(

On this night, this Christmas night,
I walk his saintly wake,
following ropes of chimney smoke
and stolen left to bake.

Tura lura lura lie,
I spied the bedside glow,
of Gordon Goss the bully boss
of school bus one-four-oh.

Now Master Claus said bully boss
had been a naughty sprite.
He bore no gifts nor fancy things
to leave for him tonight.

Await, I did within the mouth
of the ancient farmyard well,
while keeping patience occupied
with ditties spun in hell.

Wither, dither, chortle, sput.
My singing filled the hole
with vulgar tunes of hungry things
a-prowling for a soul.

The wind, it whipped and snapped the night,
his “Ho Ho Hoʻs” rejoiced.
I marked my time with brimstone rhymes
in a hellish, monstrous voice.

Tura, lura, lura lie,
I heard the deer alert.
My talons grasped the icy stone
encased in frozen dirt.

His sleigh had lifted him aloft
and well into the night.
So then tʻwas time I bore my fangs
to set the bully boss right.

In leaps and lopes I covered ground
and rose upon the roof.
And proudly, loudly sounded my coming
with every heavy hoof.

Down, down, down the chimney,
warmed with Clausʻs cloak,
I filled the dark with amber glow.
The air with sulfry smoke.

“Oh, Gordon Goss, you bully boss…
into your dreams I go.
To weave a nightmare full of things
rose up from down below.”

I heard the whimper. I heard the gasp.
The crying out to follow.
The terrorizing shadow things
that hunt for fear to swallow.

“Oh, Gordon Goss, you bully boss…
of school bus one-four-oh.
The bane of innocents and waifs
whoʻll wake soon, donʻt you know?”

“Tʻis the realm of Father Christmas,
the lord of peace and joy,
that granted me the warrant right
to claim you, wretched boy!”

So into his room I took to the bed,
to claim the childling prize.
In a flash and a gash I cut out his tongue
and tore out his tear-filled eyes.

“No crying nor lying the damage is done.
Your sins have bought you no grace.
Youʻre Gordon Goss, the bully boss.
Iʻve come now to collect your face!”

“My cave is adorned with faces
of children both naughty and wrong.
Each Christmas night I thrive on fright
and dance to the penitence song.”

The sobs were filled with crimson.
Eye sockets, bloody tears.
But precious now the legend grows
of Yuletideʻs greatest fears.

When autumn leaves are falling
and Winter winds offend.
Tʻis Nicholas the Saint you love
and cherish to the end.

But lest you harm or wrong the weak
or rise against the pure.
Tʻis Krampus who shall visit last
with death upon your door.

Click here for more on Krampus.

The bubbling and crackling was starting to get a little embarrassing. The sound was pretty loud and made the whole iHop smell like pancakes and spit. Andrew and I shared a booth across from Robi as he tackled his sixth stack of buttermilk pancakes with coconut syrup.  His food-choked ramblings sounded like a cross between a Coney Island boardwalk vendor and a Dutch pimp. English was in there somewhere. I was sure the demon that borrowed his body somewhere in the Veneer left behind a good amount of extra matter not of this plane. You donʻt play Motel 6 to a Demon without picking up a little sumpin sumpin, if you get my drift. Did I mention the part about this little culinary event being two steps to the right of embarrassing? The eating wouldnʻt be so bad if it werenʻt for the giggling. The run-on chortles were pretty good indications that this wasnʻt the good-ole buddy that Iʻd come to know and love. Ok, for starters…he was throwing off some major heat. He already opted to dine sans clothing. Oh, Andrew and I tried to get him to wear a few threads. We sort of succeeded with his agreeing to put on an oversized pair of board shorts, but he made it quite clear, “IʻM TOO FUCKIN HOT!”

So there we sat. Robi was drinking quarts of water straight from the pitcher and palming handfuls of pancake in a steady bear-in-yer-guts fashion. The small plate of butter pats in front of him was shaking slightly from the heat. The individually wrapped pats were swelling and sanpping like little party poppers. Butter was splattering everything – us included – in a seven-foot radius. I gave up on my omelet after his first three bites. Andrewʻs head bobbed between his barely-picked-at french toast and keeping a sharp analytical eye on his partner. Trouble was brewing. I’m just glad I got Jesse safely back to the house resting with a re-souled Dakota snuggling at his side. Andrew put a protective seal on the place even Merlin would have struggled with. Besides, the team of Covenant operatives swarming around our street would keep all attention to a minimum. But Robi?
Andrew and I agreed that whatever occupied Robi in the Veneer was powerful enough to not only heal his physical form, but smart enough to leave some kind of connection in tact. What we refused to admit was the harsh possibility that the Robi that sat across from us in a batter-storm of pancake was not Robi at all. There was a strong and frightening possibility that the Robi at that iHop table was a new entity formed of whatever was left behind of our friend. I was certain of it, but chose to keep my mouth shut until Andrew was ready to talk about it. I mean, for him…this was going to be a monumental decision. To live with this new version of his lover and life partner, or slay him. Either way, I would stand by his decision. Not that either choice would be a walk in the park.

