock. “Centurion S'Tokkr in'Aihai Aieme was a traitor and a coward. He could barely hold his weapon when he shot himself.”

“You were exonerated by the court marshal, but that does not stop the Tal Shiar.”

Sienae let out a soft sigh forcing herself to relax, “But I am posted off to nowhere,”

“Niece, the Praetor himself authorized your posting to the StarFleet’s USS Cerberus. Complete this duty and you will be promoted to erei'riov (Commander) and be able to command your own ship or be First Officer on a major warship. Think of that.”

“Now," he said quickly changing the subject. "we will be decloaking in a few minutes, SB10 already knows we are here. There is time to to get to the transporter before we are in range to teleport you over.”

“May the elements watch over you, Sienae."

Her uncle by marriage meant what he said. The Tal Shiar were known to have operatives inside of StarFleet. She knew she could not let her guard down at anytime.

Sienae salutes, turns smartly on her heals and exits the ready room. She quickly makes her way to the transporter and stands ready with her team. First they send the personal equipment, then she and her Sub Centurion and then the guards/techs for the Cloaking Devices, which were hidden in boxes marked Science Materials and would come in the last load to be teleported to DS10.

Stardate: 2374.08.31
Kalad- Transporter Room – 0950 hours

"Please alert the USS Cerberus," Sienae said while stepping onto the transporter pad and watching the others that followed, "that The Romulan Contingent is ready to beam over, immediately."

A golden stare fell on each of her contingent they would be able to beam over to the Cerberus without on the Star Baseanyone being the wiser of their arrival.

She gave each of her detachment a strong look, it was unnerving to most of those that first met her, golden eyes among the Romulans was almost unknown, the closest color was a light brown. Eyes like a bird of prey, many said behind her back. For now she fixed her stare forward and awaited clearance to teleport to the Cerberus. Her personnel were armed with hand weapons, though they were not drawn, they were at hand.

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus– Bridge – 0940 hours
“Aye, Weatherly,” Mac grumbled over his shoulder in reply to his Yeoman’s question, “If et’ll make ye feel better ta lay oot one o’ me unis, then, by all means, do et. I’ll put th’ theng on when I get a free moment.”

As ef I dinnae ‘ave more impairtant thengs ta worry aboot aside from the color o’ me bloody undershairt, he appended mentally as his eyes rolled prior to their return to the PADD he had clenched in one hand. He had been reviewing the technical specifications of the cloaking device that the Romulans were providing when Weatherly had called after him and it took him a moment to find his place again.

Aye, ‘ere we are, he gave the device’s specifications another quick once-over before jumping ahead to the notes and orders that had been sent to the Engineering and Science departments in regards to the thing. According to the ENG appendix, a mount and systems couplings should have already been in place so a trip to Main Engineering (with possible side trips to the Science department and the proposed living quarters assigned to the Roms) was called for. As he approached, the door to the turbolift whisked away before him and Mac found himself face-to-chest with Rrowl.

“Commander!” The big cat in TAC golds snapped to attention and almost instantly corrected himself. “Er, rather, Captain MacTavish!”

Jack managed to suppress the smile that threatened to twist his lips and bare his teeth in what, he had learned years ago, the Kziniti interpreted as a sign of aggression. “Lt Commander Rrowl,” he replied simply, lowering the PADD and craning his neck back to look up and meet the felinoid’s eyes, “I might’ve know ye’d be the fairst ta repairt.”

“Lt Commander Rrowl reporting for duty, sir,” the kzin growled, “And if I may say so, I am pleased to be doing so.”

Mac nodded, bowing his head slightly by way of accepting Rrowl’s compliment. “Yer no’ half as pleased as I was when I saw yer name on me roster, lad,” he rumbled, “I’ll know, a’ th’ vera least, tha’ ma TAC department’ll be runnin’ lup ta me standards ere we leave port. Stand a’ ease, Lt Commander, an’ welcome abaird.”

Jack took a step back and another to the right, allowing the monstrous CTO room to step off of the lift without appearing to have ‘given any ground’

“Still in the gold, captain,” the tips of Rrowl’s ears twitched, indicating that the kziniti was ribbing him, “I was unaware that uniform code had changed, sir. I would have expected command red on you.”

“Sheepshyte an’ politics, Rug,” Mac chuckled in return (being incapable of twitching his own ears), “Ye sound a lo’ like me yeoman. Per’aps ye’d like ta make me bunk an’ fluff me pillows as opposed ta mannin’ Tactical, aye? No’ tha’ I’d approve tha’ transfair, mind ye. I’ll ‘ave me reds on ere we ship oot.”

