Devin's Prose


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Slip Cover
(by Devin Cutler)

 

I'm sorry....I thought she was a slip cover. She matched the upholstery perfectly and was so flat and featureless that her bright yellow floral dress seemed to be stretched more perfectly over the driver's seat than her body. I'm sorry about this...and all of it. I never meant to make such value judgements, but after all, all I've got to look out of are these two glassy oracles, and they aren't much descended from the Delphic tradition. I always make this same mistake anyways. She's always the slip cover.....and how could she not be? After all, I can only see the one side of her, and that through the glare of a pitted and sand blasted Duster front windshield. So, can I really be blamed? Perhaps it is the fault of the traffic cop; she being fat and unimpressive in the face of my morning rush, and all I had to compare the woman in the car with was this impressive amazon hulk of authority. How could I not feel just as flat and slip cover from the view of others.....perhaps even the inanimate object of my attention? Slip covers, after all, have their own unique world view.......comprende?

So now comes the rancor and oblivion. Gee, I have, after all, waited all of my life training so hard in preperation for this one great moment of utter solitude. Do you think I can actually attain the heights of P.O.W.? Can I actually achieve such abyssmal godhead? My typewriter wretches in the same self-satisfied way I do when I read these words in the moment just before they appear on the page...Tarot readings of the first, more scientific case for those of you caught up in such erudite matters. Me, I'm soon to become apprentice oblivion and cannot waste my time with such thoughts. I'll be hunting the sportsmen's catalogues soon for the slip cover's absolute soulmate. One tug and she's got ya and you cannot escape. Who'd want to escape such vainglory? I wish to prove Andy correct.....it should be worth about fifteen minutes or so. After all, how can I be successful unless I have something to compare my failure against?

So, I'll writhe away in self pity and contempt for all of the other Dusterpittedsemiyellowfloralslipcovers who all wish secretly, as I have humbly done, that they could find their absolute soulmate and give that one final tug.....one tug on the canvas string...and finally do something they always felt inside of them, do something they thought their ego wanted them to do or the ego wanted to do itself, after which their shorn bodies will inevitably do the same as well. There is, after all, no escaping Father Pygmalion....(perhaps Pigmalion).....and his indominatible appetite. He blows and warts and bloats and careens into anything he can. And I think that, for all of the abandoned metaphors that have made their way here in their last plea before the onslaught of the gods Integral and Derivative, this worthless Custer will make an excellent wall-hanging.........

suitable for framing.

[Author's Comments: This piece is essentially a stream of consciousness text concerning pivotal decisions one makes in one's life...decisions that once made cannot be reversed. Hence references to "selling out", suicide, and finally, the text itself.]


A Long, Bloody War
(by Devin Cutler)

[Author's Comments: This story was based on a Star Fleet Battles scenario that I played with some friends of mine. I enjoyed the scenario immensely and thought it would make a good story]

Stardate 207.61 Y171.

Commodore Smith sat on the flag bridge of the USS Lexington reading the coded dispatch that was for his eyes only. It was priority one from Fed Intel and had enough codes and cypher interlocks to tell him that this was not going to be any ordinary mission. He glanced one last time at the message and then shut off his encrypted viewer, swinging the faceplate back away from his eyes. Looking out over the bridge of his Federation Command Cruiser, he knew that this mission would be a grave test for his crew, a shakedown cruise they were likely never to forget...if they survived it.

A few minutes later, Commodore Smith met with his executive staff in the conference room. The room was shielded and scrambled against eavesdropping and the Chief of Security had gone over it with a fine-toothed comb for the last 15 minutes.

"Gentlemen and Ladies", he began, "I have received a top priority dispatch from FI and the Fleet Admiralty. As you know, the Klingons have been pressing for months to convince the Romulans to join in the war, and with the recent catastrophic setbacks to the Gorn navy, the time is riper than ever for the Romulans to join with our enemies."

He looked over his staff grimly. "I don't have to tell you what a two front war with the Gorns knocked out of commission would mean to us." A look into the eyes of his staff told him he didn't.

"FI has just learned that the Klingon's top ambassador, Vak Kaleen, is being transported to the Romulan border. A meeting has been arranged and the Klingons are to fly Kaleen with Romulan escort to Romulus, there to take his case for an alliance directly to the Emperor."

"Our mission is to stop this transfer at all costs. FI believes Kaleen holds enough friends in the Imperial Court to sway the Romulans into the war should he gain audience on Romulus."

"Fortunately for us, we know the exact time and location of the transfer. It is on the border of the Tholian Holdfast, in the neutral zone between the Klingon and Romulan Empires."

Helmsman Darreda looked up gravely. "Sir...are you saying that this is essentially an assassination?"

The entire staff looked up at the Commodore, awaiting his reply.

Commodore Smith paused, with his hands clenched behind his back and looked every one of his executives directly in the eyes before proceeding, "Yes, I won't mince words with you. This is an assassination. But the death or capture of Kaleen will mean countless lives saved. Federation lives. Innocent lives. Weighed against that, my conscience is clear. If any of you have ethical doubts about this mission you can request dismissal from the mission without mention in your records. You will be confined to quarters though until the mission is completed. If you have anything further to say...say it now."

Smith could see the looks in the eyes of his crew, questioning, thinking it through, but not one voice was raised. His men trusted him. That was good enough. With a nod the conference door was opened and the execs went to their stations.

***

Captain Kari Khalen sat brooding on the bridge of the D7N with a look that could almost kill as easily as the ancus blade he thumbed in his hand. He did not know much of politics, and he was certain that that blasted Vak Kaleen knew what he was doing, but this just didn't sit right. He was flattered and honoured, to be sure, that Kaleen had requested him for this assignment, one that, while not involving any combat, would bring ultimate glory and victory for the Klingon Empire when the Romulans entered the war. But to take him out of his D7C Kharshak and to put him at the helm of a down-gunned diplomatic cruiser was foolish in his eyes.