I looked an Andrew as Robi killed off his sixth plate of cakes. The syrup dripped off his mouth like it does when a vampireʻs making a mess.

“Hey! Why you guys not sverisczik frkūm?! Come on! EAT SOMETHING! (gulp) I LIKE MY MEN CHUBBY!!”

He babbled something about fornication, then his rambling switched to something more akin to ranting drunken elvish. I nudged Andrew under the table.

“So. Robi. You still hungry?”

“UMTH!”

His grunt was pretty affirmative. He wanted plate number seven.

“WAITRESTH! PANCKSTHVENTH NOW PWEEZE!!!”

I could see the poor girl hiding behind a pillar by the kitchen door. She’d been crying for the last twenty minutes. The other waitresses offered her no support, going about their own business. And then…the security guards.

A gaggle of three local boys in white shirts and tactical belts stood outside the mall entrance to the restaurant. From their body language I could tell they were at a loss for ideas. How do you approach a half-naked, syrup-covered, gluttonous lunatic with a demon complex?  Andrew spotted them too. I could tell he was a little worried about all the attention.

“Robi. Why donʻt you let me order you a few dozen pancakes to go? Brettʻs worried about Jesse and we should head home.”

“NO!”

Oh shit.

“Yeah. Hey, Robi…letʻs get the hell outta here. Besides, I got a six of cold ones in the fridge. What better to wash down all those carbs?”

“NO!!!!”

The foil on the butter pats was starting to melt and the plastic water pitcher was collapsing into slag. It was getting hot in there. Andrew got up and stood next to Robi.

“Come on, babe. I want to leave. Now.”

Robi abruptly stopped shoveling and spat an obscene wad of mashed pancake phlegm onto the floor. The guards started puffing up and swaggered over to our table.

“Excuse me. You folks are gonna have to leave.”

Andrew moved to intervene before they got to our table.

“We were just leav…”

Robi stood up and moved with wicked speed in front of his partner.

“Actually occifers…I was thinking of ordering another plate of pancakes. ITʻS ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT TODAY YOU KNOW!?!”

His board shorts were sticking out in front, betraying an obvious erection. Oh damn. That was usually a sign of trouble. The lead guard – an Asian boy in his early twenties stepped up to Robi.

“Sir. You need to leave, now.”

Robiʻs hand was on the guardʻs throat in nanosecond. I heard a snap as the guardʻs head fell back at an ugly angle. His body dropped to the ground like a badly made rag doll. One of the other guards pissed himself as his partner started run. Robi stared down the frightened young man as he moved in closely. He was Polynesian with dark brown skin, but the blood poured drained from his face as Robi whispered something into his ear. Robi smiled and coked ihs head to the side as the poor kid started to cry.

Andrew was chanting something under his breath. I scanned the mall around the entrance expecting to see reinforcements. I could hear sirens out in the parking lot, so I knew I had to take control of the situation; Ryan Robidart was out for trouble.

The boy started walking away as Robi started laughing. As he reached the corner by the escalator, he smacked the fire alarm with his tonfa stick. The alarms screamed in a high-pitched wail as the sprinkler system kicked in. The spray of water rained down on the crowds of people running toward the exits. But the water was behaving badly and Iʻm sure Robi had a lot to do with it. He had to. Because everyone knows that water is not supposed to burst into flames.

Joni spoke to me one night. I was waiting on the whim of the cool and slick when I was feeling the fool and sick. But I just had to get out and speak the words of magic and we would giggle and scream and eat cheese and mustard. And we had fish and shared a car and bills were little monsters that we kicked to the curb with a crack and a crunch. Ice was for sliding on, whether in your van or your sneakers. Axes were hard to come by, but chef’s knives were not. We played in dungeons and on starships with frisbees of blood and plus-five swords of bill collector slaying. The Renaissance was on the other side of the lake and Little John had KY in his tent. Saint Anthony had no head and Jesus was dead ’til we stuck him in the little ceramic cradle right before the parties began. California was easy when you got the wheel in your hand. You just whistle when you get home so ya know it’s not a ghost – or a cat under the tub. Pack the Christmas tree with wrapped soul tickles regardless of who owes who. It matters not. Fuck my twat. Course and abrasive and nasty and funny and irreverent and unholy and sweet and loving and true and honest and never, never, never, NEVER is your pain worse than mine. Hear me?! HEAR ME?!?

He does. And he knows just how much space he takes up in my heart. He knows that nothing will ever change. A little distance. A little space. A little this and that and grey hair and bigger bellies and time and people and hay rides that just aren’t the same anymore. I will still be standing on that rock hammer jacking a hole big enough for a sword or a show or the only Merlin or maybe – just maybe…these memories. Oh there are so many more. But you know what I mean. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.

That’s not Barnabas.

I miss you, boy.

