"Star Trek: Mandela Station"

[hellsgate]

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2472/5735046371_13a575e9c4_b.jpg


Mandela Station, a Federation (civilian) orbital habitat and commercial/transport hub toward the core of Federation territory rebuilt after the Dominion War in the orbit of the Trill homeworld.

Home to involuntarily-displaced Denebulans, Tellarites, Vulcans + Romulans, Cardassians, Humans, among others. The Borg have been permanently-curtailed by The Caeliar. The Dominion are back in the Gamma Quadrant. Things seem busy but peaceful. But old animosities have resumed now that the common-enemy has been vanquished...for now.

Piracy is gingerly recovering in the cold between charter-planets now that the Jem Hadar have been recalled by The Founders. Certain Klingons have returned to the "Way Of The Warrior", many refusing to acknowledge or honor the treaty with the Dominion, despite the discovery of Miral Paris..the Klingon Messiah destined to unite the factions under the High Council, aboard the U.S.S. Voyager.

Timeline:

Calendar Date:
12 August 2379

Stardate:
56161.78545

 

[ABelle71]

Sounds intriguing...who/what are you looking for?

 

[hellsgate]

Characters Wanted:

• Main Bridge Crew
• Federation News Service Journalist(s)
• Emergency Holographic Medical Program
• Holographic Interdenominational Chaplain
• Family Members of Crewpersons, Promenade Business-Owners.
• Diplomats
• Federation Security
• Department of Temporal Investigations
• Section 31
• Civilian Shop-Owners/Employees
  (ie: Proprietor of "Katrina's", the de-facto Officers' Club on Mandela Station),
• Freighter Owners/Employees
• Interactive Holosuite Characters
• Starfleet Marines / Fighter Pilots
• Maquis / Mercenaries
• Escorts/Exotic Dancers, Pimps, Drug-dealers.

(Commanding Officer) Governor Jackson Hawking, 36 years old, long-time resident.

5'11"
170 lbs.,
Average Build,
Blue-Green Eyes,
Light Brown Hair,
Starfleet Marine "washout"


A taste for dangerous, obnoxious women. A thug by most accounts and never slow with a phase pistol or "wasp" knife. The only reason he got the job was that he was the only one of the original residents to survive the Dominion War on guts and luck. The rest left when the war got close to Earth and Jason preferred to stick it out here than get shoehorned on some sweaty transport and his life flung out an airlock on a bureaucratic whim.

For those new to sims:

Just describe the sights and smells of a hollowed-out asteroid base. The fighters escorting the ship to it's berth. You're being scanned and the pinch of a hypospray is attached to your neck to examine a sample of your blood in case you're a Dominion Founder/shapeshifter before you're allowed to leave the transport via the security checkpoint at the airlock. Describe the human and alien workers, the promenade shops, etc. The loads of people rushing to gather their carry-on's and make their connections or report to the Governor for duty. You report to the Governor's Office and his personal assistant.

Describe what's brought you to this point in your life. Describe your life over the last few months? (Years?) Why Starfleet? Why a freighter captain or whatever?

posting format:

<taps commbadge>
"Lieutenant Burrows to Mandela"
"Mandela here. Ensign Bukowski - Operations."
"I need Governor Hawking's position. I'm your new counselor - Madeline Burrows, reporting for duty."
"Jackson is in Katrina's on the Promenade. Level 2, Section Beta. Cubicle Five. He's expecting you, Lieutenant."

 

[hellsgate]

No takers?

 

[ABelle71]

No takers?

I am almost done my introduction. Sorry I'm slow...newbie. :-(

 

[ABelle71]

Lieutenant Madeline Burrows, a young lieutenant deployed to Mandela Station, a junior counselor determined to set-up a private practice (once her required service to Starfleet Science is fulfilled,) as a Journeyman-level Psychiatrist / Psychologist. But she needs a certain amount of hours as a supervised apprentice before she's granted a license to fly solo. She comes to Mandela Station, fresh from Starfleet Academy, anxiously awaiting her first meeting with her Supervisor. She is full of the hopes and dreams of a recent graduate, inexperienced in the ways of a deep space station.


My first view of Mandela Station, from the window of the transport vessel that brought me here, was intimidating. For all the modern technologies used to transform an asteroid into a deep space station, it retains the rugged look of the rock it was carved from. As if, somehow, the asteroid fought every inch of the transformation and continues to try and reclaim parts of itself back.

