Saveron

(( Romulan Refugee Ship )) Kells: You know this place. ::Intimately. Too well. It was a place Valesha would give a lot to forget, and a place that stalked her dreams far too often at night. Areinnye, but the *smell*. Sienelis: ::Quietly,:: Do you know what we're supposed to do here? Kells: An -- idea. But no more. ::He sounded uncertain, but he had more than she did. Her head was spinning with memory and heartache.:: Sienelis: I- I can't think. What's your idea? Kells: We completed my "challenge" by refusing to play through it correctly. It looks like Roshanara's group completed theirs by finding the promised purple flag. ::A moment.:: We may have to do one or the other. The question is, how? ::She closed her eyes, trying to take shallow breaths, trying and failing to regain some control over her thoughts and feelings. Perhaps the so-often scorned emotional suppression of their Vulcan cousins had something going for it, after all.:: Sienelis: I don't know. ::She swallowed, her throat dry.:: We just... survived. Like animals. There wasn't anything more to it. ::She could still hear her voice shaking. When he took her hand, she realised he could hear it too. Whatever stubborn pride she might usually have was long gone, and she gripped his hand like as though it was the only thing keeping her from falling.:: Kells: We'll get out of this. ::A moment.:: But we need to do something. Either to find a flag, or to end this illusion. I know it must be hard to be here again, but can you think of how we might do either? Sienelis: I- I don't know. ::It was becoming a refrain, and she hated it. She tried to just talk, instead of think.:: The flag, maybe? There was a storage room filled with what little we brought from the homeworld. ::The idea of sorting through mementos of a destroyed home hardly filled her with joy. Perhaps that was the point? Where she had found the Q irritating before, that feeling was swiftly turning into loathing.:: Kells: Where? Sienelis: It's- ::she faltered, her eyes falling on a pair of young children clinging to a suspiciously still mother. Looking away, she blindly gestured down the corridor.:: That way. ::She continued to cling to Aron's hand, unaware she was doing it. This wasn't a game, this was cruelty for the sake of it.:: Kells: We'll get out of this, I promise. ::Aron walked, she stumbled. They hadn't got far when there was a flash of light, one that seemed even brighter in the dim confines of the ship, and there was two new faces with them. Suddenly hyper-aware of herself, she yanked her hand back, her cheeks flushing pea-green.:: Kells: Gentlemen, where in the universe did you come from? Dara: Captain! Sir, it’s a long story. Most importantly, sir: Commander Rahman and Core, Lieutenant Fennelli, Doctor Blueheart and I managed to find the purple flag. We were sent back in time to Bluehearts old school on the moon and... Kells:Slow down, Ensign, slow down. ::He paused.:: I'll let Va-- Ensign Sienelis explain where we are -- and what we hope to do. Sienelis: It's a refugee ship. ::She paused to catch a calming breath and immediately regretted it, the awful smell sticking in the back of her throat.:: After Hobus destroyed ch'Rihan - Romulus, to you - the survivors fled in whatever they could squeeze aboard. ::There was a collective silence as they looked at her, absorbing the information.:: Sienelis: I think we're finding a flag again. The best place I can think to start is a storage room, down the corridor. ::But she didn't trust herself, since she couldn't exactly think straight right now.:: Unless you have a better idea? Kells: I don't know that we are. **** Ensign Valesha Sienelis Science Officer USS Invicta

Rahman insights:

... Davenport: And how you find being the Director of Intelligence somewhere like The Corridor, Captain Reynolds? :: Quinn glances at her fellow black-collars:: Reynolds: I keep hoping I'll find some out here to direct...

I think that more Shandres and Falkenstein are required. They need their own spinoff.

Welcome to the fleet, Ensign Bren!

I figured even Vulcans are allowed to be sassy occaisionally!

I loved this sim title, and everything in it. Poor Zial'Sethir'Verd. I get this lovely impression that she's baby-sitting on sufference, and would really rather be anywhere else. ::Giggle.::

Congratulations all of you, that was a great class and I know you'll have a great time in the Fleet.