Good-bye shellfish, liver and turkey. Hello yummy pineapple, coffee and tofu! Veggies, veggies, fruit fruit fruit….

Our relationship has proven difficult at times. You’re self-centered and insensitive. You are inconsiderate of my privacy and always prattling on about the minutia in other peoples’ lives. I need my space. I need some peace and you’re not ready to listen to my feelings. When you’re near me, I feel agitated and overwhelmed. And above all…you just don’t care, FB. Your pokes, your “like” this and “like” that…all your friends. It means nothing, does it? Good-bye, FB. We had some fun…

SCENE 1

FOUCETTE

(As lights come up from black) Mission log. Backward encryption grade Alpha six. Authorization AF2900 – G. Space Station Praemos. Alann Foucette – Command Marshal. Day 17 (beat) I, think.

I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on. I feel so sick. My crew? They’re all… The station is quiet. Too quiet. Too fucking…quiet.

(long pause)

I was trapped inside the Singularity Chamber when a catastrophic grid breach triggered a lock down. The shielding of the S3 cell is too dense for the radiation to penetrate. Great little safety feature.

(bitter chuckle)

The entire skeleton crew compliment… They’re all gone. All thirty six of them (beat) gone. I am adrift. The station is unmanned and slowly adrift…according to protocol. I don’t know where I am. Repeat. Unmanned. (long pause) This…is my last entry. I need you to know – whoever you are. You…need to know the truth.

This is all my doing. This whole god damned mess. I gave the order to push the tertiary power grid on the main drive. We were on a standard power up for a brand new space station. The first of its kind and the biggest thing man’s ever put into space. I commanded First Warden Marques to push the envelope. The procedure was to take six hours. But I was so excited. We all were. I mean, why open the door in six hours when we can climb through the window now? “Punch it, Marques. Rush her now and we’ll be in debriefing by breakfast.”

(pause)

I knew. As soon as he keyed the sequence and the drive paused. It sounded like the whole station was about to take a deep breath and cough us out of its lungs. Expel the human virus. The whole upper half of the tertiary grid just…imploded. Marques had no way of knowing. No one could have predicted such a massive flux. No one could have guessed. (beat) But I knew. I think somewhere down in my egotistical mind I knew that this kind of shit would tax a grid that was only four months old and untested for stress level G.

(long pause – wracked)

I…knew. (beat) I just thought I could beat the odds one more time. That’s why I insisted on locking down the singularity chamber myself. The grid could be cut loose by remote, but I wasn’t gonna send some kid into the S3 to die because the old man fucked up.

I didn’t even think twice about my decision. I wouldn’t have any arguments. I just stood up from my seat, marched right off the command deck and down to the S3 hold. The Marshal will die for his crew. He’ll sacrifice his own life for his station and her noble mission. The Marshal didn’t even realize that by “sacrificing” his own life…by entering the lair of an artificial black hole, he was actually guaranteeing his own survival. The grid breech was so severe that the resultant contamination took the whole crew in under 7.4 minutes. The old man fucked up. Live with it! Live with it for 24 or 13 or 99 fucking days, because I should have died and I didn’t. I should have been the one to go. And those innocent kids should have lived.

(beat)

I am entombed. Solitary confinement.

In the beginning I thought that this “stay of execution” would only last a few hours at best. I expected eventually system integrity would decay and I’d get a front row seat to the big bang. But it didn’t happen. (beat) I just survived. Alone with my crime of neglect.

(long pause)

I began to starve. Not one scrap of food. Not one drop of water anywhere. Then it dawned on me. How clever, the designers of this station and her power systems. The Corpesian designs were ours for the taking. Emulating the efficiency of a living body, they invented a bio-relay network. A sort of central nervous system, doling out power as needed.

(He pulls a gel pack from it’s mooring – the lighting responding in kind)

You see? This conducting gel is synthetically created bio-organic material.

(Scrapes with hand, then eats a handful of gel)

Tastes like shit. (pause) But it’s edible.

(Scrapes, then eats the remainder)

And it’s good for you too.

(Tosses empty into pile of spent pack frames)

Good enough to keep me alive for these past… How long was I here? Who the hell knows?

(Piercing klaxon followed by the cold, synthetic voice of the station’s computer)

COMPUTER

Emergency. Emergency. This is the Aragosian Space Station Praemos in need of assistance. Primary control has been compromised. Binary navigational coordinates will be transmitted at frequency 337, commencing in 15 seconds.10.5.1. Mayday.

(high pitched cacophony of mixed tones pierces the cavernous interior of the station)

FOUCETTE

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NO! NO! NO! Shut up!! Shuuuuut uuuuuup!

(He begins smashing the intercom panel with a large tool. Once destroyed, the trailing final seconds of the tone and message can be heard from elsewhere on the station)

FOUCETTE

I am so tired.

(He turns toward the singularity chamber, then back toward the audience)

Singularity. Beyond here, the laws of physics no longer apply. Is this hell’s gate? (beat) Let me go. How come I’m not dead? I can’t take this anymore. I want to die. Let me go. LET ME GO!