Yes the diplomatic cruiser was manned by the most loyal of Klingons, and yes Vak Kaleen preferred the cruiser because it had all of the cryptographic and communications equipment and amenities he required for his mission, and yes as well, this was a secret mission and there would be no combat, but still, this ship had not yet had the K-upgrade to type 1 phasers and the bastards had pulled out all of the drone racks to make way for shuttles and communications equipment! It was a minor consolation that Kaleen liked to impress his hosts by flying on planet in a Z-1 type fighter, which at least added a small drone capability to the ship.

But the Romulans, they respected power. Wouldn't it have impressed them more to have made the rendezvous in his own D7C command cruiser? Impress power with power...that was how it should be. According to Captain Khalen's way of thinking, this inferior ship said to the Romulans that the Klingons were an inferior race...the junior partners in this proposed alliance. Bah! It all just didn't smell right. And no slaves to torture to get out his frustrations either.

***

Consul Cutlurus sat on the bridge of the KF5R frigate enjoying his wine. While the ship was beneath his captaining abilities, he being used to commanding a Sparrowhawk, it served the mission he was undertaking well. After all, this was to be a discrete transfer, not a combat, and the Klingons had nothing to gain by betraying the delegation sent to meet them. In addition, he, Cutlurus, was ultimately expendable, and the Klingons, having been fought to a stalemate by the Federation, needed the Romulans. Especially after the latest victory against the Gorns, which proved finally the Romulan's rightful place amongst the great warring empires of the galaxy.

Yes, the F5R was the right choice. Its small size was discrete. And it showed the Klingons that the Empire did not fear them...did not even fear treachery. It was like turning one's back on one's enemy to show one's disdain and superiority. The Klingons would overreact. They would no doubt send a cruiser...maybe even a dreadnought in some showy and costly display.

Another sip of wine and a chuckle. And the irony of meeting the Klingons in one of their own converted ships did not escape him either. "Let them see how we improve upon even their designs," he thought. Yes, it was nice to enter a war like this, with most of the initial heavy fighting already out of the way and the two bestial opponents already locked in a death duel. How easy to slip the shiv in the back of the Federation and twist...

***

Captain Khalen listened to the communications officer rattle off the specs of the ship that had appeared on long ranged scan. They were very near the Tholian border, but all knowledge of the rockhead Tholians said that anything happening even a parsec outside their supposed borders was of no concern to them. Good for now. The Klingon Empire would settle their hash one day...just like all the rest. Nevertheless, best to be certain. He ordered crew to battle stations and powered the shield and phaser capacitors. It would not do should a Tholian Patrol Cruiser catch him shieldless and cold.

His caution was proved needless as more detailed scans came through. "Ship approaching is F5 design, but with signatures of a Romulan KF5R. She is at the arranged meeting place and his beginning to scan us...she is now hailing us and with the proper passwords and cryptic interlocks. How shall I respond my lord?"

Khalen sighed. Well at least the Romulans had come to the meeting in a ship even inferior to his. He pondered for a moment on what exactly the Romulans might have meant by bringing such a small ship to this meeting. "Return the proper passwords and let's get this over with."

Khalen leaned back in his chair and ordered lunch to be brought to the bridge.

"My lord! I am picking up another long ranged scan!"

Khalen started forward. "What! Do the Romulans break the protocol already! It was agreed that each side would bring one ship. It cannot be the Tholians. Damn their stony eyes! I need to know what is coming. Tell me now!"

The communications officer quickly adjusted his scans. "It is coming at full warp with active scans my lord. It came suddenly and....my lord...it is a Federation warp signature."

Khalen pounded his fist into the arm of his bridge chair. "Damn them! I told them to give me my ship for this mission. Now look, I will have to fight in this barge...with one hand tied behind my back! Tell me range and speed, and I must have an identification on that ship as soon as possible. I must know if this is an attack or if a lucky patrol happened to have stumbled upon us. If it is a frigate or destroyer we can kill it." Thoughts of combat and glory began to fill Khalen's mind. Surely it must be a lone Federation destroyer on patrol. They probably come near to the Tholians to study them and keep tabs on them. Yes, this will be a chance at honour and victory. The gleam of impending combat began to fill Khalen's eyes.

"Find the ambassador. I want him on the flag bridge and under marine guard at all times."

The communications officer turned to face Khalen "My lord, the Romulans do not apparently see the ship. They are requesting that we lower our shields to accept a Romulan navigation crew to guide us through the Romulan minefields at the border."

Khalen scoffed. "Our illustrious allies indeed! Inform them of what is happening and tell them they are welcome to lower their shields, but Klingons fight with shields up...and get me a read on that ship or I'll rip your throat out!"

The communications officer turned to his duties, used to threats from his superiors. "Romulans have been alerted. Ship is...a Cruiser class. I am getting warm photon tubes and 2...4...6...8 phasers."

Khalen grimaced. A Command Cruiser. This was not a random Federation patrol. This was an attack...an ambush...an assassination.

"Captain, the Federation Command Cruiser is proceeding at warp 2.5 course 607...towards the Romulans."

"Good! Let's watch the two of them tangle for a bit and we can circle and close in for the kill."

***

On the Lexington, Commodore Smith was watching the battle display on the screen before him. So far all was well. He had caught his two opponents flat footed and was close enough now to have a chance to keep the two enemy ships, slowly approaching each other, from meeting. He did not wish to face both of the enemy ships at once, even if one was a frigate and the other was, from incoming scans, a slightly down gunned diplomatic cruiser. No drones to worry about at least. Just one S torp, and he had 2 wild weasels on deck and ready for that, along with a scatter pack and a dummy seeking shuttle as a decoy.

"Take us straight on at the Romulan frigate, helm. I want to get the little ship out of action before the Klingon can engage us."

***

Consul Cutlurus laughed. The foolish Federation. Did they think the Romulans and Klingons so stupid as to stay and play against their little ambush? He sipped the last of his wine. This meeting could be done later, in a safer environment. Surely even the Klingons could see that.

"Master" said the scanning officer, "the Federation Cruiser is closing upon us. Speed warp 2.5, range is 220,000km."

"Very well" Cutlurus grinned "they have come close enough to allow the Klingons to escape...engage cloaking device."

Slowly, the strange hum of the device penetrated the bridge as outside the Romulan frigate faded from visible space.

