USS Liberty

"Ulterior Motives, Part One"

By Joseph Manno and

Gabrielle Bubis

“…vital to the future direction of both Starfleet tactical deployment, and her shipbuilding philosophy..”

The image froze as Colin Becker tapped a key on the display screen to pause the recording.

Commander Mark O’Conner glanced at the pips designating the Andorian speaker as a vice admiral, and suppressed a disdainful snort: Amarian Sih’tarr was the current head of Starfleet Tactical, and he seemed just as arrogant and self-important as Prometheus' first officer remembered. Sih'tarr had once given a guest lecture to Mark's Starship Combat Tactics class back at the Academy, and his acumen had been impressive—not so his personality, though.

O'Conner forced himself to pay attention as the recording resumed play. Sih’tarr had apparently just invited the captain to a special conference on tactical and strategic issues facing the Federation in the post-Dominion War era.

Mark suppressed a swift stab of envy as he imagined the people his commander might rub shoulders with, and sighed.

An answering exhalation came from his left, where Lieutenant Commander Naeve Sevril sat, her expression mirroring his own. Their eyes met briefly before she turned her face, subtly shifting position so that her back was to him: It was just enough to let him know she was still angry, but not so obvious as to draw their commander's attention.

Mark frowned slightly at her shoulder blades as he recalled how, two days ago, he'd directed her to rewrite a systems review report—twice. She hadn't felt it necessary on either occasion... and had perhaps, admittedly, been correct the second time.

Her sullen defiance, though, had ensured she'd do it again, as an object lesson: He'd intentionally indicated a few compositional weaknesses and then what she should do to correct them. That, too, had gone over extremely well: Naeve had practically stormed off the bridge; if there'd been a door to slam, she'd have deafened half the people aboard.

While he understood, and sympathized with, Sevril's frustration at having been passed over for an X-O slot, her attitude had begun to wear thin with him.

She's going to grow up a bit, or this is going to be a rough tour—for her, that is.

Something kicked at his shoe and he looked across the table at the offender: Mirana Keset had noticed the exchange and made her disapproval known. She shook her head slightly at him, but smiled. The doctor had, somehow, gotten into the middle of their private war, and had declared herself mediator; she was constantly attempting to mend their fractured relationship.

He didn’t have the heart to tell her it probably couldn’t be done: Naeve, it seemed, would always view him as the man who'd stolen her job.

Besides, he enjoyed Mirana’s company. Mark welcomed the pretense of reconciliation with Sevril as an excuse to spend time with the attractive redhead. Though he’d seen her having dinner once or twice with the captain, there didn’t seem to be any sort of commitment there. Thus, he considered Keset still up for grabs.

No pun intended.

His eyes wandered again, as the display screen went black and the captain began speaking. His gaze meandered around the room…

…and he suddenly found himself eye-to-eye with Security Chief Turek.

Mark shifted uncomfortably; while it seemed to him that the Vulcan's expression hadn't been precisely calculated to intimidate, it did let O'Conner know—rather directly—that his short attention span this morning wasn't exactly a well-guarded secret.

Oh, well... Turek’s usually annoyed at me for something, anyway. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him. Now well aware of the scrutiny, O’Conner nevertheless swept the room with his gaze again, until it fell on Rhianna Jorrell. His eyes flicked back to Turek, as if to imply, “See? I’m not the only one not paying attention!” The Vulcan, however, had already resumed regarding the captain, and missed Mark’s protesting expression.

He smiled inwardly: Rhianna wasn’t exactly raptly attentive, either. While the chief engineer’s ice-blue eyes could impale even the hardiest of officers—regardless of rank—at the moment, they were focused on her own hands. She seemed to find them infinitely more fascinating than anything the captain had to say. Though most observers might guess that she was focused on his words, Mark bet that she, too, was off in her own little pocket dimension.

Abruptly, O'Conner noted that the captain had stopped speaking and was looking expectantly from face to face. He sat up straighter under the scrutiny.

“Any questions?”

There were none.

Becker placed his palms flat against the conference table, elbows extended as he leaned over the assembled group of senior officers. When no one spoke, he nodded briskly, and stood.