Is this stuff keeping me alive? (at the singularity) Or are you? (pause) Only one way to find out.

(He pulls the last pack from its mooring. The lights flicker for an instant. The monitors flicker. The entire chamber is plunged into darkness. The singularity sucks the light from every cell in Foucette’s body)

Foucette

It’s so quiet. Quiet…quiet…so quiet. Silence. Shhhhhhhhhhhh…ha ha haaaa… (agony)

(Darkness.)

(Silence)

(A solid rapping as if on the very bulkhead)

FOUCETTE

Hello?

(There is a sound of Foucette madly fumbling with the still intact gel pack…attempting to reinsert in utter darkness)

Who’s there? Who’s there?! Hello!

(The lights flicker for an instant. The monitors flicker, then give way to stark emergency lighting. Standing before him is a figure, clad in full EV space suit. Visor in place and filters engaged. Foucette is beside himself.)

Oh my lord Bregor.

(He stumbles back against the bulkhead)

Marques? (beat) Marques? Is that you?

(The figure slowly moves to unfasten then remove its helmet – revealing Systems Warden Marques. He has a look of vacancy and disorientation.)

MARQUES

Marshal. Are you all right?

(Foucette doesn’t respond.)

MARQUES

Marshal. Is everything all right? Are you..All right?

FOUCETTE

I..Yes, I’m fine, Ranin. Everything’s fine..here.

MARQUES

Ahh, thank Bregor. You left the bridge so fast. Everything happened so fast, we didn’t know what to do. I did as you told me. I keyed the sequence to up the power on grid 3. I felt the station lurch and then..then…

You left the bridge, sir.

FOUCETTE

You did well, Marques. You did it by the book.

MARQUES

We’ve been looking for you, sir. The bridge crew and I…

We want to know your orders sir. According to Strype, we… we should be making the bend on final approach. Debriefing and breakfast. That was the plan, right captain?

FOUCETTE

That was the plan.

MARQUES

The others will be happy to know you’re all right, sir. We were all worried.

FOUCETTE

I’m…sorry.

MARQUES

What’s that, sir?

FOUCETTE

I said – I’m sorry, Ranin. Sorry for giving you an order that I knew was wrong. Sorry for leaving the command deck without even saying where I was going. Sorry for ever coming…here -the only safe place on this whole damned station. I am so, so sorry..for killing you.

MARQUES

Killing me? What are you saying? I’m not…I’m fine. I’m here. We’re all here. We’ve been looking for you since…

FOUCETTE

No, Ranin. There was a terrible accident – a systemic breech. All decks were flooded before anyone even had a chance to..

MARQUES

You’re wrong, Captain. We’re all fine. I’m fine. You must be exhausted. (Foucette slowly turns and faces the monitor) T’alvarr is on her way. She’ll fix you up – good as new, you’ll see.

(The Marshal remains turned)

MARQUES

Marshal?

(Regarding monitor – long pause)

Who are they, sir? (No answer) Who are they, sir?

(Foucette Turns)

FOUCETTE

You. (Foucette approaches Marques) You don’t belong here, Ranin. And you have to go back. Tell the others that I’ll be there shortly. We’ll go together.

(Foucette returns to the conduit system and reaches for the last gel pack. He grabs the handle.)

It’ll all soon be over.

(The lighting begins to shift before he gets to remove the pack. The entire chamber is bathed in blue. From within and around the singularity core, the other three command staff emerge, taking positions flanking the Marshal.)

STRYPE

This can’t be the end, sir…when we’re faced with so many beginnings.

P’ANDAG

He’s right, Alann. The truth brings with it so many memories of so many minds.

FOUCETTE

Fina?

P’ANDAG

Every time one door shuts,

T’ALVARR

A million others open.

STRYPE

This can’t be the end.

MARQUES

This can’t be the end, sir. Maybe for us (beat) here. But you…

T’ALVARR

Have so much to live for.

GARETH

So many stories to tell.

STRYPE

So many lives.

P’ANDAG

So many memories.

GARETH

Our memories.

T’ALVARR

Our lives.

GARETH

We’ll go. But our lives will mean nothing unless we are remembered.

P’ANDAG

They have to remember us, Alann. Help them to remember. Too much has been forgotten already.

MARQUES

And we are not alone, Marshal. The forgotten ones, all around us, are starving for remembrance.

STRYPE

Tell their stories, sir. Bring us peace.

ALL

The door is open.

END OF SCENE 1

SCENE 2

(Lights come up from black. Command Marshal Foucette lies sleeping. The monitor is filled with snow and hypnotic static. Suddenly a high-pitched tone sounds, indicating an incoming signal from an approaching ship. Foucette stirs.)

(An additional static…followed by a multi-layered voice out of phase. We listen as the computer filters then locks in on the signal. A voice comes through hauntingly clear)

VOICE

Praemos. This is the Command Marshal of the APT rescue vessel S’aliis. Do you read? Are you there, Praemos? Respond. 537-13A.

