On the Enterprise...
The offical motto of Starfleet is "To boldly go where no one has gone before".
The unoffical motto should have been "Don't make any long-term plans". At least, that's what much of the rank-and-file thought. You'd be off on one mission slated to last weeks to months (to even years) and, without any warning, orders would come in over subspace ordering you to stop whatever in space you were doing and get your aft over to some part of the galaxy known only to God and Stellar Survey.
You got used to it or you applied for early discharge. But that didn't mean you couldn't gripe about it. After all, griping about the idiocy of High Command is a sacred right of the lower ranks. And Mother knew Naraht wasn't above indulging in it himself.
Yes, "he" was making a concerted effort to think of "himself" in those terms, even though it wasn't precisely accurate in a physical sense and Naraht was still rather unresolved on the issue in the non-physical sense. But it made things easier since everyone on of his crewmates thought of him as a him...and it was certainly easier than trying to explain Milliways and how he spent over a month (that didn't pass here) as a female.
It was pretty much business-as-usual when the Enterprise suddenly found herself ordered back to Earth with an official reason which...well, scuttlebutt said it was likely contrived. Which meant that Starfleet's flagship was likely about to head out on a highly dangerous and classified mission. The betting pool was going strong on which Neutral Zone would be involved: the Romulan one or the Klingon one. An additional pool was available for those wanting to put their credits where their stoma were when it came to the Enterprise actually crossing into said zones.
But, as hours stretched out into days in orbit over Earth, the last thing Naraht expected was to be ordered down to the headquarters of Starfleet Medical. Yes, not as much was known about Horta physiology as would make the doctors comfortable, but he'd been looked over by the best only last month! But Naraht complied, humorously imagining what Dr. McCoy's reaction might be when this insult came to light.
"Back soon, Carter," Naraht said cheerfully as he slid onto the transporter platform. "Want me to bring you back anything?"
"A couple bottles of scotch would be nice," Lt. Carter answered. "Have fun, Naraht. Don't let the medicos stick too many things in you."
"They wouldn't dare," Naraht said with a laugh. "Not unless they want me to decide mid exam that I'm hungry and the damn probes look tasty. Energize."
The world disolved into glittering light...and put itself back together as a white room with caedesuses embossed on two of the walls. A human in a blue uniform was there to greet him, but, before Naraht could even twitch, the officer said, "Lt. Naraht, do not move!"
And the world disolved once more. This time, Naraht found himself transported to a rather plush anteroom...one that screamed "there's an Admiral in the next office" as much as this round-about transport screamed "covert operations". The only other occupant of that room was an Andorian commander who was apparently waiting for him.
"Sir?" Naraht said cautiously. "Lt. Naraht reporting...well, not precisely as ordered since I was under the impression I was going somewhere quite different. May I ask what is going on?"
The commander nodded. "You may ask, but others must provide your answer. If you would please go inside, Lt. Naraht. They are waiting for you."
Naraht turned toward the office door which slid open to reveal Admiral Perry of Starfleet Intelligence standing by his desk...and an extremely familiar person leaning against the wall. Naraht's finge went completely limp in suprise...then he pulled himself together.
"Lt. Dahai Iohor Naraht reporting, Admiral," his voder snapped out crisply, bringing a bark of laughter from the man leaning against the wall.
"No need to be so formal, son," Dr. McCoy drawled. "Especially given the fact that the Admiral here practically shanghaied you."
"And you had a better way to get him down here without people making a connection between the two of you?" Perry asked dryly.
"No," McCoy admitted. "But it's my humble opinion that an informal recruitment into what might well be a suicide mission might merit tossing formality to the winds."
Perry didn't wince, but his hands tightened just slightly on the folder he held. "I'm hoping to keep it from becoming such," the admiral answered. "And, hopefully with the Lieutenant's assistance, we will be able to do just that."
Naraht's mind kicked into overdrive. On what possible kind of covert mission would Starfleet Intelligence send a Chief Medical Officer and a Horta engineer?
"Admiral," Naraht said. "I know my oaths to the Federation and Starfleet. If they require my services in any way..."
"This is not the kind of mission anyone can be ordered to take," Perry broke in, kindly but firmly. "And it's not one you can volunteer for without hearing all that you must do...and risk."
"Very well, sir," Naraht said respectfully, but with an undertone that implied that whatever the Admiral said, it wouldn't make a difference. Starfleet and Dr. McCoy apparently needed him. Naraht might refuse Starfleet, but the man who saved his Mother? Bones heard that undertone and sighed.
"Damn idealistic kids. Don't make up your mind yet, Naraht. This ain't a pleasure cruise we're going on." He glared briefly at the Admiral who simply smiled. "I've been asked to check on a sleeper agent on the Romulan homeworld. See how she's doing and if she wants out. I'm going to need back-up and you're the best officer for this particular job."
A chuff of steam escaped Naraht in suprise. "Doctor, Admiral, I'm flattered, but I'm not an Intelligence or even a Security officer."
"No, but you do have talents that allow you to go where they can't," the Admiral said, handing over a date chip to the Horta. "Read through this before you make any decisions. And, if you still want to go along with it, please feel free to point out any flaws or problems that we've overlooked."
McCoy snorted as Naraht took the chip in his fringe and glided over to the reader that had been placed on a low table for him. "Yes, do feel free to critique the master plan, boy. Jim's been over it. Spock's been over it. But you can't have too many checks if you're going to ch'Rihan as a goddammed POW!"
