Quinn Reynolds

((Mercury: Holodeck Three)) ::The room was constructed of wood logs, each stacked uncut, with just the top end with branches removed. The moss was still on the tree, faintly breathing in the dark and breathing out a soft glow, filling the room with a shifting blue light. In the center was a small fire, casting red shades against the blue. Charles was wearing a robe, long and deep green. He had dyed it himself, dipping it in a paste that came from plants that had come from the replicators. It had streaked as it dried, dirt stains and grease that had spilled onto it when the last ceremony had been so strangely interrupted. It was heavy, and he rested on his cane as he walked. He carried a small bag in the other hand, made of the same cloth, though undyed.:: ::Mag walked beside him. Her robes were just as long and a lighter shade of green. It trailed behind her on the ground as she walked; she held his hand in one of hers, looking up at him.:: ::It wasn't personal this time. But it was bigger, much bigger; bigger in ways that took it beyond their ability to process, to understand.:: ::They were not alone, this time. The holodeck had a few people sitting, kneeling, reclining on the floor already, wearing replicated robes. Sitting up against one of the walls was the chief tactician, a small cat sitting in his lap, being idly petted by his hands. Crewman 'Sparky' was picking at bits from the floor, his tail twitching occasionally. Others he knew; others he did not know, not well.:: ::He took a loaf of bread from the bag, pulled a piece from it, and handed it to Sparky, gesturing for him to do the same. The bread was slowly passed around, and he released Mag's hand and took his own seat.:: ::Mag looked at him, fear crossing her ears for just a moment. He nodded back to her, and she cleared her throat. She paused a long time after each sentence, speaking slowly as the room filled quietly with the sweet scent of the small fire:: MAG: We gather today to mourn the rosh of Eighty-Three Leonis II. We mourn the destruction brought by the volcano. We mourn those we were unable to save, the lands covered in fire and ash. MAG: We mourn with those we could save, for the world that they have lost, for the friends left behind. We join them in crying for justice against the people who have wronged them: through experimentation on them and through igniting the volcano. Our tears flow with theirs. What happened was not right, and we will carry the wound from it on our hearts as a scar. It will not be forgiven. It will not be forgotten. It will be forever on our hearts, and we shall not walk this road again. They are rosh, like us; we are rosh, like them. ::She came back then, sitting by Charles. A moment of silence passed before she whispered quietly:: MAG: How was that? HAWKEYE: Well stated, Mag. ::Her ear tilted forward just a touch with a silent smile, and she settled down, taking a bite of her bread.:: ::In the center of the room, above the fire, before them all, hung a holographic image of the ash-ridden world of 83 Leonis II.:: -- Hawkeye

By that definition, JJ Abrams was co-opting the universe as well. He didn't want to make a Trek movie, he wanted to make a great sci-fi movie that happened to be set in the Trek 'verse. The game developers are actually taking exactly the same design philosophy as he did - they're looking to make a great, co-op shooter that happens to be a spin-off from a Trek movie. It's not design philosophy I have issue with. I'd quite happily play a great game that takes a few creative liberties with its source material. Not only have I had good value for the investment I made in purchasing it, but a game that is well-received and sells well opens the door to more games (sometimes of different genres). I think people are being a little too harsh, based solely on the fact it's a shooter. Any gamer can tell you that these days, a first person/over-the-shoulder shooter does not automatically make it "simple", nor does it equal brainless gameplay with an empty story. I mean, it's being worked on by the same studio doing the Darkness sequel, and the original was an FPS that was massively praised for its story-telling. Sure, I'd love someone like Bioware, Obsidian or Bethesda to take on the Trek license and gives us a 60-hour RPG that tops the charts. But I'm not going to dismiss a game solely based on its pre-alpha footage and genre.

