USS Liberty

Return to Season 1

 

 

Colin Becker stared at the PADD for a long time before looking up at the Klingon who stood dejectedly in front of his desk, arms stiffly at her side.

“These aren’t the types of reports I enjoy reading, Lieutenant,” he said coldly. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“It was not my fault,” she declared adamantly.

After reading Turek’s follow up report, he had to agree, at least partially: She’d been provoked. Master Chief Petty Officer Mav had a fleet-wide reputation for both truculence and a dislike of officers that was almost legendary, and, according to various bruised witnesses, he'd spared no effort to goad Seyla into taking a swing at him. The other combatants, on both sides, had been itching for an excuse to attack each other—though it did seem from the reports as if Prometheus' crew had had the much bigger itch.. Seyla Ta’quith had merely been the catalyst. Inwardly, he smiled as he recalled the Vulcan’s positive observations on her hand-to-hand prowess—right up until Mav had taken her to school, that is—but he didn’t allow his flinty expression to reveal his inner thoughts.

“I disagree, Lieutenant.”

“I did not start it. The Tellarite p'thk insulted me—my heritage, my honor. I could not allow that to go unanswered,” Seyla objected.

“Lieutenant, you represent Starfleet—not the Klingon Defense Force. You are an officer and the assistant chief of security. You let your temper get the best of you and that’s no example to the crew. You disappointed me... and more importantly, you reflected poorly on your supervisor and on your department, which should at all times represent itself with restraint and dignity.”

“I am… sorry, Captain,” she said stiffly. It was obvious she'd not considered it in that manner.

Colin shrugged.

"Don’t apologize to me, Lieutenant. I believe the regrets should go to Captain Mantovanni of the Liberty.”

“I am prepared to accept whatever discipline you or he feel is necessary, sir,” Seyla offered stoically.

“How belatedly gracious of you, Lieutenant! I'd considered a number of punishments for you, but then decided that Commander Turek would be far better qualified to decide the appropriate penalty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're dismissed,” Colin responded sharply, his eyes two slivers of ice.

He only allowed himself a smile and chuckle once he heard the ready room doors shut firmly behind her.

 

***

 

"Hey! It's not my fault that turtle head was stupid enough to throw the first punch. She could have walked away."

Erika Benteen had already dealt with the rest of the Liberty crew members who'd been involved in the altercation; evidently, they'd given offense with their mere presence two days ago: The Bolians had "bumped" Prometheus out of the docking queue in favor of Liberty, and the former's crew had been affronted enough to remember it none too fondly when encountering the latter's planet side.

Erika sighed inwardly. It was just the kind of thing that really galled prideful Starfleet officers and NCOs, and she and Captain Mantovanni hadn't even known about it.

The Prometheus crew, of course, had… and they'd pointed it out in no uncertain terms. Things might have been settled without punches being exchanged—if only Mav hadn't zeroed in on the Klingon lieutenant with all the porcine enthusiasm of which he was capable.

        "Come on, Chief! It's one thing to take shots at me; I'm almost as old as you. It's another to bait helpless lieutenants. They're no match for an old campaigner like you."

        Whether Mav's silence was stubborn or thoughtful, she couldn't tell at first.

"Hunh," he grunted. Then, amazingly, a touch of humor invaded his tone, and he countered, "They've got to learn some time, Commander—better with me than a genuine enemy."

Benteen nodded slowly.

"Granted. But a good 50% of it was simply the fact that you like punching out officers, true?"

"Yeah, well… it's good to enjoy your work, right?"

Exasperated, Benteen sighed explosively, and announced, "Fine… I'll deal with you later; go run a diagnostic on the security field for Brig #4, and be thankful I’m not having you fix it—and then putting you in there.

"Dismissed."

 

Mav left the ready room, and headed for security station two to begin his work.

He was in a remarkably good humor, especially for a Tellarite; he'd managed to cram drinking, insulting officers and brawling into a singularly satisfying afternoon.