The unoffical motto should have been "Don't make any long-term plans". At least, that's what much of the rank-and-file thought. You'd be off on one mission slated to last weeks to months (to even years) and, without any warning, orders would come in over subspace ordering you to stop whatever in space you were doing and get your aft over to some part of the galaxy known only to God and Stellar Survey.
You got used to it or you applied for early discharge. But that didn't mean you couldn't gripe about it. After all, griping about the idiocy of High Command is a sacred right of the lower ranks. And Mother knew Naraht wasn't above indulging in it himself.
Yes, "he" was making a concerted effort to think of "himself" in those terms, even though it wasn't precisely accurate in a physical sense and Naraht was still rather unresolved on the issue in the non-physical sense. But it made things easier since everyone on of his crewmates thought of him as a him...and it was certainly easier than trying to explain Milliways and how he spent over a month (that didn't pass here) as a female.
It was pretty much business-as-usual when the Enterprise suddenly found herself ordered back to Earth with an official reason which...well, scuttlebutt said it was likely contrived. Which meant that Starfleet's flagship was likely about to head out on a highly dangerous and classified mission. The betting pool was going strong on which Neutral Zone would be involved: the Romulan one or the Klingon one. An additional pool was available for those wanting to put their credits where their stoma were when it came to the Enterprise actually crossing into said zones.
But, as hours stretched out into days in orbit over Earth, the last thing Naraht expected was to be ordered down to the headquarters of Starfleet Medical. Yes, not as much was known about Horta physiology as would make the doctors comfortable, but he'd been looked over by the best only last month! But Naraht complied, humorously imagining what Dr. McCoy's reaction might be when this insult came to light.
"Back soon, Carter," Naraht said cheerfully as he slid onto the transporter platform. "Want me to bring you back anything?"
"A couple bottles of scotch would be nice," Lt. Carter answered. "Have fun, Naraht. Don't let the medicos stick too many things in you."
"They wouldn't dare," Naraht said with a laugh. "Not unless they want me to decide mid exam that I'm hungry and the damn probes look tasty. Energize."
The world disolved into glittering light...and put itself back together as a white room with caedesuses embossed on two of the walls. A human in a blue uniform was there to greet him, but, before Naraht could even twitch, the officer said, "Lt. Naraht, do not move!"
And the world disolved once more. This time, Naraht found himself transported to a rather plush anteroom...one that screamed "there's an Admiral in the next office" as much as this round-about transport screamed "covert operations". The only other occupant of that room was an Andorian commander who was apparently waiting for him.
"Sir?" Naraht said cautiously. "Lt. Naraht reporting...well, not precisely as ordered since I was under the impression I was going somewhere quite different. May I ask what is going on?"
The commander nodded. "You may ask, but others must provide your answer. If you would please go inside, Lt. Naraht. They are waiting for you."
Naraht turned toward the office door which slid open to reveal Admiral Perry of Starfleet Intelligence standing by his desk...and an extremely familiar person leaning against the wall. Naraht's finge went completely limp in suprise...then he pulled himself together.
"Lt. Dahai Iohor Naraht reporting, Admiral," his voder snapped out crisply, bringing a bark of laughter from the man leaning against the wall.
"No need to be so formal, son," Dr. McCoy drawled. "Especially given the fact that the Admiral here practically shanghaied you."
"And you had a better way to get him down here without people making a connection between the two of you?" Perry asked dryly.
"No," McCoy admitted. "But it's my humble opinion that an informal recruitment into what might well be a suicide mission might merit tossing formality to the winds."
Perry didn't wince, but his hands tightened just slightly on the folder he held. "I'm hoping to keep it from becoming such," the admiral answered. "And, hopefully with the Lieutenant's assistance, we will be able to do just that."
Naraht's mind kicked into overdrive. On what possible kind of covert mission would Starfleet Intelligence send a Chief Medical Officer and a Horta engineer?
"Admiral," Naraht said. "I know my oaths to the Federation and Starfleet. If they require my services in any way..."
"This is not the kind of mission anyone can be ordered to take," Perry broke in, kindly but firmly. "And it's not one you can volunteer for without hearing all that you must do...and risk."
"Very well, sir," Naraht said respectfully, but with an undertone that implied that whatever the Admiral said, it wouldn't make a difference. Starfleet and Dr. McCoy apparently needed him. Naraht might refuse Starfleet, but the man who saved his Mother? Bones heard that undertone and sighed.
"Damn idealistic kids. Don't make up your mind yet, Naraht. This ain't a pleasure cruise we're going on." He glared briefly at the Admiral who simply smiled. "I've been asked to check on a sleeper agent on the Romulan homeworld. See how she's doing and if she wants out. I'm going to need back-up and you're the best officer for this particular job."
A chuff of steam escaped Naraht in suprise. "Doctor, Admiral, I'm flattered, but I'm not an Intelligence or even a Security officer."
"No, but you do have talents that allow you to go where they can't," the Admiral said, handing over a date chip to the Horta. "Read through this before you make any decisions. And, if you still want to go along with it, please feel free to point out any flaws or problems that we've overlooked."
McCoy snorted as Naraht took the chip in his fringe and glided over to the reader that had been placed on a low table for him. "Yes, do feel free to critique the master plan, boy. Jim's been over it. Spock's been over it. But you can't have too many checks if you're going to ch'Rihan as a goddammed POW!"