Wilmer
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Posts posted by Wilmer
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@Randal Shayne Dude, I think anytime you use the word "bulbous" in a post, that's worthy of appreciation. I loved it!
((Bridge, Deck 1, USS Blackwell))
::Shayne nodded to an ensign near him, conveying that she should try and speak to engineering. She complied, and Shayne turned back to the problem at hand. Their priorities were aviate, navigate, communicate, in that order. They needed to stop this bulbous thing. For the time being, they had to assume that conventional methods of control had failed. What could even begin to slow them down at three quarters impulse?::
Shayne: ::Spewing the idea as it came to him.:: What if we explosively decompressed the forward sections of the ship? It would knock us back, negate some of our inertia.::It sounded good for a split second, but he realized it would never work. By the time they’d cleared the forward sections of personnel, they might as well be stopped by one of those asteroids. Plus, it wasn’t just the fact that they were maintaining a constant speed; it was becoming increasingly apparent that the Blackwell was losing lateral stability. A sudden decompression of the scale he was suggesting would likely thrust her into a completely unmanageable tailspin.::
Shayne: No, no- strike my last, all.::What a wonderful first impression to present to Zaekia. Blast it!::
Tu’Peq: Response
Zaekia: response
::It was at that moment, that both he and Thoran recognized the same sensor data at the same time. There was one hazard directly in their path and sensors at both helm and tactical lit up like a Christmas tree. Two asteroids, roughly the size of Texas, had collided directly in the Blackwell’s path several hundred meters ahead. An explosive emissive purple cloud sent a shockwave from the center of the collective mass.::
::Sensors, as limited as they were in their functionality, indicated a large dilithium cache at the center of the largest smashed asteroid. Though this was fascinating stuff, and more than likely could explain the source of the uncontrolled Eichner radiation spike, it would not help them get around their current predicament. If the Blackwell could not regain control of herself in time and collided with either large debris mass, it would spell most certain disaster for both ship and crew.::
Thoran: We’ve got a lot of debris up ahead. If we don’t stop or divert course soon, we’re all going to be in a lot of trouble.
Wilmer: Captain, recommend full manual control on helm.
::It was a desperate option, to be sure. At this speed, with such clumsy controls, and with such a dangerous adversary ahead, Wilmer was proposing suicide. Unless their newest helmsman was a force of nature, they’d had it.::
Zaekia: response
Wilmer: Tactical, reroute all available power to the main deflector. We can’t go around, we got to go through.
::Why did the universe hate him? Wilmer was right- there wouldn’t be enough time to avoid a collision- their collective best bet was to dive forward, and pray that the deflector would hold.::Thoran: Main deflectors all primed Commander. Just hope it can take the hits.
::Shayne made sure that the power he’d taken from the replicators and the holodecks was now being filtered into the deflector system- every little bit counted.::
Wilmer: Captain, I’m modulating power from the main deflector to emit a constant, intermittent shock-pulse.
Shayne: oO Oh, you brilliant man. Oo
::The shock pulse might just keep the larger objects out of their way. Almost as if they were swatting them from their path. If the deflector was strong enough to keep every asteroid on a harmless trajectory, they might just make it through the gauntlet. But should even a single rock penetrate Wilmer’s brilliance, their entire plan of attack could easily fail.::
Zaekia: Response
Wilmer: Everybody hang on, we’re going to scream our way through.