He was sore, though, and rather heavily bruised; the Klingon girl was a good fighter, and could almost certainly have taken him after a long, brutal contest if she'd kept her composure. Instead, like so many of her species, she'd eventually allowed her temper to get the better of her, and had become angrily careless.

In addition, she hadn't expected him to have a few tricks up his sleeve. Typical Imperial Klingon attitude to assume he was no match for her. He smirked as he recalled her shocked—and groggy—expression when he'd really let her have it.

Then, she was mine, Mav thought satisfyingly. Little idiot.

The pair of officers—ensigns, ugghh—on duty at the security station both greeted him with an enthusiastic, "Hi, Chief!"

He ignored them and stomped over to Brig #4; there, indeed, the activated security force field was flickering off and on—but mostly off.

Yeah, that'll hold 'em in there, he thought in sarcastic disgust.

He removed the access panel next to the brig, examined the situation, and finally clicked a hoof on the ground in satisfaction.

"You… Ensign Cutie Pie," he snorted to the female, a little blonde human who managed, in his eyes, to be even more disgustingly perky than the majority of her species. "Call Lieutenant T'Lann and tell her to have Ensign O'Halloran run my epsilon tool kit down here."

"OK, Chief," she replied, only too happy to comply.

He squatted before the access panel on his powerful haunches, and waited for the tools he needed.

After a few moments, the door opened behind him; a few seconds later, the proper tool—namely, a null-field modulator—was slapped firmly into his palm by a surprisingly helpful assistant standing just behind him.

Surprised, he grunted, "Very smart, Ensign. You're much more competent than most sowlings."

He made his adjustment with swift efficiency, and was rewarded with a force field that smoothed back into transparent solidity.

"That's why you use a null field modulator," he instructed curtly. "This way you can make alterations to the flow while watching the force field, instead of turning the power off and on twenty times."

"Very efficient," his helper replied.

He realized, then, that the voice was surprisingly familiar… then he recognized the scent that had been nagging at him for a few seconds, but that he'd pushed aside as a residual memory.

The Klingon, he thought.

He closed the panel, and then turned to face her. Mav noted with a certain satisfaction that she still sported a nasty bruise along the line of her jaw; to her credit, she hadn't had it tended to, like most humans would have.

He peered suspiciously at her.

"What do you want?"

She seemed a little bitter.

"Absolutely nothing; I've been instructed by my supervisor, Lieutenant Commander Turek, to engage you in conversation, and to maintain my temper—no matter what you say. It's an exercise in self-control."

"Did he say how long this… exercise… was supposed to take?"

She frowned, seemingly disconsolate. "He said I was to tell you that it was at your discretion… that you should release me when you thought I'd demonstrated sufficient restraint."

Vaguely, Mav knew that the Vulcan's assignment could be viewed as insulting to Tellarites in general, and him in particular. He chose to interpret it somewhat differently.

Heh. This could be fun.

Abruptly, he moved past her, none too delicately, and strolled out the door.

"Come on, turtle-head," he threw back over his shoulder.

"We don't want to disappoint your boss, now do we?"

 

        Seyla fell in sullenly behind the Tellarite who'd so recently insulted her honor, and wondered what further humiliation lay in store.

Vaguely, she became aware of Liberty's sheer size as they traversed her corridors: The great vessel was immense; in addition, she was swift, maneuverable and packed a near irresistible punch. The Sovereign-class was considered the pride of the Federation Fleet.

The Prometheus-class will change that, she thought, with quiet confidence.

He stopped outside holodeck two, and grunted, "Computer: Standard hand-to-hand exercise ring."

A second later, it replied, "Program ready."

Without a backward glance, Mav entered, crossed the room until he was at one end of the ring, and then turned.

"All right, little girl, let's see just how much control you have."

"What exactly are you trying to accomplish here? I shall not fight you," Seyla told him, rather forcefully.

"Why not?" he asked, and snorted contemptuously. "Afraid I'll put you to sleep again?"

Why, you little…

"My orders are not to lose my temper," she countered, gritting her teeth.

"Hah! Typical Klingon. All that targ shit about honor and glory, until they meet someone who can actually fight back. Then it's time to hide behind regulations and the orders of Vulcan pacifists."