“Good. Then you're all dismissed. Commander, you have the bridge. Inform me when we arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark replied automatically.

Feeling guilty for his wandering thoughts, he belatedly asked himself, Arrive where?

***

Colin Becker stepped into the turbolift and exchanged a nod of greeting with Naeve Sevril, who had evidently received a summons to the bridge as well. As the turbolift made its way to deck one, the captain stood with his arms clasped casually behind his back and allowed himself a covert assessment of his ‘lift mate… and, to a limited extent, his entire senior staff.

They need a break. With one or two exceptions they looked like restless school kids in that briefing this morning. I thought Mark was going to start firing spitballs any minute there.

He smiled. Becker wasn't at all angry: They knew their jobs and performed them well; they simply required a change of scenery and some relaxation. Fortunately, Bolius IX would provide that opportunity—for everyone but him, that is.

Their latest mission would be good for the crew, he decided. He only hoped that Lieutenant Commander Sevril afforded herself a chance to wind down: She'd been more withdrawn lately, more quiet and moody. He'd hoped Naeve would have, before now, come to him with what had been bothering her; but she was still keeping it to herself.

The captain had decided to give her more time—but not much more—before having a chat with her: He needed a sharp ops chief, not a competent but troubled and somewhat distracted one—which was what he’d had for the past few weeks.

The ‘lift came to a stop, its doors obediently sliding open to reveal their destination.

“After you, Captain.” Naeve said politely, gesturing with her hand that he should precede her.

Colin tugged at his tunic, smiled at her and stepped out. His sharp eyes scanned the bridge, passing briefly over the watch officers, who snapped to attention at his arrival. They settled onto the large sphere that was Bolius IX, dominating the display screen at the front of the bridge.

As he approached his chair, Mark O’Conner promptly vacated, allowing the captain to wordlessly take his place.

“I assume we’re finally about to be cleared for docking, exec?” he asked dryly.

“So they claim, sir,” Mark answered with the barest intimation of humor.

Colin Becker wasn't even that amused: They'd arrived over half an hour ago, but had been unceremoniously placed in a holding pattern until "suitable arrangements" for docking could be made. They'd then had to wait for several sluggish-looking cargo transport vessels—all of Bolian registry, coincidentally—to depart.

Now, finally, it seemed the wait was over.

The planet faded, only to be replaced by the visage of an aging female Bolian, her features set in that customary self-important officiousness so common to that race.

“Greetings, Captain Becker. Welcome to Bolius IX. The Prometheus is cleared to dock at…”

Reflexively, she touched a hand to her head, where a small earpiece was evidently relaying data.

"Please stand by for a moment."

"A moment" became five minutes—then ten.

Finally, Naeve Sevril gasped; then, she angrily announced, "Sir, I've just received a text-only message from the dockmaster.

"We've been placed back in the holding pattern!"

O'Conner was incensed. "What?"

Becker's reaction was—on the surface, at least—more sanguine.

"Any explanation offered, Commander Sevril?"

Now she looked even more affronted.

"It's evidently a matter of precedence, sir. Another vessel requested permission to dock… and they 'bumped' us." After a moment's hesitation, she concluded, rather hotly, "Only one ship's entered orbit in the last few minutes, Captain."

"Well, let's see her," Becker instructed.

Naeve gritted her teeth. "Switching now."

The image of a Sovereign-class Federation starship filled the screen.

O'Conner immediately referred to his own armchair console.

"Her ID call sign reads NCC-1776… she's the USS Liberty."

"Why the hell does that get priority over us?" demanded Sevril.

Even as they watched, indignant, the great starship gracefully glided into the dock station that had, seconds ago, been almost assigned to Prometheus.

"I don't believe this," O'Connor growled. "What does that lumbering behemoth have that we don't?"

Becker, without missing a beat, replied, "I'll assume you mean besides a dock space?"

Prudently, no one laughed.

The captain rose.

"Commander O'Conner, you have the bridge; I have more than a bit of reading and research to do before the conference begins in four days. Take me off the duty roster until further notice. You can deal with the vagaries of Bolian dock assignments… and anything else that comes up."