The Silver Swan 'Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.' - Victor Hugo I IN THE DARK caves of the Yarralin Mountains, there was only silence. The water that had once carved its way through the shimmering rock had long since subsided, leaving a craggy labyrinth in its wake. The air was still and cold, the rock sharp and even colder. The only living things were the mosses and fungi that somehow managed to cling to life in the barren tunnels. It was here that the children of Indulkana came to prove their worth. A rite of passage, as ancient as recorded history, it had survived through ages of stone, steam and electricity. Even now, as the Indulkana reached out to the stars, they came to these caves. A reminder of where they came from, while they set out on the road ahead. Some argued that it was not the test it had once been. That modern conveniences made survival in the heart of the mountains much easier than it had been, than it should be. Neitee's personal beliefs fell into the second camp; that the rite was not so much a test of survival as it was a search for one's true self. In the dark, cold silence, the only song to be heard was her own. She just had to find the right place to hear it. In that quest, she had long since lost track of time. It felt like forever since she had seen the smiling waves of her friends, an eternity since she felt the farewell embrace of proud and tearful parents. Her rations told her it was little more than two days – she had enough to last her for another four – but she hoped to be able to leave tomorrow. Bright futures often lay ahead of those whose journey lasted three days. It was a fortuitous number. Her footsteps beat out a soft rhythm on the treacherous floor as she trudged along, her head thumping in time with her heart where she had slipped and cracked it on the cave wall several hours ago. The blood had clotted in the vanes of her cranial feathers, clumping them together in a solid mass that was going to be a nightmare to clean. She reminded herself that was an inconvenience, nothing more. A few bumps and bruises were a small price to pay for finding her place in her people's symphony. If she ever did. The thought of failing was almost too much to bear, but as time dragged on in the bleak silence of the caves, it was a thought that was more and more at the forefront of her mind. Some never emerged from underneath the mountains and even now, no one knew what happened to them. There were rumours, of course, of camps in the darkness where the songless eked out a wretched existence. Others said that they simply lay down and died, overwhelmed by the continuing silence. Neitee had encountered neither camps nor skeletons on her quest so far, and she was glad for it. Those that did return from the caves without their song were pitied and separated from the rest of the Indulkana. Herded away in communes to be cared for, treated with the patronising gentleness of those considered more able. Forever on the fringes of society, never to be truly a part of it. It was a fate many considered worse than death. She vowed, then and there, it would not be hers. II TULLOUN WAS THE greatest of all cities; a sparkling gem of soaring crystal spires and verdant life. It was the seat of government and a centre of learning. It was the city that had launched the first of the Indulkana's voyages into the stars, that celebrated the discoveries that came with such exploration. More esoterically, it was a site of pilgrimage, the gateway to the Yarralin Mountains. It was from here that the sole road to the caves was laid into the earth, winding through grassy plains. It was in Tulloun that a child would first introduce their song to their people, becoming an adult, a part of their symphony. For seven days now, a lone figure had sat on this path in silence, watching. Waiting. A slight young thing, the girl had not left her vigil, even when the summer rains had soaked her though to the skin. Every day, she had been brought food and fresh clothes by an older man, and this day was no different. 'Come away, Yeutta. Your sister will return, whether you stand watch or not.' He crouched next to her, his face lined with age and care. She turned to him and her pale eyes were wide with barely masked fear. Tears had washed clean lines through the dust on her face, threatening to do so once again. 'She only had food for six days, Papa. What if she doesn't return? What if...' He laid a hand on her shoulder, then pulled her into his arms. 