Seyla began to tremble in fury. Her fists clenched and unclenched… but she managed not to move.

I mustn't…

His nostrils wrinkled.

"Ah, the sweet stench of cowardice. That's exactly what I got from you in the bar. It's why I came after you, you know. I could smell the fear on you.

He leaned back against the wall, and sniffed at the air again.

"Ugghh. By the way… if you've shit yourself, I can get housecleaning down here."

That had done it.

Seyla narrowed her eyes to mere slits as a low growl emanated from deep within her throat. Her fists clenched almost involuntarily. The crack of his skull against the bulkhead would be a most satisfactory sound. She flexed her knees slightly, shifted her weight to the balls of her feet—and charged him. Vaguely, she saw him crouch to meet her, and take a step forward to receive her assault. At last they would meet strength to strength. She built up an impressive array of speed…

…and slammed into the wall with incredible force when Mav stepped aside.

There was a flash of explosive incandescence in Seyla's head, as Klingon cranium contacted Federation duranium, and the harder substance won.

She actually stood up straight for a moment, a befuddled expression on her face as she swayed.

A single, gentle shove from the Tellarite was enough to set her back on her rump.

When her head stopped spinning, she again got shakily to her feet, twisting her body to face her tormentor. 

"Surprised?"

"I am… impressed." Accompanying the confession, her expression was as sour as if she had eaten a lemon, but he could hear an underlying wistfulness in her tone.

Inexplicably, he grunted, "So was I."

She regarded him, startled and suspicious, but still saw nothing more than an obnoxious Tellarite. An NCO, no less—probably with no formal tactical training. 

But the p'thk could fight!

"I watched you in the first few minutes of that barroom brawl, turtle-head: You're fast, strong, and you've got excellent technique. You could have whipped my curly tail… if you'd just not gotten angry. The minute you did, you were fighting my fight…

"… like you're doing now."

Mav snorted in amusement. "It would've just happened again and again, you stupid Klingon… because you were fighting like a stupid Klingon."

He crouched into a combat stance again.

"Now come and get me… but this time, come with intent, not just anger. If you remain frosty, you're going to be damned near impossible to beat."

Cautiously, she approached, affording him all the respect she should a skilled and canny opponent.

Mav continued his lecture.

"Listen to me: You were beaten; it happens. It's hard to deal with, I know, but you have to take something from it. The first rule of battle—any battle—is that you use your anger, but you don't let your anger use you…like you let happen against me, in the bar and just now.

"You've been able to avoid the consequences of that, mostly, I'd bet… Klingons can bluster through a lot, because as a species, you're pretty damned tough. But against a foe that's stronger, faster—or, just in this case, simply a little smarter—that warrior's rage can kill you, girl.

"I've beaten on a lot of Klingons in my time, 'cuz you're usually easy to piss off. Then you all start flailing; usually, flailing's enough when you're a Klingon.

"Not with me."

The mockery in Mav's voice was gone; it was almost as if he was speaking in front of the access panel again, instructing a charge.

"You were a lot harder," he told her. "It usually only takes one or two of my insults to get a Klingon incoherently angry. You lasted almost five minutes. I had to be really inventive.

"Now it's time to take it to the next level, Lieutenant… that whole thing about 'revenge being a dish best served cold'? If you reach that point, you're going to be out of sight.

"So let's see it… not that I think you can… as a matter of fact…" And he launched into another series of insults.

She hardly listened, and he was still irritating. Mav was a veritable noodge, and knew how to use it. Still, he'd reminded her of lessons she'd learned long ago—but in the last few months of frustration, had temporarily forgotten.

Now she'd show him.

Seyla moved in, with speed, skill and strength. They exchanged blows for long moments. The Klingon could tell that Mav wasn't holding back, but she was slowly taking control of the fight. Eventually, he was breathing heavily, seemingly finished… even the insults had ceased.

Instead of assuming that she'd won, though, she gave him even more respect, waiting for the trick or feint—and when it came, saw it, countered it, moved in and struck him with a mok'bara blow that she'd saved for the coup de grace.