(Foucette looks about bewildered. Emerging from a deep sleep. He brings himself up to one knee, then reaches for a comm switch. Once engaged, he leans into the receiver)

FOUCETTE

Saigremor, this is Command Marshal Alan Foucette of Praemos station. Confirmation 537-13A. Where have you been all my life?

VOICE

Thank Bregor you’re alive, Marshal. Our probe data was pretty grim. We thought we were too late. The contam readings are off the chart. You’ve been through the worst, sir. We’ll get a team over there in a few minutes. Sit tight.

FOUCETTE

Oh, I’m not going anywhere.

VOICE

Say again?

FOUCETTE

Never mind, S’aliis. Never mind.

VOICE

Marshal. We’re reading you in the S3 Chamber. You’ll be safe for now. How many additional survivors?

FOUCETTE

None. They’re all dead.

VOICE

Affirmative, Marshal. I’m sorry for your loss.

(Long Pause)

(Foucette stands and faces the monitor)

VOICE

Marshal Foucette. Our team is docking now. They’ll be at your position in a few moments.

(The ship can be heard attaching to the outer hull)

Command is anxious to get you back as soon as possible, sir. They’ve got a lot of questions. I, uh…bet you have some stories to tell.

Foucette

I sure do, S’aliis. I sure do.

(As if on cue, the monitor pops to life, showing instead of scattered corpses, a row of neatly stacked bodies…positioned as if awaiting retrieval. Time to go home.)

Fade to Black

Copyright © 2010 Brett Botbyl, All Rights Reserved.

This is a posting an online acquaintance made on his blog this past Thanksgiving. It moved me more than anything I’ve ever read in all the social network kind of sites combined. Simple truths, my friends…

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Thursday, November 26, 2009

A Different Kind of Thanksgiving

This is not the pilgrims and the Indians, this is not the large family surrounding the table filled with freshly baked turkey and gravy. Today is just me and mom…and dad….sort of.

Dad is dying. There really is no way around this. He is confined to a hospital bed in the front room and is barely responding. Mom and I have adjusted his position to keep him comfortable. He opens his eyes, but can’t speak. He is a frail, wilted skeleton of the man that was my father. We were never close as I was growing up. Over the years, he has mellowed and I’ve come to appreciate his love for me. Now, though, there is really nothing left. My dad has always had a dry sense of humor, but I could always make him laugh. Try as I may, he isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. His chest rattles as his lungs fill with fluid….again. Mom and I have spent the day talking about what we’re gonna do….after. We’ve got to get a funeral home here, and then we’ll need to get dad’s ashes home (his real home, Cape Cod) for a scattering at sea. There will be a memorial service at some point there and probably one here in FL as well. So much to do, and he’s not even dead yet.

I got up last night for a drink and was struck by the irony of a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order signed and taped to the fridge. The whole house is full of death, and death still has yet to arrive. It’s like we’ve prepared for Santa and now wait in our beds to hear the patter of hooves on the roof. We were talking and my mom and her friend, both nurses for 40 years or more said these types of deaths can be long and hard. It’s funny, in the end, we are created to live not to die. We float smoothly through life and then when the end comes, our bodies don’t let go. Our bodies know, even when we don’t that this is a great gift and a blessing.

And still there are things to be thankful for. Dad isn’t in pain…that’s a BIG one. I’ve got 99 here with me and she is such a sweet dog. I’ve always called her my dark angel and she is again keeping me sane. Her wagging tail and instant drool at the sight of any food makes me smile. It’s a beautiful day. A cold front has moved through and the clouds have parted leaving a cool crisp fall day, rare for this time of year in Florida. I’ve got some incredible friends and family, who I should never take for granted. I’m alive, that’s always a good one.

You know, if you are reading this, then you are blessed. Not because of this blog, but because you have the technology and resources to be able to access the internet. This likely means you have food and shelter and most probably clothing (though I know a lot of you don’t prefer to go without). When you feel the need to bitch about something, remember that. You have more than over 90% of the people on the planet…be grateful. If your ex drives you nuts, if your parents piss you off, if your health isn’t always what you hope, remember that you choose. You decide whether to love and live every minute or to waste them and throw them away.

Dad is dying in the other room and I just carved up a rotisserie chicken from the supermarket and opened some cans of veggies and a jar of gravy. This will be the first Thanksgiving since I was born that my Mom has not cooked a turkey dinner. At this point, neither of us cares about that. We’ll sit down and give thanks for the little things and the big, and we’ll have another Thanksgiving meal together. When I put the leftovers in the fridge, I’ll wince a little at the DNR order, but know this. I will NOT be defeated. I will count every blessing for this big beautiful universe and I will thank the gods that in all of the world in all of time, I am here and now.
Epilogue…..

8 hours after I posted this, my father has passed. Peacefully, with my mom by his side where she has been for 44 years.

Blessings and rest Dad, you have most definitely earned it.