'I know your fear,' he murmured, holding her close, 'we all feel it. But we must have faith. Neitee is strong and clever. She will find her song and return to us with it.' 'But–' 'Hush, child. Come home for the night. Your mother is already worried for your sister, do not add yourself to her troubles. If Neitee returns this eve, the Guardians will care for her.' A sob escaped Yeutta's throat, followed moments later by a reluctant nod. He placed a paternal arm around her shoulders, and father and daughter rose from the ground, beginning the scenic walk back to their home. As they travelled through the Azure Skyway, the air began to resonate with screams. It was a journey they never completed. III NEITEE LAY AMONG the jagged rocks, sharp edges piercing her skin and carving silver lines into her flesh. She wept, for her rations had long since been exhausted and still her soul did not sing. She was a Mute. The realisation had crept up on her slowly, finally reaching a crescendo that could no longer be ignored. Her legs had given way as the last whispers of hope had fled from her heart, and she remained where she had fallen, drifting in and out between racking sobs. Her choice, unappealing as it was, was simple. Give up, remain and waste away, to become one of those unfortunate souls who never returned from the caves. Or steel herself to the future, get up and seek an exit from the dark silence, to live out her life in a commune. Was shame truly a more terrible fate than death? She did not know. All she did know was that now, more than ever, she desperately wanted to see her family again. Passing into eternity without ever looking on their faces again was a thought she could not bear. The last of her tears fell down her face and she struggled to her feet. Exhaustion and hunger dragged at her limbs and eyelids, but she pushed on. Time had long since lost all meaning, her only measure of its passage was counting the thump of tired feet against the rocks. She lost count of the number of times she lost count, settling instead on picturing her family and how good it would feel to be with them. A breeze played across her skin, a forgotten breath of life whispering through the rocks. Her time in the caves was almost over, and with that thought came a strange sense of freedom. If it was her destiny to be a Mute, she would accept it with grace and dignity. It was not such a bad path to tread; in many ways, it was a life absolved of responsibility. And though they had no song, many Mutes became skilled in other media, bringing colour and texture to the Indulkana. They did, after all, experience the world differently. Neitee thought on how she had always enjoyed the warm summer evenings, with a brush in hand and a canvas in front of her. That was not such a bad fate at all. As her footsteps brought her closer to the surface, before the sunlight began to glitter across the rocks, she heard them. Heard their heartless symphony. A cold, jagged chorus that cut straight through to her core. Icy fingers wrapped around a quickening heart, fear washing away weariness and banishing all thought and reason from her mind. She ran. The daylight seared into sheltered eyes and she raised her hand as meagre protection. When she could stand to look into the sky, there, hanging next to the golden sun, were three great cubes of metal and emerald. They were source of the alien chorus that thundered through her mind, drowning out all trace of her own people's songs. She ran. The streets of Tulloun were empty. No trace of her people, alive or dead, were to be found. The crystal spires were silent, the gardens were still. And all she could hear were the glacier chords from the skies. Her legs buckled and she fell to her knees in Jarrakan Park. Surrounded by swaying trees and the heady scent of flowers in bloom, she watched as great lances of sickly green light sliced out from the cubes, striking the ground and carving through the earth. She had no tears left to spill as she saw her city sectioned up like meat for the slaughter, felt the world underneath her shake its protest as pieces of its skin were dragged up into the sky, held by beams of translucent jade. There, as the world broke and sundered around her, Neitee lifted her voice in a keening song of sorrow and loss. She had found her place in the symphony. Hers was the last song of the Indulkana, the last music her people would ever make. And it was beautiful.

