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Part of USS Jaxartes: Mesakh wuh kim-shah krup

Part 1: Krus wuhkuh

Y'Tech V, Sea Quest Sub -
14th March 2401 23:54
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Commander Salan of the USS Jaxartes, heard the shout of his young half Orion Helms-Officer as she told everyone to ‘hold tight’.  The submarine Sea Quest which she was currently piloting; lurched upwards as compressed air forced water out of the ballast takes, making the vessel rapidly lighter and sending it up towards the surface of the ocean.

The small craft which had been pursuing them in the depths struck the outcrop of rock which the submarine had just risen over.  With the hostile craft destroyed, the Starfleet officers and civilian rescue team that made up the crew of six on board the Sea Quest, final felt they had a chance to relax and take stoke of the situation.  With the ballast takes fully empty the sub wouldn’t cease it relentless climb until it reached and broke the surface. The depth gauge was going wild, its numbers changing more swiftly than anyone could read them.  Somewhere between 500 and 400 meter’s the control area was bathed in a brilliant blue and white light, the air crackled and hummed.  Salan felt the telltale sign of a transport beam locking on to him.  One moment he was on the sub, the next; after the brilliant blue and white light had faded the Vulcan found himself in an almost pitch black room.

Instinct moved his hand towards his comm-badge, but it wasn’t there.  A careful fingertip search of the floor surrounding him, led the Commander to conclude that the communication device had not been transported with him.  An indication that his captor’s possibly knew of its use. 

There was a mustiness in the air; like the room hadn’t been used for quite some time and the filtration system wasn’t operating all that efficiently.  After a short while the Vulcan eyes became more accustomed to the lack of light.  Things within the room started to become more familiar.  A chair and table were just behind him, bunkbeds along the opposite wall and a red door.  These were crew quarters on a Federation vessel of that he was almost positive, the lack of any view port, put him somewhere internal rather than along the outer hull.  It was an old ship judging from the style and looks of things, but Federation never the less.  The transport clearly hadn’t been; so this vessel had either been repaired or refitted with some equipment belonging to another race.  Salan tried the door, and as he suspected would be the case; it didn’t open.  He did however locate a set of manual controls to adjust the light level, though for now he chose to leave them low.  Alone, he had no indication regarding the whereabouts or condition of any of the other five members in the sub.  There wasn’t much the Vulcan felt he could do, given the current situation, so he sat on the lower bunk and contemplated for a while.


Much time had passed when the now sleeping Vulcan was awoken by the ‘swish’ of the door opening and a influx of light from the corridor outside.  A figure stood at the door on the threshold.  A male, he appearing humanoid in form, of average high; and with a muscular build.  The individual wore a light brown robe tied with a simple black cord around the waist; his head and face were covered in a headdress of a much darker brown.  Everything about him pointed towards an individual from somewhere hot and arid; certainly not on a starship like this one.  The Commander wondered briefly about what could have happened to her previous crew; who if his calculations were right, would have died from old age by now, even if nothing else had befallen them.

Salan swung his legs round, getting into a seated position on the bunk.  The stranger spoke, but without his badge to translate, the Vulcan had no real understanding of what was being said; though had an idea it was in connection to the tray of food this man was carrying in both hand.  Thoughts of overpowering him and making a run for it were quickly quelled by two addition figures dressed in the same manner as the first; standing in the corridor.  Though the commander couldn’t make out any weapons from his position, they would most likely both be armed.  So Salan simple accepted the tray and thanked the man, who backed away, the door closing once more.

On the tray was a bowl of Gespar and a beaker of water.  The Vulcan took a tentative taste of the fruit, using his fingers to pick up a small portion, as no utensils had been provided.  It was palatable but far from fresh, the water, tepid with a slight metallic tinge to it.  Both indications of having been stored somewhere and not recently replicated.  The tray, bowl and beaker were all constructed of a pliable rub like substance; presumably to render them ineffective as weapons.  His captors, whoever they were, clearly did not like to take chances.  Having at least provided him with a breakfast, he had to conclude that they wished to keep him alive, at least for the time being.

The commander tried his best to judge the passage of time; but without visual cues or knowing how long he had slept, it was hard for the Vulcan to gauge length he’d been aboard.  He did know they’d been moving at Warp; anything other than that would be mere speculation, and it wasn’t in a Vulcan’s nature to guess.  It was though easier to sense an hour between the arrival of breakfast and the return of the same individual to collect the tray.  The man returned after only a few minutes, gesturing to Salan that he should step out of the room; his two armed companions there to make it clear the Vulcan had no real choice in the matter.  There weapons, or at least the one he got the best look at; consisted of three barrels in an inverted triangle, with what looked to be a gas cylinder mounted underneath.  Both of which indicated this gun fired solid projectiles force from the barrel by compressed air or gas.  It was primitive but still highly effective at killing and maiming, especially at close range.

The corridor outside the commanders’ temporary accommodation had the same general look as the quarters; as in that it had not been adequately cleaned several years.  The floor was marked with the footfall of countless boots that had walked this way over the passage of time, the walls to bore scuffs and stains on their surface.  Salan was escorted along the corridor which curved to the left.  That meant whichever ship this was, he was in the saucer section.  A ship of this apparent age wouldn’t have main decks in this section; between 6 and 15, depending on the class.  They passed several door on both sides, but none carried the usual code numbers and letters which would have added the Vulcan in establishing more details. 

At a junction, he was motioned to take the left turn rather than carry straight ahead, passing a turbo-lift door as he did.  Then just a short distance on, the second door to the right was opened.  As Salan entered, it was clear that this was the ships gym, one of them at least.  The equipment was old, but on closer examination appeared functional.   ‘So his captors wanted to keep him both feed and fit, interesting’.  Within the gym, there sat two running machines, a pair of static bikes, and a rowing machine to one side, with a punch bag, pommel horse and exercise mats on the other.  It was interesting to note that any weights or equipment that used them; had been removed.   Yet another case of any potential weapons being denied to him. 

For the next hour Salan availed himself the use of the various apparatus in the gym.  At only 51 years of age, as a Vulcan, Salan was still in the prime of life and prided himself on the levels of fitness he had maintained over the years.  He had no intention of letting those standards drop, despite not know what the future had instore for him.   A watercooler had also been provided, along with a half dozen towels, all of which smelled of having spent a considerable amount of time kept in storage; piled up on the corner of a small table, bolted to the floor, just in case anyone had ideas about throwing it.  Unfolding one of the towels to wipe the sweat from his forehead as he’d already done a few times during his exercise; he received his first breakthrough.  This towel was monogrammed, as was the general practice of most starships to put its name on many of the items used by its crew.  If that was indeed the case, the Commander was currently aboard the USS Kinshasa.   Taking a sip of water the Vulcan tried to recall that name; he’d definitely heard it at some point in his career.  But for now that knowledge eluded him. 

It was at this point the guards made it abundantly clear, exercise was over and he should return with them to the quarters were he was being kept. 

The routine would hardly fluctuate over the next six day.  Breakfast, exercise, an afternoon meal, and followed by another meal in the late evening.  They generally consisted of something from Vulcan or Earth, usually accompanied by water or fruit juice.  During that time he tried to pick up on the language these people used, which was proving rather tricky without any base of reference.