***

On the bridge of the D7N, Captain Khalen was apoplectic. "What do you mean the Romulans cloaked?! We are two to the Federation's one! Have they run? The cowardly bastards! "

"My lord, the Federation cruiser is turning towards us...shall we turn?"

"Turn?!" Khalen fumed, "turn and run like a dog...like a Romulan? We still have full shields and a fighter and 4 disruptors and 9 phasers...we can and will fight!"

"Arm disruptors to normal loads. Fill phaser capacitors to full. Set course straight ahead."

***

Commodore Smith set off his orders in sharp staccato "Arm photons, normal loads, normal fuse, ready drone. "

***

Consul Cutlurus flicked his pointed beard and stared deeply into the screen. The foolish idiot Klingon wasn't turning. Did these descendants of dogs not know the tactical advantages of staying on mission and of orderly withdrawal? Now he would have to join the fray...at least peripherally. His orders were to see ambassador Vak Kaleen safely into the Romulan capital, and he had no choice but to still carry out those orders...even if it meant the loss of a ship. Of course, he would make sure it was the Klingons who lost the ship.

"Set our course for warp 2.2 course 393. I want transporter crews at the ready...we will get only one pass at this and anyone who fails will be sent to the arenas. We will let the Federation open the Klingon's shields for us and then make a grab at the ambassador while the two dogs rip at each other's throats...just like the Romulan Empire shall do when we enter the war." The Consul leaned back in his chair and ordered another glass of wine.

***

The Federation Command Cruiser and the Klingon Diplomatic Cruiser closed the distance between them. The Klingon, proceeding at warp 1.5 remained steady until the Federation ship rumbled into overload range.

"Hah!" exclaimed Captain Khalen, "he expected us to run, the cur! No overloads on the photons! Look how he comes closer now."

The Federation ship loomed menacingly as it closed to within 40,000km. Suddenly, a puff of smoke appeared out of the bottom of the cruiser and a single lance of metal, a drone, arced towards the Klingon ship.

"Ready tractor for that drone" barked Khalen.

At 30,000km the two ships maneuvered to get the best shot. "He wants us to cross his bow to bear all of his phasers. Let us oblige him, and in so doing cut his front shield to ribbons...that will give us the advantage later. Helm, turn to 30. Launch the fighter...give him something else to think about."

As he said this, the blue beam of a tractor reached out and locked the Federation drone in place.

The ships closed to within 20,000km, the Federation cruiser now showing straight on towards the D7N.

"Fire full front salvo!" yelled Khalen and 4 glowing masses of energy leapt from the front of his nacelles. The ship vibrated as the hum of 7 phasers streaked out of the ship and cut space towards the Federation cruiser. In reply, 4 blazing balls of pure light shot from the front of the Federation cruiser and arced deceptively slowly towards the D7N. This was followed by a sharp volley of 4 phasers from the front of the Command Cruiser.

The two volleys hit simultaneously, but to differing effect. Three of the photon torpedoes ripped through the number 2 shield of the D7N and wrecked havoc with a disruptor, two phasers, and caused significant impulse and hull damage. Phasers then pierced the torn shield and started to play havoc on the warp drives and batteries. The ship rocked violently and flames shot up from consoles on the bridge.

As Khalen recovered himself he watched 3 out of 4 of his disruptors fly harmlessly past the Federation cruiser. His phasers also flew wild, causing minimal damage. The Federation cruiser's front shield was torn, but the damage beyond that was negligible.

Khalen raged. He tore through the wreckage of his bridge and pulled a heavy piece of equipment off of his weapons officer. "Are you alive?" he asked as he shook the officer.

"Yes my lord I live," said the dazed officer as he opened his eyes.

"Good!" bellowed the captain, "because I wanted to kill you myself!" and with that he dug the ancus blade in his hand deep into the belly of the officer and twisted it violently several times. "Get me a damage report and a competent weapons officer!"

***

Aboard the Lexington the crew cheered.

"Damage report please" said Smith calmly.

"Insignificant damage to report sir. The Klingon missed us!"

Smith nodded soberly. "Enough people. That ship still has 7 phasers and 3 disruptors and we are charging photons. This is still a fight. Where is that Romulan? Has he hightailed it home?"

The communications officer peered deeply into his console. "Scanners are picking up a spatial distortion at approximately RF 200,000km sir."

"That would be our Romulan friend." said Smith, "Recharge 3 photons to full overload and leave one at normal for our stealthy little shadow. Try to get a lock on the frigate if you can. Let's keep our Klingon busy...launch the decoy seeking shuttle. Make a course around and behind the Klingon...I want to keep him in front of us...but show him our good shield please. Fire phasers in Mizia volleys. Let's rack up some systems there."

On the rear view screen, a Federation shuttle slowly slid out of the shuttle bay and began to head towards the Klingon.

***

On the Klingon bridge, the new weapons officer wiped the blood off of his control station and readied himself. The fires on the bridge had been put out and damage control was working on the disruptor. Though the D7N had taken damage, the Federation ship had lost its front shield, while the Klingon had lost his number 2 shield, and that gave Khalen a tactical advantage...especially if that godforsaken Romulan ever showed up.

"Recharge remaining disruptors and phasers. Ignore that shuttle. Our fighter can take care of it. Turn us around and we will put some disruptors through his open shield."

Slower now, at warp 2 or less, the two combatants circled each other. The Klingon ship spewed forth another 3 disruptors and 5 phasers and these ripped through the Federation cruiser's number 6 shield. In return, the Federation cruiser fired at the retreating Klingon with phasers and smashed the rear shield, taking it down by half.

"My lord" barked the new weapon officer "Federation drone emerging. Fighter is too far to reach it!"

"Damned fighter! Out of position. Am I surrounded by incompetents? Gods for my D7C crew! Tell that useless fighter to engage the cruiser...try to get a shot in through the downed shield. As for us, brace for impact."

Just as Khalen said it the drone hit the rear shield and took it down; minor damage rumbled through the cruiser. More phasers shot through the downed shield as the Klingon increased the distance from the Federation ship and turned a fresh shield. Another phaser was knocked out and impulse engines were out completely. Power was down to 66%. But, the Federation had now lost 2 of its front shields while the D7N had lost only 1 front shield. That meant that with the aid of the Romulan they could ensure a downed Federation shield to fire through.