I'm startled to see a fighter come up beside me, but one of the security personnel on board assures me that is standard procedure so far out in deep space, especially in the wake of the war. Everyone seems much more cautious since the knowledge of shapeshifters became public. That becomes very clear as, before we are allowed to set one foot on the station, a group of very determined and heavily armed security personnel board the ship and carefully scan each person with a series of specialized tricorders. Then, a brief stinging sensation in the nape of my neck, where a hypospray takes a sample of my blood.

"I went through all these procedures before leaving Earth, sir." I reassure one of the dour personnel.
"And who knows how many times over you could have been swapped out for one of the shapeshifters since then", he growls at me. I quickly look away and allow the examination to continue, my embarassment flushing my cheeks.

Finally, the security team is satisfied I am who I say I am, and we are all allowed to set foot on Mandela Station itself. A door whisks open into the Promenade, and my senses explode with all the lights, the colors, the sounds and smells. Bright flashing lights and pre-recorded holograms beckon me in to holodeck establishments, while down the hall, I hear the growl of "Dabo!" being yelled from a bar similar to the infamous "Quark's" on DS9. The smells of Klingon gagh and Vulcan plo meek soup assault my nose.

And the people!! Deanna warned me about the rush of emotions when stepping into a new place for the first time - but it still caught me by surprise. The cold, clear logic from Vulcans, the greed of the Ferengi, the pride of Klingons, the duality of Trills. It all became a bit much for me and I leaned against a wall as my knees went weak.

"Breathe, just breathe and focus on your center." I recalled Deanna's advice from back in my first few days training on Betazed.

While I am only one-quarter Betazoid, when I took the Starfleet entrance exam, I was found to have one of the highest levels of empathy ever scored from a non pure-blood. This gave me entrance and specialized training both on Earth and a six-month specialized course on Betazed. My tutor, via holodeck classrooms, was the much revered Deanna Riker. From her lessons and gentle guidance, I found not only a way to cope with all the emotions that assaulted me each minute of the day, but a good friend. It was strange, having never actually met her in person, yet thinking of her as such. While on Betazed, I learned to hone my empathic skills and to keep others' feelings from driving me insane, literally.

I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, focusing on allowing my brain's natural screens to shut out all but the faintest echoes from those around me. After reinforcing the image of the screens, I opened my eyes. Ahhh, much better! Now, it was much easier for me to sort out all the emotions surrounding me. Time to get to work.

<Taps commbadge>
"Lieutenant Madeline Burrows to Mandela Bridge."
"Bridge here. Ensign Charlie Delvecchio, Operations."
"Ensign, I'm to report to the Governor."
"He's in Katrina's. He's expecting you. Level 2, Section Beta, Cubicle Five. Operations out."

 

[hellsgate]

http://www.southwestsystemsuk.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/bar-touch-screen-till-2.jpg

"Katrina's" - Mandela Station's de-facto Officers' Club, re-gentrified and refurbished since The War. Jackson had his customary seat at the bar where he could size-up potential trouble walking onto his station. Once an old west-style straight-up bordello with no putting on of airs about it's purpose. Dirty mattresses, maybe a spot of vandalism, barely-functional furniture and sonic showers, and rooms set-up like security cells. All of it cheaply converted from a residential block for the formerly-miners' bunkbeds and replimat.

The Owner, Isis Buchanon, was off-station on-business but her right-hand lieutenant, Meeka Kotis, was serving the Governor pork chops in mushroom soup sauce, mashed potatoes with just a trace of paprika with a flute glass of virgin tropical juice.

Meeka even went to the trouble of asking him to tilt his chin up so she could place the linen napkin in his collar. Meeka had been Jackson's First Officer on his previous command, the U.S.S. Vimy Ridge, an experimental Klingon fleetyard Defiant-Class variant warship. Isis was one of Jackson's "contacts" that frequently brought him to the station.

http://pulse.yimg.com/3/rjdbOjtuup8qAGFhxqBDmUqS54oMXzv.U7Nv.ym1cg--/44/l/74nPD1._mLum.uEZhM21lg.jpg
U.S.S. Vimy Ridge
(NCC 55211)
Rapier-Class
​

The U.S.S. Vimy Ridge had been destroyed during the Battle of Betazed. They'd lost plenty of good people but thankfully the Betazoids finally turned the tide in their favor. Jackson was one of few remaining residents left to assist after many of the original residents relinquished their residences, jobs, sold-off their assets and left as the Dominion crept steadily closer to Earth.