Martin looked up at the Klingon towering a half-meter above him. Shaktaar stood next to a noticeably trembling Ensign. Martin nodded at the other officer.

“Your partner on this exercise, Ensign Tarluk beat you here by about forty-five seconds. So much for Klingon punctuality. Unfortunate.”

“Apologies, sir.” Shaktaar handed the lieutenant his PADD.

“But you’re only half-Klingon, isn’t that right?” Martin smiled as he noticed the brown stain on Ensign Shaktaar’s uniform. “You finished almost all of your coffee, Ensign?”  Martin grinned.

“Aye, sir”,  Shaktaar grunted with a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

“Don’t worry about it, Ensign. You’ll need something a little warmer when you get in there.” The lieutenant gestured slightly toward the holodeck doors. “Shall we?”  Lieutenant Martin approached the holodeck console. “Computer. Holodeck training simulation Zeta Five-001.2.”

The two large Ensigns stood at attention while Martin briefed them on the particulars of the simulation. Two technicians moved to meet them with a cart stacked with heavy parkas, boots and equipment. After assessing the supplies, both men dressed for cold weather and hastily equipped themselves.

Lieutenant Martin grinned. “Alright, men. In you go.”

The young officers approached the massive door which parted to receive them. The large room was marked in the familiar green and black grid of a holodeck simulator. A filtered voice came from a voice monitor in the ceiling.

“Computer. Run program.”

Suddenly the room went white and the temperature dropped fifteen degrees. They found themselves on a wintery white plain, with snow whipping about in a brutal wind. A large figure stumbled out of the snow, bleeding greenish blood, and gasping noticeably.

“Please… help. My people… dying… slaughtered.”

Shaktaar’s comm badge chirped and a voice began. “USS Beowulf to Ensigns Tarluk and Shaktaar on the ice-planet, Juwaar.”

Tarluk slapped at his comm badge, “Tarluk here, sir.”

“Scout your location and rescue any and all Juwaarans injured in last night’s Dominion attack.  Stay alert for remaining Jem’Hadar.”

“Aye, sir.” Tarluk scanned the massive, injured creature with his tricorder. Definitely Juwaaran. Shaktaar already had his phaser in one hand and a medical tricorder in the other. He cautiously approached the injured being, the tricorder whirring at a high velocity.

“We have to get this man to shelter. His core temperature is dangerously low, and he’s sustained multiple injuries.”

Tarluk widened the scan of his own tricorder and swept the area. “There’s a series of caves about 30 meters to the North. Follow me.”

The two ensigns set out across the snow as it swept into deeper drifts. The walk, though short of distance, proved a strenuous task in the sub-zero conditions. Shaktaar’se tricorder scanned the rocks and snow and soon located a large cave. He entered first, phaser drawn.

Tarluk’s comm badge chirped. “Shaktaar to Tarluk. The cave is clear and safe to enter. I’ll start a fire.”

Tarluk spotted a flash and a building glow from within the cave. The very thought of a warm fire brought a grin to the Klingon’s face. Then – something moved in the distance. Even through the snow and thickening darkness, Tarluk spotted a figure on the stone outcrop just over the cave entrance. He smacked his comm badge.

“Shaktaar! Get out of there…Jem Had…”

In a split second the figure tossed something into the cave mouth just as Shaktaar appeared at opening, phaser in hand. The fierce beam of light lanced outward, striking the enemy warrior square in the chest. With little resistance its body flew off into the frozen darkness.

On the icy stone, Shaktaar felt a rapid surge of air pressure from within the cave an instant before an invisible force of angry energy propelled him off of the cliff.  Fortunately the snow had built to a rather thick drift in the brush below and the massive half-Klingon landed  shoulder first into the powder.

*crack*

Taking a quick inventory, Shaktaar found that his phaser was lost in the explosion, his tricorder was crushed in the fall…and his left shoulder was almost definitely dislocated. “Shaktaar to Tarluk. I really hope you’re intact. My phaser is missing and my tricorder is destroyed.”

From the badge Tarluk responded. “And you? Are you injured?”

Shaktaar bit into his lip, once again tasting his own blood. The pain, now blinding, would fade in eventually. “Negative. I’m fine. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in a moment. There must be more Jem Hadar out there. Scan what you can.”

Shaktaar moved outward in the general direction of Tarluk’s last location. His comm badge was set to proximity location. The chirping became more rapid and at a higher pitch, indicating that Tarluk was near.

“Pssssssst.”

Shaktaar found his partner nearby, partially concealed behind a thicket of evergreen.

“Shaktaar, I know of a intercept mouse hole in this holodeck program. If I can get to an interface panel….

Another barrage of energy punched into the snow just meters from their location. Shaktaar visually scanned the clearing. “Look, Tarluk. Let’s discuss this holodeck trick later over some prune juice and blood worms. Right now, those Jem ‘Hadar are getting closer…and we’ve got to either get out of here or get THEM out of here. And I don’t plan on leaving until we complete this mission. We need a plan.”

