Tiger- Crusade

by David Smith

  Cannon continued to address Park as if he’d made the offer of a wireless service. ‘We only use physical interfaces: less chance of data corruption and more stable too.’

  ‘Well, how rude!!’ said Susan.

  Growling now, Cannon asked Park ‘How do you turn off the vocal output?’

  Park shrugged ‘I’m not sure you can. This isn’t a standard computer; it’s intended to interact with you like a living being.’

  ‘And right now the interaction between us is descending to the “screw you!” level’ grumbled Susan.

  Cannon nodded to Ruell, who disappeared around the back of the control panel and clumsily levered a plate off to expose the interface points.

  ‘HELP!!! RAPE!!!’ screamed Susan so loudly that everyone on the deck was forced to cover their ears. ‘I’M BEING INTEREFERED WITH!!’

  ‘What the . . . ?‘ Cannon was mystified: in his long career with JAG he thought he’d seen everything a computer could throw at him.

  ‘Susan’s very sensitive,’ Park advised ‘you would do well to be polite to her.’ He’d worked with the PILOCC for nearly two years and had suffered greatly in doing so.

  ‘It’s only a computer’ Cannon stated dismissively.

  Ruell re-appeared from behind the computer dragging a pair of cables with him and connecting them to a pair of ports on the side of the large silver case. He said ‘Interface cables are attached, starting interface programme.’

  He opened the mysterious silver box, the lid being a multi-purpose screen, while the main body of the box housed another screen and a few discrete controls. He pressed a big red button and stood back expectantly.

  Cannon turned to face the PILOCC’s control panel and said loudly and clearly ‘Computer, begin standard Fleet interface protocol.’

  Susan was silent. There was a pregnant pause before a message flashed up on the screen of the silver box ‘Interface not established’

  The JAG team looked at each other in confusion, until Susan’s voice drifted out of the speakers on the console. ‘You didn’t say the magic word . . . ‘

  Cannon’s jaw flapped loosely in the figurative breeze. His job required tenacity, doggedness and firmness. However, it required no imagination whatsoever, so he tried again. ‘Computer, I repeat, begin standard Fleet interface protocol.’

  ‘And I repeat, you didn’t say the magic word!’ huffed Susan.

  Cannon looked at Park ‘What the hell is going on??’

  Park shrugged ‘Susan’s not a standard computer. I did tell you that.’

  Cannon was in a state of shock. ‘But it’s still a computer! It has to obey orders!’

  Park shook his head. ‘She does, in a manner of speaking. We thought we could just treat her as a computer too, but all we got was grief. In the end it was just easier to be nice to her.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous! Her core programming must be based around compliance with audible commands!!’ blustered Cannon.

  ‘Oh it is,’ agreed Park ‘but the inclusion of random personality elements in the processing centres gives the computer a degree of flexibility in how she responds and also how quickly. She might decide to reply properly in a week’s time, or maybe a month’s time. And she’s still a computer: if she gets it into her head that she’ll take a century to comply, you’d better brief your great grand-children on what to expect.’

  Cannon (for the first time in his professional career) was speechless.

  Susan rejoined the conversation. ‘Now then Commander Cannon, I hope you and I aren’t going to fall out over this . . . ‘

  --------------------

  The more seasoned members of Tiger’s crew recognised the mysterious silver suit-case for what it was: A Professional Standards Information Technology Utility.

  There was a saying among those that had been subjected to its audits before: ‘If JAG bring out a ProStITUte, you’re screwed.’

  A stand-alone computer, it was designed to simply run through ship’s records and look for entries that indicated a breach of regulations. It would cross-reference this against other ships records to provide a comprehensive list of failings that the auditing team could investigate further.

  An entirely automated process, the greater the amount of apparent failures, the greater the amount of cross-referencing and record building was necessary.

  It was designed to take control of the ship’s computer, but the designers had assumed that all Fleet ships would carry standard duotronic computers. This was very, very clearly not the case aboard USS Tiger.