Rrowl nodded. “I trust you have more important concerns at the moment, captain, so I will keep you no longer. I wish to run a diagnostic on our systems, and then need to attend to my department’s roster. If you need me, sir, I will either be here on the bridge, or in my office.”

“Aye, ye know me all too well, lad,” Jack replied, brushing past the Kzinti – an action that he had learned was the equivalent of a friendly handshake in the felinoid’s culture – as they traded places on and off the bridge. “I’m sure ye dinnae need me ta draw ye a map,” he continued with a subtle nod to the TAC station, “If ye find anythin’ amiss, lemme know, aye?

I will be findin’ ye a bit later. There’s some bits ta this mission tha’ I’m sure ye’ll find… interestin’.” He did smile at the Kzinti, then, being careful to ensure that it wasn’t overly aggressive, “May’aps we’ll ‘ave a chat inna gymnasium, aye? Been a while since I ‘ad a decent scrap.”

A’ th’ moment, though, I’ve go’ ta get ta engineerin’ an’ make sure me foot gets planted inna proper arses so tha’ we c’n snip th’ umbilicals on schedule. Dinnae be coughin’ up any hairballs on me bridge inna meanwhile. Ye have th’ bridge, Rrowl,” he added before the lift door hissed shut.

This one’ll make ye a fargin’ legend back ‘ome, I’d wager, me friend, Jack thought as the lift doors hissed shut, imagining what Rrowl’s reaction might be when the warrior-cat learned where they’d be going.

“Deck 6,” he demanded. Let’s go an’ see what all this cloak business is aboot, eh?
((OOC: Room for responses, interjections, etc, throughout…))

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus– Deck 6; Main Engineering – 0955 hours
“…so I says to the guy, I says, that and two strips of latinum’ll get you an Orionite girl for the night,” chortled one of the gold-jumpsuited engineers who lounged around the ‘pooltable’ on the floor of Main Engineering…

Jack scowled his disapproval at not seeing more of the tech-heads busy at work but, aside from the metallic whoosh of the door, made no effort to announce his presence. Rather, he leaned on the railing of the catwalk and peered down at the cluster of engineers on the floor below for a moment before offering a slow shake of the head and stalking for the tightly coiled staircase that joined the two levels of ENG.

“…and the guy looks at me like I’ve got a flipper growing out of my face or something and says; man, if it’s green, I ain’t stickin’ nothin’ in it! Whoddya think I am, Admiral Kirk or somethin’?”

Just as MacTavish’s feet hit the deck, the knot of technicians erupted in laughter and, in some cases, crude commentary. Mac wondered if he’d missed part of the joke as he strode towards the console where the gold-clad slackers were huddled. “I dinnae recall tha’ Kirk ever paid fer someone ta warm ‘is bunk,” he said flatly as he came up on the joker. His eyes flicked, briefly, to the rank insignia on the engineer’s collar as the laughter of his cohorts died a sudden death and the entire group snapped to attention. “Someone authorize on-ship liberty tha’ Im no’ aware of, Ensign,” he growled the question, locking eyes with the engineer.

“No, sir,” the ensign replied as the rest slinked away under the Commander’s withering gaze, “we all just needed the table and got to talking and…”

“Stow tha’ drivel, Ensign,” Mac interrupted, tossing his PADD down on the console, “I’ve no’ go’ th’ time nor th’ inclination ta be listenin’ ta yer splutterin’ an’ I sure dinnae ‘ave th’ patience, a’ this vera moment, ta run doon th’ list o’ problems I’ve seen since I’ve come abaird.”

His hand dropped to the PADD, turned it around, and pushed the device closer to the rather red-faced engineering officer. “I unnerstand tha’ prep’rations’re underway ta receive a cloakin’ device from th’ Romulans,” he continued without giving the man a chance to reply, “I’m assumin’ tha’s one o’ the thengs ye should be wairkin’ on rather than pokin’ fun a’ a long-dead admiral, aye?”

“Yessir,” the ensign broke eye contact and reached for the PADD, “in fact, sir, we completed our prep just about twenty minutes ago. The cradle is in place, the conduits have been run out through the pylons, and the coupling manifolds are secured…”

The corner of Mac’s mouth twitched as he watched the younger man scour the data on the PADD as if it were a checklist that he needed to run through. Then, as if realizing that the Cerberus’ captain hadn’t requested for him to regurgitate the file, the engineer returned his gaze to the CO, foregoing the technobabble that he’d been prepared to follow up with.