Meeka gave-up her spot in Starfleet after one skintight escape too many and an unexpected pregnancy. She'd dumped Craig Barker - the official baby-daddy & Isis' formerly business partner. A sociopathic wife-beater and serial cheat, and gotten a job running "Katrina's" in the process. Isis became obviously displeased whenever a woman, Starfleet Officer or not, approached him and subtracted any amount of attention from her. She figures, "keep your friends close and your enemies closer" which Isis believes should apply to Meeka as Jackson practically adopted Meeka's daughter Ava as his own upon his first visit with the newborn.

http://www.wallpapercandy.com/wallpapers/catherine_bell_36-1024x768.jpg

Cast: Catherine Bell as "Meeka Kotis"

Craig had gotten his comeuppance in the end...accused of betraying a Nausicaan-Yrridian smuggling group, tried going solo without paying his tributes to the proper tribe chieftain and stupidly did so without first allying himself with outside breakaway-support, in addition to being suspected of snitching on the Klingon Syndicate.

The Dominion, ironically, arrived just in time during the Invasion to dissuade further conversation about such matters and drove most of the Syndicates away, save for a few Bajoran or Terran pickpockets and Ferengii "salvage companies".

A few 'professional hostesses' strutted their stuff between the club's booths, chatting-up exausted cargo handlers, ship-masters, lonely Starfleet Marines and their wing-men in their sunday-best outfits, awaiting their entrees. Women in uber-tight, backless and/or strapless sundresses and effortlessly leaving next to nothing to the imagination. Often getting looks from the women that came in to grab something 'to-go' before heading back upstairs to the bridge or downstairs to monitor the reactor core.

 

[ABelle71]

Star Trek: Mandela Station

As I walked into "Katrina's" for the first time, I was surprised to see how warm and welcoming it was. I was expecting some cold, sterile corner of the station, where officers could squeeze in a cold drink before falling into bed after a difficult shift. Instead, the rich woods and tribal carvings on the walls combined to promote a homey feeling. A place to relax with friends or grab a hot chocolate in the morning before your shift.

I noticed a beautiful brunette serving an officer supper at the bar. She was solicitous, to the point of tucking a napkin under his chin to ensure his uniform remained crisp and stain-free. The smells wafting from the plate were adding to the atmosphere...pork chops, mushrooms, potatoes - oh, how it reminded me of a little Creole cafe down the street from the Academy! My mouth began watering as I walked over to the bar.

"Excuse me, ma'am, sir," I spoke softly, almost not wanting to disturb the oddly intimate scene before me. "I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find the Governor? And, if he's not here, where I might partake of some of those lovely chops? I've had nothing but replicator rations since leaving Earth!" I blathered out all in one breath.

I realized almost immediately that, yet again, my mouth had started moving before my brain had fully engaged. If I had stopped to think for one more moment, I might have noticed the color of uniform on the man before me. Or remembered that Ops had told me the Governor was here waiting for me. Or...oh, dear!

My face began turning red until I could feel my ears burning.

 

[hellsgate]

Jackson extended his hand, shook hands with the embarrassed young woman.

"Jackson Hawking. Nice to meet you. I assume you're the new counselor Starfleet brought in from Earth? We're quite in need of your services, Miss Burroughs. A guy can't live on bread and water alone, can he? Welcome to Mandela Station. Please. Have a seat. (gesturing her to a small table in front of the bar.) Meeka - set her up, would you? Here's everything you'll need."

He handed her a civilian-grade P.A.D.D. with none of the usual Starfleet colours or LCARS operating system. It handled more like a Kindle e-book reader.

