Main Sim [Bridge]: A Matter of Protocols

Posted Oct. 24, 2021, 4:09 p.m. by Lieutenant Commander Kohr (Executive Officer) (Jason Wolfe)

Posted by Gamemaster Deus Ex Machina (Gamemaster) in Main Sim [Bridge]: A Matter of Protocols

Posted by Lieutenant Commander Kohr (Executive Officer) in Main Sim [Bridge]: A Matter of Protocols

Posted by Gamemaster Deus Ex Machina (Gamemaster) in Main Sim [Bridge]: A Matter of Protocols
Posted by… suppressed (3) by the Post Ghost! 👻


Several minutes passed before a chime came from overhead. “Modifications are complete, Commander. Tractor beam is standing by.

“Very well,” Kohr nodded, saving his report progress and transferring it to his personal station. “Lock on tractor beam and engage at Warp Three.”

A brief hum rippled through the bridge as the tractor beam reached out to grasp the alien vessel. Once in the Viking‘s gossamer hold, the pinpricks of starlight drifting lazily across the viewscreen leapt towards them in rainbow streaks as they went to warp. The muscles in Kohr’s neck tensed with the anticipation of some manner of catastrophe, and he leaned forward in his chair.
—Kohr, Executive Officer—

=/\=No Sir; Haven’t seen Lt. Darz at all, neither have I heard from her. I think we’re covered here; I have NE Braxton and Heimdel with me. But I don’t like officers disappearing just as we have guests aboard - makes me concerned that something else is going on.=/\=

Forgrave, CoS

Kohr took a slow, steadying breath. =^=Agreed. Attend the captain, but when your duty is complete I would hear your concerns. Kohr out.=^=

The Klingon laced his fingers together before him to keep them from becoming fists. It took four deliberate breaths to keep him from striking out with the need to do something to ease the tension. It had coiled about his spine like a deklian eel, was squeezing hard enough to crack bone. Kohr could not put his finger on it, but coming into contact with the alien vessel had somehow begun to unravel the discipline in the Viking crew, first with the away team’s lack of protocol and now two officers becoming lax in their duties. If anything, they should have been more vigilant with a first contact situation.

In his mind there had always been a delicate line between Starfleet’s protocols for dealing with first contact and a warrior’s duty to the safety of the ship, one that had never been fully defined. While perhaps a bit brash and entitled, Hab’rabi had posed the Viking no open threat. His abrasive mannerisms could have been attributed to a clash of cultures; as a Klingon, he knew all too well that what was acceptable to his people was not always appreciated by the more “civilized” species, such as humans. The alien had—at least to the captain—indulged their ways and wants, with a few modest concessions.

What grated Kohr, however, was how little real and usable information they’d received from Hab’rabi or his vessel. The behemoth in their tow was an entire conundrum that defied every attempt to unravel its secrets. How could something composed of materials and designs decades behind the Federation so easily defeat their sensors? And yet it was the Federation way to trust that nothing was amiss. Had the Viking been a Klingon vessel, the alien vessel would not have been allowed to pass without inspection. Yorba had raised a valid point: Hab’rabi’s supposed sovereignty was the only thing protecting him and his vessel from further scrutiny.

“Lieutenant,” he sighed, turning to the communications officer. Kohr’s displeasure must have been writ large on his features because the woman paled noticably. “Contact Starfleet and notify them of our course and situation. I am certain the medical and science divisions will be eager to study our prize. Inform them that I will attach a more detailed report presently.”

A shaky nod. “Y-Yes, sir.”

The Klingon frowned, but not at her apprehension. He would remember to speak to the captain once Rende observed the proper diplomatic decorum. Knowing the woman as he did, Kohr knew she would likely make excuses at the first opportunity. Until then, he busied himself with the details of his report to Starfleet. It was unfortunately vague, mostly dry data concerning their discovery of the vessel and the steps they’d taken to secure it. After some heavy thought, the Klingon added his personal concern that there had been some oddities within the crew, and that it was currently under investigation. Once his data was complete and the accompanying logs were attached, Kohr transmitted it.

“Computer,” he barked, preparing himself for his next vexing task, “Locate Lieutenant Darz.”
—Kohr, Executive Officer—

The computer reported without pause. =^=Lieutenant Darz is on Deck 7 holosuite 2.=^=


Kohr’s fingers curled into fists in his lap, and the Klingon had to bow his head to hide the vexation burning in his eyes. Kalika had defied his order, pure and simple. The only thing that prevented him from dealing with it at the moment was the niggling chill slithering down his spine and the behemoth in-tow. Once the captain was finished pandering to the alien and back on the bridge, he would rectify the situation with Lieutenant Darz.

Leaning back in his seat, the Klingon watched the swirl of starlight just beyond the viewscreen. Normally the passage of space helped to calm his mind, offered the illusion of progress even as time otherwise seemed to stand still. This time, however, it only rankled him further. The suspicion growing in the confines of his ridged skull only increased, a single thought beating in tandem with the drumming of his hearts.

Something was amiss aboard the Viking.

Kohr closed his eyes, strained to reach past logical thought to the more primal intuition of his warrior’s heart. There, beyond the curtain of what-ifs, a reflex quickened and he found his hand moving. He did not stop it, allowed the instinct to take hold, pursued it down the path to completion as hunter to prey. It lasted only a moment, but it left Kohr staring for a hard moment. On the display at his elbow lay a simple query lingering on the polished screen: a request to the computer to monitor Kalika’s position in real-time. His finger hove over the execution command, and yet something within him tugged and kept it from falling. Frowning, he instead changed the command instead to direct the computer to monitor the entire crew as they moved about their day.

It was only a hunch, but as he’d learned in the waning days of the Dominion War sometimes hunches were answers wielded by instinct. That instinct had saved him more than once, and he’d learned to trust it when it spoke to him. In this moment, it did not speak.

It roared.
—Kohr, Executive Officer—

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