“…I’d be happy to show you, sir,” he said, motioning to a hatch that led to an antechamber near the warp core, “If you’ll follow me this way.”

Mac nodded curtly and motioned for the Ensign to lead the way. “This’s been yer project from the beginnin’, then,” he queried, accepting the PADD when the engineer passed it back and headed for the door, “Ye’ve be on-baird an’ supervisin’ th’ modifications from the onset?”

“Yessir. My team and I boarded Cerberus as she came off the line at the Kosmodrome. Been shaking her down and killing bugs as we find them sir. Almost have five months on this lady, now.

Here it is, Captain MacTavish,” the anteroom door whooshed open and the Ensign stepped aside, allowing Mac a view of the cloak’s mounting platform and the various mechanicals that would need to be attached, “All over but the cryin’, as they say, sir. We’re just waiting on the Rom’s to show up and get the thing mounted.”

“An’ d’ye ‘ave an idea as ta when tha’ll ‘appen,” MacTavish asked as he inspected the prep work. He couldn’t profess to understand it all, of course – his entire career had rarely strayed from TAC/SEC – but from the schematics and specifications he had seen and his up-close-and-personal observations of Romulan cloak technology aboard Klingon vessels and the files he’d reviewed concerning the cloak installed on the USS Defiant, the Cerberus’ CO couldn’t find anything obviously amiss.

“Not precisely, sir,” the ensign responded, appending that initial statement when Mac turned and regarded him with a raised brow, “sometime in the next twelve hours is the best guesstimate I can make, sir.”

Mac nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer for the time being, and exited the antechamber. “A guesstimate’ll ‘ave ta do,” he rumbled, tapping the PADD to close the file as he drew up next to the engineer, “I’m assumin’ tha’ ye an’ yer crew’ll be on station until th’ installation’s complete, aye?”

“Correct, sir. We’ll be here until your CEO reports in and banks in your regulars. Maybe longer if we’re needed.”

“Grand,” Mac nodded again, “Tha’s bloody good wairk, Ensign.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Aye. I’ll leave ye to et, then,” Mac said, striding for the stairs, “I’m sure ye’ve go’ better ta do then stand aboot gabbin’ ta th’ Ol’ Man.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the ensign returned, watching Mac ascend the stairway, “thanks for stopping in, Captain.”

“Dinnae thank me, lad,” Mac smirked, “If ye stay abaird fer any length o’ time, ye’ll learn tha’ a visit from me is no’ usually a skip through th’ heather.”

“Yes, sir. We’d heard that about you, sir.”

“I dinnae get yer name, Ensign,” the Commander said, smiling faintly as he paused at the top of the stairs and cast a glance back to the Engineering floor.

“Figura, sir,” the young man called back as he made his way back to the pool table and started to immerse himself back into the work at hand, “Dan Figura.”

“A’right, Ensign Figura,” Mac nodded, his feet moving again and directing him out of the ENG section, “Until me regulars get abaird, I’ll be lookin’ ta ye as me actin’ CEO.”

((OOC: Okay, replying to post ‘chronologically’ rather than in order posted… posts for Sitok and P’Tammah forthcoming… one for the Romulans coming as well, though they’ll likely be hearing from Rrowl before Mac. ))

Karl Valberg paced the corridors of the Promenade as he anxiously awaited word of his shuttle being prepared for departure to SB10 to meet up with his next tour. Apparently, the large man’s reputation in the previous months of the Dominion War had attracted the attention of someone clad in the comforts of the Starfleet hierarchy, for he was to leave DS9 and make his way to rendezvous with both a babe of a ship and a newfound Sheppard to tend to her flock.

The Cerberus eh? Valberg new well of the mythical beast to which the Steamrunner class starship claimed its namesake, the Norseman was well accustomed to the tale of the multi-headed creature of folklore. I can only pray the Captain’s got the nerve to ‘andle such a creature. If not, she’s likely to drag us all down to ‘ell with ‘er.
Valberg paced, his wide shoulders straining against the gold uniform which hugged his muscular frame. At 6’5, some two-hundred pounds, and bearing the clear bloodline of the Norwegians in his crystal blue eyes and clean cropped blonde mustache and beard, he had grown accustomed to the chidings of those he passed regarding Paul Bunyan, or more crude rumors that he bore Klingon blood coursing through his arctic veins. His face was brazen and steel cast, his jaw line straight and angular, his arms and legs much like some Austrian bodybuilders. In fact, when one looked at Karl Valberg, one would expect to see him wrestling bears, or bouncing some seedy club rather than head a security detail. The intelligence that lay hidden behind the large mans eyes was startling to many, especially his family back home whom he hadn’t heard from in almost a year, since they refused to use anything but the antiquated traditional forms of communication.