Contents:

• Basic background of the station's purposes.
• Holidays & Culture of Trill.
• Local laws / bylaws pertinent to Starfleet ethics, medical / psychiatric practices.
• List of day/night staffers with photos and bios.
• A cross section of the station with her quarters and counseling office each noted in bright orange. The rest of the cross-section of the station displayed as a white on black background schematic.
  http://www.ottens.co.uk/forgottentrek/images/TNG/Office.jpg
• A picture of your quarters.
  http://inlinethumb11.webshots.com/45770/2040761430076806551S600x600Q85.jpg
• List of Promenade shops, their owners/proprietors and employees.
• A runabout, the U.S.S. Coyote, had been set-aside for her (& other staffers') rare travel / away team requirements, including basic flight training in the event of catastrophic emergency requiring staffers to assist citizens to abandon ship or adjust the station's position in orbit from the bridge.
  http://desmond.yfrog.com/Himg11/scaled.php?tn=0&server=11&filename=coyoteclassrunabout.png&xsize=640&ysize=640
• A list of vessels from Defiant-Class escorts to Sovereign-Class cruisers to transports/freighters (some Klingon, among other races) and warp-liners and their expected times of arrival at Mandela Station.

"I'm usually not in uniform. I much prefer a comfortable shirt, jeans and my leather jacket. Command has its' perks. But every now and then, I'm required to put on airs for the benefit of the brass. (rolling his eyes) What brings you way out here, when there's openings all over the quadrant? I read your file and as far as I have been told, you could've written your own ticket."

 

[ABelle71]

Star Trek: Mandela Station

I managed to stutter out a small "Sorry, sir" as Govenor Hawking shook my hand. I was taken aback by the utter casualness of the man. He seemed almost too relaxed to be the man in charge of this huge station. As my other senses engaged, I realized that, while his demeanor was very relaxed, I sensed a very bright intelligence behind it. This man could very well be at ease in jeans and a leather jacket, but I could see he wore the uniform with as much confidence as he would in casual clothes. It was an intriguing beginning to my understanding of Governor Jackson Hawking.

I sat at the bar next to the governor, as a plate filled with the same delicious meal was placed in front of me. For a moment, I just closed my eyes and let the aromas carry me back to a simpler time and place. I opened my eyes and, as usual, my emotions must have showed on my face as Meeka winked at me.

"This smells delightful! It reminds me of a small Cajun bistro near the Academy on Earth. I believe Commander Benjamin Sisko's father ran it before the War? The food there, well...I could live on the smell alone for a week!" With an appetite born from a very long time on rations, I dug in. "Ohhh, this is so much better than bread and water, sir!"

Blushing, again, at my enthusiastic reply, I placed the small padd beside me and scrolled quickly through it. All seemed to be in order and I was thrilled to get a glimpse of my quarters.

"This station continues to surprise me, sir. From outside, it seems so....desolate, so bare. Yet, it has so many lovely amenities. The design of this lovely place, the quarters, even the runabouts have an elegance to them. It's stunning."

Finally turning my attention to the man beside me, I sought to answer his questions about why here.

"I suppose that is as good an answer as any, sir. Personally, I tend to be a bit, well, my teachers have mentioned the word 'hedonistic' more than once in my evaluations. I tend to make choices based on what appeals to me, what looks good, feels good. As you said, I could choose wherever I wanted to go. This place just seemed to feel right. "

"My mentor, however, had other reasons for influencing me to put Mandela Station on my short-list. She believes that time spent on a frontier station such as this would be useful in balancing my personal proclivities with a more Starfleet approach to my 'chosen' profession." The sarcasm of the word "chosen" was far too strong to ignore and I inwardly winced at allowing my bitterness to seep through.

"My apologies, sir. I misspoke. Obviously," I sighed, "I have a lot to learn before I'm ready to become a professional Counselor. Yet another reason Deanna encouraged me to choose Mandela. She knows the Supervising Counselor here very well and thought we would work well together. I trust her judgement." I shrugged, hoping that would satisfy the Governor.

"If I may, sir, ask you the same questions? I've read your official record, of course. But I'm interested - why here? Why Mandela Station, if I may be so bold?"

I sat back in my chair, idly toying with the glass of juice in front of me, focusing my gaze on the man beside me. My empathic "sensors" as I thought of them, were on high alert.

 

[hellsgate]

"Yeah, we have our own on-board scaled-down 'vertical farm projects' in our hydroponics bays as part of the science labs in the event our replicators go down and need temporary alternative vegetarian nutritional supplies. The replicators will go offline from time to time, of course. Our promenade is stocked with services from Trill and other homeworlds; out here - bartering goes a long way to getting what you want. Especially because we're a civilian station where you don't have to be anywhere nearly as careful not to offend people by eating meat or enjoying Hedonism as Starbase Zero Zero One over Earth." Jackson slightly sniggering to himself.

