Mick is currently the intelligence officer for the USS Infinity
Mikaree Kah’ Reeispo was born on Kartel Prime in the Gradin Belt of the Delta Quadrant. He grew up in the slums of Pagor, the only city on Kartel with a spaceport. By the age of 10 or 11 he was pressed into service of the Karteleian Merchant Fleet (KMF), sold by a crimper for Two Copper Tallons (20 slips of Gold Pressed Latinum, cost of an expensive dinner)
He spent the next forty years in the Merchant Fleet learning his trade in Light Ships plying the travel lanes of the belt, driven to warp speed by the tachyon streams of the solar winds and ion storms. While in the service he visited countless worlds across the belt where his superiors noted how quickly the young man picked up local languages and customs. This is what probably lead to his promotion to a purser’s berth where he learned to read, write and “Keep the Ship’s Books.” It was here that he began to build a network of contacts, legal and otherwise that could help move cargo as well as keep him apprised of the opportunities and the dangers in the next port. He also learned how to move ships through customs inspection, or when needed who to be paid off to avoid the inspection entirely.
Mikaree could have stayed safely in the ship’s hold with legers, bills of lading, and port licenses, but he wanted more. Opportunity present itself, aboard the KMV Biscaglia. A good ship with a good crew, that came across the unpredictability of an ion storm during a dogwatch. The ship’s pilot, and much of the bridge were injured when a plasma discharge struck the ship as she tried to run before the storm. Mikaree remembered stepping onto the bridge filled with the smells of smoke, ozone and fear and the sounds of the ship’s imminent death, her frame twisting and buckling as the storm front engulfed the vessel. Stepping up to the helm, he placed his hand on the pilot’s sweeps, somehow he saw and felt,,,,everything. It all came together, making terrifying sense. The churning maelstrom of the storm, the strain of the hull, the force of tachyons pressing against sheets, too taunt, almost to the breaking point. After an eternity, the ship cleared of the storm, Mikaree ordered the crews to stand down and the galley’s “fires lit” so they could get something to eat. “Aye, aye Fengora,” replied a crewman bringing a knuckle to his forehead respectfully. Shortly after that he found his gear had been transferred to a small closet of a bunk next to the Pilot’s cabin.
He apprenticed for five years working harder than he ever thought possible but he reached an unimaginable height, a Master Pilot. His heart swelled with pride as he took each of his ships he was assigned to in hand, getting the systems up and running as well as training the new crews. As the pilot he was not only responsible for navigating the ship but also ran its day to day operations, just as concern with duty rosters as star charts. The merchant Captains knew if Fengora was on board they’d be handed a ship that tight, trim and ready for work.
When running his ships Mikaree surprised most Captain’s in how much he spared the lash, corporal still being a common practice in the service. Mikaree explained that having felt the bite of the lash himself over the years, he understood its limitation in inspiring a crew. He felt it should be used sparingly and judiciously. Instead he promoted pride in the ship, led by example, while keeping a close eye, worked with anyone slacking. That’s not to say he didn’t have to clap some ears now and then, but for the most part he found the crew willing provided they trusted him. His results always seemed to bear out his philosophy. Any boat he worked on pulled down a good profit, making bonus’ more consistently for delivering their cargos on time and undamaged.
He did well for himself and the company for years, but he could never sit still. He helped them open new trade routes, improve old ones. He always tried to push his captains to go further, find more, risk more discover more. Behind his back, many in the KMF sneered at him, claiming that his “traveler blood” (El-Auria ancestry) made him too brash, too bold. Maybe it was the blood, but the passive, insular, and fatalistic nature of his people drove him mad. The KMF wouldn’t even do anything when raiders from the Devor Imperium started taking their vessels well outside imperium’s territory. The raiders claimed to be a special inspection teams trying to prevent telepaths from invading their space. To Mikaree, they were pirates, plain and simple, and needed to be dealt with before more of his friends ended up in Devorian detention centers. When he suggested actually fighting the raiders, his superior baulked, saying they were just merchants.
After losing the four more merchantmen in as many weeks, Mikaree had enough. He took a leave of absence in disgust and disappeared for almost a year. When he returned to the KMF Union hall on Kartel, he was tanned, wearing an expensive suit and had a watch on his wrist that would have cost a senior pilot at least three month’s salary. All of his friends wanted to know where he’d been, Mikaree just laughed and spun them tales about the opportunities in the Malon Cooperative, and the questionable morals of Tureillian women, then he told them about a deal so big he’d need had to lease a Malonian Supertanker to pull it off. Eventually, he left them to meet with some of KMF’s higher-ups about an opportunity in the Ketal system. He struck several deals that day.
Of course, Mikaree was betrayed. The raiders appeared while they were enroute to Ketel. They boarded the supertanker. Before you knew it, both the tanker and the raider’s ship had made its way into Devorian space arriving at an isolated binary system in Grid 315 on the edge of Devor Territory. As the ships approached the system’s sole planet, an orbiting platform came into view with three dozen or so merchantmen in parking orbit nearby. Below on the planet’s surface appeared the lights from the raider’s base. In the southern hemisphere, another smaller group of lights could be seen.