::There were few things worse than being a passenger. Shayne kept his eyes glued on his instruments, seeking ways to improve their chances. But at the end of the day, it was up to Wilmer.::
::And then his teeth disintegrated.::
::The low-pitched tone of the enhanced deflector, combined with the skull shaking vibrations, formed a barrage against his psyche that he was unlikely to soon forget. It was so uncomfortable he could barely stand it. But he forced his mind to stay on the task at hand. Eyes wide with determination, teeth clenched in righteous anger, he attempted to balance the power surges that had begun to show themselves. The strain Wilmer was putting on the EPS grid was likely biblical.::
Ilsam: =/\=Ilsam to Bridge.=/\=
::Shayne could barely hear the call over the deafening white noise.::
Zaekia: =/\=Response=/\=
Ilsam: =/\=We have concluded the situation in the Greenhouse, sir, and the patients are being escorted to Sickbay by a nurse. While it will be necessary at some stage to speak further with the patients, at the present time, I find myself free and able to go where I am most needed.=/\=
::He saw it an instant before its effects were known. A preposterously large spike in the main grid alerted him to the disaster unfolding, but not quickly enough to do anything about it. The deflector detonated beneath them, and the ship was flung into chaos.::
::The randomness of the Blackwell’s newest course made it impossible to brace himself. He was tossed about like a ragdoll in a skydive, smacking a nearby console and a wall with resounding might. For a moment, there were two bridges, two realities, two Shaynes. And then it all came back together with resounding clarity. His lower neck screamed, and for a horrific moment, he wondered if there was damage to his spinal column. With dread, he tried to move his arm. He never thought he’d be so positively overjoyed to see his limb follow his commands.::
Zaekia: response
Wilmer: (pulling himself up from the floor and to his seat) Well…we’ve stopped…helm control restored….what’s left of it.
::With great deliberation, Shayne picked himself off the ground. He struggled to his station, and attempted to get an understanding of their condition.::
Shayne: It looks like someone’s taken the nacelles offline. The EPS grid is a disaster zone.
Tu’Peq: response
Zaekia: response
Wilmer: response
Tag/TBC…
Lieutenant Commander Randal Shayne
Helmsman/Ops Officer/Second Officer
USS Blackwell
NCC 58999
G239202RS0-
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Wow. Thanks James! I'm really glad you like it. Charlie is like an onion, you just have to keep peeling.
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I think in my case, Nate Wilmer is intended to be a descendant of myself, but not actually me. In the "trek" universe, if I also existed, had many children, grandchildren, et. al. in the 400 years between myself and Nate, he is what my family turns into in the 24th century. Apart from my physical face, I try to make him different than myself... and he's definitely better at math.
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Wow... let me just pick my jaw up off the floor...
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Wow, thanks Pods! Usually I don't either, it makes a visual mess. But I guess it worked this time!
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I don't think it detracts from anything at all. If anything it adds to suspension of fantasy which is the holodeck! Good job!
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Thanks Max! Collage work is always fun for me, it takes me back to grade school, when we'd have to make those poster boards of our favorite things.
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- Popular Post
- Popular Post
A few of Lt. JG Nate Wilmer's favorite things: (including)
Tongo, his Swiss Chalet, the Galaxy class starship, fast shuttles, latinum and Charlotte Farnsworth! 9 layers, with a 46% transparency blend.
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- Popular Post
- Popular Post
Editorial by Lyndsey Fisher
Stardate 239202.03
When we were children, the concept of heroes and role models flowed quickly into our minds. On Earth, 400 years ago, little children looked into the sky, saw the stars and the brave men and women who rode dangerous, prototype, chemically propelled rockets into space—and we called them heroes. These brave few individuals made literal careers out of exploration, and challenged life's big questions, venturing into the great unknown.
Now, onboard the USS Apollo-A, I will be giving an ongoing expose piece on the brave men and women of this grand starship. Under the gentle, guiding hand of Rear Admiral Andrus Jaxx, I hope to provide you with gripping revelations into the lives, both professional and personal, of our stalwart crew.
Who are they? Where do they come from? What are their personal goals in a life devoted to Starfleet and the Federation? How will their choices affect the life of the everyday Federation citizen? Indeed, will their choices even affect you at all?
I put the question to you, the reader: what are the things you'd like to know? What do you want to hear about? How deeply do you wish to learn about your heroes; how human are they in your minds? Or do you prefer them as iconic untouchables, statues in a grand pantheon of unreachable demi-gods?
In my opinion, Starfleet officers are no different than any other kind of being. They put their tunics on, one leg at a time. They have the same problems as you and I; they live, they love, they worry about friends, loved ones, they have lives and stories all their own.
