STC: Reservoir Targs: Chapter 7
July 1, 2270
It would be fair to say that Garadun didn’t trust the Federation, and he trusted Starfleet even less. Apart from a handful of individuals, most of his encounters with Starfleet had not gone very well. As for Section 31, he hadn’t hesitated to kill one of their agents when the agent in question had threatened his loved ones. Section 31 was proof that the United Federation of Planets wasn’t what it said it was. Cera told him that her uncle, Admiral Morgan Rigel, had assured her that Section 31 was no longer any threat to them. As a top ranking officer at Starfleet Headquarters he’d taken care of the problem, quietly. They wouldn’t have to keep looking over their shoulders.
Garadun wasn’t buying it.
In his day the official policy of the United States government had been to constantly and illegally spy on its own people. It read all emails, tracked landline telephone calls, listened in on cell p
STC: Reservoir Targs: Epilogue
July 15, 2270
It was another fine, blitzy day at the Northolt airfield where No. 1 Squadron operated out of. The sun was shining and the sky was hugely blue with a dash of white whalebone to give it some character. Fine and Mellow was playing on the gramophone (sung by the legendary Billie Holiday) and Garadun was lounging in a folding deck chair. A few feet away Magik was dozing on her usual sofa cushion.
The squadron’s newest pilot, Flying Officer Sajeen, was reading the London Gazette in a squashy armchair. A recent Act of Parliament had allowed women to join the fighting; Sajeen was one of the first of such women to be accepted into Fighter Command. In truth the RAF didn’t want her, saying her presence would disrupt morale and blah blah blah. So the Air Ministry dumped her with the Canadians. The upstart colonials were only too happy to have such a doll among their ranks. She wore the standard battle dress uniform, a
STC: Reservoir Targs: Chapter 6
Klingon High Council Chamber, Qo’noS
June 12, 2270
There are several good ways of describing the Klingon High Council Chamber: poorly-lit, smelly, in need of a clean, ancient, imposing, intimidating. From his high-backed chair in the middle of the Chamber, Chancellor Sturka kept his elbow on the chair’s armrest and his chin on his fist while he listened to the assorted Councillors argue with each other and try to place blame. A fitting word for today would be noisy.
An emergency meeting of the Klingon High Council had been called after word had come about their most notorious prison: Rura Penthe had been attacked! The B’Nath, a military transport on its scheduled trip to haul in the latest batch of criminals and traitors, had upon its arrival received no response to its hail. The ship scanned the detention centre and discovered the protective magnetic shield was gone. So was the shield emitter and the reactor that powered it. Furth