Like many I voted for Leonard Nimoy, who set the standard, with Tim Russ as second who followed so excellently in his footsteps. I will take the opportunity to mention that Valeris - played by Kim Cattrall - who played a major part in the attempt to derail the peace negotiations in The Undiscovered Country, is missing from the poll. Valeris has always held something of a fascination for me. The idea that a Vulcan might logically come to the conclusions that she had and therefor set out on the course of action that she did, was very interesting. She was inspiration behind the Nel Gathic culture that I created - Vulcans with a different, less communal way of life and freer habit of thought - and I have referred to Saveron as being a distant relative of Valeris'. He has taken a few drastic actions in his own career.

Congratulations Raakel! Welcome to the Fleet.

A great loss to the Star Trek community, and to so many of us personally, those whom he showed that it was OK to be different, to be intelligent, sensitive and steadfast. To stick to your morals and know what is right. And his influence spread far beyond the Trekkie realm. He inspired so many. His katra is amongst the stars now, boldly going where each of us must one day go. Space is not the final frontier.

I like Commander Bakari's toast:

The Counsellor on the newest addition to Security

Like Captain Kells, the first thing I ever did with SB118 was enter a Writing Competition. It was something which piqued my interest whilst waiting for my Cadet Cruise. The theme was Song and Silence. My very first entry was also a winner and it started a long-term enthusiasm for a much more free-form field of writing that still contributed to our game. I think that it has encouraged some of my most creative writing to date, and I was particularly pleased with the opportunity that the 'Treason and Plot' theme provided, to cast a different eye on canon events. I was very proud of that entry. I think that what I liked best about the Competition was that it allowed for a much wider range of topics, where our sims are by their nature written around the theme of our ship missions. Having an outlet for wild ideas and themes encouraged creativity. It also provided a space to write in narrative style rather than script style, which I think encourages excellent modulation of storytelling, where the script is very here and now, and more suited for the immediacy of our missions. I shall miss the Writing Challenges greatly, and shall be very interested to see how the best of their attributes will be incorporated into the Top Sims Contest. 'All Good Things' I guess, but I would wish it were otherwise. I guess for now it's, 'Gorn, But Not Forgotten'.

Del is right. Rosh is a cruel woman. Hehe. Not often you see a Deltan out inuendo'd. Admirable effort, that man.

