* USS CHILLICOTHE: The Wedding Swinger
Brian Cook
Scene: Surface of Chadora Prime
"What now, Colonel?" Staff Sergeant Theodore "Torg" Rain-Gatherer
glanced upward, into the trees in the direction that the natives had
taken Commander T'Osio. If I were a home-tree, which would I be?
"We save her, if we can. I think she may have just gotten betrothed."
Quayde looked like he was about to give birth to a tree stump, breech
presentation.
One of the other grunts piped up, "Up in that mess? We ain't equipped
for that, sir!"
"So? You're a Marine, son. Shut up and soldier," shot back Torg, who
got his nickname from his initials back in the olden days of boot camp,
as he tromped off slowly after the fleeing natives, dropping into the
classic tracker stance as he moved that his forefathers had used on the
wide prairies of the American Midwest a thousand years before the white
man had come. Well, OK, some of his ancestors. One, he knew, had been
a warehouse manager in someplace called New Jersey...
He shook his head as he slowly heard the rest of them following, a
stampeding noise of boots and equipment that ruined his train of
thought as he hunted for tracks and signs of passage. He pivoted on a
heel and waved the entire group to silence, and resumed his tracking
followed by a quieter, but still very alert squad of Marines, the
Fleeters having been left behind to guard the Elatragol and gather more
as they could.
He didn't need to get very far; just enough to get out of sight of
where they'd been in the thick undergrowth on the forest floor, the
tracks stopped along with Torg's scenting of the Commander's perfume.
He looked at some of the nearby trees, and found one bearing a few
strands of dark red hair.
"They went up, sir," he announced, showing but not disturbing the
physical evidence. His eyes traveled the canopy over their head,
seeing patterns within patterns in the thick growth.
Quayde shook his head. It would be suicide to send more than a few up
into the trees, where the natives had home field advantage... and he
wasn't exceptionally confident that any one of them knew how to climb
and navigate above the ground. "Alright, I want..."
Torg shushed him with a gesture, moving his hand slowly to his phaser
pistol, then fast-drawing it and firing a shot into the trees. He was
just about to get his ass handed to him by Quayde when their ears were
rewarded with the muffled crush of something falling into the
underbrush just below where Torg had laid his shot in.
Two troopers dashed off to recover the stunned native, while Torg
stripped out of his combat harness and boots, rolling up his cuffs
above the knee and shedding most of the rest of his uniform. He
slipped the webgear back around his torso, taking just a combat knife
and a thin coil of biphase rope.
His commander's question died again on his lips before it could be
asked. "Sir, you were about to ask for volunteers. I grew up in trees
like these on my homeworld; we lived lightly on the sacred land, and
some big migratory predators taught us early to live high as well. I'm
also one of three uninfected troopers in this unit, and since the
Commander's not either, sending someone who is would almost guarantee
her winding up that way. Unless you've got some sterile-wrapped
orangutans in your pack, I'm your man for this, sir."
Not bothering to wait for an acknowledgement, Torg -- who just KNEW
that he was about to become Torgo of the Jungle among his brothers
below -- scaled the tree effortlessly and started stalking the enemy on
his own turf.
One of the guys below just shook his head. "There goes one crazy man,"
he mumbled, drawing nods and choruses of "Amen, Clyde," from the rest
of the Marines.
=-=-=-=
The natives hadn't been kind enough to let Keile leave behind hair
every few meters, but once he was into the thick branches, that didn't
matter much. Years, if not centuries, of use had blazoned paths on the
bark as obvious as slidewalks on Earth, and Torg's tracking skills
weren't shabby by any stretch.
A few times during his pursuit, he'd gotten close enough to catch a
glimpse of T'Osio's gold and black uniform darting through the trees,
still being manhandled like a Marine backpack. He concentrated on
keeping the gold in view, that standing out best against the multitude
of subdued shades that made up the 'world' around them all. To his
luck, the natives were more interested in making speed back to where
they'd come from, apparently not believing that any surface-dwelling
creatures would follow them.
Mistakes like that simply had to be capitalized upon.