  After three days of much cursing and swearing, Commander Cannon and Lieutenant-Commander Ruell both found themselves stooping from their lofty arrogance down through being nice, to being very nice and into the depths of begging and pleading.

  Susan had that effect on everyone.

  At least they were making progress. They’d lost almost the whole of the first day simply trying to extract a single record just to prove they were in charge.

  Susan had relented on the second day and released a single log to them once ‘the magic word’ had finally been used, and at that point Susan had won: she’d broken their spirit and their will to fight.

  --------------------

  The interviews conducted by Captain B’Stard had not gone well. Dave had suffered endless ear-bashings from Tiger’s officers who had taken offence en masse to the Captain’s aggressive attitude and demeanour.

  He’d also suffered a series of similar harangues from Captain B’Stard herself, who came out of every interview seething at the rudeness, ignorance and down-right incompetence of her victims / interviewees.

  On the third day, he came across Captain B’Stard outside the Captain’s quarters, looking absolutely incandescent with rage as she rearranged her ruffled uniform.

  Dave saw the flush on her cheeks and realised that she’d finally managed to speak to the skipper: obviously he’d been his usual . . . enthusiastic self . . . and upset Captain B’Stard in the process.

  Dave struggled to hide a smile. ‘Everything going ok Captain?’

  ‘NO IT IS NOT!’ she snapped, unnecessarily loudly and with some considerable feeling.

  She was clearly very agitated and her voice was several notes higher than it usually was as she struggled to remain calm or even comprehensible. ‘Captain LaCroix has . . . he . . . Well! Really!! I never . . . ‘

  She was clearly struggling to give voice to several emotions, and she was so flustered her words were tripping over each other as she tried to get them out of her mouth.

  Dave helped her out: ‘He’s a bit touchy-feely at times, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s too much’ she growled.

  She was still shaking with rage but seemed to stop and take a moment to regain her self-control.

  She stood still, took a deep breath and announced in tones that would freeze a super-nova ‘For your information, I’ve relieved Captain LaCroix of duty on the grounds of gross moral turpitude and questionable mental health. Commander Hollins, until further notice, you’re in command of this vessel.’

  Chapter 5

  Dave reached the Bridge just as a Federal courier vessel dropped out of warp a few light minutes from Todot Hahn.

  ‘Who the hell is that then?’ he asked no-one in particular.

  ‘Naw contac yet sir. Ahm try inta rayzem now. Transpondah cawdz ar rejisterd faw USS Hoovah’ answered his Comms Officer. Lieutenant Shearer was immaculately turned out as always, and was stunningly attractive. It was just a shame that she spoke the weird dialect common-place in her native habitat of Nook-A-Sell that the universal translator insisted was a form of English.

  Dave had picked out the name of a vessel in her announcement and he had a vague memory that the Hoover was one of a fleet of courier vessels employed by the Federal Law Enforcement Agency.

  ‘Feds, eh? Thanks Shearer. What’s their heading Dolplop?’

  Tiger’s helmsman was a Vosgeean, a member of a race that had evolved on a gas super-giant plane
t. With no solid surface, they’d evolved to drift in the planet’s supersonic winds, catching prey with long trailing tendrils covered in poisonous stinger cells.

  Few Vosgeeans ever left their home-world, and fewer still travelled far. Being drifters they had limited understanding of things such as directions, and even simple things humans took for granted (like the difference between left and right) were unknown mysteries to the Vosgee.

  ‘The incoming vessel is on a heading to approach from our port side and enter a co-orbital path ahead of us.’ The Navigator put up a tactical display on the Bridges main view-screen that showed the vessel approaching from Tiger’s starboard side and dropping neatly into orbit astern of them.

  ‘Thanks Dolplop’ said Dave with a sigh as he put up a visual display.

  At this distance the vessel was still quite indistinct, but Dave could make out that she was a vessel nearly identical to USS Auckland, still stationed just astern of Tiger.

  Dave was still wondering what to do next when Lieutenant Shearer put an incoming hail on the Bridge speakers.