"Romulan ship still under cloak but I detect him approaching the battle," warned the scanning officer.

"Excellent!" Khalen smiled "the craven shows some teeth at last. Let us hope he flies the Klingon ship he has borrowed somewhat like a Klingon."

At that moment Vak Kaleen appeared on the comm screen. "Captain, I fail to see the profit in continuing to fight this Federation Command Cruiser when my safe arrival in Romulus is the primary objective of this mission..."

Captain Khalen cut him off. "On my ship, ambassador, during combat I am in charge. For your information the Romulans have also decided to stay and fight, and together we can destroy this Federation ship...of this I am certain!" With that he cut off the comm screen.

"Time the arrival of the Romulan and prepare a high energy turn. We will catch that Fed facing us or the Romulan, and either way we will be able to blast through an open shield while the Federation smacks the Romulans or hits a fresh shield of ours."

Khalen didn't even hear the comm officer announce that the Federation cruiser had tractor beamed the Klingon fighter and dragged it apart.

***

On the Lexington, Smith was growing concerned, though he did not let it show. He had hoped the Romulan would turn tail and run, but now it seemed the frigate was going to join the fight. With two front shields down, he was not certain he could survive a double assault.

"We are going to have to take out the Klingon and quickly. Decelerate to zero. Allocate warp power to tactical maneuvers. Let's turn a full 360 clockwise and present full shields to the Klingon until our photons bear. If I know the Klingons, he will not run, but will spend the remainder of his power on attack. If we can turn sharply enough and finish him before the Romulan can arrive we can launch a wild weasel and deal with the frigate. Shut down the decoy shuttle. The Klingon is obviously not taking the bait."

***

At 150,000km the Romulan uncloaked, its plasma tube bristling with strokes of energy. Two shuttles immediately emerged from the frigate's shuttle bays and began to maneuver towards the Federation cruiser. They would keep the Federation moving around to avoid being wounded through the open shields, distracting long enough hopefully for the frigate to accomplish its objective.

The Federation cruiser began to turn clockwise as the D7N whipped around in space violently, its bulkheads straining against the inertia. Suddenly, what had been a Federation cruiser chasing a wounded D7 had become the opposite.

But the Federation cruiser had managed to turn its downed front shields away from the Klingon before the High Energy Turn. The Klingon cruiser now sat facing the Federation Cruiser at 20,000km as the latter slowly turned around to bring its last front shield and photons to bear.

"Give me 3 disruptors and 5 phasers to bear when the ship finishes pivoting," yelled Khalen, leaning forward in his seat.

The engineer appeared on the comm screen. "My lord, we do not have enough power to fire phasers and all disruptors. That turn cost us a lot of energy."

Khalen growled and glared menacingly at the battle screen, watching the sleek Command Cruiser continue to maneuver into position. "Fire everything we do have and get my systems back online! Where is that damned Romulan?!"

***

Consul Cutlurus watched the intriguing tableau unfold. Like ancient ships of old, these two vessels before him were preparing to fire close-ranged broadsides. The Klingon ship was doomed of course, barring freakish luck, and the Feds certainly appeared ready with at least 2 wild weasels, which would be more than a match for his ship's single S torp and one pseudo plasma torpedo.

"Not too fast helmsman" ordered Cutlurus, "remember we want to arrive at the party fashionably late. It may be the Klingon way to die honourably in a fruitless battle, but we Romulans fight with wit. Of course, make it look good and...oh...why don't you toss off a plasma bolt at the Fed when he exposes his downed shield...makes for a good show and will at least allow us to claim to the ambassador we took part in the battle."

***

As the Federation Cruiser swung its fresh front shield into view, like a sunrise on a planet, Khalen realized he was doomed. The Romulan ship had visibly slowed and it was now apparent that for whatever reason they had chosen to uncloak and approach, they would not make it in time to help the D7N...and apparently they did this on purpose. The actions of the Romulans confused Khalen. They could not hope to take on the Fed Cruiser by themselves once the Klingons were gone.

Well...be that as it may, it is a captain's duty to die fighting. And at least he would have the pleasure of taking this crappy ship, that pompous ass Vak Kaleen, and his incompetent crew down with him.

The Federation ship stopped turning. Then all hell broke loose.

***

On the Lexington, Commodore Smith ordered "fire". Three overloaded photons screamed across the interval between the two ships. Two of them ripped into the fresh front shield of the D7N and tore it asunder. Then phaser ones began to fire two at a time in a Mizia dance. The Klingons shot off their remaining bolt, 1 disruptor and 5 phasers, but that merely took the final front shield down to 20%. The Federation phasers ripped through the Klingon warp nacelles and labs and took out the remaining disruptors and most of the phasers. Crackles of energy began to pulsate through the Klingon ship's superstructure.

***

"We haven't much time and but one chance. Make it count," ordered Cutlurus with a finality. "Course 217 warp 2.9."

The Romulan frigate approached the spent Federation cruiser at an oblique, as if to make an attack run, and fired from 80,000km a spread of 2 phaser ones and 2 phaser twos. They did some internal damage, knocking out some warp, a phaser, and the Fed drone rack.

"Fire plasma bolt at 60,000km".

The frigate closed and its ECCM cut through the desperate Federation ECM. Suddenly a bolt of plasmic lightning shot from the frigate and danced towards the open front shield of the Federation cruiser.

***

And the bolt cut over the command saucer and between the nacelles and out into space. On the Lexington, Commodore Smith gave a sigh of relief.

"Commodore" exclaimed the helmsman "the Romulan is turning away at high speed!"

"Just as well, it is the Klingon ambassador we want".

***

As Captain Khalen nursed his splintered arm and crushed ankle, he watched the Romulan frigate angle off behind him. "Cowards...may you rot in hell for this!" he spit through the blood welling in his mouth. Then the crackle of transporters sounded and before his startled eyes, on the wrecked bridge of the D7N, stood a Romulan navigation crew.