(( First Officer's Quarters, USS Garuda )) ::Discharged from sickbay, sleep was now taking up a great deal of his leave time. It wasn't an unpleasant circumstance, and he was aware that he needed the time to rest and recuperate. Tomorrow, he would be back in uniform for a ribbon presentation, but for now, he was living in pyjamas, stealing naps whenever it suited him, and pottering about his new quarters on the Garuda. ::That had come as something of a shock. He'd believed Quinn, of course, when she'd told him of the damage to the Mercury. But *seeing* it… that was something else. He'd known right then, that the Mercury wouldn't be exploring the stars again any time soon, but to find out he was being transferred directly over to the Garuda… yes. A shock. ::When the chime on his door rang, he was sleeping again, laid out on a sofa, drooling like a champion on one of the cushions. A PADD lay on his chest, rising and falling with every breath, an aborted attempt to catch up with his reading. ::It took another buzz from the door to wake him, the PADD bouncing off the floor as he sat up in a dazed startle. He grimaced as he swung his long legs to the floor and stood, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek and jaw. Lovely. ::What a sight he must be. The crazed hair and bleary eyes of the recently woken, a few days of too-sore-can't-be-bothered-to-shave stubble, barefoot and dressed only in a creased t-shirt and pyjama pants. A far cry from the usual crisp and perfectly pressed Harrison Ross. ::It was only natural, then, that when the doors parted, it was the object of his affections stood outside.:: REYNOLDS: I promised you a conversation. ::He laboured for an answer, thrown by her presence. After their conversation in sickbay, she had been the last person he had expected to drop by.:: ROSS: You did. ::He stepped back, fully aware that he was doing a poor job of hiding his surprise.:: Come in. ::He set off toward the replicator once she'd stepped inside, flipping the drool-marked cushion over as he passed the sofa.:: ROSS: I need a coffee. Would you like something? REYNOLDS: No, no. I'm fine. ::He threw her a look on his way to the replicator, raising his eyebrows. From what he could see, he suspected that she'd barely slept since he'd last seen her and was in dire need of caffeine. ::Or a bed, but that took his mind to places it ought best not go.:: REYNOLDS: Look, I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to spit it out. ::He braced himself, taking his black coffee from the replicator and playing it casual by sipping from the mug, watching her over the rim.:: REYNOLDS: It's not that I don't— There was someone. He was— ::She frowned, avoiding his gaze.:: He died. And I don't know that— I don't know if I... ::She fumbled over her words, avoiding his eyes, actually wringing her hands together, anything but the cool and collected Starfleet officer he was used to.:: ROSS: ::Softly,:: You loved him. REYNOLDS: Yes. ROSS: For a long time? ::She hesitated, and then— :: REYNOLDS: ...yes. ::He had all the questions in the world. Who was this man? Had he been a father to her son? How had he died? When had he died? ::But he thought better than to voice any of them, walking over to the sofa and perching on the arm rest.:: ROSS: Look, if you're not ready to move on, I'm not going to be that guy who tries to push the issue. ::She nodded quickly, uncertain relief on her face.:: But... there's a difference between not