  ‘This is Special Agent Field of the Federal Law Enforcement Agency vessel Hoover. You are to power down all drives, weapons and shields and prepare to receive an Agency team’ barked an aggressive voice.

  Dave looked around the Bridge but his gaze was met by raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders.

  ‘This is Commander David Hollins, First Officer, USS Tiger. What is the purpose of your visit?’

  The same voice replied ‘We’re here to investigate breaches of border protocol relating to the Treaty of Par Van. I’m sending official documentation now bearing an Agency seal. You are obliged to comply with all further instructions from myself and my colleague, Agent Orange.’

  Dave slumped in his chair ‘There seems to have been some sort of misunderstanding, Agent Field. There’s already a team on board Tiger investigating that.’

  There was a brief pause before the disembodied voice replied ‘There’s no mistake. We’re the only Federal team assigned to this case.’

  ‘But we already have a team from the Judge Advocate General’s Office undertaking an investigation?’ protested Dave.

  ‘Well that’s as maybe Hollins, but what you toy soldiers get up to in your spare time is not my concern,’ said the Agent dismissively ‘we’re here to investigate a breach of Federal Law. I’m beaming across now, meet me in your Transporter Room. Field out.’

  The comm-link closed and Dave had a bad feeling that his bad day was about to get much, much worse.

  --------------------

  The jangling noise and lights faded and Dave saw four people standing on the Transporter platform. The nearest was a neatly turned out fifty-something, with slick, combed-back hair, dressed in an immaculate black suit, and adorned with wholly unnecessary sun-glasses. Beside him stood a slightly younger version of the same person: same suit, same hair-style, same sunglasses and same surly demeanour.

  Behind them stood two very heavily armed and armoured security men in black uniforms emblazoned with the Federal Law Enforcement Agencies logo: FLEA.

  Dave remembered all the jokes about blood-sucking, irritating parasites that the acronym invited and did his best to pretend that he’d never heard any of them.

  Each of the FLEA team seemed to have a small speaker and microphone gadget tucked into their right ear, and with a touch to the gadget the older Agent stated ‘We’re down. Stay at holding altitude, observe standard protocols and await further instructions. Field out.’

  He turned his shielded gaze to Dave and said ‘Ok Hollins, this is how it is. We’ll need quarters and working space. You and all of the crew will make yourself available for interviews around the clock. Our requests take priority over Fleet instructions. Is that clear?’

  The Agent looked away, expecting Dave to comply, but aware that things probably couldn’t get much worse, Dave was in no mood for such niceties. ‘Actually, no, it’s not clear.’

  The Agent paused, clearly not used to having his authority questioned. He turned slowly to face Dave, his ire clearly rising. ‘I know you Starfleet types aren’t the sharpest tools in the box, but it seems pretty clear to me. As I don’t have time to waste trying to bring you up to speed I suggest you just shut the hell up and do what you’re told. Is that any clearer?’

  Dave decided that he really didn’t like Agent Field. ‘No, it’s not. Firstly, as I’ve explained, there’s a team from JAG here who have jurisdiction in Fleet regulation matters, and I’ve received no orders through the chain of command to either expect your arrival, or to comply with your instructions. Secondly, we’re not even in Federation Space so you have no legal authority anyway.’

  The Agent tensed and seemed to be struggling to stay calm. In the background, Dave was aware that while the other Agent stood absolutely still and unflinching, the two uniformed security guards seemed nervous, as if expecting some sort of explosion.

  Field spoke through very clearly gritted teeth. ‘You Fleet types are all the same: smug, self-satisfied, smart-arse do-gooders who think you’re above the law.’

  He took a step toward Dave, stood face to face with him, their noses only inches apart, and prodded Dave’s chest with a finger. ‘Well, let me tell you this, boy-scout: We’re on a Federation ship. That, by extension, is Federation territory, so I am in Authority here. Likewise, as you are a Federal citizen, you are required to comply with instructions from FLEA, regardless of your so-called chain of command. And in terms of legal propriety, Federal Law takes precedence over Martial Law, so if the JAG team have an issue with that, they can come and talk to me. I’ll tell them where they can shove their Fleet regulations and I’ll even provide a tube of lubricant.’

