Post by Robert C. Graham on Dec 4, 2012 0:01:41 GMT -6
Fleet Admiral Jorel Quinn is normally a quiet man, but there was something about the tone of his voice that was unsettling.
“Robert, I need a favor from you,” he said. The fact that he used my familiar name sent chills up my spine. Admiral Quinn, if nothing else, was by-the-book.
“Starfleet Intelligence has received word that an Orion fugitive by the name of Siroc has contacted us indicating an intention to defect.”
“Who is Siroc?” I asked.
“You’ve dealt with Section 31 before?”
Answering a question with a question is never a good thing, I thought.
“If Section 31 has a Top 10 Most Wanted list, he’d be numbers one through four. Siroc is a slave trader and probably the most ruthless operative in Syndicate history. Rumor has it; he is roughly the Orion equivalent of Al Capone, John Gotti, or Carlos Marcello.”
Ancient Earth history was never my strong suit, but I was able to gather his meaning from the references. “Why would a man with that kind of power and standing in the Orion Syndicate want to defect to the Federation?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s tired of following Klingon traditions and rules of honor. Maybe he just wants to do business on his own again—playing both sides of the field. Regardless, the amount of information this man has will be invaluable to us and Starfleet Command wants that information by any means necessary.” Admiral Quinn’s naturally gruff voice started to return to normal.
“That’s not really my expertise, sir. Wouldn’t Section 31 or even Starfleet Intelligence be better suited for that kind of mission?”
“First off, I don’t want either organization anywhere near this mission. In spite of the intelligence, a man of Siroc’s influence defecting is going to be a major political blow to the Empire. This is a diplomatic mission. Secondly, we’re dealing with the Orion Syndicate. They’re deceptive, tricky, and downright liars. You were able to uncover the Iconian influence between the Romulans and Species 8472. If you can do that, I think you can see through any guise the Orions might try to pull.”
“But sir, my fleet is just getting its toes wet. We’ve barely been able to set up long range patrols in this region. We haven’t even begun any real exploration missions.” I protested. I knew it would do no good.
“The Frontier will have to wait, Admiral. You have been chosen for this mission and that is it. Am I understood in that, Graham?” That stern voice was the same voice he used when we first met after the Vega Colony incident.
“Aye, sir. It will be done.” I replied, not even trying to hide a sigh of protest.
“I know I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this issue is. If it doesn’t work, then we can’t ever be fingered for having tried. This is need-to-know only, Admiral.”
“Understood, sir,” I nodded as the channel closed.
The cockpit of the U.S.S. Hancock was no pleasure cruise. Even at Warp Factor 8, the maximum safe cruising speed for the old Type-8 shuttlecraft, it would take three full days to even get to the edge of the Orion Sector; and another 18 hours to reach my destination. I passed most of my time looking over station logs and dreaming about what I could be doing instead.
The first mission of Starfleet is exploration, Robert, and you’re just the man to lead it. Go out there and see new things. Learn. Make your father proud. That’s what they told me when they gave me command of Frontier Fleet. Hah! First mission indeed, that’s why they placed Frontier Fleet Central Command right smack dab in the middle of what used to be the old Klingon Neutral Zone and filled my docking bays with 150 year old derelicts. I was lucky to be able to keep my Sovereign, which is nearly 75 years old itself. If they really cared about exploring they would have put us on the edge of known space instead of a sector that has been thoroughly explored for the past three hundred years. They just wanted another home for bodies they could call on to get shot at. My father would roll over in his grave if he had one. Damned politicians!
To Be Continued...
“Robert, I need a favor from you,” he said. The fact that he used my familiar name sent chills up my spine. Admiral Quinn, if nothing else, was by-the-book.
“Starfleet Intelligence has received word that an Orion fugitive by the name of Siroc has contacted us indicating an intention to defect.”
“Who is Siroc?” I asked.
“You’ve dealt with Section 31 before?”
Answering a question with a question is never a good thing, I thought.
“If Section 31 has a Top 10 Most Wanted list, he’d be numbers one through four. Siroc is a slave trader and probably the most ruthless operative in Syndicate history. Rumor has it; he is roughly the Orion equivalent of Al Capone, John Gotti, or Carlos Marcello.”
Ancient Earth history was never my strong suit, but I was able to gather his meaning from the references. “Why would a man with that kind of power and standing in the Orion Syndicate want to defect to the Federation?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s tired of following Klingon traditions and rules of honor. Maybe he just wants to do business on his own again—playing both sides of the field. Regardless, the amount of information this man has will be invaluable to us and Starfleet Command wants that information by any means necessary.” Admiral Quinn’s naturally gruff voice started to return to normal.
“That’s not really my expertise, sir. Wouldn’t Section 31 or even Starfleet Intelligence be better suited for that kind of mission?”
“First off, I don’t want either organization anywhere near this mission. In spite of the intelligence, a man of Siroc’s influence defecting is going to be a major political blow to the Empire. This is a diplomatic mission. Secondly, we’re dealing with the Orion Syndicate. They’re deceptive, tricky, and downright liars. You were able to uncover the Iconian influence between the Romulans and Species 8472. If you can do that, I think you can see through any guise the Orions might try to pull.”
“But sir, my fleet is just getting its toes wet. We’ve barely been able to set up long range patrols in this region. We haven’t even begun any real exploration missions.” I protested. I knew it would do no good.
“The Frontier will have to wait, Admiral. You have been chosen for this mission and that is it. Am I understood in that, Graham?” That stern voice was the same voice he used when we first met after the Vega Colony incident.
“Aye, sir. It will be done.” I replied, not even trying to hide a sigh of protest.
“I know I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this issue is. If it doesn’t work, then we can’t ever be fingered for having tried. This is need-to-know only, Admiral.”
“Understood, sir,” I nodded as the channel closed.
The cockpit of the U.S.S. Hancock was no pleasure cruise. Even at Warp Factor 8, the maximum safe cruising speed for the old Type-8 shuttlecraft, it would take three full days to even get to the edge of the Orion Sector; and another 18 hours to reach my destination. I passed most of my time looking over station logs and dreaming about what I could be doing instead.
The first mission of Starfleet is exploration, Robert, and you’re just the man to lead it. Go out there and see new things. Learn. Make your father proud. That’s what they told me when they gave me command of Frontier Fleet. Hah! First mission indeed, that’s why they placed Frontier Fleet Central Command right smack dab in the middle of what used to be the old Klingon Neutral Zone and filled my docking bays with 150 year old derelicts. I was lucky to be able to keep my Sovereign, which is nearly 75 years old itself. If they really cared about exploring they would have put us on the edge of known space instead of a sector that has been thoroughly explored for the past three hundred years. They just wanted another home for bodies they could call on to get shot at. My father would roll over in his grave if he had one. Damned politicians!
To Be Continued...