Mikaree often imagined the smug look on whoever was in charge, as the tanker glided toward the platform. He also imagined how confused the bastard must have looked when the supertanker barreled past the platform, its guidance system locked on the base, accelerating as its impulse engines flared to life. He also wondered if the base was ever able to get its shield up before the impact. Not that it would have mattered much. A supertanker with its hold filled with as much scrap iron they could get their hands on wrapped around 200 kg of trilithium resin with its engines trying to push it to near light speed? The explosion was epic, with the shock wave pushing the platform into a higher orbit. Picking themselves off the deck Mikaree remembered the Hirogen, Vasoon looking at him, saying in totally deadpan voice, ”You were right. Too much resin.” He then laughed and charged a least 20 of the pirates. All Mikaree could do was shake his head, follow beserker as he reconsider his life choices.
Thirty-eight hours later they were clear of Devore Territory with a convoy of two slightly damaged raider attack frigates, nineteen functioning merchantmen with another seven merchant vessels in tow. In their holds were the spoils, the most important of which were the 600 crewmen they’d found on both the platform and at the dig site on the surface. Most were Kartelian, with some Malonian, with a mixture of other species from the Turei Alliance. There should have been at least three times as many. When Mikaree first saw the condition of the survivors, he almost reversed his decision to not kill the raiders they took as prisoners. But he didn’t, someone had to bear witness, explain the reasons why, had to identify the mass graves, the unburied, left to rot. Still they won.
Mikaree remembered stretching back in the captain chair of one of the frigates, releasing 10 months of stress, months spent cobbling together this forlorn hope. Saying good bye to Vasson, and the 20 some odd hunters that followed him. The convoy limping back to Kartel to a hero’s welcome. A welcome that disappeared as soon as the scandal broke about the higher-up at KMF that sold shipping schedules to the raiders. The denials. The proof. Most convincing of which was a living raider who was the head comms officer. He told the tribunal everything he knew. He held nothing back because Mikaree would have dropped him off with the hirogen for lunch if he did. People went to jail, both the Alliance and the Cooperative demanded reparations for their lost ships and cargo. Eventually it all died down. Mikaree for his efforts lost everything.
For whistleblowing the KMF “let him go” trashed his pension and blackballed him so even the smaller cargo companies wouldn’t hire him. He started his own hauling business but the KMF made sure his contracts dried up. What he was left with was an office he owed 6 months back rent on, and a terminal hangover from drinking way too much. And then a funny little man from starfleet intelligence walked into his office.
His name was Jack Hogan. Major Jack Hogan. A short, fat old man with ridiculous side burns. He explained that his government has just signed a treaty with Kartel and that Mikaree was now an almost sort of citizen of the federation. Mikaree expressed his unparalleled joy at the geopolitical development. Hogan congratulated him as well, and then explained that the intelligence service was looking for individuals to help them ”Get the lay of the land” and that he heard of the exploits of the “Great Fengora” who got the Karelians, Malons, Turei and even the Hirogen to work together. Mikaree identified himself as ”Fengora” but was rewarded by a look of disappointment from Hogan.
“I was hoping you be taller.” Hogan said almost sounding hurt.
“And I’m beginning to wish you were a ravishing brunette,” Mikaree replied, “with cold beer and low standards”
Hogan smiled and looked a Mikaree with eyes that had become too clever by half. ”You’ll do, Mikaree.” He said lighting a cigar “You’ll do. Now come on we’ve much to discuss over a cold beer. If you going workout as well as I think, I’ll even get my wig.”
With that he followed the insane little man out into the street, an eventually across the sector to Starbase 900. Master Pilot Mikaree Kah Reespo became Special Agent Micah Crispo, instructor to the “Shaken but not stirred crowd.” No that was not fair, most were professionals who taught him as much as he taught them. It was just that those condescending bastards who looked at him and rolled their eyes as if to say “Oh look, the horse thinks it can count.”
Still after two years he was able to take a closer look at his “protectors” and found a lot to admire, and a lot to be real worried about. With so much power,,,, if they didn’t understand,,,,, That same feeling came back. The need to move, to do. He couldn’t sit on the sidelines, it was too important. That afternoon he went to Hogan again to request a field assignment.
“I know Mickey!” Hogan replied, “I’ve already been to the mountain, more than once but those stupid bastards can’t get their heads out of their asses.” Shaking his head.
Mikaree knew. The powers that be wanted to see something to prove he could handle the field. To them his record was bush-league this was STARFLEET after all. He had no idea how he could prove himself at the safest place in the sector.
Then to his eternal regret the Borg came. A sphere, people running scared, a tugboat, a possibility and using a cargo transporter just one time more than he should have. It all blurred together, fading to black with Mikaree waking up in the sickbay of some starship. Hogan came over to him, head bandaged, arm in a sling.
”Mickey. More lives than a cat I swear,” he whispered with a tear in his eye. “You’ve convinced them, any assignment you want.”
“Send me home, Jack” Mikaree replied, “Where I’ll do the most good.”
“What do you think about volunteering?” Hogan asked. Mikaree gave him the thumbs up. He old man literally kissed the top of his head and rubbed his hair with his good hand.”Bless you, Lad. I’ve the ship for you.”