I'd like to share those stories with you. While I do so, please ask yourself the question: who are my heroes? And why?
Next month, I'll present the junior officers of the bridge crew, their promotions, their goals, their brotherhood. We see them every day. But do we know them? We will very soon!
Lyndsey Fisher is an honorary ensign assigned to the USS Apollo-A for the FNS and Starfleet Bureau of Information.
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Klingon Santa? Perhaps! May the Snow Bumble honor your house with reindeer blood!
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Welcome to the group! I'm sure you'll enjoy it!
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Wow Rune, thanks a lot!
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Congrats, Della and Leeland! Flat out your stories were awesome. Great reads for Halloween!
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<b>((Forsythe Manor, Oxford, Earth))
Halloween - 2391</b>
Time had passed since the USS Excalibur had been decommissioned and Charlotte Farnsworth had lost her position as proprietor of the Round Table lounge. It had, in truth, been the shortest job she had ever had. Suffice it to say, it had been ultimately unfulfilling, and understandably so.
After all, there had been very little time to acclimate to her new civilian position aboard that vessel. Her entire time spent there; a ruse, meant to further her personal gain and expand her profit margin. For a human raised on Earth in the latter half of the 24th century, Charlotte was remarkably capitalistic and selfish, much like a Ferengi.
However, with that deception over before it began. Now destitute with nowhere else left to go, she found herself on the first transport back to Earth; to the home she had grown up in. Once arriving in Oxford, she had decided to walk, and took a rather circuitous route to get home.
The air was still as she walked there; the night dark and perfect, full of no disturbances, or nasty meteorological surprises. Earth’s weather modification network saw to that.
Charlotte had remembered one time, when she was a very young girl that the network had gone down, and she had the fortune, the delight and the fear of observing her first uncontrolled thunderstorm. Her deep chestnut colored eyes had widened at the sight of violent tempestuous winds, and peculiarly purple green skies.
Lightning had struck the old oak tree just outside her bedroom window, splitting it in two, sending wooden shards through the air, across the lawn.
She stood still, all those years ago, paralyzed by fear, neither moving, nor breathing, until her father had come, spiriting her away in his arms, to safety—deeper into the manor.
Now she stood before the entrance to her home, paralyzed by a different kind of fear. Many years had passed since that night, she was an adult now, and yet she felt herself frozen and unmoving, staring up at the great and dark manor house, wishing that someone would spirit her away again; take her to a place of safety.
She wanted someone to hold her. She wanted Nate to hold her, not that he ever would again, she reasoned.
Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself and placed one hand on the old wooden front door. The latch was an antiquated one. Her mother and father believed in preserving the old ways.
A manor house should resemble a true English manor house, her father had once said.
No automatic separating doors, no replicators, no electricity would ever enter their 600 year old ancestral family home; though her father eventually relented on the electricity. It was nearly impossible being an architect without designing your drafts on some sort of holographical interface computer.
Still, once her parents had died, Forsythe manor had been removed from Oxford’s power grid, and remained dark, and cold.
Charlotte clutched the brass handle latch and opened it. With no crime, it was not necessary to lock the front door, and it opened freely without incident.
This astonished Charlotte greatly. Though she was only twenty four years old, she was remarkably jaded, having spent so much time onboard space stations, surrounded by aliens with a cornucopia of different philosophical veins. Not everyone believed in benevolent vision of the Federation.
Some people pilfered the things they wanted….
Charlotte’s mouth crooked to one side, giving a snarky smile.
“Small towns…” She said quietly to herself.
The door creaked slowly open, allowing the all too familiar cracks and groans of expanding wood to fill her ears. Walking inside, Charlotte looked around the baronial old manor. An old fashioned longcase clock stood silently in the foyer, neither giving accurate time, nor ticking in the way she had remembered as a child.
Carved into its old weathered case door, were the words: Imperious Rex.
It was the Latin motto of their family crest of arms. She’d never really thought about its implied meaning until now, but there was something blatantly arrogant about it; like her. Long ago, families with supposedly royal blood claimed much for themselves, including the right to rule others.