Congratulations, Kevin and Alleran! Both excellent reads and well-deserved.

Wow, thanks guys! The challenge was a lot of fun and I really enjoyed hammering out my story, so it was a lovely surprise to find out I'd won. I only hope I can provide as much inspiration to our entrants for the next round.

THE SKY BURNS with the incandescent fury of a thousand cities aflame. I flick my tongue out, wetting parched lips, and taste the bitter ashes of my fallen home. My eyes narrow, shielding themselves as a spark on the horizon mushrooms into a searing display of fire and light. A thousand and one cities. I do not know why I come to watch. There is nothing new to see here. The fires of creation scorch the skin of this broken world as they have done for days, my horizon no different than millions of my kinsmen. They fear me. Vulcan burns, because I command it. And so my kinsmen fear me. I take no joy in this, their blinkered emotions. They do not realise our planet burns, for them. * * * HE MADE NO attempt to soften his footfalls as he paced across the cracked red earth, for the simple reason that there was no need. A thick layer of ash captured the sound from his heavy boots, dragging it down into the earth below. His gloved fingers tugged a respirator free from a shrouded face, revealing a lip curled in distaste. He remembered a time when the ground beneath his feet had bared its face to the sun, warmed by its touch. Now, both soil and sky suffocated under the cloying remains of their once-glorious civilisation. “General.” The man in front of him was as immobile as the great statues that stared out across the Voroth Sea. Rather, they had done, before the war had sent them crashing into the surf below. There was no care for the artistry of their ancestors when there was a battle to be won. “General,” he pressed again. “Romul.” “What is it, Valek?” “You should not be out here. The air is poison.” “The ashes are poison,” as harsh and cracked as the dirt below his feet, the General's voice betrayed his fatigue. “I know. So does our quarry.” Valek spat into the ground at the veiled reference, a small plume of ash rising at the impact. “I hope he chokes on them.” Finally, the General turned. His face was carved of granite, his charcoal eyes dark with renewed passion. “He does. My spies have told me. Surak is dying.” * * * MY HEART BURNS brighter than any of the destruction I have wrought upon my home. I am passionate, I desire. I love beyond measure, I hate with every fibre of my being. I nurture with deepest affection, I kill without remorse. I delight in pleasure, I relish pain. I live. Surak would see me robbed of that. He would see me cold, empty and heartless like the vacuum. I am not. I am Vulcan, the crimson jewel in the black; tempestuous, merciless, untameable. I will see him dead at my feet for this betrayal. * * * MOUNT SELEYA CAST her great shadow over the army massed at her foundations. The soldiers wore no uniform, save for a baldric emblazoned with the stylised wings of a bird of prey. Fractured, disparate and riddled with internal conflict, they were united in one thing only; they marched under the banner of Romul, the Raptor, True Son of Vulcan. The sky above them was filled with the screech of engines, the battle for air superiority fought around the dangerous peak. Explosions rolled through the Forge, debris rained down on the troops below. More than one man who stood beneath the Raptor's wings lost his life to the air battle he was not a part of. “We are losing the sky, General.” Romul answered without moving, the burning, twisted remains of his fighters mirrored in his eyes as they fell from the heavens. “You say this as though I should be surprised, Valek. Our pilots are a distraction, nothing more.” “Then we should take the advantage, before they are all dead.” “We will.” Valek's respirator moved as the skin underneath pulled into a scowl. Without turning his head from the army in front of him, the General spoke again, a rumbling baritone invigorated by battle. “Speak your mind.” “You're hesitating. We could win this – here, today – and you are hesitating, because he is your–“ The crunch of Valek's jaw breaking was a wet, unpleasant one. As he collapsed