It put him on the ground… and she knew he hadn't been expecting that. The old veteran had planned on one more lesson for her, and instead had gotten schooled himself.

Then, she found herself fighting against the urge to finish him. He was helpless; he'd insulted her. Now was the time…

…to step back, Seyla told herself.

And, with the control she'd fought so hard all her life to gain, she did.

After a long moment, Mav struggled to his feet. For a moment, he swayed unsteadily, drunkenly. She thought about shoving him over, but decided it was conduct unbecoming an officer. Knowing she could have was enough for her.

"Lesson over," he huffed. "Go back to your ship."

Rather than complying, she stared at him for a long moment.

"Thank you," she said grudgingly.

Mav grunted in reply.

Seyla found herself saying, "Why not go drinking with me?"

Mav peered at her suspiciously, then shook his head.

"I don't drink with officers…"

She nodded, respectfully; he had a reputation to maintain, after all.

Then, though, he continued, "…but if I were to meet a Klingon in a bar like the Grithcalar…one I didn't know was an officer—I'm nearsighted, you know—I might be persuaded to have a drink or two."

Seyla nodded. "Of course, Master Chief. I understand that you can't drink with a lieutenant. Excuse me." She left the holodeck.

 

For a moment, Mav nursed his wounds, then turned his thoughts to the Aldebaran whisky—the real stuff—the Grithcalar's bartender kept in stock.

I'll need a gallon, he thought.

That turtle head can really hit.

 

***

 

Mark O'Conner drummed his fingers against the table, his eyes drifting lazily from one female vision of beauty to the next as he leisurely nursed a mug of ale.

I must have died and gone to heaven, because this is too good to be true.

He had been in the bar for nearly an hour before a large stream of officers and crew had poured in and raucously taken over the establishment. From the fragments of conversation he'd picked up, they must have come from the assorted Starfleet ships berthed with Prometheus, and their demeanor indicated they were more than ready for shore leave. To Mark's obvious delight, at least half of the newcomers were women…

…and in his slightly inebriated state, they were all attractive.

He'd been admiring a blond in medical blue who'd met his eyes flirtatiously several times, but she was, unfortunately, claimed by another man while he debated approaching her.

Oh well. Her loss.

Before he'd set his sights on her, a shapely little raven-haired beauty he'd danced with for over an hour had abruptly admitted she'd come with her fiancé—who didn't like to dance. Luckily, the man had been too drunk to recognize Mark's advances for what they were, and O'Conner had quickly extricated himself from the girl's all too willing, enthusiastic embrace and disappeared to the far side of the bar.

Yikes.

After hearing she was engaged, he hadn't want to touch her with a tractor beam, despite—or perhaps, because of—the fact that he was, even then, more than fairly certain he could've persuaded, and could probably still persuade, the woman to depart with him for a brief assignation while her fiancé romanced another bottle or two.

He raised his glass in silent salute to the man she was marrying.

I hope you know what you're getting into, buddy… because I don't think you're going to be the only one getting into it—even after the vows.

His newest interest was a slender brunette sitting at the bar, swirling a glass filled with clear liquid. She'd been there alone for some time and appeared unaware of his scrutiny, as she distractedly circled the rim of the glass with a fingertip. She wasn't beautiful in the classical sense, but there was something about her that was certainly compelling.

It was about to be her lucky day.

 

Erika Benteen distractedly put her glass down, allowing the bartender to refill it as her eyes roamed the bar. The noise level had gone up significantly in the past half-hour, much to her distaste, and she had almost reached the point where she'd had enough with her raucous compatriots.

Captain Mantovanni had insisted she take at least a few hours for herself—in part, she thought, because she'd given him the bum's rush—and she'd complied, having elicited the promise that, barring trouble, her return would begin his time away.

Out of the corner of her eye, Erika noticed a figure heading purposefully in her direction. Stifling a sigh, she took another swallow from her glass. The man had been watching her for several minutes; she'd been quite aware of his scrutiny. He approached her now with the cocky self-assurance of someone who was well aware of the effect he had on the opposite sex. Pausing briefly at her side, he gave her his most charming smile and offered a small bow.