being ready, and holding on to the past. ::She sat down, then immediately sprang up again, too full of nervous energy to stay in the one spot. Instead, she paced behind him, her gaze on the stars outside. He let her walk, taking another sip of his coffee as he formulated his next question.:: ROSS: Let me ask you this. All complications and baggage aside — do you want me? ::He didn't look back, but he heard her footsteps pause. He waited, still supping from his mug, working hard at looking considerably more casual than he felt.:: REYNOLDS: ::Quietly,:: I do. ::Now he turned, and found her looking over her shoulder at him.:: ROSS: Then let's just go for it. REYNOLDS: But I'm not good at... this. At the best of times, I'm not good at this, and it's a long way from the best of times. ::He couldn't help but smile, though her worried expression didn't shift.:: ROSS: Quinn, I'm twice divorced — I'm proven lousy. We'll figure it out, or we won't. I'd rather try and fail, than never try at all. REYNOLDS: With apologies to Tennyson? ::Two could play that game. He grinned at her and placed a hand over his heart, speaking in low, sonorous tone.:: ROSS: I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost; Than never to have loved at all. ::Her face was a picture: surprise, annoyance and a hint of amusement, all rolled into one.:: REYNOLDS: You can be really obnoxious, you know that? ROSS: I most certainly do. Tell me you don't find it charming. REYNOLDS: I don't find it charming. ROSS: Liar. ::A smile dawned on her face, even as she shook her head in mild despair. He smiled back, then stood, depositing his coffee mug on the table, and walked around the sofa to stand with her. She was anxious, or nervous, or some other variation on that theme; he saw her swallow as he approached, her breath coming more rapidly than before. ::He reached for her, tentatively brushing a stray wisp of soft, fine hair from her brow. As his fingers trailed down the side of her face, he noticed there was an old, neat scar on her left temple, and he wondered what had left it. This near to her, he could see the detail in her hazel eyes; an inner, golden-brown ring that crowned a dark green iris. ::Just so. Outside as well as in, there was so much more to Quinn Reynolds when she let you in close. ::It was only when her hand alighted on his chest that he realised how hard his heart was pounding. ::He wasn't sure who moved first; whether he had pulled her to him, she had stepped in to him, or some melding of the two. That same sense of delighted confusion didn't pass as their lips met, his fingers tangling in her hair as he held her close. Sensations and needs that didn't belong to him began to bleed into his mind, until he couldn't tell where his thoughts ended and hers began, and they were both lost to the naked desire of the moment. ::His hand was already at the fastening of her uniform tunic when he broke the kiss, murmuring a question he already knew the answer to.:: ROSS: Stay with me tonight? ::The inevitable yes wasn't spoken; it came in the form of a shy, cheeky grin that vanished behind the material of his t-shirt as she pulled it up and over his head. Before it hit the carpet, she was back in his arms, and it was in each other's arms that they passed the rest of the night.:: --Commander Harrison RossFirst OfficerUSS Garuda simmed by Captain Quinn ReynoldsDirector of IntelligenceUSS Garuda

I think in many ways that makes it even more entertaining!