At 37 however, Karl could still outfight crewmen half his age, (and did frequently) whenever he managed to steel away on the holodeck for a spell. Karl grinned as he paced towards the loading docks, he’d miss his spars with his favourite rival, Worf; The Klingon and him had sparred numerous times, and more than once needed a visit to the infirmary for momentary clean ups before returning to duty, much to the good doctor’s dismay.

As Karl made his way to the bay, his attention lay focused on the relatively incomplete dossier of personnel that would be assigned to the Cerberus. A complete lack of mission details and further lack of statistical information regarding the Cerberus’ compliments had him wondering if he was being sent away from battle, from the front lines where he’d been since the war began. Me body’s grown accustomed to war as of late, if they think I’m nearing the end of my prowess they’ll need think again.
Where others see the ‘hill as a daunting reflection of age, Karl Valberg saw it merely as another obstacle with which to barrel over and leave crumbled behind him. The thought of possibly being removed from battle due to his recent injuries angered him, a scowl involuntarily crossing his normally stoic expression. He still bore the reminder of the twin Cardassian blaster which had struck him as he shielded a door while others were being evacuated. Everytime he moved he felt the flare of pain in his shoulder and lower right back, and remembered also he owed his life to the ensign Rachel Duncart, who thought to pull his crumpled body into the shuttle just as it was jettisoned from the RMF-15 outpost even as it exploded around them.

The scowl worn unbeknownst to him was a clear warning sign to others, as civilians and crewman alike seemed to give him a wider birth than usual. He slammed his weathered hands against the access panel to the loading dock, and nearly bowled over a couple merchants carrying a rather expensive case of Klausian brandy off and arriving frigate.

Karl hadn’t needed to leave early for SB10, the Cerberus was supposed to return to DS9 in the near future anyways, but having been reduced from Chief of Security to Senior Security Officer with the arrival of Odo some month’s prior, the large man had yearned to return to a post where he was in a position to lead once more. Odo, for all his guile and wisdom kept behind that blank expression, always left Karl feeling on edge. He was one of -the hundred- after all, and linked to the founders. While he didn’t doubt his loyalty to DS9, the humanity in Karl left him unsettled with having a Changeling in charge of the stations internal affairs.

--------------
As the shuttle bay doors closed and the small vessel left port, Karl could only watch out the view screen before him the remnants of DS9 fade behind him, and turned his attention to the helmsman. “Get me to Starbase 10 as fast as this bolt bucket will fly, I don’t want to miss their departure.”

“Yes sir, right away sir.” Came the curt reply from the ensign. Looked fresh out of the academy he did, and Karl knew that with the significant casualties this war had wrought, Starfleet pups had been forced to leave the security of the den far sooner than he deigned them ready too. Karl looked at the Batleth which lay in a case at his feet. It had been a present from Worf after they had narrowly survived an away mission together some months prior, where Karl had been forced to wield the strange weapon, in a battle for survival and had shown unexpected finesse and skill with the foreign blade. He would miss Worf, Rachel and the few others he had befriended. To Karl’s simple logic however it meant only one thing. Completing the mission and staying alive long enough to visit them again. He still owed Worf another spar, and Rachel, he had only just begun to repay for all he owed her. Were she but a little older, nay her a little younger, perhaps things would have been different between the two of them… perhaps.

Accessing the communications terminal, Karl Valberg sent notice to SB10, and the Cerberus that he’d be there for the requested 0900 sign in, though he wasn’t expected until they reached DS9 some days later. He’d want all the time he could have to ship shape the crew, tighten ranks, and smack any doubts about his age and capability into the nearest black hole should it come to it.

(I left the original Timeline blank as I didn’t know the travel distance between DS9 and SB10. Timelines will begin upon his boarding. (or if u add one by all means thanks! Been awhile since I’ve had to post anything of any relative length. Look forward to this! I’ll post his arrival post in a while, maybe allow for the message to be received of his arrival or something.)