"Mind if I join you?"

Erika shrugged. "Do as you like."

His rather arrogant grin indicated that he'd planned just that. Sliding in next to her, he held out a hand. "Mark O'Conner, USS Prometheus."

Grasping it somewhat reluctantly, she introduced herself. "Erika Benteen, USS Liberty."

She smiled and extricated her hand, thwarting his attempt to maintain the contact. With flashing eyes, he offered another grin obviously meant to melt her defenses as he signaled the bartender for a drink.

Not gonna work, buddy.

He was certainly handsome, she granted; his demeanor and bearing more than suggested he was completely unused to failure in such circumstances. Leaning towards her, he asked in an intimate tone, "Would you like to dance?"

"No, thank you," she said politely—but firmly.

"Oh, come on. Just once," he coaxed.

"I don’t think so."

"You can pick the song," he persisted.

Ironically enough, it was enlightening to watch a handsome man unaccustomed to rejection forced into experiencing it: It often told a lot about just how substantive the personality beneath their looks actually was.

"Thanks, but no."

"Why not? Are you seeing someone?" he asked curiously.

"No…." She shook her head.

"Married?" he guessed.

Of course that would be next, she thought, amused. That's the only way I could possibly resist your powers, eh, Mr. O'Conner?

She shook her head again.

"I'm not…"

"…a dancer? I can teach you," he offered.

"No," and now she smiled slightly. "I can dance. I'm just not…"

He interrupted again.

"…interested in dancing right now? I'll buy you a drink, then."

Erika tried a little harder. "No, it's not that. I'm not…"

"…interested in me?" he finished for her, his voice holding a tinge of disbelief.

Finally, she turned towards him with as cold a smile as she bet he'd seen in some time.

"Let me say this quickly before you interject again. I'm not a heterosexual. So you can understand why I'm not enthused about taking you up on your offers—charmingly though they were presented.

"It's nothing personal, of course. You're just not attractive—to me, that is."

 After a long, gaping moment, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Oh," he said lamely, no doubt feeling somewhat foolish.

Her sympathy was less than it would have been if he'd simply let it go a few minutes, and attempts, ago.

Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, she thought wryly. Take some telepathic advice, Mr. O'Conner… get over yourself.

Too bad she didn't have psi powers: The expression on his face might well have been worth it.

Directly over his shoulder, Erika caught the eye of a familiar figure, and smiled mischievously as she beckoned her over, an idea dawning.

Unable to resist, she leaned towards him, placed a hand over his and smiled brightly.

"But if you're interested, I do have someone in mind who'd be perfect for you."

He looked up at her quickly, searching her guileless eyes, and asked suspiciously, "Who?"

"Well, she's another officer aboard my ship. A counselor, in fact, and she most definitely likes men."

Now growing interested, Mark asked, "What's she look like?"

"Well, she has auburn, almost… tawny hair, amber eyes and is exotically attractive. She's also quite adventurous," Erika described suggestively. "I think you'd be perfect for each other. If you met her, I'm sure you'd click.

"In fact, she's right behind you."

"I'm more than game," he agreed good-naturedly, envisioning an attractive brown-eyed blonde—what used to be called "an American beauty."

The mental image was jarringly shattered as a… paw came down on his shoulder. A whisker brushed against his cheek as a throaty voice purred in his ear, "Hello, sexy."

To his alarm, a sleek-furred feline materialized from behind and settled onto the stool next to him, eyes bright with interest. He watched in uncomfortable fascination as her pupils grew from slits to saucers while she examined him.

"Erika, you must introduce me to this outstanding male specimen. I insist." She leaned towards him suggestively, her paw inching towards his hand.

"Of course, Hatshepsut. Where are my manners?"

He blanched visibly as introductions were made, barely recalling what Benteen said.  Although he had been with many different types of women in his time, he wasn't quite drunk enough to consider a cross-species encounter—particularly with a big cat.