Thank you everyone and particularly Sinda Essen for your very kind words, I'm honoured. It was an excellent round with an amazing array of creativity in the stories presented, which I always enjoy reading. Congratulations Ed!

((Sulu Auditorium, Starfleet Academy, San Francisco)) It was an impressive space, he had to admit it. Even if it was familiar and familiarity bred contempt, the design of the auditorium was sweeping and majestic, capable of housing hundred in its seats and with the kind of carefully arranged acoustics that rendered the PA system and microphone all but unnecessary. That didn’t mean that Admiral Adrian West was particularly looking forward to having to spend the next hour or so sitting in it. At least these days he got a front seat, and with a nod to his colleagues he lowered himself into a seat between Admiral John Matthew Everington II and Admiral Tolira sh’Hail. He gave the Andorian tactician a polite gesture of acknowledgement as he parked himself with the kind of noises his father used to make getting in and out of his armchair of an evening, and yawned behind his hand. “First one to fall asleep buys the first round.” Everington leaned over and murmured. “Push off Jack, those odds are rigged.” West snorted in amusement. Everington grinned and ran a hand through his snow-white hair. “I seem to recall you giving one of these debates, many moons ago. With Admiral Saito presiding.” He pointed out. “Mmm hmm.” West grunted. “And I’m sure she slept through the whole fething thing.” “Ladies, Gentlemen and other genders not otherwise covered, welcome to the 123rd Annual Graduands Debate, where two of our best performing final-year cadets debate a controversial topic of our times.” Just incase anyone didn’t read the instructions. Standing on a box at the central podium Admiral Heraan glowered from under his bushy brows at the assembled cadets and officers, pausing for a moment to glare at two old codgers in Rear Admiral’s pips in the front row who were chuckling at something. “As most of you know I like a good argument,” the Tellarite stated the obvious, “but they foolishly won’t let me participate in these things any more! So instead I give you our top ranking final year cadets. From the Command stream, Cadet First Class William Bourke, and from the Tactical stream, Cadet Vanyeris.” The two cadets took to the stage to polite applause. Will Bourke was a tall, muscular Terran man with rough good looks, sandy hair and an easy smile which he flashed at his classmates in the audience. Vanyeris was a petite Vulcan female with waist-length black hair that she wore held back with a metal headband, and bright green eyes. She carried herself with the dignity of Vulcan reserve as the two took their seats. “An argument’s no good without something worthwhile to argue over,” said Heraan, “and the topic of today’s debate is ‘We Should Come In Peace’.” There was a polite murmur of anticipation from the audience. “Cadet Bourke will take the Affirmative.” Heraan ceded the podium and a first year Cadet moved his standing box so that Will Bourke could take his place at the podium. “Sirs, ma’ams, fellow cadets and citizens of the Federation.:: Bourke began, flashing his smile and leaning in to the microphone. “The United Federation of Planets is built on the premise of peace. Cooperation between her member species is what makes the Federation not only strong, but a bastion of liberty, sentient rights and equality in the Galaxy. When the first five founded the Federation it was built on these principles, and it is our duty to uphold them and to carry them to other species; potential new member nations.” “The dream is strong in this one.” Admiral Everington murmured laconically, watching Bourke expound on the virtues of Federation with hope in his voice and stars in his eyes. “Mmm hmm.” West grunted, watching the proceedings with a somewhat dubious expression. “With any luck that dream won’t be dashed too quickly.” Everington gave him a dry look. “I’m sure we were like that once.” “Pfft.” West snorted. “We were never that young.” “Peace allows cooperation, peace brings growth and prosperity and a better life for all who partake in it. If we uphold the rights of all sentients to live free from fear and hardship, to grow to their full potential, then we must reach out to our brethren with the olive branch, not the sabre. With every new member planet the Federation grows in potential, which is why in every new First Contact situation, we must ensure that we come in peace. To do otherwise is to rob ourselves of our future brothers. Thank you.” Bourke sat down and Heraan nodded to Cadet Vanyeris who made her way sedately to the podium and paused to scan her audience before beginning. “Admirals, Ambassadors, Officers, fellow cadets; citizens of the Federation.” She began. “‘We must come in peace’.” She let the words hang there for a moment. “As my honoured fellow cadet has so eloquently expressed, the ideal of peaceful cooperation and prosperity for all is the basis on which the Federation was formed; but it is just that, an ideal. And it is not an ideal which all species share.” Green eyes scanned the crowd. “Whilst it would be preferable to always welcome new species with welcome arms, we would then leave ourselves open in turn. Consider the Borg, consider the Dominion. Not all species will come to us in peace