"I am Pucin Araundus, navigation specialist of Romulan Frigate KF5R-103. As per the terms of the agreement, we have been sent aboard your vessel to guide it through the Romulan minefields."

"You are too late cowards!" raved Khalen, "the mission has failed. This ship is about to die and all of us with it!"

"You are mistaken captain," said Pucin with a wry smile, "we are dead indeed, and it is our honour to die fulfilling the negotiated terms of our protocol. But the ambassador is not dead. When the frigate passed behind your ship, with its rear shield obliterated, the frigate lowered its shield and beamed us aboard...and beamed the ambassador onto the frigate, which even now is travelling too fast for the Federation cruiser to catch, slowed as it was to finish you off and to prepare for wild weasel. The frigate will be out of range and cloaked in 10 seconds and on its way to Romulus in full glory. Hail the Emperor!"

As the Romulan navigation team saluted their emperor, Khalen picked up his disruptor rifle, determined to kill the Romulans himself. He never got the chance. The final volley of phaser ones from the Fed Cruiser ripped into the D7N and took down the tractor beam that had been holding the first Federation drone at bay. The drone, given new life, arced the final 10,000km to the dying cruiser in a split second and then exploded. Energy surrounded the Klingon ship and then ripped through it, the searing ionic plasma burning every inch of the ship clean. In a rumbling cloud of gasses, the ship vaporized as the Federation cruiser backed slowly out of range of the destruction.

***

On the bridge of the Lexington, Commodore Smith was not celebratory. Yes, he had managed to defeat two enemy ships while taking no serious damage himself...a victory that would be studied at the Starfleet Academy for years to come. But it had all been for naught. For his communications officer had registered the transporter beam between the Romulan frigate and the dying Klingon ship, and committed as he was to battle with the Klingon, he could not stop the frigate. And the last, mocking message from the frigate just before it cloaked would follow him all the way back to Starbase. For the message was a picture of ambassador Vak Kaleen taking wine with the Romulan captain on the bridge of the frigate. And the two were shaking hands and smiling.

It was going to be a long, bloody war.

THE END


Man of Dust
(by Devin Cutler)

[Author's Note: I wrote this story in 1984 for High School. The time period and location are intenionally ambiguous, and it is written from the point of view of a young boy recounting the events, perhaps a long time later, almost as a myth.]

He rode into our valley during the dry season in a Masaratti that cut scarlet through the grey squalor of our town. The cloud of dust he left behind was nothing compared to that which caked our buildings - and that which covered his heart.

Like a bandito, he flew in on his crimson steed, through the little creek that cradled the village and the cactus forest that stood watch up on the hillock before the town. With a screaming twist he parked in the town square, next to the rickety old log well that had dried up some months before. The town stretched itself, cleared clotted eyes, and came to greet the stranger. They encircled and surrounded the car as he stepped out.

The man, for male he was, was not the usual white trash we got here...those dressed in plastic feathers and nylon moccassins. He was a "human being", dressed in a blue sports coat with matching blue slacks that plummeted to maroon shoes with gold buckles...buckles like snakes. His eyes were covered by deep shades so that we could not know him immediately. Yes, we knew.

Slowly, almost shaman-like, he took a step forward, to stand akimbo. We waited. The dust settled and the stranger flipped his glasses to the ground. We knew him.

"Cevorchewe!" a sage yelled.

Cevorchewe he was, and yet...was not. I looked him over with testing eyes. Something had changed in him, in his face and in his breath; we could all feel it. No one moved for a long time. The tension was as still as a calm lake. Yet I could not understand why they feared this man, so I stepped forward into the silence. It was with solemn ceremoney that I approached this man, and I could feel the villagers' eyes burning my back...following my movements. So I kept a coyote face, grim and straight. The town leaders watched for reaction but he had his coyote too. He had not forgotten. When I was within reach, I stopped short and bowed, moving my hand across my brow in the traditional greeting of my people. Yet, he stopped me with his firm hand...the hand of a warrior. Then I noticed the rings he wore, the glittering bands that dented my tan skin as he held me. They shone in the sun like they shone in his eyes.

He placed his hand at me, before my face, and I stepped back quickly. I had seen the white man do this many times and I had seen the anser, but this way was strange and I felt awkward. Slowly I put my hand out too, into his. He clasp it and he smiled a big, toothy smile and kissed me on the head. This was a sign for the villagers. They burst their ring and swarmed over him, marvelling at the trinkets he wore and the car he rode. They fumbled with his baubles and ran the strange cloth through their fingers. Through all of this, he stood frozen. Yet a smile split his lips, and he raised his head like a triumphant warrior amid the throng. Finally, he motioned them away with one high sweep of the arm. "I am tired," he said, "I have travelled far and must rest."

Almost instantly they led him to his house, empty for all the years, but with a clean straw roof and new mud. Yet he refused.

"I cannot sleep in a place like that" he said, "I will sleep in there."

He pointed his hand of rings to the only brick building in the village...the shaman's house. I was stung! He had no right to even think that! This was our leader's home...his alone! The Raven granted him his power and now this bandito tries to sweep it away like dust. A yell caught in my throat and made me cough. I looked at the villagers to watch them surge up in anger at this foolish man, but they said nothing through their wrinkled frowns. They just led him to the house and in through the wooden door. When it closed...when they were all out of sight...I turned and ran.

I ran through my tears toward the cactus hillock. That is my favourite place...the place where I gather myself and think about things. I crossed our stream and slipped once, but I did not care. The biting stones were nothing to my biting anger. When I got to my place, then I would calm myself.

I had come to the hill and its thorny crown when I saw a thin snake of smoke rising from its center. There was fire in my place and I scampered up its bald head and into the thorns through a way I know. Amid the cactus, sitting on a blanket I keep for myself, was Shaferquwe the town shaman. He was dressed in his full robe made of hawk feathers and tassled with dry snakeskins. A regal headress of eaglehawk plumes draped his grey hair. The hawk robe was a sign of strength and invulnerability, while the snakeskins were the submission of disease, poison, and corruption to his will. He was the lifegiving well of our village, and he sat quat smoking with drawn puffs upon a wooden pipe. He did not notice me as I stood there watching him. I did not know he came to this place. There was never smoke.

