Ensign Talon Morda: Last time, on Star Trek: The Sensory Flashback Generation...
Eston Melton
OOC: This self-indulgence is something I click-clacked away at while on vacation. I’ve waved toward in recent sims, i.e. the last time young Talon had a sensory flashback to when he killed a pirate. This started from notes to help think through what next and turned into a narrative.
{{ Flashback - One Tuesday last January - 0100 - Kebnekaise, Swedish Lapland }}
Here lies Talon: prone in the snow near the base of Sweden’s tallest mountain, half concealed behind a stray boulder, with an idle Tellarite centered in his site.
Now, Talon here wasn’t a mountain man about to snipe a stranger squatting on his crag. This was Cadet First Class Talon Morda, and this was the annual Kebnekaise Field Training Exercise for Starfleet Academy security-track cadets (plus undeclared but security-curious plebes). As a firstie on his fourth Kebnekaise FTX, Morda’s class planned and controlled the exercise. He laid in the snow because the firsties’ monitored and instructed the underclassmen -- tonight, on how well they’d setup perimeter security. Alas, this squad required intervention.
The wind shifted, carrying flecks of snow from Morda’s boots to the nape of his neck. A moment later, the Tellarite tensed, pushing himself off the rock, gesturing for someone behind to join him, and hefting his sidearm. A second silhouette joined the Tellarite, and the latter stepped toward and aimed accurately at Morda.
Tellarite cadet: You there! Extend your appendages and approach for challenge!
Slowly, Morda stowed his monocular, stood, stretched out his arms, and walked toward the Tellarite.
This group of cadets setup along a 30-meter-long, three-meter-high mostly-straight moraine rock wall. Morda approached it edge-on, like looking down the blade of a giant knife. The Tellarite stood along the wall on the same side as the camp, a few meters from the end, looking along the site’s flank in Morda’s direction. But Morda had reconnoitered the entirety of the other side of the wall and found no sign of sentries or a patrol, creating an unacceptable blind spot.
The Tellarite barked:
Tellarite cadet: Halt!
Morda obeyed, keeping his hands splayed. The Telarite by now must have recognized they wore the same rime-encrusted field jacket, save for the upperclassman's extra stripes. Still, the plebe didn’t let up; under his classmate’s cover, he approached the intruder.
Tellarite cadet: ::Softly:: Voice.
The sign. Morda gave the countersign, just as softly.
Morda: Passport.
Tellarite cadet: ::Lowering his weapon:: You may pass.
Morda kept his arms splayed.
Morda: I come in peace. Take me to your leader.
Tellarite cadet: Aye, sir. This way.
The squat Tellarite tramped with high steps through the ice and snow toward a low-slung shelter identical to a half-dozen others. The classmate who provided cover followed them both. oO Another correction. Oo
Morda shook the top of the indicated shelter.
Morda: B’vrot! Wake up!
A Klingon skull, replete with ridges, braids, beard, and scowl, burst through the flimsiplast seal, followed by the rest of his body. An eerie red glow -- a tactical light to protect night vision -- spilled out of the hatch, pooling like blood at the Klingon’s boots. He blinked at Morda as he reached his full height.
B’vrot: I wasn't asleep: I just received the signal for a perimeter alert. Besides, the snow makes too soft a surface for a true warrior to find slumber.
They locked eyes, then both chuckled. They became friends upon discovering their mutual affinity for meeting new species, and Morda appreciated that B’vrot played up, laughed off, and undermined the boundaries of Klingon stereotypes. The rumor mill celebrated his bunk’s supple padding and luscious comforter.
Morda: Take a walk with me, would ya?
They strode from the camp perpendicularly from the rock face, passed another cadet on perimeter duty, stopped a few meters short of a distinct boulder, and turned to face the biouvac site. No sign of the Tellarite sentry.
Morda: ::Pointing:: That far right edge is where your sentry was leaning.
Despite the wind and watchcap, Morda imagined he heard his friend’s face fold into a deeper scowl.
B’vrot: Leaning? On this side?
Morda: Yes.
B’vrot: Ugh, no. His walking patrol included the far side.
The problem burst like a flare. Despite whatever scanners they’d setup, a basic security tenet was that technology could always be undermined, and standard operating procedure included a security professional monitoring all lines of approach. B’vrot’s orders addressed this need, but the assigned cadet moved to the near side of the wall -- whether tired? scared? sheltering from a mean blast of wind? a contradicting order? misunderstanding? -- and parked himself, leaving the broad field on the other side unmonitored for the whole time Morda'd been skulking about.
B’vrot: ::sighing:: I will address the lapse immediately, of course.
Morda: And?