and so we must be cautious. Peace is always to be held in preference, but we must be prepared to defend it from those who do not respect it, lest we leave our own peace open to exploitation. And so I say, we must proceed with caution; we cannot always afford to come in peace.” As the Vulcan woman spoke Admiral West leaned slightly towards Admiral Everington and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I have to admit I wondered how she was going to tackle that one.” Everington nodded slightly. “Difficult. Vulcans are some of the biggest proponents of peace in the Federation.” He agreed. “They’re also the Universe’s best Devil’s Advocates.” West observed dryly. His comment was rewarded with a chuckle. "Yes, we should retain peace as the ideal, for without our ideals and principles the Federation has no basis. But we must be cautious of those who would not treat us as we would treat them. Whilst it would be preferable to come in peace, ultimately we should proceed with caution." The audience started to murmur as Vanyeris left the podium but died down as Cadet Bourke returned. His smile this time was less bright and somewhat more condescending. “The Borg, the Dominion.” He paused. “My fellow cadet resorts to scare-mongering. Yes there are aggressive species out there, governments who might seek to do us harm, but we cannot colour the multitude of new alien civilisations with the one applicator. The Federation is comprised of one hundred and fifty member governments, across thousands of stars, all living in harmony. How different would the map look today, if we had not approached those new peoples in peace?” He shot a look at Vanyeris. “Don’t get personal.” Admiral West muttered under his breath. “Surely not.” Everington commented. “This is supposed to be entertaining.” “These two don’t get along very well.” West said. “Why? They’re not even in the same stream.” “History.” And even when Everington gave him a pointed look,West declined to elaborate. “One hundred and fifty member governments, ladies and gentlemen.Yes other species have approached us aggressively, and at times we have had to defend ourselves. But I invite my fellow Cadet to provide us with an example of when, in the history of the Federation, it has proven a mistake for us to approach others in peace.” With a confident glance at the Vulcan woman now rising from her seat, Bourke resumed his own. Vanyeris took the podium, her stereotypically neutral expression betrayed nothing. She didn’t look in Bourke’s direction but rather at the audience in front of her, and spoke a single word with perfect diction. “Khitomer.” A murmur rose again from the audience. “What is she getting at?” Everington hissed. “Shh!” West snapped. “The Khitomer Accords.” She said again. “An example where the offering of peace was a mistake.” She might have been reading a computing manual for all the inflection in her voice, but her careful diction carried. “The Klingons and the Federation had been at war for generations until the Klingon moon of Praxis exploded, crippling the Klingon energy supply and endangering life on Qo’no’S. For the Federation it was a reprieve, but that was all. As Cadet Bourke so strongly advocates, when the Klingons solicited an olive branch, we extended it. We acted on the assumption that, at the end, their values were our values and they would honour the peace as we would. History has shown us our forefathers’ mistake. Even now the Klingons worry our borders. That is our reward for the fact that we came in peace.” As Vanyeris sat down the murmur in the audience grew until Admiral Heraan had to call for silence from a side microphone. “Thank you everyone! Controversial topics are chosen for a reason, it makes for a livelier debate! And it is just a debate. Cadet Bourke your closing comments please.” “You're sure she’s not a Romulan?” The comment earned Admiral Everington a dubious look from Admiral West. “I mean that’s not exactly a party line, and shouldn’t she be called ‘T’Pren’ or something?” “She’s following orders.” West shrugged. “And she’s some ethnic minority from Han-Shir, there’s a few of them in the Fleet.” Though by all accounts they weren’t always easy to work with. “Still…” “What?” There was a long silence from West, but Everington kept looking at him. Eventually he spoke. “Does the name Bourke mean anything to you?” “It’s pretty common Westy.” Everington protested. “How about Yeoman Bourke? From the Enterprise-A? Bells starting to ring?” He growled. “You mean he’s...?” “Grandson.” West confirmed. “But surely she’s not...” West just nodded. He was watching with a sour expression as Heraan shout down the noisiest in the audience so that Bourke could reply. Everington forced a more jovial tone into his voice. “Still, you can’t punish the son for the sins of the father.” “It’s not the father I’m worried about.” Cadet Bourke took the podium for the final time, and his charismatic smile was nowhere to be seen. He seemed to take a moment to collect himself before finally offering a smile that West thought looked about as geniune as his great-grandmother’s teeth. “I hadn’t known that Vulcans had learned how to joke.” He began. “I asked for a mistake and my fellow cadet gives me our crowning glory. When else has so unlikely a peace been achieved against such great odds, and to such great mutual advantage? The Federation border secured