to the ground with a scream of surprise and pain, the troops surrounding the General edged away. Romul loomed over the fallen man, his fingers clenching and unclenching until he stormed away, a luminous presence fuelled by rage. Valek had been right. He would hesitate no longer. * * * I HAVE WON. The lives lost were countless, my army decimated beyond recovery. But I am here, in his last sanctuary and he is dying. I will not grant him the mercy of a quick death. I shall watch him live out the final dregs of his life in suffering. It will be a memory to keep me warm in the harsh Vulcan night. The philosopher-traitor gasps his last breaths, watching me with dead eyes. No hatred burns within them, no fury at his defeat. Not even a flicker of fear as his blood slows in his veins. How I despise him, this empty shell. “What have you won, Romul?” He speaks, his breath a caged rattle, his teeth stained green from his own blood. The words, an echo of my thoughts, draw a hiss of rage from my lips. “The battle. Your soulless crusade ends here. You are dying, brother.” Finally, I see something in those dead eyes. I see pity. Horror drags at my stomach even as the bile climbs toward my throat. “You won the battle,” he concedes, “but you have not won the minds of our people. Look how they have stood, united against you.” The realisation strikes me, hot and painful, a lance through my soul. In my fury, I built my victory upon the funeral pyres of those I sought to save. Those who remain are either mine or his, destined to be forever locked in conflict. I see his end and I feel mine lurking within its shadow. “Leave,” he insists. “I will watch you die, first.” He closes his eyes, pain twisting his features for a tired heartbeat while he wrestles back his control. I feel a surge of pleasure, knowing that even the Father of Logic cannot maintain his false mask in perpetuity. He is flawed, imperfect. But then, he never claimed to be anything else. “No, Romul. This world. There is no place for you here.” He is right. I know he is right and I hate him all the more for it. Even in death, this world, my home, belongs to him. He has stolen it from me. * * * Ash still tumbled through the air like lazy flakes of charred snow when the ships left. On great wings of green, the colour of so much shed blood, the Raptor's followers took to the sky, leaving behind home, friends and families. There was no weeping crowd to wave them goodbye, for logic dictated that such emotional displays served no useful purpose. Instead, the assembled few watched in stoic silence, motionless except for the billowing of their heavy robes. When the pinpoint green of the ships finally vanished from the crimson sky, the crowd turned their backs and left. * * * “We'll be better off this way. Fools, all of them.” Valek's words were thick and strained through his teeth, his jaw wired together as it healed. Romul said nothing at first, staring through the viewport at the star-threaded expanse of space and the ever-diminishing red orb suspended within it. The creaks and groans of the hastily constructed ship filled the vacuum that silence left between the two men. “Fools,” he finally replied, “who knew enough to let our divisions destroy us. We are strong, Valek, but we are undisciplined. We fight among one another when we should turn our fury on our enemies. Had we been of one mind, one will, we would have scoured Surak and his followers from our world. Instead we are forced to flee our home and abandon what is rightfully ours.” Romul's fingers curled into fists, his voice tempered steel. “I will not see us brought any closer to ruin. I will take my people and I will reforge them. We will build a great empire among the stars, our hearts and minds as one, and we will take back what is rightfully ours. It may take a thousand years - ten thousand - but Vulcan will once again be ours.” His voice dropped, steel wrapped in silk, and he breathed words that would be remembered by those who followed for generations. “The universe will gutter and die before Surak's whelps are forgiven. We will have our vengeance. We will reclaim our home.” And in that moment, born of hate and grief, the Romulan Star Empire was whispered into being.