B’vrot: ::Standing taller:: And, sir, it is my responsibility. I failed to ensure my command intent was understood, and I failed to set conditions to monitor. ::A pause, quietly testing the waters:: The ignominy of my leadership knows no limits.
None of the actual instructor cadre would have appreciated B’vrot’s humor, and B’vrot would never try it with them. But friends could quip, and Morda heard his contrition and ownership.
Morda: ::patting B’vrot on the shoulder:: That’s the spirit. I don’t see him; he must be walking the patrol now. And he smelled me on the wind and trusted his biology, he did a good countersign challenge, and word got passed to you of an intruder. ::Pausing, remember his other observation:: But he and the cadet who covered him both walked me to you, leaving that flank open.
B’vrot: ::growling:: My family is dishonored for a thousand million generations.
Morda: ::Nodding:: Yeah. Need a blade for your mocktail?
B’vrot: Mauk-to'Vor, and no. ::sniffing the air:: Does this have anything to do with the human?
B’vrot pointed to a snow clump amassed by the boulder four meters away. Now upwind, naturally. Besides getting a view of the tableau of the camp, a more compelling reason had led Morda to walk them toward this landmark.
Morda: Wonderful that two species’ olfactory gifts get to shine tonight.
B’vrot: “Aliens are the best.”
Morda repeated their shared self-aware mantra, biological minorities in an overwhelmingly human organization.
Morda: “Aliens are the best.” Here’s a local specimen. ::Louder:: Commander Lindström, may I present Cadet Second-Class B’vrot?
The pale snow pile rotated and came to its feet. He didn’t wear Starfleet garb, however: the white boot-to-scalp outfit undulated between snow-adjacent hues and bits of speckled shadow as the stranger approached. A baldric with pockets and gizmos stretched from shoulder to opposite hip. A pale matte screen blocked the wearer’s face, and a tap at his ear made it evaporate. He extended his hand to the Klingon.
Morda: B’vrot, this is Commander Anders Lindström. Commander Lindström retired from Starfleet Security to his hometown of Nikkaluokta, and for the last few years he’s been a Bergsguide for Kebnekaise. He shot me last year.
They shook, but B’vrot seemed to shrink as the introduction wore on. “Ex-Starfleet at Kebnekaise” reliably meant one thing: part of the opposing force that added a living, thinking adversary, beyond the mountain itself, as the cadets were tasked with various missions the next few days. Morda’s final note made it official. Some opfor were retirees like Lindström who returned each year to teach the next generation. Some were active duty in the Sol System or ships in port. Others were Starfleet Marines from the Ural Barracks who loved chewing squishy prospective officers.
Lindström: Mister B’vrot, put yourself in my boots. How would you take this position?
B’vrot motioned toward one of the gadgets on Lindström’s bandolier, and to an identical one clipped to Morda’s belt.
B’vrot: Those suppress your lifesigns? That’s why our sensors didn’t detect you?
A pair of nods. B’vrot thought for a moment, sighed, stared beseechingly at the stars, then closed his eyes in resignation.
B’vrot: How many more opfor behind you, Commander?
Lindström: ::grinning:: About half my team.
B’vrot: Understood. My plan ::Returning his focus to Morda and Lindström:: is surely yours: attack with half your force from this direction. With our backs to the rocks, we withdraw to the other side for cover. While the assault holds our attention, the other half of your similarly-camouflaged and lifesign-cloaked force emerges from cover behind us -- which they leisurely took due to my lax security -- and literally shoot us in the back.
Lindström’s grin expanded into a toothy smile, pearly white as the snow.
Lindström: You have a mind for tactics, Mister B’vrot!
B’vrot: It is a good day to die for embarrassment. And my lapse. May I rejoin my squad to lead them in inglorious defeat?
Morda and Lindström shared a look, then shrugged.
Lindström: It’s a lot of work, all this skulking in the snow. We already swung at two other camps.
Morda: My ears are ringing from the last one. If you think your perimeter is bad, you should have seen Overton’s.
The torque in B’vrot’s eyeroll could’ve flung a planet out of orbit.
B’vrot: I can imagine.
Morda: You won’t have to: we’ll share and learn at the after-action, and there’s plenty learning yet to come. But no lightshow tonight, B’vrot.
Morda straightened his bearing and raised his chin, signalling the transition from a conversation to business. B’vrot came to attention.
Morda: Mister B’vrot, resume your command. Identify two non-KIA casualties. In addition to their medical consumables, your sensor grid, one shelter, and four weapons are destroyed; confiscate your losses and leave them when you decamp. As a result of unknown ECM, offline your comms for one hour. When restored, report contact with an adversary that does not appear on life scanners; number and identity of threat unknown. ::A pause.:: Overton’s comms should be running again shortly after yours -- listen in and see if you can learn anything.