Shaktaar slowly moved to his feet, hunching over to minimize himself as a target. “Tarluk. We’re out of options. We either fight, or surrender. And somehow…I don’t think the Jem’Hadar are taking prisoners on this visit. We’re going to have to rush them and hit them as hard as we can.”

The larger Klingon ensign still looked a bit dazed, “With ONE phaser?”

Shaktaar closed his eyes to muster some thought. “Yes. One phaser. With any luck, that’s all we’ll need. The storm is weakening and I can make out several forms. It seems they’ve taken position in the mouth of the ice cave, the ceiling of which is composed of nothing but ice. Ice that should respond quite nicely to phaser on maximum setting.“

A smile invaded Tarluk’ face.

Shaktaar reached for Tarluk’s phaser and continued. “My guess is that the cold is effecting the Jem’Hadar just as much as it is us. On my call, you bolt as fast as you can straight across the clearing, back toward the transport site. Once you’re in the open, I’ll charge their position like a runaway warp shuttle, feeding them phaser until it’s drained.”

Tarluk rose to a crouching position. “This IS a good day to…”

Shaktaar raised his hand. “Save it. I don’t want to die with my head full of Klingon cliché.”

Tarluk readied himself. “To the glory of battle!”

Shaktaar moaned, “You couldn’t resist, could you?”

For just one, brief moment, silence washed over the clearing. Shaktaar could hear the snow brushing the crust of ice on the drifts. The wind whipped into a crescendo. As the howling peaked, Shaktaar nodded to Tarluk. “Now.”

Tarluk dug into the freezing snow and shot out across the clearing, sending clouds of powder with each stride. The Klingon’s steps punched the crust, sounding loudly for the attention of the Jem’Hadar.  RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!”

As if echoing Tarluk’ strides, green bolts lanced out from the ledge at the mouth of the ice cave. Shaktaar leapt like a Bregorian Swamp Cat, closing the distance at a break-neck pace. At about ten meters from the ledge, Shaktaar’s thumb clamped the trigger of the phaser releasing a stream of destructive energy.

The startled Jem’Hadar stammered back, attempting to reclaim a strategic position. Just as they raised their weapons to fire at Shaktaar, the thick ceiling of black ice above their heads began to give. Large chunks of rock-hard ice fell down on top of the two warriors, crushing one instantly. The other only managed a blind shot upward and half of a horrible scream.

Shaktaar rolled to his right, colliding with an ice-covered tree trunk. HIs injured shoulder again took a violent blow. *crunch*

The cave-in seemed to rage for hours. When the rumbling stopped, Shaktaar pulled himself up to one knee. His weight crunched loudly into the snow, accompanied by a soft whirring sound coming from his phaser. Only then did Shaktaar notice that his white thumb still clamped the trigger of the spent phaser.

Tarluk approached from across the clearing. “Shaktaar. I found your phaser!”

Shaktaar looked up at his companion. “Great. Why don’t you stuff it up your….”

‘Computer. End program.’

The  snowy scene dissolved into the familiar grid of Holodeck 7. Lieutenant Cordoba stood just three meters from where Shaktaar crouched. “Yes, ensign? What were you going to say?”

Shaktaar attempted to stand to attention. “Nothing, sir. Just a little teasing to ease the….ughhhh…tension, sir.”

“Well gentlemen. You look like you could use a little cleaning up.”

In unison, the two ensigns responded. ”Yes, sir.”

“Report back to room 7-C in one hour for review. Mr. Shaktaar, report to sickbay 3 to see to that shoulder. Dismissed.”

Tarluk exited quickly, followed by Shaktaar. Just before Shaktaar reached the door, the Lieutenant spoke in a more casual tone. “Ensign Shaktaar.“

“Yes, sir?” The young officer stopped and turned.

Martin moved toward Shaktaar, pointing with his index finger at the still visible coffee stain on his tunic. “When you report back for review,  I’ll take mine with real cream and one sugar.”

Shaktaar grinned. “Yes, sir.”

As Shaktaar rounded the corner just before the lift his nose caught the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. His Klingon ancestors were kind enough to include a keen sense of smell in his genetic package.  Against the wall, near the restroom doors, waited an old fashioned, non-replicator refreshment cart – the kind afforded by high ranking
officers and civilians with far too much disposable income. He stared at the chronometer near the lift, then quickly back at the unattended cart.  With barely a second’s debate, the half-Klingon invaded the cart.

“Real coffee. I can’t pass this up.”

Shaktaar waited for the lift with his back against the wall, watching the restroom door with a trace of anxiety. He smiled, swirling the last luscious gulp of Terran Java in the Starfleet-branded cup. As the lift opened, he raised the still-swirling brew to his lips, and…..

“DAMN!” A rogue drop of coffee jumped the brim of the cup and crash-landed about 7.5 centimeters from his Starfleet comm-badge.  “No!” Shaktaar spun and regarded the chronometer. He’d already lagged far too long. He was sure the Admiral’s office alerted Holodeck 7. Lieutenant Martin was sure to notice the time lag.