Stardate: 2374.08.31
SB10 Transporter Station –1000 hours

Sienae’s brow drew down slowly as she waited conformation from the USS Cerberus to begin teleporting over. To her Erie’Arrain (Sub-Centurion) Talon i’Iuruth D’Mora it was more than enough warning that she was displeased by the wait, though nothing showed in her bearing, which remained both noble and militaristic, or in her demeanor to indicated that she was in also in pain.

Talon, a specialist in Romulan unarmed combat, knew that she was using a variety of muscle relaxation techniques to easy her pain. He had been with her when she was injured, when Centurion S'Tokkr i'Aihai Aieme who had been in charge of a weapons station had run out, after a Gem Hadar weapon had breached the hull damaging the weapon and its power core began to overload.

Sienae and her team went in to keep the weapon from blowing the ship apart. She blessed her eidetic abilities which allowed her the to work in the dark, and that she had taken the time to learn to take apart and put together the pieces of equipment she was responsible for. She had just about succeeded in controling the ruanaway power corer, but time ran out, and at the last moment, Talon and she pushed the team members clear of the room and almost got the doors closed when the weapon reached critical and blew. First in and last out, she took the brunt of the explosion which ripped open her back from shoulders to hips. The blast was dampened by what her team had accomplished and the ship survived.

“Brace up, you RSE,” barked the Sub Centurion in Romulan. “You represent the Romulan Galae (Navy).” The ratings tightened up and shot a look to Sienae, some had heard stories of her and worried that her eyes were hooded.
She could and had taken care of her own subordinates herself. Until her recent injuries, she would do the same as Talon did. Her Sub Centurion would just authorize extra unarmed combat practice for any miscreant under her command.
Sometimes they had to go up against her, for now they had to meet Talon. The Doctors had not cleared her to full active duty. Another reason why she was put on this guard duty. That and her uncanny ability to handle equipment. All she had to do was read the tech manual and then she could dismantles and reassemble what every it was. Once was enough and with a bit of practice she could do it in the dark.

“Uhlan T’Maekh Sahen, See to the Arrain’s case.” She noticed that Talon did not use the Specialist middle name, he always said it not where you were from that matters. And to further prove that he would leave out the last names when addressing cocky cadets who thought more of their noble family ties than their duties. The senior Science Tech stepped up and saluted, and Sienae returned the salute and handed him the case, there was a flicker at the corner of her mouth that Talon saw and knew. In being last out of the weapons station, she had taken the brunt of the explosion shielding Talon and the others of her fire team.

“ErieArrain Talon i’Iuruth D’Mora and Uhlan T’Maekh i'Ramnau Sahen you will accompany me, the rest will follow after us.” Sienae steps up to the teleported pad and turned to the StarFleet ratings at the console. “You will beam us aboard, NOW.”

Sienae was done with waiting.

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus- Transporter Station –1005 hours

Arrival of the Romulans.

Stardate: 2374.08.31
USS Cerberus – Bridge – 0950
As the turbolift door closed behind his new captain, Rrowl realized an odd swelling of pride at the echoes of MacTavish’s words. The Scot had spoken in terms of confidence in the kzinti’s abilities, and the Cerberus’ new TAC felt himself loathe to prove her commander wrong.

The fact that MacTavish had left the bridge to Rrowl’s command was a bit of a formality, seeing as he was the ranking officer present, and none of the current company was a line officer. Still, the big felanoid felt a small thrill at being placed in charge, even while in drydock – over the span of his career, such occasions had been fairly rare, despite his experience. Quite a few times, Rrowl had served a duty watch under the command of a lower ranking officer viewed by command as having the potential to one day be a captain; the kzinti was well aware that there were few in Starfleet who felt that way about him. It was not something he dwelled on, however – if his lot was to always be a warrior in service of another, so be it.

The pull of the Cerberus’ tactical systems was too much for Rrowl to resist, and using the logic that sitting in the command chair would quickly grow boring, the TAC instead made his way across the bridge to what would be his customary post. As expected, the computer challenged Rrowl’s authorization, requiring him to give a security code and a retinal scan to gain access. These were quickly dispensed with, and momentarily, the console hummed to life under the touch of the kzinti.

Rrowl spent the next short while familiarizing himself with the various interfaces and commands, then began to customize the terminal to his own preferences. Lost in appreciative thought, he at first missed the statement by the young human woman currently sitting the operations console.

“Commander,” she repeated, “We are being hailed by the shuttle Lewis. Lieutenant Valberg requests permission to beam aboard.”