The two women exchanged amused glances. No words were needed; Hatshepsut seemed to understand the situation perfectly. Unseen by O'Conner, she winked, even as Erika rose.

"I really have to go now… but it was so nice meeting you," Benteen announced.

Seeing an opportunity for retreat, Mark added quickly, "I should probably go, too."

"Don't be silly," Erika countered firmly. "You mustn't leave on my account."

"Yes," Hatshepsut coyly agreed. "I simply won't let you depart until you tell me all about yourself, hmm?"

Erika smiled with a wicked beneficence—usually a contradiction, but strangely apropos here—and left the couple. She could feel Mark O'Conner's desperate gaze on her retreating back.

Try and get out of that one, Casanova.

 

***

 

        Erika's feeling of self-satisfaction lasted precisely three minutes after beaming back to Liberty: Ensign King immediately accosted her as she entered the bridge.

        "Ma'am, the captain wanted to see you in his ready room as soon as you reported back."

        "Thanks, Brett," she acknowledged.

        Mantovanni's "Yeah?" in response to the chime was rather distracted.

After Benteen had entered, she could see why: There were PADDs strewn hither and yon across the desk. One or two had even fallen to the floor, where they now lay un-retrieved and forgotten.

"I take it you're not ready to go on leave?" Erika observed sardonically.

"Come here." The distracted crook of his finger and the sober, elsewhere-focused expression on his face dismissed any thoughts of pestering him about his time off.

He passed her the PADD he held.

"I've collated this data into what I think is a coherent analysis. Read it… take your time… do your own confirmations… then tell me what you think. I want your opinion in three hours."

She cocked an eye at him. "What happened to 'Take your time'?"

He rewarded her with a slight grin. "Within reason, Commander."

"Security to Captain."

Erika's brow furrowed: Usually the tactical officer on duty simply used the term "Bridge" when summoning or contacting his superiors, especially when they were in the ready room.

She noted the distinction. "That's probably Brett's subtle way of telling us this is a more pressing matter."

The captain nodded approvingly, and tapped his comm badge.

"Go ahead, Ensign."

"Sir, I have a contingent of the Bolian Planetary Constabulary requesting to see you."

Before Mantovanni could respond, a background voice was heard saying, "It's not a request, young man. Your captain will present himself immediately."

Liberty's commander and his acting first exchanged glances: Hers, nettled; his, as usual, unreadable.

Rather than replying, he rose, motioned for Erika to follow, and stepped out onto the bridge.

A pair of tall, snooty-looking Bolians were standing, arms folded somewhat forbiddingly. They turned to face him as he approached, but, if anything, their expressions grew even more standoffish.

King started to speak, but the taller, and presumably higher-ranking official interrupted. As he did so, the other began keying material into a rather impressively large hand-held PADD.

"You are Captain Luciano Cicero Mantovanni, commanding the Federation starship USS Liberty, registry number NCC-1776?"

"Yes, I'm…"

"'Yes' or 'No' is sufficient," the man interjected a second time. "A certain Ensign Vaerth Parihn is one of your officers?"

At this, the Orion stood up from her station.

"Well, if it isn't obvious enough, I'm Vaerth Parihn."

Neither constable spared her so much as a glance.

"I await your response, Captain," he prodded impatiently.

If Mantovanni's expression had been neutral before, it now diffused into inscrutability.

"Yes," he replied simply.

The Bolians, as one, nodded. Then, the second one took up the task.

"By order of the Marillion Province Judiciary, we hereby place Vaerth Parihn under arrest for aggravated assault, verbal assault, destruction of public property… and attempted murder. Other charges may follow as the investigation progresses."

Liberty's crew was rendered momentarily speechless.

This didn't deter their guests in the least.

"And, according to Bolian law, Captain Mantovanni," he declared with a tone that bordered on genuine satisfaction, "we are perfectly within our rights to charge you with the same crimes, according to precedents of association and command responsibility.

"Moreover, we have opted to exercise those rights."

He met the captain's glare with one of his own.

"You, too, sir, are under arrest."

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED…..