"At Starfleet Command, you have to beg and plead for the right to wipe your own ass or risk being accused of being anti-choice and killing a prospective new lifeform every time you fart." Jackson, again, rolls his eyes. He orders a Diet Cola and a set of pork chops in mushroom soup sauce with garlic butter and paprika on his mashed potatoes. Meeka makes the arrangements and disappears into the kitchen. You catch sight of a Tellarite chef in chef whites arguing about something in some language you don't immediately recognize.

"Mandela Station ships everything through here. Whole shuttles sometimes. The rest of the time it's parts and labor for colonies and other waystations further out toward Deep Space Nine. Either the promenade merchants order (or on a thousand-to-one fluke,) get an extra case too much of something and they give the extra merchandise out as birthday/anniversary/christening or some other cultural holiday gift before it spoils. Or, the colonies sometimes ship back beef, pork, chicken and other things in appreciation for something such as an evacuation of another civilian station or rescuing one of their freighters (that Starfleet Command would best be kept out of the loop about.) Politics, politics, politics. Yay. (Not.)"

You savour the dinner set down in front of you, nodding and checking the PADD for patient files or your quarters' security codes. Nodding at Jackson to let him know you're still tuned-in to his explanations.

"I was a resident here before washing out of the Marines. Things got so retarded both at home and on the job, that I decided to change gears and run for Governor..pretty much uncontested. Everyone save for a Federation Civilian Affairs skeleton crew ran the place and a garrison of Marines were here for the longest time. I was voted-in once the Dominion left at the signing of the treaty at Bajor and The Federation Council pulled the stick out of its butt enough to let the extremely few of us left resume normal civilian life. Even the orion and klingon syndicates were too chickenshit to tough it out despite the noises they made in the meantime. The Dominion did me ~that~ much of a favor. Oh, and one last thing...cool it with the 'sir' thing. We don't stand on Starfleet traditions and military disciplines out here. Mandela is a civilian outfit. It's 'Jackson' ---- please. If I clip you in the ass (or anywhere else) with a stray shot with a phaser, than we'll go back to the 'sir' thing. Deal?"

"Deal. If you don't mind me asking..."

"I kinda yakked in my helmet during Zero G Assault Training and the Saratoga beamed me right back..I couldn't show my face in Eleven-Forward for a month."

"I bet."

 

[ABelle71]

Star Trek: Mandela Station

The more she heard Governor Hawking, um, "Jackson" speak, the more she liked him. She had always, secretly, agreed with his views on Starfleets politicizing everything and appreciated the freedom he had here to relax the rules and regulations to the point he could actually help people who needed help.

Her perspective of this new mission was shifting rapidly. When she chose Mandela Station, she thought it would be an excellent training ground where she could become a Professional Counselor, then she would leave and find some nice planet somewhere to call home, set up shop and that would be that.

The longer she was here and the more she listened to Gov...Jackson, the more she realized that all those dreams of a home of her own may be realized here at Mandela Station. The opportunity to actually help people, despite which side they were on through the war, the freedom to enjoy life without being ruled and regulated to death, the self-sufficiency and resiliency of this station - it was all very appealing to her.

She had relaxed enough to ask about something she had heard about while at the Academy, a rumor that a now senior officer had thrown up in their zero g training. She grinned at his easy acceptance of the situation.

"Actually, I was surprised by that, sir...um, Jackson. I figured a maverick like you would have enjoyed the freedom of zero g!" she giggled softly at the image he projected in his mind of the incident, and the resulting impact on his stomach to this day. "I, personally loved it. The total abandonment and ability to spin and twist and flip however I wanted to. Floating in midair. I've always wanted to try that with someone in a more, um, intimate setting. Can you imagine the implications?"

She peeked up at him from below her eyelashes, watching his skin turn slightly green at the thought.

"Sorry s...Jackson. I promise, no more mention of it - at least today. Perhaps that is something you and I could explore in a more therapeutic setting sometime. I could help you overcome such a traumatic experience. Replace it with a much more enjoyable one?" she cheekily added.