When he left the bridge, Sevril immediately moved to the X-O's chair even as O'Conner shifted one seat over.

They sat in angry silence for almost an hour—watching as yet another set of Bolian vessels was given precedence—before finally being accorded a slot in which to berth.

After Prometheus had been settled into its assigned place and station-keeping initiated, Mark O'Conner leaned back in the center seat.

"Let's get as many people down for shore leave as we can, Commander Sevril; they've had a few solid months of duty, and I'm sure they'd like a break."

"Yes, sir," she replied sweetly.

He frowned, but didn't offer anything further—at first.

Naeve's attitude with him was always just short of identifiably mocking or insubordinate—that is, not quite enough about which to even warn her, he knew. She'd simply look at him with those incredible eyes, and give a somewhat more professional version of, "Liddle ol' me? You must be mistaken, sir."

It had become a festering problem.

"Commander?"

The young gamma shift ops officer, T'Path, waited patiently while he returned from his reverie.

"Yes, Ensign?"

"I believe it necessary to remind you, sir, that protocol demands we send Liberty's commander, Captain Mantovanni, our compliments."

"Mind your station, Ensign," Sevril ordered sternly.

"Yes, ma'am," she replied promptly, and did just that.

O'Connor, after a moment, realized an explanation was probably a good idea; he reminded the young Vulcan, "Protocol, though, also frowns on nudging ships out of their place in the docking queue." His annoyance found expression in his final statement.

"If the famous Captain Mantovanni wants compliments, well… he can bloody well send them first."

T'Path, though, was not done.

"I remind the X-O that Captain Mantovanni is senior to Captain Becker. It is our place to initiate hail—no matter the situation."

Curtly, Naeve snapped, "I thought I told you to mind your station, Ensign."

T'Path did not look back.

"And I am doing so… Commander. That does not preclude reminding the senior officers of their responsibilities—especially when they seem loath to fulfill them."

The bridge went dead silent.

Sevril colored furiously; she was about to reply, but O'Conner cut her off.

"Your opinions and observations have been noted, Ensign."

She continued to monitor her station, as she'd been instructed, but acknowledged, "Thank you, sir."

Naeve Sevril, however, obviously didn't consider the matter finished.

"Ensign, you'll report to my office after your shift," she ordered.

After a brief hesitation, the Vulcan coolly answered, "Understood, ma'am."

O'Conner glanced at her, but, again, said nothing.

A few moments later, Sevril handed him a PADD, saying crisply, "The shore leave list for your approval, Commander."

He took it, tapped in a few notations, then said, "Hmmm… one or two of these are problematic. I'd like to discuss them… we can talk in the observation lounge."

She nodded. "Of course."

When the door had closed behind them, she asked, anticipating, "Was there some difficulty with my request for some shore time?"

O'Conner shook his head.

"No… my problem is with your attitude."

She looked startled.

"My 'attitude'?" she echoed incredulously. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sir," he finished.

"Excuse me?" her tone was practically—but, again, not quite—disdainful.

"'I beg your pardon,' sir." His voice was cold and hard. She hesitated momentarily; he added, "I'm waiting."

Naeve practically spat the phrase, "I beg your pardon… sir."

O'Conner was extremely irritated, but kept his tone even.

"I've been willing to put up with a lot from you, Lieutenant Commander; I understood that you'd expected to be an X-O, and that your position as chief of operations has you extremely frustrated and disappointed—perhaps, I'd first believed, with some justfication. Thus, I've been patiently waiting for you to reconcile yourself to your duties and responsibilities… and begin performing them without that neutron-star sized chip you've been carrying around on your shoulder since you boarded."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" she inquired angrily.

"Denied," he answered bluntly. "You're going to learn that you don't always get what you want, Commander Sevril. Your attitude over the last few months has proven that you're not yet ready for the X-O position you so desperately crave. I'm Prometheus' executive officer; you're her chief of operations. That's reality. If you find that state of affairs intolerable, then your sole option is to request a transfer. I'll make sure you'll get it, without any mark on your record, have no fear… but I'll also make certain you specifically don't receive an X-O billet, because it's become clear you're not mature enough to handle one yet. What happened on the bridge just now is a good example."