With lightening speed, Shaktaar closed the gap between the lift and the restroom door. The door responded to Shaktaar’s urgency, only to allow a frontal collision with an exiting commander. Shaktaar jumped back to a full embarrassed attention, glimpsing the coffee cart’s attendant just behind the startled officer. The commander smiled, “Medical emergency, ensign?” Shaktaar swallowed hard. “No sir. Uh…not at all.” He pivoted, and grimly returned to the lift.

“No time left…”

Shaktaar entered the lift and spoke his destination through a mouth-full of finger. He blotted at the stain with his dampened index finger, succeeding at converting the spot into an even larger smear. In what seemed like seconds, the doors opened and the inevitable presented itself: directly across from the lift the wall displayed a plaque in bold, Starfleet lettering: TURBOLIFT 7.  Shaktaar stepped out and over to the holodeck doors, whispering under his breath, “What are the odds of an instructor with imperfect sight?”

The doors parted and a smiling lieutenant stepped out. Shaktaar snapped to attention, sure this would be his most embarrassing defeat; done in by a drop of fully-caffeinated evil.

“Ensign Shaktaar reporting for duty, sir.”

Shaktaar was ushered out of the reception area and into a large, fairly impressive office dominated by a massive antique desk. Seated behind it was a stern red-haired woman in full dress uniform.  She smiled slightly as Shaktaar entered and stood at full attention.

“Ensign Shaktaar reporting for duty, sir!”

Vice Admiral McGeehon nodded, accepting the PADD the young Klingon officer handed her. This was the second Klingon to pass through her office that day.  “At ease,” she instructed. She scanned over the small screen as the details of the Ensign’s record scrolled past.

“I am not surprised ensign, that the bulk of your training prepares you for tactical and security duty. You must make your father proud.”

Shaktaar subtly bit into his lower lip. “Yes, sir. I…would imagine.”

The Vice Admiral betrayed a slight grin. “Though I am disappointed by your disciplinary record. I trust we’ve seen the end of your…wilder days.”

Shaktaar bit harder into his lip – the taste of blood beginning to flow into his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

McGeehon nodded and handed the PADD back to Shaktaar. “Well, Ensign, everything looks to be in order. I’m going to assign you to Holodeck 7.  Lieutenant Martin will be your instructor.  Report to him right away. Any questions?”

Shaktaar nodded. “None, sir.”

“Very well. Dismissed.”

The ensign turned sharply and exited.

SD: 90530.0835

With the hiss of the Admiral’s closing door, Shaktaar made a mental notch on the back wall of his brain.  “One down…”.  He walked briskly
to the turbo lift  which would send him toward Holodeck 7.

As Shaktaar rounded the corner just before the lift, his nose caught the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. His Klingon ancestors were  kind enough to include a keen sense of smell in his genetic package. Against the wall, near the restroom doors, waited an old fashioned,  non-replicator refreshment cart – the kind afforded by high ranking officers and civilians with far too much disposable income. He stared at  the chronometer near the lift, then quickly back at the unattended cart.  With barely a second’s debate, the half Klingon invaded the cart.  “Real coffee. I can’t pass this up.”

Shaktaar waited for the lift with his back against the wall, watching the restroom door with a trace of anxiety. He smiled, swirling the last  luscious gulp of Terran Java in the Starfleet-branded cup. As the lift opened, he raised the still-swirling brew to his lips, and…..

“DAMN!” A rogue drop of coffee jumped the brim of the cup and crash-landed about 7.5 centimeters from his Starfleet comm-badge.  “No!”  Shaktaar spun and regarded the chronometer. He’d already lagged far too long. He was sure the Admiral’s office alerted Holodeck 7. Lieutenant  Martin was sure to notice the time lag.

With lightening speed, Shaktaar closed the gap between the lift and the restroom door. The door responded to Shaktaar’s urgency, only to allow  frontal collision with an exiting commander. Shaktaar jumped back to a full embarrassed attention, glimpsing the coffee cart’s attendant just behind the startled officer. The commander smiled, “Medical emergency, ensign?” Shaktaar swallowed hard. “No sir. Uh…not at all.” He pivoted, and grimly returned to the lift. “No time left…”

Shaktaar entered the lift, and spoke his destination through a mouth-full of finger. He blotted at the stain with his dampened index  finger, succeeding at converting the spot into an even larger smear. In what seemed like seconds, the doors opened and the inevitable presented itself: directly across from the lift, the wall displayed a plaque in bold, Starfleet lettering: TURBOLIFT 7.  Shaktaar stepped out and over to the holodeck doors, whispering under his breath, “What are the odds of an instructor with imperfect sight?”

The doors parted and a smiling lieutenant stepped out. Shaktaar snapped to attention, sure this would be his most embarrassing defeat…done in
by a drop of fully-caffeinated evil. “Ensign Shaktaar reporting for duty, sir.”