The Chadorans were definitely tool-users; ladders made of braided vines
and stout branches were in evidence every so often, and Torg felt a
vague sense of home-like nostalgia as the signs of their civilization,
as it were, became more obvious. They had evidently learned tactics in
some fashion, because whenever they had to slow in order to move from
foundation tree to foundation tree via slings, the men tended to
surround, or at least keep watch in a full circle. Perhaps they HAD
been followed in the past...
Torg moved higher into the trees, which made his pursuit a touch more
difficult, but also made being spotted difficult as well. Falling into
old habits, he had made a point to 'dirty' himself... tree sap, bark
scrapings and other detritus to make his skin and features blend in
more smoothly with the background he was trying to hide in. That he
wasn't yet pierced by an arrow told him he was doing well... or falling
into a trap, one of the two.
Or even both.
Eventually, they came to what was obviously the home base for this
group of natives, and from his vantage point higher up, Torg could see
what looked like about 50-60 of the native males, in various states of
aging.
He could NOT, however, find any evidence of what could be females.
Torg filed this factoid for reporting later, and observed Keile being
taken across a shaky rope bridge to a large structure central to the
three-dimensional complex. He frowned as she was lashed to a pole, and
realized why she hadn't been screaming bloody murder the whole time.
She was gagged with one of the massive foundation leaves, rolled up
into a rough ball shape and stuffed into her mouth. He couldn't tell
from this distance, but he imagined that the volatile head-shrinker was
in a foul mood.
Patience borne of years in the lower echelons of the Marine Corps led
him to slowly sneak closer, waiting for an opportune time to effect the
rescue of the counselor and their return to the CHILLICOTHE... because,
frankly, the sap stunk to high heaven and he couldn't WAIT to get it
off of him. He'd joined Starfleet primarily because he thought a hot
shower was just this side of heaven, and hot water was a pointless
luxury to his retro-hip people.
Tarzan, the name he'd given to the big Chadoran who had kidnapped the
counselor, ducked inside the central structure, and stayed inside for
several minutes, which gave Torg the chance to creep ever-closer to the
platform area. He could hear the meaningless babble from the natives
faintly at this distance, but it made as little sense to him as it had
to her.
Keile, bless her heart, was grunting angrily and straining at her
bonds, her head thrashing about in all directions as she vented her
anger at being taken so easily. Pulling a small light from the web
gear around his body, he flashed a signal at her. He had to repeat it
several times until she actually spotted it, at which time she
seemingly gave up, just staring into the treetops, which gathered only
momentary notice from the few natives present before they went about
their business again.
Tarzan came back out, coming over to stand proudly next to his prize
catch, and grunted some more in what they used as a language. A thin
smile crept across Torg's features as he saw who came out of the
structure next.
A native female. She looked older than dirt, with long stringy
bluish-white hair that probably had never seen water and effort, and
moved slowly, supporting herself on a crooked stick.
He had a plan. Like most of his plans he'd ever thought up, it was
probably suicidal, but that's why he was logistics, not tactics. And,
given the tribal nature of this rowdy gang, it had probably never been
tried in the past.
The rope he'd brought was soon around the branch he crouched on, gloves
on his hands and the determined look all Marines get when they find out
the odds are heavily against them. Slowly, the black coil unwound from
his hands, snaking down using the darkness of the forest as camoflage
until it dangled a meter or so above the view of the natives, who were
all looking at Keile anyhow. Taking a deep breath and asking his
ancestors to watch over him, he slid down the rope as quietly as he
could, until he was near the end.
Rocking himself back and forth, he slowly got the rope swinging like a
pendulum, projecting in his mind a neat little arc that would land him
between the counselor and the old woman. He slid the blackened steel
knife from its sheath, slipping his fingers into the knuckle rings to
keep from dropping it, and when he thought he'd built up just enough
momentum...
..the rope around the tree finished abrading through itself, and he
flew rather haphazardly through the air, landing and rolling with the
fall to avoid breaking anything useful. He was up quickly, and found
himself behind the old woman, with the half-dozen natives that had been
nearby reacting to his presence.
They were quick, but she was slow, and before they could nock and let
fly half a dozen death darts into his body, he had the harridan in a
hold from behind, the point of his blade poking into her wrinkled skin.