by an alliance with an old enemy, an end to attacks on Starfleet ships, stations and colonies? Because of the Khitomer Accords we have been able to focus our attention on progress and growth rather than an arms race. The Klingons fought at our side against the Dominion. We have hosted officer exchanges and gained new insight into each other’s cultures, which can only bolster understanding. How can any of this have been a mistake? I tell you that Khitomer was a success. We must come in peace, because that is the only way forward. Our forefathers were willing to forget the past and deal with the Klingons as they wanted them to deal with us; and because of their foresight and open-mindedness, we have enjoyed a lifetime of peace.” Bourke sat down with a sense of finality and to a smattering of applause which died away as Vanyeris rose to her feet. She returned to the podium with the same dignity with which she’d approached the whole proceedings. “A life-time of peace.” She echoed in the same calm tones. “A Terran lifetime, perhaps. An Andorian lifetime, or a Tellarite one. But not a Vulcan one. Not a Romulan one. Certainly not an El-Aurian one. It is all too easy to view the future in short terms, to forget our children's children and drown out those who urge caution and a long-term view, to our detriment. For, as Terran’s say, the leopard does not change it’s spots.” Those green eyes scanned the audience again. They were listening, though few seemed to be finding the experience entertaining. “Peace with the Klingons gave both sides time to focus on other things.” She acknowledged Bourke’s point. “The Federation focused on growth, on development, on research, on exploration. The Klingons focused on rebuilding their world and then, their military fleet. And with their military capabilities rebuilt, they were in the perfect position to take advantage of the misfortune of others.” There was an edge to her voice. “Where the Klingons in their plight were offered the olive branch, following the Hobus Supernova they have offered the Romulans only the predator’s teeth. The Federation's own borders have not been spared; every opportunity they have to bite the very hand that fed them they take. Yes, the Khitomer Accords have been proven a mistake; the Klingons are not to be trusted." The words echoed through the silence, and through the years. “That’s not true!” The perfect accoustics of the Sulu Auditorium carried Cadet Bourke’s voice without the need for any amplification. The murmuring audience was stunned into silence as, it seemed, was Cadet Vanyeris. “You cannot believe that!” Bourke insisted, advancing on the podium. His face was red. “It’s people like you who would sabotage the peace that we live in. People like you who undermine all that we strive for, and damage countless lives in the process. Do you even hear what you’re saying, or did you learn to parrot it all on your mother’s knee?” The mutter of the crowd was rising as Bourke broke protocol. Vanyeris raised one cool eyebrow at him. “Did she even think, when she acted? Did she even care how many deaths would be on her hands? How close she came to sabotaging the peace process?” Bourke demanded. “Did she spare one single thought for the boy left orphaned when she shot his father? I never knew my grandfather!” Suddenly he seemed to realise where he was, pointing an accusatory finger in the Vulcan woman’s face with everyone in the audience as witness. Rather than back down he turned and raised his hands to appeal to those there. “Did the traiterous Valeris even comprehend how everything she did went against everything we stood for, how she could have destroyed the soul of the Federation?” The audience stared in stunned silence, all except Admiral West who got to his feet and, sighting on the tech up in the gallery, made furious throat-cutting motions. Shut it all down, now! On the stage Bourke seemed to realise that everyone was just staring at him, and his hands started to lower. The PA system went dead, but the Auditorium didn’t need it, the acoustics were too good. Unperturbed, vanyeris clasped her hands behind her back and addressed Bourke directly, her flawless diction carrying over the stunned crowd. “Following the Hobus Supernova The Klingons invade Romulan space in the Romulan’s moment of need.” She said, every word distinct. She started to walk a slow circle around Bourke. “They prey upon them like animals. ‘No hand that does not hold a blade’.” She took another step. “They invade our allies and possible future Federation members on Duronis II.” Another step. “They attack the USS Drake at Gateway Station, and attempted to mine the USS Avandar.” Another step. “Finally, they occupy Thracian space, requiring the intervention of Starfleet to prevent the subjugation of millions of sentient beings.” She stopped walking. “Are these the actions of a people who seek peace?” She asked Bourke, whose face had gone from red to white. It was a rhetorical question. A moment later and she spun on one heel to face the stunned audience. “My mother knew exactly what she was doing, she simply had more foresight than most. 'Klingons cannot be trusted'. In light of these most recent events, I ask you to ask yourselves an honest question.” “Was she wrong?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lieutenant Commander Saveron Chief Medical Officer USS Mercury