B’vrot: Aye, sir.
Morda: Dismissed.
Without another word or gesture, B’vrot jogged toward his camp, waving for the sentry they’d passed on the way out to fall in beside him.
Lindström: Seems squared away. Tellarite gonna lose his shelter?
Morda: ::Shaking his head:: No. He’ll let his own be destroyed. ::Smiling:: And then he’ll move in with the Tellarite.
Lindström: Ha! Back to camp, Mister Morda?
Morda: Aye, sir; let’s go.
{{ Timeskip - 0300}}
By 0300, Morda finished reporting to the firsties staffing the command post, with the instructor cadre listening intently. Lindström and his informal XO, a Betazoid former Academy instructor now serving as security chief on the drydocked Rideau, shared their observations. Everything was on schedule, and the schedule let Morda sleep for a few hours. He and Lindström shook over a first day’s job well done and strolled out. Lindström brought his own large complex of tents and shelters for him and his team, overshadowing the firstie shelters nearby.
Bone-weariness from setting up the CP, monitoring the squads’ encampments, and participating in two assaults dragged on Morda. He’d forgone coffee for water and electrolyte pills, and he felt the caffeine’s absence. But that’d make it easier to sleep. His shelter matched the other cadets’, save for his name emblazoned on the cover -- along with some chucklehead’s hand-scrawled “murrrrdurrrr” underneath: in Swedish, mörda meant murder.
He parted the seal and pulled himself in. Gentle environmental systems hummed, including the blessed heat exchanger. He doffed his boots, checked his feet, and donned dry socks. Unlike the underclassmen, he was in no jeopardy of surprise attack, so he could strip down to a dry base layer rather than sleep in uniform. He skipped pulling clean layers for "tomorrow" from his ruck; he would have time in a few hours.
The sleep sack was a comfortable cocoon. He placed his commbadge on the mounting patch just above his head, toggled off the scarlet illumination, shut his eyes and, despite B’vrot’s protestations, easily slipped into snow-supported sleep.
{{ Timeskip - 0915}}
Morning brought no sunlight: at this latitude and time of year, sunrise was over an hour away. Morda did a set of isometric exercises to stir his muscles, then be began folding himself into clean layers. His mind wandered to B’vrot, whose squad by now was advancing to secure a “smuggler cache” whose exotic components prevented direct beaming. It was one thread in the overall Kebnekaise mission narrative. The opfor would attack B’vrot’s squad. He briefly wondered if he’d made the right call not to raid their biouvac last night. That squad would tackle some of the more challenging terrain and possessed more plebes than the others, and there existed a genuine risk of fatigue-related casualties. But then, maybe they’d lost a lost learning opportunity.
Right or wrong, he’d made a decision. Leadership meant not just making the right or wrong call; leaders must actually make a decision in the first place. The cadre brought this up with him a few times during and since last year’s FTX, and he suspected it would be part of his learning straight to graduation.
Morda pulled the field jacket first over his left arm, then the other side as his right shoulder, arm, and hand kept the warm pistol trained on the collapsing, smoking Lethian who pulled the disruptor. His hold on the plasteen grip remained firm despite the sudden sweat and--
He took a sharp breathe. He hadn't had a visceral flashback like that since ... plebe year? He breathed again, remembering the exercises he'd been taught. He was here, now: in his shelter. At the command post. Base of Kebnekaise. In Sweden. Earth. He pulled on his boots, wiggling his toes, feeling the soles’ texture grip the shelter floor, and the shelter floor slide on the slush underneath. He touched the cool metal of his commbadge, pushed the tip of his finger hard enough on its sharp point to leave a little dent; he watched his skin quickly rebound -- a sign of good hydration, he dryly noted -- then pulled the badge gently from the mounting pad and pressed it hard against his field jacket breast.
Lindström: Mister Morda? You okay?
Morda reached out and parted the seal. The shelter exhaled a gust of warm air, then breathed in a serving of cold. The cadet stepped out and stood up.
Lindström eyeballed him critically, with the Rideau's Betazoid security chief a few steps behind a bit more circumspect. The Swede chucked a thumb at his companion.
Lindström: Val here sensed distress. What’s wrong?
Morda wasn’t abashed about the neurological scar from his last career, and he told them:
Morda: Flashback, sir. Something difficult. Doesn’t hit often, but it hits nonetheless. I’m okay.
Lindström: ::Nodding:: Do this work enough and you often get to known the type. What now?
Just like with B’vrot, Lindström let Morda spell out what happens next.
Morda: Now, sir, I report to the CP and check in with the cadre.
Lindström: That you do, Cadet. We’re heading there ourselves. Let’s go together.
No tags/End