thefirstfleet

A WORLD MENDED or A CLOSURE     Why is it so hard to work with Romulans? This was a thought that has crossed the mind of Major General Estan Amirgil’s mind multiple times a day in the past few weeks. He was used to deal with Starfleet, both when looking down the barrel of a disruptor and at the conference table. The Feds were easy to work with, even the Tellarites. After all, once you eased yourself into trading some well-crafted insults, negotiating with a Tellarite was as easy as rolling off a log. Now the Romulans, they were something else. A riddle wrapped inside a mystery wrapped inside an enigma, a culture thriving on intrigue, with the national sport being conspiracy and every word a triple-edged blade, Romulans were not the people anybody wanted to trifle with, let alone bargain with. Yet here he was, Estan Amirgil, Major General of the Cassiopeian Armed Forces, doing the very thing, and, let’s just say, he was getting tired of it. It all started five months ago, when a Romulan

SCAR TISSUES OF THE SOUL or FURTHER TALES FROM CASSIOPEIA       Make a grave for the unknown soldier Nestled in your hollow shoulder       One, tribble-tribble. Pull. Fwhoom. Two, tribble-tribble. Pull. Fwhoom. Three, tribble-tribble. Pull. Fwhoom. Three flashes of teal light, three barely audible hisses as the hot packages of ionized particles hit their target. Three slightly louder thuds as the bodies collapsed on the cracked pavement. Three bodies, in their characteristic, colorful Starfleet uniforms. Two of them still had their Type-II phasers in their hands, still warm, yet limp and lifeless. Was it this easy all along? Taking a life? Taking three? Taking as many as she would need just to save her own skin? The thought, originating from her conscious mind, jammed into her soul as if it were an icepick, cold and hard and deadly and dead. Her knees gave way and she collapsed on the pavement, her vision blurry, vomiting up the remnants of a meager breakfast. How did this all began?