For a long while I just stood behind him, like a killer who has suddenly lost his nerve and let the knife of his anger drop to the sand.

"You are angry Hunatra, Little Eagle?" he asked without turning. I was frightened, for I did not know he had seen me.

"Yes Shaferquwe," I answered as I came to sit beside him, "more angry than ever before." With respect, I bowed low and kissed the fringes of his robe. The feathers tasted warm and earthy.

He turned his sorrowful eyes and wrinkled little nose to my face. "And why is this, my Little Eagle? Has our visitor caused your anger?"

"Yes Shaferquwe. He has the ways of the white men. I have seen the rings on his hands and the strange robes he wares. But these have not angered me as much as the way he is. He is not Cevorchewe, the warrior...he is the snakes that buckle his shoes. Cevorchewe would not put you out of your house. He would wash your feet with water, not with mud."

The shaman smiled and his eyes sparkled in the sun. "My Little Eagle, he has changed this is true. He has gone into the wide world to take the white way...the way of machines and stone towers. Yet, this is his choice to make. Each man is free to follow his own dawn."

My eyes shot up into the shaman's gaze. "He is not following his dawn. He is taking ours away. Today the spirits that guard your house have been defiled and our people turned from the Raven. This bandito is bad!"

Shaferquwe took the pipe from his lips as if he were in deep thought. I sensed a sturggle within. "Hunatra, I look upon the ways of our people. They have not changed much since the time of the Raven. Yet the world is changing around us; it shifts like the clouds of a storm and we have walked against its wind for many years. Maybe the time for change is now. Perhaps he is a new Raven."

"NO!" I screamed. My hands tore at the ground and flun bits of sand into the air. "He is not a Raven. He is the serpent...with coyote face and coyote heart!"

Like a wolf I pounced into his waiting arms and wept. Shaferquwe smiled and stroked me gently. "This may be so, Hunatra. And if it is as you have said, then remember that the snake fears only one thing in the desert...the Eagle and his shadow."

Then he said no more, but walked away back to town. As he disappeared through the swirling dust, I lay down and slept.

*********

My eyelids opened to the sun springing in low, between the cactus prickles. I looked around and sniffed. It was morning. I could tell because morning had that kind of damp smell that came with the dawn. It was late in the morning and the town was still asleep. This was not right. Where was Tonwa the hunter who should be preparing his skins? They would dry wrinkled if he did not smooth them. And why was Piollite not tending her chickens? The coyote would steal their eggs if they were left too long. Something was wrong, and I knew as I walked into town that the bandito was behind it all. When I passed the shaman's house, where He slept, I did not look at it. I turned my head. Instead I came to Tonwa's hut and slapped hard, knocking off straw. I waited long, until I thought no one was there and Tonwa had gone hunting. When I turned to leave, he opened the door.

I had never seen a man look like he did. His eyes were puffy and as red as the bandito's maroon shoes, and he clutched the side of the hut for support. He greeted me in a slur and his voice had a harsh feeling. I did not know if he was well.

"Tonwa!" I said sharply, but he did not flinch, "why haven't you pressed the skins? Why has Pirollite not tended her birds? Why is no one up and moving?" I knew I should not speak this way to a warrior who was twice my age, but now he was just a child to me. He glared at me from the side of his cotton eyes and spit at my feet.

"Little Sparrow! Go away! We cannot do these things this morning!"

I was very worried at this. "Are you well?"

"No!" he howled, 'We are all very sick this day. Now go home!"

His words clawed at my throat. This could not be. If everyone was like this the town would die. "I will fetch herbs and boil them." The shaman had taught me plant lore and I could heal any sickness, but as I turned to run I felt Tonwa's granit hand on my shoulder. It was quivering.

"We are not sick by the evil spirits of disease. We are sick by the Poison Water." Tonwa opened his door to show many sparkling glass bottles. Then he want inside and closed the door. I stood long before that hut, for the knife of my anger was glinting once more. Bandito had hurt this town. He had speared it through its arm, but he would not spear its heart. That was the white man's Poison Water and the white man's disease. Soon it would spread. Now my mind was turned and I left for home. My town was dying...I could tell because its light was gone. Now it began to sparkle like golden rings on a red hand. The dust and the wind that caked our buildings was settling.

I walked through town trying to think of some clever thing to do. All around was nothing...no life, even in the houses where people slept. Iron pots that should be full of cooking meats and wild vegetables hung limp like dead trees. Finally, I reached my sleeping house. Even my poqua, my mother, had fallen under the place spell. I could not go inside and see my beloved poqua in the same way that Tonwa was, so I went to the cleanring beyond...our meeting place where ceremonies were performed. It was a holy place, a place where I hoped the spirit of Raven could be felt. I needed him now.

I looked around, remembering the thrilling restivals and solemn rites that had been seen here. The Day of Harvest, the Deremony of the New Warriors, the Dance of the Hunt. All were part of everyone's life...a reason for living. Now, would this be gone?

I walked from the blackened ring of fire in the center to the great altar, made from a broken tree. Next to it was a huddled shape that moved a little in the wind. I went towards it and saw what it was. The hawkfeather robe lay dead in the dust. I picked it up and saw a huge tear along the hem. Nearby was a broken wooden pope and a snakeskin. Then I knew and was grieved. This was Floquechne, Day of the Ravem, a holy ceremony that honoured Raven's coming into earth. They had forgotten, with their bandito and their Poison Water. So had I.

I did not cry then. No tears, I told myself, would rid us of this coyote. There was only one thing. I remembered the ancient lore that Shaferquwe had taught me. How, in the time before "human beings", Raven had defeated Coyote with strong talons and sharp beak. I had strong talons of anger. Now I needed a sharp beak.

I put on the robe and shook the dust from it. Then I took the snakeskin and whirled it above my head. "I am Raven!" I shouted, "I am the Eagle...where is my snake?!" I flung the snakeskin into the stream and watched it flow out of the valley. Then I bent and picked up a large stone. I held it firmly in my hand and tested its shape as I followed the river. The sun was high in noon and glinted off the ribbon waters. Around the town I went and up to my hill, to my place. There, I sat squat as Shaferquwe had done. Slowly, I raided the stone high above my brow and slammed it down. It hit the ground and chips flew off.