Desperately, Naeve tried to control her temper.

"What exactly do you mean… sir?" She was practically trembling with suppressed fury.

"Ensign T'Path has every right to express her opinion without fear of reprisal."

"You yourself made the decision!" Her voice rose almost an octave.

He nodded. "I did. But that doesn’t mean T'Path's perspective should be suppressed simply because you or I find it aggravating or disagree with it. She’s a Starfleet officer, entitled to respect when she voices her viewpoint.

"In addition,” he added firmly, “you will not speak to her after your shift on anything relating to the incident we're currently discussing. I consider the matter closed... and so, it is. I as much as said so on the bridge… and you decided on a show of overbearing authority in direct defiance of my clearly implied desires."

He fixed her with a dangerous glare, and told her, "Don't ever do it again.

"Are we clear, Lieutenant Commander?"

She was back on her heels, but not completely cowed. Each of her next words seemed drawn through a meat grinder.

"We are... sir.

"I respectfully request permission, however, to eventually speak with Captain Becker on matters related to this conversation."

If Naeve thought that would worry him, she was wrong; O'Conner inclined his head.

"You're authorized to do so at your convenience, Lieutenant Commander Sevril." He hesitated a moment, then decided a final statement was necessary.

"You are dismissed."

***

"…dismissed."

It wasn't often Luciano Mantovanni noted an undercurrent of childlike anticipation in USS Liberty's senior staff. Now, however, they'd just been loosed on an unsuspecting Bolian population after over 18 months of near-constant duty.

As they filed out the observation lounge door, a hint of his amusement must have been apparent to Erika Benteen, because she grinned slyly herself, and said, "Wondering if the planet's big enough for them, eh?"

"They’ve deserved a long rest, and haven't gotten it," he told her, rather soberly. "What with Liberty's presence constantly in demand during the postwar reorganization, the crew never actually received that leave Admiral Jellico promised us a few months ago."

Benteen smiled more gently, and observed, "You know, you have over three days before the conference begins. You should take some time and relax."

"Unfortunately, I have some work I should catch up on—administrative matters." He stood, and motioned towards the observation lounge door, but Erika was having none of it.

"Nope," she countered firmly. "I'll handle all of that. I'm better at paperwork than you are, and I don't need leave right now. After all, I sat in a prison cell for three years… I'm all rested up." She managed to make it a joke.

"In addition," Benteen continued, determinedly, when she registered his attempt to protest, "I've discussed this already with Counselor Hatshepsut and Dr. McDonald. We're more than willing to use our combined authority to force you into taking at least 72 hours for yourself. I know you went to the Roman home world a few months ago, but that wasn't exactly relaxing, considering what happened there."

Mantovanni arched a brow. "You, Hatshepsut and McDonald… why am I suddenly reminded of the three Furies?"

Benteen was unfazed.

"Because you'll wish you only had them to deal with if you don't take the next few days and relax."

She leaned across the table and set her face into a caricature of relentless ferocity.

Mantovanni wasn't exactly a jovial fellow, but his slight smile at her antic was genuine.

"Very well, Commander. You and your gaggle of gadflies win. I'll take three days' leave."

"And there'll be no hiding in your quarters playing chess," she scolded. "Go do something fun: There have to be innumerable dusty historical libraries you can poke around in for a few days. The Bolians used to kill each other with systematic precision… and chronicle it with tedious exhaustiveness.

"That's right up your alley."

With an amused, henpecked expression that wasn't entirely assumed, Luciano Mantovanni gestured off-handedly and retreated before his acting first officer's merciless assault.

She got one more comment in before the door slid open.

"And wear something for a while besides that uniform, will you…?"

On the bridge, Müeller stopped his captain with the announcement, "Sir, a Lieutenant Commander Naeve Sevril, off the USS Prometheus, requests permission to beam aboard and meet with you."

He glanced back at Benteen, who glowered disapprovingly.

She began, "The captain is…"

"…more than willing to see Commander Sevril," he interjected; then appeased Benteen by appending, "for a few minutes, since she obviously thinks it important.

"Permission granted, Ensign Müeller. Send her to my ready room, and we'll see what this is about."

***