Charlotte did not wish to rule. She simply wanted to prevent others from having such complete control over her life. She would never allow such control to be given to another again. Not as long as she lived.
Fumbling about in the darkness, she got to the matter of why she had come home in the first place. Reaching into the leather satchel she carried on her shoulder, she pulled out a plasma torch, and walked up the grand staircase, to the upstairs bedroom, at the end of the grand hall.
This place was her room, this place, to some degree, still registered as home…
Charlotte pulled the old door open and stepped inside. The room was completely empty, devoid of furniture. Upon the sudden and accidental death of her parents, the first thing the magistrate had done was to ask her permission to donate the pieces inside some of the rooms, to one of the local museums. Charlotte had reluctantly agreed and discovered that her bedroom was one such room that had been cannibalized.
This made sense to her, since it was at one point, full of old Louis the 14th furniture, works of art, and unusual objet d'art.
Charlotte panicked for a moment, fearing that it too, the reason she was here, might have also been discovered, and claimed by the Federation magistrate.
However, that could not be. Had a Federation official discovered what was hidden in this house, it would have immediately come to her attention. Starfleet security might have been involved, and almost certainly she would have been detained onboard the Excalibur, until such time as an inquiry could be held.
No, she told herself, it was here. It just had to be…
Sweeping her long, brown hair from her eyes, and over her shoulder, she knelt to the floor, where her bed had once been.
Taking the plasma torch, she cut a hole in the floorboards and separated them. The wood cut easily, like the old Earth metaphor of a hot knife through butter.
She deactivated the plasma tool and took a moment, peering into the blackness of the empty void between the floor boards. A jewelry box sized hole stared back at her, daring her to explore its emptiness with her hands.
With no reluctance, or fearful hesitation, she plunged her right hand into the floor space, without thinking. Would that her hands might brush a furry, living creature, or perhaps be bitten by the large and angry teeth of a rat, the empty, silent Oxford air would be filled with her sudden and unplanned bloodcurdling scream.
Though rabies had been eradicated on Earth centuries ago, she had no desire to be bitten by vermin.
Still, her hands found nothing, short of the object she had been looking for. She smiled, and her hands quickly returned from the hole, with the hidden treasure.
It was an ancient dueling pistols case, covered in dust, but retaining every bit of its old charm, and regal elegance. It’s surface felt smooth to her touch, and it showed no signs of significant wear.
Charlotte bit her lower lip and played with the metallic clasp, which held its ornate lid closed. Her grandfather, a midshipman in Starfleet, had claimed to have stolen this object from a high security Federation storage locker. He had told her stories of how it had been found on a rogue planetoid, near the star desert close to the Beta colonies.
How such an antique of earth origins had found its way so far out into space, had been a mystery to her grandfather, and so he had held onto the curiosity, and passed it from one generation to the next.
Once, when she was six years old, her grandfather had taken her aside. He told her the story of how “the find” as he called it, how it had spoken to him, and shown him visions of the future. He claimed the “find” was magic, and held special properties. Grandfather had told her that it was her destiny to keep the find hidden safe, to never show it to her father, who would, as she remembered it, “never understand the importance of it.”
And so, she had done just that, whisking the case away, and hiding it in the floor beneath her bed.
Years afterward, her grandfather had gone mad. The doctors at Starfleet medical had diagnosed it as a rare form of transporter psychosis. However, there was ultimately nothing that could be done for him, and he died alone, incredibly medicated and sedated, restrained by a forcefield, and rambling about the darkness that would one-day consume the Alpha Quadrant.
Charlotte felt a tear come to her eye as she held the box. That would never happen to her, she told herself. She would escape the madness, even if she had to run all the way to the edge of the galaxy.
Closing her eyes, she opened the box instinctively, and removed the find. It fit perfectly into her hand, as if it was always meant to be there. Its weight was real, and yet somehow, insubstantial at the same time; its textures both tangible and intangible.