“The secret of all victory lies in the organization of the non-obvious.” ~Marcus Aurelius Aurelius, Sokkan reflected, could well have been a Romulan. Smoke and mirrors, secrets and lies... They were all more efficient tools than brute force, in the right hands. And Sakkon had particularly skilled hands. If deception were a laser scalpel, he would be the surgeon, slicing through the protective layers to enact the changes he wanted within. "The Federation ships are within range." A voice intruded into his reverie and the Tal Shiar operative looked up, glancing at the woman who had spoken. Centurion T'Elaiia - sharp as a mono-edged knife and about as warm. She had been invaluable during the planning of this operation and he knew she had a stellar career ahead of her. He also knew that she was simply waiting for an opportunity to stab him in the back and seize control, and thus the glory, for herself. A tiny smile cracked his stony visage at the thought. He liked it. It kept the fire burning in his blood. "Show me." he replied. T'Elaiia nodded and the viewscreen snapped from the cobalt-blue moon they were orbiting, to the instantly recognisable forms of the two Federation starships. Perfectly on time and at the exact coordinates specified, Sokkan had to admire Starfleet efficiency. After all, it had definitely made certain aspects of his job easier. His face impassive, he observed the two ships; one sleek and streamlined, built for speed and exploration, the other rugged and battlescarred, impact scorches plain on its hull and the glow from the nacelles flickering unsteadily. They were elegant ships, no doubt, but they lacked the sweeping, avian beauty of Romulan designs. "Let's hear them." he spoke directly to T'Elaiia and in response, she deftly tapped into the communications channel the two vessels had established. Though Sokkan knew most - probably everything - that was would about to be discussed, he wanted to hear it for himself. "USS Aurelius to USS Pendragon. Please respond." "This is Captain Xen of the Pendragon. Commander Tsao, it's good to hear your voice. How is your captain?" "Captain Sovak is in critical condition. Our doctor is reluctant to transfer him at all, but in our current condition we don't have the facilities to treat him or the speed to get him somewhere that does." "Is he contagious?" "In theory. The contagion isn't highly transmissible unless weaponised, but it does have an aggravated effect on Vulcans, it seems." "I doubt the Kalash had Vulcans in mind when they were creating it. First the diplomat gets caught in the crossfire, then the Starfleet captain replacing him gets infected in a biological attack. Makes you wonder if the Federation shouldn't have just let them wipe each other out." "I'm not sure the Captain would agree. He believed they were near to agreeing to a ceasefire." "Apparently not." There was a reluctant pause from the First Officer of the Aurelius. "No." There was another silence, as if Captain Xen suddenly realised he had misstepped. It was brief, however, and he soon continued on in the same business-like manner. "How would you like to do this, Commander?" "It will have to be via the transporter. Our 'bays were too heavily damaged in combat to launch a shuttle and our transporter systems took significant damage as well, so we'll need your most skilled operative at the controls. It should take us about fifteen minutes to prep him." "Very well. Let us know when you're ready for the transfer. Pendragon out." Sokkan rose from the command chair, his calm exterior belying the sudden jump in his heartbeat. This was it... Everything he had spent months working toward hinged upon a single moment; in the blink of an eye he would either soar to success or fall to ashes. "Centurion. It's time." Without a word, or even a hint of acknowledgement, T'Elaiia rose from her seat and followed Sokkan as he strode from the bridge. ********* He lifted his chin and felt the small hiss of air as the hypospray delivered the activating agent into his system. Even before he had finished changing from his uniform into the shapeless tunic and trousers Starfleet made their inpatients wear, he could feel his temperature rising; his immune system beginning to battle the sudden infection rampaging through his body. It was only going to get worse... And though he knew it was unlikely to kill him, it would bring him dangerously close to the edge. Stepping up onto the transporter pad, his legs already beginning to weaken underneath him, he turned to face T'Laiia. She had taken up position behind the console, her long fingers resting lightly on the controls while they waited for the crew of the Aurelius to finish their preparations. He appreciated her appearance in the same way he did that of Romulan vessels; predatory and graceful. "How do I look?" he asked. "Like a Vulcan. My condolences." Sokkan allowed himself a wry smile in response - he was going to miss her sense of humour. Breaking the silence that had settled, the console in front of her began to chirp. She looked down and instantly her hands were deftly moving over its surface. “The Aurelius is locking transporters to the Pendragon. Scans show they are operating on the expected subspace frequency. Intercepting beam and initialising transport...” she glanced up at him, inclining her head in a goodbye nod as the green light shimmered around him, shifting to blue as it intensified. “Happy hunting.” ********* A few days later, he cracked open his eyes. His throat was parched, his entire body ached and his the inside of his skull felt as though it were on fire. A woman with kind eyes drifted into the edges of his swimming vision, leaning over his bedbound body with a tricorder in one hand. “How are you feeling, Captain?” she murmured gently, touching him on the shoulder in a sympathetic gesture. Deep inside, Sokkan smiled.

Welcome to the fleet, Chris!

Congratulations everyone! Looking forward to seeing what you'll all get up to in the Fleet.

From what I can gather, the Triumphant is fairly badly beaten and has discovered a fully-functioning old NX class starship. Quinn is currently in main engineering of that ship, pulling odd devices off various parts of the warp core...

Oh, its definitely not her style - which is why I think its so great. She'd have preferred some kind of quiet, scientific mission where she could happily tinker with ship's systems to try and eke out the best performance from them; the Triumphant is way out of her comfort zone and I'm really looking forward to the opportunities it presents. A space combat - how exiting! Who are you up against... And are you winning?

Definately. Quinn's been posted to the Triumphant - which has already filled me with glee! My geeky, shy little engineer on a warship? There's a lot of fun to be had there. >: ) Where did you end up, Jhan?