"I am Raven!" I though and struck again. For hours I slammed the stone into the ground, rolling whispers on the end of my tongue as I flecked away the last shards of restraint I had left. I chipped and chipped until the sun went low to impale itsel fon the mountain tops...until the stone was as honed as my anger. As the last bulb of fire lowered its face to sleep, I stood...tall to the stars, to the fires of the Raven. Now the words came out loud and I sang a prayer that pulled at the very roots of my people. Longer than ever before did I carry the holy words, hoping they would surely reach the heavens.

Then I brought the sharp edge of the stone slowly across the white raised part of the wrist. Blood trickled from my wound and fell in drops upon my blanket. I left my blood to coat the stone. It was a tradition...the mingling of the blood of enemies.

When my wound hardened, I turned and left my hillock. The town was still asleep. They would sleep forever with white dreams unless I helped them. So I slunk into town, crouching and rolling from hut to hut until I reached the shaman's house. The hardened adobe was cool with the new night, and free of dust. The door would not be locked,there were no locks in our village, and there would be many bottles and a sleeping man. And this man would be sick by the Poison Water and he would not hear me come over him. And then we would be clean.

I nothced open the wooden door. It was very dark, but I had eyes like a puma and could see his swadled form as it stirred slightly. I stepped high on my toes across the wooden floor, watching for him to wake.

Then I was lying on the ground with a loud THUMP. I felt the floor to see what I had tripped over. It was a maroon shoe. The buckle glittered even in the dark. I left the shoe and crouched. The bandito still slept. Now, more careful, I came to his bed. There he was lying prone before me. A red man whose face was now flushed pale. In one holy day he had destroyed two thousand years. Shaferquwe was gone, the skins were ruined, and my people poisoned because of him. Quietly, I listed my left hand and clutched my heart. My breathing became deep and the muscles on my neck bulged as I bent down to his side.

"I am the soaring Eagle," I whispered in his ear, "and you are the snake."

High I raised my rock. Quick and sharp. It hung for a tiny moment and cut down hard. Then I saw something wrong with his eyes...they were not puffy. Where were the bottles? My arm felt the granit of his hand as my stone nicked his nose. It bled, and fresh blood mingled with the dried blood that coated the stone. But he had stopped me and he rolle dout of bed.

Bandito took me by the scruff of the neck and pulled the little hairs in back. I winced in pain and shook like a beast in a snare, but he just looked at me through his black, sunray eyes. He took my rock and threw it into the dirt. Then he hustled me off to my poqua. She was up now and weaving sandals and did not notice us until Cevorchewe laid a heavy foot on the grass floor.

I never saw a more concerned look in my mother's eyes...not until the day she died. She stared into my eyes, long and deep, and then into Cevorchewe's. Hers were glassy and red-rimmed. He said nothing, only paused long enough to create the atmosphere...to hang the air heavy with lead. Then he turned and walked away. I sat prone before my mother and her sparkling eyes. She held her stare, but kept weaving and sitting as if that stare were punishment enough. It was. With a heave, I slumped to the grass floor and cried...forever.


A Worship of the Idyll
(by Devin Cutler)

[Author's Note: This was my first assignment for a freshman creative writing class. It deals with themes of aging, death, and one's purpose in life]

The autumn wind on the plains was always crisp, carrying with it the smell of dead leaves and dried grass. It danced amid the wheat stalks, causing them to roll in great communal waves that crashed against wooden fences. It whistled between the vanes of an old, battered windmill and through the shungles of a dusty wooden porch. By the time it reached the man and his rocking chair, it had lost much of its wintry sting and served only to cool his face. The man took a puff from his corn cob pipe and leaned back just enough to let the setting sun warm his neck. From this spot, he could see for miles. Only the windmill marred his view. He remembered working and reworking those miles, bartering with the land in order to make a living. A bushel of sweat for a drop of wheat was the going rate in those days and a man had no time to sit and think...only to work and sweat. One thing had kept him going through those years of toil...the hope that, thirty or forty years later he would have time to relax and enjoy life. He took another draught from his pipe and smiled. This was it. This was a slice of heaven. He breathed it in like a puff from a pipe and savoured it. Then he relaxesd and watched the sunset.

It was almost dark when he suddenly stopped rocking. With one hand on his pipe and the other tucked into his trousers, he stood up and walked to the edge of the porch. The crickets were playing their evening chorus and bats filled the sky, darting after insects. In silence he peered out over the open plains and watched the bent form of the windmill. He satred for some time, as if expecting something to happen, and then took his hand from his trousers and waved once. The door behind him opened and he quickly hid his hand inside his trousers. A woman whose voice was tainted with an edge of hoarseness spoke to him. "Vernon, you coming to supper?"

He noticed the concern in his wife's voice. She was the type of woman who loved to worry when there was nothing to worry about. She made it her business to fuss and fret over every aspect of his life and to make sure he was as comfortable as possible. He was comfortable now, and he fidgeted in his trousers, but he said nothing.

His wife took a step forward. "Vernon, what's wrong? You been awful quiet lately. You taken ill?"

"That windmill." He paused. "It waved to me. It hasn't moved in years but just then...it waved to me."

He wasn't facing his wife, but he could feel her hesitation. It lingered down the nape of his neck and made him shiver. He felt uncomfortable and stopped fidgeting.

She placed her hands on his shoulders and rested her chin in his short, grey hair. "Now Vernon, you listen to me. That old windmill has just bust a bolt, that's all. You must've been dreaming...you been awful tired lately. It bust a bolt and you dreamed it was waving at you. Now you're awake, so you forget about it and come to dinner."

That night they had a quiet dinner. He picked at his food but ate little and she watched him with glistening eyes. A palor hung over them both. Neither one could define it. To him, it was a warmth that grew in his stomach and made everything around him seem suddenly cold. To her, it was the realization that he was decaying inside as well as out.

After dinner they went to bed. She leaned over him and kissed him on the ear. "I love you Vernon."