"Not so fast there, Tarzan," he growled, glaring directly at Keile's
new boyfriend and shaking his head negatively. "Commander, are you
alright?" he asked, only then remembering she wasn't able to respond.
She did, though, nod vigorously, but not without giving a deadly glare
to Tarzan.
The native's eyes widened, and he gave a curt gesture that lowered the
bows held by his big friends. He muttered something in that weird
aliensprache, which Torg ignored. "Be a nice little savage and give me
back my friend," Torg said with a smile.
Obviously, Tarzan didn't understand, so Torg tried simple sign
language. He tapped the knife against the old woman in his grasp, then
pointed at Tarzan. Once that had sunk in, he repeated the gesture,
only linking himself and Keile with the gestures. "Granny, yours.
Her, mine. Trade?"
The negotiations, such as they were, repeated twice, until the crone on
the business end of the knife spat out a short string of local lingo
and Tarzan nodded numbly, releasing the bonds that held Keile to the
post. As soon as her hands were free, Keile whirled back and let fly
with a fierce slap that jerked Tarzan's head around.
Both Torg and Keile were surprised at the next sound they heard -- the
old biddy laughing... or what they both surmised was laughing, since
Tarzan's face darkened considerably the more the volume increased. A
man of his word, Torg withdrew the knife from its dangerous position
and stepped back from the tribal elder, moving to T'Osio's side.
As soon as he moved away from the tribe's matriarch, several bows
started to come up until she barked out another sharp, distinctly
negative bit of Chadoran, at which time the bows went back down and
several hunters looked rather annoyed.
"You alright?" he asked through clenched teeth, waiting for something
bad to happen.
Keile's face looked strained, but she said, "I'm fine." She continued
looking at the native who had apparently spared their lives,
concentrating intently as the woman said something else and made a
short gesture with her free hand. "I think... I think she says we can
go."
Punctuating the apparent dismissal, she turned and headed back into her
hut. Tarzan's face and hulking torso suddenly sprang into view, and he
repeated her words, pointing in the direction they'd come.
"Let's not wear out our welcome, Commander," he suggested as he led her
back into the trees.
Keile looked at him as he moved, almost as at-home in the trees as the
Chadorans were. "I... are you infected?" she asked, the question very
reasonable all things considered.
He shook his head. "I don't shake hands, and Momma taught me never to
kiss strangers."
=-=-=-=
MD: 7.0620
Scene: Away Team encampment
A curt whistle from over their heads caused the sentry guards to look
up and see two dirty, weathered-looking figures in the branches
overhead. A little whoop of excitement rippled through the group as
they recognized the two as their missing comrades.
"Rope up, guys," ordered the larger of the two, and Keile and Torg were
soon down on the ground.
======================
NRPG:
Summary:
7.0030 - The rescue party - one lone arboreal sergeant - goes in search
of the missing ex-counselor
7.0620 - After a successful(?) First Contact(?), T'Osio and Torg return
to the Away Team site
Notes: This was just too rich an opportunity to pass up, and since
Eric asked me to...
======================
Respectfully submitted by:
Brian M. Cook
tec...@tampabay.rr.com
ICQ UIN 348530 (yes, I've been around that long)
CDR Davis Kendall, XO, USS MacARTHUR
LT Walter E. O'Reilly, aFCO, USS MacARTHUR
LCDR Suhas Chandrasekhar, CEO, USS TEMPEST
LT Deitrahs, FCO, USS THUNDERCHILD
LT Osama ibn Saud, CNS, USS CHILLICOTHE
SSGT Theodore "Torg" Rain-Gatherer, Marine, USS CHILLICOTHE
LT Matteo Cagliostro, PRO/JAG, USS ARIANE
PO2 Giroy, JAG Aide, USS ARIANE
LMAJ Nolian Defteli, MCO, USS MONTANA
Tielas Narenil, CULATT, Starfleet Diplomatic Task Force
J. Blake Remington, SFAREC, SB YEAGER
...and a bigger raft of PNPCs than Jenny D. <G>
"I am not a writer. I simply transcribe the voices in my head."
-Brian M. Cook
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Brian M. Cook
=-=-=-=
Or even both.
======================
NRPG:
======================
Respectfully submitted by:
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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