"Well, now that I am understanding more of what this station is all about, what is it you expect from me, S....Jackson? Sorry, it's habit. I will work on it. You might be hearing your name as 'sJackson' for awhile yet though." She grinned again, flashing a dimple in her left cheek as her eyes sparkled with laughter. This was going to be even more fun than she thought!

 

[hellsgate]

"Yeah, but most people go into zero-gee training with an empty stomach. I'd just had breakfast and hadn't really paid attention in the briefing about the severity of the vertigo effect of freefall during the re-entry training. I wasn't so much a Maverick as a stubborn dogface that was too smart for his own good. Welcome to Mandela Station and enjoy your dinner..I'll be around if you need anything. Feel free to call me on my wrist-communicator day or night. My quarters are just across the hall and up five doors in Unit 236. If you're really that good at getting in my head, I'll invite you into the holodeck with me on my day off for some fun..'Bones'."

Jackson got up, bowed politely, asked if he may have her permission to peck the back of her hand in gentlemanly fashion and if he may please be excused from the table. Then took his flute glass of diet cola with him for a few steps and polished it off. Giving it to a service-droid modeled to look female and humanoid, it pivoted, smiled pleasantly and took it back in the kitchen. It paused briefly to clear his dinner dishes from the table in front of the Counselor and continues on its merry way.

http://desmond.yfrog.com/Himg715/scaled.php?tn=0&server=715&filename=federationencountersuit.png&xsize=640&ysize=640

Jackson caught a glimpse of Meeka near the front of the restaurant/bar setting up more sets of utensils wrapped in linen napkins kept neat by decorative rings. Her ears must have been burning, as she looked-up momentarily, looked around and caught sight of the base C.O. watching her. She smiled, blushed and looked down at the table.

He looked over at the new Counselor with a curiously mischevious expression and headed back down the Promenade to the corkscrew-style wrought-metal stairs to the central doughnut-configured section. The prettiest part of the "mall" holding more shops beneath the circular catwalk at the edges and a small batch of planters with bright orange, purple, white and green flora/fauna that poked up through the middle.

Someone was calling-out, "Jumja sticks! Get your Bajoran jumja sticks here!"

She didn't quite get the 'Bones' reference and decided to ask-around in Sickbay during her next shift beginning tomorrow morning at 0800 hours. Their Chief Medical Officer was little more than a somewhat-ill-tempered E.M.H. (Emergency Medical Hologram) that had looked her up and down, rolled its eyes and disdainfully made unsolicited professionalism-based remarks.

http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSBjSsIfQUIbxBwJZHpU51H6687EDoIq2HEjGpud4j5TyFttUYW

"Pot meet kettle. Kettle meet pot." she muttered while filing her contracts and thumbprinted PADD's. PADD's 'officially' allowing her to take ownership of the small cubicle delegated to station psychiatric care located just beneath Katrina's and allowing security to authorize them to issue her a sidearm, and enable entry to her personnel quarters on F Deck.

"I heard that, Counselor Burrows."

 

[hellsgate]

no other takers?

 

[GomerFox]

Do you have room for a disreputable sort of former Starfleet Commander who was kept on during the Dominion wars but quietly retired for various smuggling activities?

Name: J.W. Hardin
Rank: Commander (retired)
Height/Weight: 5'8, 200# Solid build
Caucasian (At the moment, but he's got pills for that when the mood strikes him...)

Bio:

J.W. Hardin was a good officer with a solid respect of the men under his command. He took care of them, and knew how to get the best out of them. He had a solid future and a promotion to Captain of a Starship ahead of him...

Until some brown-nosing dick started doing a COMPLETE inventory of the USS Necromancer's cargo bay and turned up some items which weren't exactly on the manifest.

Turns out, you aren't supposed to be shipping Romulan Ale (the very best), Klingon firearms (real projectile firing ones, not disruptors...) and about two tons Cardasian & Bajorian artwork, Tholian silks and other various illicit items aboard a federation ship.

Starfleet can be such pricks about sidelines...and a court-martial was about to be convened when the Dominion War broke out.

Sidelines forgotten (temporarily) he was seconded to Fleet Intelligence where his obvious skill at doing clandestine business with disreputable sorts both in and out of starfleet (not to mention cross border contacts who would sell information as well as merchandise) became very useful.

Then...the war was over, and he wasn't needed anymore. He was quietly thanked for his service, paid off and sent packing.