Rrowl nodded at the red-haired lieutenant as he recognized the name of the man designated to be the ship’s Chief of Security. “Very well, lieutenant. Permission granted,” he answered.

As the ops lieutenant relayed the message, Rrowl glanced up from his terminal at the skeleton crew on the bridge. Aside from himself, the operations officer, and an engineering tech currently working at the science II station, the only other person on the bridge was a dark-skinned human male at the helm. Rrowl almost felt sorry for him – if the kzinti had feared boredom in the captain’s chair, how much more for a young officer stationed at the helm while docked? However, Starfleet regulations were very specific – at no time, as long as a ship was under power, was the helm to be vacant, even if for only a moment. It was a wise rule, Rrowl knew, though one that often made for a very long watch.


****************

A short time later, as Rrowl was finishing up some calibrations on the forward torpedo firing systems, a proximity alarm sounded. “Commander!” exclaimed the operations lieutenant. “Romulan Warbird decloaking at close range!”

Even as she spoke, the viewscreen revealed the shimmer of one of the hated vessels in extreme proximity to the Cerberus. Rrowl’s ears laid flat on his head as he resisted the urge to raise the shields and begin firing. Although he knew well that the Romulans were supposed to be the Federation’s allies now, he also knew well their history of treachery. Paper alliance be damned, Rrowl thought sourly as he locked the torpedoes on the enemy vessel in a precautionary measure.

“What are these kshati doing here?” the TAC demanded in a growl.

“They are hailing us, commander,” the lieutenant spoke.

“Onsceen,” Rrowl nodded.

“I’m sorry, commander,” the lieutenant replied. “The transmission is audio only.”

=/\\= USS Cerberus, =/\\= came the voice over the communications channel. =/\\= This is the Kalad. The Romulan contingent is ready to beam over immediately. =/\\=

The kzinti tactical officer’s tail began to swish violently back and forth. “Kalad, this is Lieutenant Commander Rrowl of the Cerberus. Stand by.” The last was spat in a menacing tone.

“Lieutenant, cut communications,” Rrowl ordered. After her nod, he slapped the intercom. “Bridge to Captain MacTavish! Captain, a Romulan warbird has decloaked within threatening range and demanded to be allowed to beam a contingent aboard this vessel!”

OOC: Captain’s response…

Rrowl’s eyes widened in anger and disbelief, and his teeth were fully bared. He had vowed to kill as many of these cursed beings as he was physically able, and here, Starfleet would deny him that right due to this foolish alliance! Any fool could see that these vermin would turn on the Federation as soon as it yielded any benefit for them to do so!

“Understood, captain,” Rrowl responded bitterly. “Rrowl out.”

He would follow orders – his vow to the Federation took precedence over his vow of blood; Rrowl understood that. But by the Patriarch’s own claws, he would not be foolish about it! Eyes narrowed in anger, he keyed the intercom. “Security alert!” he bellowed. “I want a full armed detachment to transporter room two immediately, or by the blood of the first, I will have your ears!”

Sourly, he glanced at the two officers seated at their stations. “What are your names?” he demanded.

The operations lieutenant answered first. “Dixon, sir. Lieutenant Amy Dixon.” Despite the fact that she was a female, and that the angry kzinti dwarfed her, the human showed no fear or hesitation – Rrowl admired that.

“Ca…Carter, sir. Ensign Tyrone Carter,” cam the reply from the helmsman. He hesitated, looked intimidated. Rrowl was less pleased with him.

“Listen to me,” the chief tactical officer spoke. “I will join security in the transporter room in the event of some treacherous plot. Lieutenant Dixon, you have the bridge. Man the TAC station – if that vessel so much as flinches, fire every forward torpedo through their bridge without hesitation, then get the shields up! Do you understand?”

The fair-skinned woman blanched a bit, but nodded. “Aye, sir,” she replied as she moved to comply.

“Good,” Rrowl answered. “Ensign Carter, if it comes to shooting, take immediate evasive maneuvers. Get this vessel out of harm’s way!” The kzinti saw the man draw breath to argue, but the senior officer immediately cut him off. “I am well aware that we are moored, ensign! If we are forced to fire, rip the moorings out! Better to repair them later than to lose lives now. Do you understand?”

The ensign nodded and replied meekly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Rrowl replied. “Give me ninety seconds, then inform the Romulans that they may beam over.”

With that, the TAC stalked to the turbolift, stepped inside, and ordered the lift to deck six.