ROFL! I can picture this beautifully.

Congratulations and welcome!

That made me chuckle. I have a very clear picture in my mind of Misha's antics, thanks to Rich's writing.

Congratulations Chris, that was a thoroughly enjoyable read! As were all the entries; I love the Writing Challenge for the interesting new reading material. I am honoured to be recognised, and rather surprised. The competition was particularly stiff this round. Thank you.

Diplomatic Impunity or The Tribble with Troubles The battered, over-full leather satchel hit the floor with a thud as the door slid shut behind him and Ramsey heaved a great sigh of relief at finally coming home. The problem with being Professor Ramsey Bakewell, Xenosociologist extroirdinaire – he mused as he kicked his shoes off and shuffled into a pair of well-worn slippers – was that he was always being asked to speak, mediate, advise and intervene at all manner of conferences, peace talks, negotiations and so on. Which was all very flattering and of course the opportunity to assist in preventing inter-stellar war and such like was never something he was going to refuse, but it took up so much blasted time. The lights activating as he moved through the apartment, Ramsey headed over to the replicator for a mug of coffee to help him think. He had a new nutrient formulation to try that might just be the answer to the particular problem that he’d pondered for so long, turning it over in his mind on the trip back rather than worrying about whether the Bajoran Kai found his tie with the dancing Orionese slave girl on it to be in poor taste. There were far more important things in life, and this little problem was one of them. If a Tellarite diplomat offended the Arkonian Ambassador, it was probably because the Ambassador was looking to be offended, not because Tellarites were particularly argumentative. One of the reasons that he went to conferences such as this most recent one was to get that particular point across to the Federation's diplomats. It was one thing to be the Ambassador to a particular species, to learn their culture and fit in almost like a native, but it wasn’t practical for members of the Federtion as a whole, across hundreds of species and thousands of cultures, to learn them all. What was practical was to take a pragmatic view to inter-species relations, which was where his three Golden Rules had come from. Pulling a micro-PADD from his pocket, he checked the hastily scribbled formulation that had been vouchsafed to him by the Andorian Ambassador's sub-Secretary, and cross-checked it with his own fastidious notes on his personal computer. He absently set the mug down upon a haphazard stack of e-books, the top volume being the latest Mills and Boon. It made interesting reading; the culture of his own species was weird enough, never mind anyone else’s. ‘Be polite, be well behaved, be prepared to give the benefit of the doubt.’ That was how they taught his Rules in Federation Schools, and in Starfleet. That was of course the sanitised version, approved as being politically correct by the establishment, which just showed that they had missed the point entirely. Apparently ‘don’t be rude, don’t be a [...], don’t go looking for trouble’ had not been found acceptable. But that was the core of the issue; if someone wanted to be offended, they would find a way. If someone really wanted to start a war, they would find a way to do that too. And if you had to walk on egg shells around others the whole time then eventually something was going to go 'crunch'. No, the way forward was to establish a robust and tolerant relationship, where you didn’t get upset with someone over using their fingers to eat their dinner, just because your people didn’t. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations as the Vulcans liked to say. Splendid people, if they’d only develop a sense of humour. Sighing, Ramsey took a meditative swig of his coffee and regarded the now modified formulation. Would it have the desired effect? The problem was, there really was only one way to find out. Just as, when you sat down to the negotiating table with no real knowledge of the intentions of one’s alien companions, one simply had to make one’s best effort, one’s best guess and be prepared to stand by one’s convictions; what ultimately came of it was beyond one’s control. So, in the end, was this. Once one accepted that one was a mote in the universe’s eye, everyone had their own agenda and Murphy was a prat, it was much easier to take a relaxed attitude to existence. One focused on the differences that one could make, and didn’t sweat the big stuff. And wore loud ties because one could. The small stuff now, that was where one could make a difference. Forgetting his precariously balanced coffee, Bakewell uploaded the new formula to his pocket PADD and shuffled back to the replicator. Feeding the formulation in he keyed the appliance's operation and watched as a dish with two pale brown pellets appears in the machine’s output. Would they be the answer that he was seeking? Only time would tell. Picking up the dish he wandered to one of the back rooms where a faint cooing rose suddenly in volume as the lights went on. Here they were, his pride and joy. Never mind sycophantic diplomats and arrogant Ambassadors, this was where things got serious. Balls of short fluff, long fluff, spots and stripes milled in cages and sang their brain-melting song. Tribble hybridisers became immune to the effect, or they stopped. Or their brains dribbled out of their ears. Ramsey didn't really hear it any more. The thing about Tribbles was that, unlike alien species, one had to be very precise when dealing with them. Too much food and they cloned themselves exponentially; too little and they went dormant. But just enough and the right kinds and they would hybridise with each other. The nature of native flora of their homeworld was the subject of great conjecture, as people like Bakewell studied and theorised and strove to find the right formulation to accelerate their hybridisation efforts. Such formulations were often jealously guarded and carefully traded. His was good, but he hoped this might be better. It might just be the key. There, in a cage near the back, nestled two tribbles that might just hold the answer. The long sought after Angora White, a long-haired pure white tribble. One was long-haired and predominantly white with a few black spots, the other was medium length and pure in it's lack of colour. The difficulty was combining the traits in the right combination. Highly inter-hybridised, these strains weren’t the enthusiastic breeders that their wild-type cousins could be, and this pair wouldn't breed at all. The Angora Pied with the minimum spotting had never bred, and if he could persuade it he might just crack the Angora White for good. Reaching in, Ramsey dropped one pellet in front of each tribble, watched as each seemed to wake and undulate forward to take its food which disappeared underneath the fur to be consumed. The offering was at least appreciated, as each sang contentedly. Now was the worst part, of course. Now there was nothing that he could do but wait and see what happened. See whether he might, in a few months time, have something worth taking to the next Combined Tribble Fanciers Association Annual Show. He supposed he might as well read that treatise from the Cardassian Senate Committee for Federation Relations in the meantime. Written by Lieutenant Commander Saveron Chief Medical Officer USS Mercury

..... Bwahahaha! *gigglesnort*