  Dave wasn’t sure if any of this was true, but couldn’t argue the case until he was certain. ‘I’ll allocate quarters on Deck 5, but I’ll be seeking advice from Command. I should advise you that instructions may take a while to reach us this far out, and until they do, I will instruct my crew to treat you as guests, not as investigating officials.’

  ‘You’re pushing your luck Hollins’ snarled Field.

  ‘No, I’m following my standing orders until instructed otherwise. Feel free to approach the crew, but be aware that I will not be advising them that they must comply. If they tell you where to go, I’ll happily provide a map for you.’

  At that instant, Steward Butler arrived and Dave said ‘Steward, please show our guests to quarters on Deck 5. Please extend all usual courtesies to them, but if you’re unhappy with any of their instructions, refer them to me.’

  Without waiting for a reply from Field, Dave stormed out of the Transporter room. First JAG and now the Feds. And out of sheer bloody-mindedness, he’d managed to antagonise both.

  As he calmed down in his quarters, he realised he should have known better than to put up futile arguments. As his dear old Granny had often told him ‘Davey, just accept that some days you’re the pigeon, and some days you’re the statue.’

  He slumped on to his bed and rubbed his aching temples. Today was definitely a ‘statue’ day. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  --------------------

  Dave had been busy for two days. He’d been keeping a furtive, watching eye on Chief Money’s desperate recovery operation as well as trying to stall Commander Ruiz whilst avoiding Captain B’Stard.

  He had hardly slept during that time and felt drained. He’d kept going by indulging in range of meals from his replicator. Meals were definitely becoming less random, and although he’d approached the few dishes he’d tried with some anxiety, Dave found the food now had a depth and warmth he’d never encountered in replicated food before. Everything seemed to taste better than it had done previously, and he was really enjoying his meals. They were the high-lights of otherwise fraught days.

  He returned to the Bridge after his latest gourmet meal and found Yeoman Sandra Fielding waiting for him. The curvy brunette smiled vacantly as she passed Dave a pad.

 
Dave opened the message from Captain LaCroix, written in his exceptionally concise manner.

  ‘Just had a foxy milf come in the cabin and mutter something about relieving me. Tell her I’m not into hand-jobs, but if she’s on the roster I’ll check her out next time.’

  PS. Call me when we get to Arcturus.

  PPS. You have the Bridge.’

  Dave slumped back in the Captain’s chair, wondering if the skipper would ever rouse himself from his self-imposed copulatory exile. He scratched his head and attached his last month’s worth of status reports, together with a map of the Sha T’Al home-worlds. On the map he added a very large arrow over Todot Hahn and added the caption ‘We are here!’ before handing it back to Fielding. She smiled politely, but stood there holding the pad until Dave finally asked ’Would you be so kind as to take that back to Captain LaCroix please.’

  She nodded enthusiastically and headed back to the turbo-lift making worrying farting, squelching noises as she went.

  Dave shook his head and turned his attention to the real matters in hand: how they could dig themselves out of two regulatory holes whilst still trying to find a way to keep the peace.

  A beep from the Helmsman’s console interrupted his train of thought. Crash was on duty and tapped a couple of buttons before putting up a tactical display on the main view-screen. ‘Incoming vessel, sir.’

  Dave froze. Really? Surely nothing else could wrong? He could hear the relief in Crashes voice when he added ‘It’s the Santiago sir!’

  Dave relaxed too. USS Santiago was the fleet courier vessel that served the scattered colonies of Sector 244. She was their main link to the rest of the Federation and she was the ship that had originally carried Dave out to USS Tiger. That journey seemed like a life-time ago.

  Dave watched mutely as the ship approached and he barely registered Lieutenant Shearer repeating a message from the incoming vessel: ‘Santiagaw isra kwestin transport for twent efyve personnel liek.’

  Fortunately, ASBeau seemed to be able to translate the bizarre language Shearer spoke and asked the question Dave should have.