She felt lightheaded a moment, but then calm, and powerful.
And then the thing happened, the thing her mind told her she had imagined, but yet was too real to ignore…
A man’s voice spoke to her.
The voice was light and yet aristocratic, commanding, and yet filled with the playful arrogance of a bullying child.
<i>Ah yes, my fair maiden child. A powerful set of dueling pistols. My most favorite pair, I will admit…</i>
Her eyes shot open, as the voice was loud and thundering and was heard not only by her mind, but by her ears as well.
Charlotte’s eyes darted about the room, looking for the source of the voice, and realized that it was coming from the dueling pistol in her hand. As impossible at it seemed, the weapon vibrated with the rolling vibrato of a man’s voice.
She startled and dropped the weapon back into the green velvet lined box. The voice in her mind was not pleased with her sudden start and chastised her.
<i>Now, now, Maiden-fair, is that any way to treat such noble and honorable trappings of the aristocracy true? You and I are not so different, you must know. Your family from such a long and noble history and I being who I am…</i>
Charlotte had no choice but to address the madness in the dark, and so hoped to steady herself by the sound of her own voice.
The weak and trembling timidity that came from her throat embarrassed her, as she had never heard that kind of warble in her own tone before. She attempted to maintain a stiff upper lip and spoke with firm British resolve in her voice.
…But the tremolo was still there.
“Who… who are you?” She swallowed hard, “Where… are you?”
The empty English bedroom filled with maniacal and echoing laughter, which came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, bouncing off the darkened, Victorian wainscoting.
<i>I, my young child, am everywhere…</i>
The laughter continued.
<i>And would that you not yet recognize the nobility in my name, should look only to your hands, to learn my heritage true. </i>
Charlotte’s eyes immediately shot down to her hands. The pistol, now fully [...]ed and loaded, rested firmly in her grip. An inscribed plaque, covered with centuries of old, smudged powder, was detected by the dim light cast to her eyes.
Though in the dead of midnight, her eyes could still see a touch of moonlight gleam about its filthy inscription. The voice continued to speak…
<i>Yes, I have become quite bored over the centuries, my little dear, so you will act as my ears and eyes to this new time. Though I am forbidden from playing outside, I was never told that I could not have my playthings outside.</i>
Charlotte broke into a cold sweat at the disembodied voices use of the word plaything. What had turned into a selfish attempt on her part to sell a valuable antique to book passage back into deep space, had turned into a manifestation of the phantasma diabolique.
Charlotte spoke in fear again…
“What do you want from me?”
The laughter continued.
<i>You and I will do great things together, fair maiden. But such planning will come in time. For now, the General’s pistols require cleaning. Oh the humanity of storing such weapons of power beneath ones floorboards. For shame! For shame!</i>
Charlotte’s cold, and sweating hands worked furiously at the inscription, cleaning it, wearing away at it, removing layers of ancient grime. She had to read the plaque, had to learn what this was about. She had to discover the truth, even it killed her.
She was a woman possessed. Her hands moved with such intention, and seem propelled by invisible forces beyond her understanding.
The reward for her obedience and sudden insanity, became clear. The golden plaque, now clean enough to be read, danced in the dim light of her bedroom.
It was a single word, a single name.
The voice continued to laugh as she read the word aloud. The laughter vibrated her hands, trembling her arms in fear, as her face grimaced in terror, and her heart froze inside her chest.
Charlotte struggled on the word, as it formed in her brain, and then left her mouth, with portents that could not be described.
“Trelane.” Charlotte choked on the name. “Your name… is… Trelane….”
<b>
Charlotte Farnsworth
PNPC of Ensign Nathaniel Wilmer
USS Apollo-A
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Poll of the Week: Self Defense in Starfleet
in Poll of the Month
Posted
Nate likes to start things off with running in head first, without thinking, all the while making himself an easy target. He then likes to follow up a random volley of blind swings with unclenched fists, and finishes his opponent by allowing himself to get punched in the mouth, falling down, and crying....
...wait, that might be how I play STO...