He turned to her...saw her eyes glint in the darkness. "It waved to me. I saw it do that. It hasn't moved in years."

She leaned back onto her pillow and sighed. A tear formed and fell. "Aren't you happy? Haven't I beed a good wife to you/"

He said nothing and slept.

 

She didn't wake when, early next morning, he dressed in his trousers and overcoat and stepped into the soggy daylight. He lit his pipe and started through the damp wheatfield toward the windmill. The walk was long enough to have him panting when he got there and, even though it was cold, he managed to work up a small sweat. He picked a wheatstalk and chewed on the end. Then he went up to the windmill. He was surprised to find how weatherbeaten the mill actually was. Its rotting frame was bent and frail, and termite tunnels ran through its entire length. Its vanes were cracked and stained in places and what few metal parts it had left were caked with rust. There was a pond nearby that had overrun its bank and was eroding the ground beneath the windmill. The water was featureless, without a ripple, and its glazed surface reflected the sky like a painting. He reached out and ran his hand over the windmill frame. The entire structure quivered and he quickly stepped back. The lower supports sank deeper into the edge of the pond. With an almost reluctance, he waved at the mill and then turned to leave.

"That pond," said a voice behind him, "is a disease."

He spun around. There was no one...only the windmill.

"That pond," it repeated, "is a disease. It spreads with each rain and weakens my foundations. I will collapse soon."

The man smiled. "You waved at me last night."

"Yes, "said the windmill, "I needed you. You must help me. You must build a wall thick enough to keep the pond back."

He looked at the pond. It was a small hole, but deep and murky. He stooped, picked up a stone, and tossed it into the water. The stone broke the surface cleanly, without splash or ripple. "A wall that thick would take a lot of hard work...I'm not up to that. Besides, why should I do that for you?"

"Because, Vernon. You need to build that wall more than I need you to. You need to sweat."

The windmill was right. He needed that more than anything. Sweat for wheat, that was the going rate.

"Yes," he said, "it must be stopped." As he scooped up the first handfull of mud, a thought occured to him.

When he returned home, his wife was waiting for him. Mud caked his body from hair to feet and he looked more like a scarecrow than a man. She put a hand to her mouth. "My God! What's happened to you?"

He kicked his muddy shoes off onto the rug. The day's labour had exhausted him to dizziness and he stumbled over his feet. "I was building a dam for that windmill...I wanted to work and it asked me to help it. So I did." He dropped his overcoat and headed towards the bedroom, but she took him by the hand and swung him in the direction of the bathroom. Once she got him undressed, she soaked him in steaming water. He leaned back and relaxed his aching joints. "Am I senile?"

The question made her pause. Since the night before she had thought about it, but now he was forcing her to decide...in her own mind at least...one way or the other. She continued to bathe him, rubbing his back. "Why are you doing this Vernon?"

He placed his head into his hands. "I don't know...I just don't know what I want anymore. I loved my life yesterday, with nothing to do but sit and think and enjoy each other's company. What's that old saying? 'Grow old with me, the best is yet to be'. But today, for the first time in years, I struggled. I dug right down into the earth herself and wrestled with her. It was a glorious feeling. But not I'm here rleaxing in a hot bath with you at my side and I fall in love with heaven all over again."

He turned to face her. "That's the problem. It sneaks up and shoots me in the back. All of it. You...the porch...the rocking chair...and pies...and sunsets...and those damned crickets. You're all eating me alive. You erode my bones!"

She was crying now. "How can you say I'm hurting you? I've given you everything you've ever wanted!"

"That's just it! Look at me." He stood up in the bathtub. "I'm a bent, senile piece of junk. I want to stand as tall as a windmill. I want to climb...I'm so sick of the top! If I don't get out of this I will collapse!" He tore from her grasp and ran out of the house, naked. The chill of the morning felt wonderful against his body...as did the mud that pressed in between his toes, so he walked in rugged silence. When he reached the windmill, he waved at it. "I'm here."

The vanes turned slightly. In the distance, he heard his wife calling out his name.

"What is it you want from me, Vernon?"

He thought for a long while. This was the decision that would cluminate a lifetime. His slice of heaven, even now, was so appealing. To be able to sit on his rocking chair and smoke his corn cob pipe. And the sunsets...they were so beautiful. He could be content once again.

He addressed the windmill. "I want you to build me a wall. Can you do that?"

"I can," came the reply, "You must climb to the top of me. Think of it as a kind of test. When you reach the top, you will find your wall. You will find life."

His wife's cry drew closer. Almost panicky, he started to climb. Once again he felt a warmth in his stomach, a kindling that urged him onward. Below he saw the pond...it was as smooth as ice. He heard the vanes above him move slightly in the wind, encouraging him on, but the climb wasn't an easy one. Rotting timber collapsed under his feet and stuck huge splinters into his soles. His breath became short. The autumn air stifled him and he became dizzy.

He paused for a moment to catch his breath. All reason was clouded from his mind...he was fully caught up in the struggle at hand. It felt so good to have a focus, to be so single-minded. The slice of heaven he had worked so hard for was now not even worth the plate it was served upon. He let out a laugh and started to swoon.

A cry of "Vernon!" from some distance behind him alerted the man. He turned and saw his wife struggling through the wheatfield. With a burst of panicked energy he fought like a cornered animal and finally reached the top. He stood up amid the cracked vanes and battered joints in triumph. He too several deep, thirsty breaths. The air was full of the smell of rotting lumber. Then the sound of snapping wood. Huge timbers buckled under their own weight and the windmill collapsed. He was hurtled through the air. The white morning sky flashed before him and then turned blue as he broke the surface of the pond. He sank switfly. He was a fair swimmer, even for his age, and could normally swim the depth of the pond several times over. But the climb had drained him...he was so tired. For a few seconds he flailed his arms feebly. Then, he closed his eyes and let out his breath. A warm euphoria entered his body...the kind of warmth from a sunset, or a lover, and he breathed it in. From above came the muffled cry of his name. When he had taken in all the warmth his lungs could carry, he lay back and smiled a contented smile.


 

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This page at updated January 28, 2004