These days, he's got a job with 1st Bank of Vulcan doing starship repossession work for those who haven't kept current on payments during the war.

1st Bank of Vulcan is a logical, bottom line kind of bank... The needs of the shareholders outweigh the needs of the debtors.

Effectively, J.W. is a pirate ("Please...I'm a bank agent...") with a license to steal.
Literally, as he does have a stack of encrypted, official 1st BV chips authorizing him to do what he does.

1st BV is financing a large percentage of Starfleet's rebuilding, it's wise that people probably don't get in his way.

Not that he's a big fish in the pond, exactly...it's just he's working for them, and after a certain point, he doesn't have to take any of your shit.

Whoever you are.

 

[hellsgate]

Gomer,

Your character is ~exactly~ what I'm looking for for "Mandela Station".

 

[GomerFox]

The Klingon Bird of Prey decloaked 200 kilometers off Station Mandela and sent a brief message: "Transporting one aboard."

The message carried valid Imperial & Starfleet authentication codes and was routed to the officer of the deck.

But not in enought time to make it to the attention of the transporter room...10 seconds later the transporter room was on the com complaining..."Trasporter room 3 to command, security alert! Unauthorized transpo...Oh, sorry. Nevermind. Fucking Klingons...It's valid."

(The Bird of Prey, it's dropoff complete, proceeds to cloak and move off)

And with that, J.W. Hardin walked off the transporter pad and onto Mandela Station.

He looked around and saw a pissed off transporter tech holding a phaser rifle with a plasma thrower (think flame-thrower) under the emiter looking at him, and a laser sight locked onto his chest. Hardin looked at the dot, sighed and said "Sorry. The Klingon's have an abrupt manner about them...now, unless my fly is unzipped, can you lower that weapon?"

The tech shook his head at the new guy. Ballsy.

Security came rushing in at that moment with phasers at the ready, taking cover in the hatchway.

"Cansel...He was cleared. The Klingons didn't give much warning." The tech said.

The Security officer holstered his weapon and said "ID?"

Hardin handed it over to the Major. The major looked at the ID, then ran it through his scanner. His eyes tightened slightly, then said "OK. Just a blood sample and you can be on your way."

Hardin signed, allowed them to take the blood and then asked "Which way is the bar?"

The Security officer gave him the directions, but the second officer who checked out the transporter results when Hardin was transported over stopped him, "Sir, you are going to have to leave the weapons with us. Station regulations..."

"Don't apply to me. I think you'll find my credentials are in order as the Sector Agent for 1st Vulcan, and as such, I'm authorized to carry & requisition such items which facilitate my employment." he said smoothly.

He continued after a pause, "Look, I've had a long flight to get here from Vulcan, and I had to do it aboard an Imperial Klingon Marine scout ship. That means I'm sleep deprived, hung over, haven't had pussy in 4 weeks nor eaten anything I haven't had to kill at the dinner table. I need to get a drink, eat something that's served to me dead, then take a shower, find my office and get to work...and somewhere in that series of events I'd like to sleep and possibly have sex with someone who's idea of foreplay doesn't involve pain sticks and knives."

The transporter tech said "Is it true about Klingon women? That they do this thing with their tounge when they..."

Hardin looked over at him and said "I didn't really want to find out...because kinky to klingon women is when you aren't bleeding. And this was a Marine transport..."

The tech tech thought for a moment, the said "Eh, yeah...well. Would it have been worth it?"

Hardin nodded yes. "Been their. Done that. Once...then did spinal rehab for 6 weeks."

The security officers quietly consulted with each other and checked the relevant authorizations as Hardin and the tech talked.

They stopped, looked at Hardin and sighed. The senior waved a hand and said "Yeah, you are cleared to carry whatever you want...but you use them aboard this station, and..." he left the threat unstated.

Hardin shook his head in a 'Yeah...whatever' manner, reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of credits. He pulled 2 100 credit notes off, handed it to the transporter tech and said "Sight to sight transport this stuff to my quarters and my ass to the bar."

The tech shrugged, took the bills, waved his hands over the pannel and Hardin vanished in a cascade of light and energy...appearing just inside Katrina's.

Hardin stepped up to the bar, sat down and waited for someone to come to take his order.

 

[hellsgate]

bump!!!!