Tales of the Templeton

Posted on Sun Sep 14th, 2025 @ 8:05pm by Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard & Captain Robert Burke

2,535 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: EPISODE 1: SHAKEDOWN
Location: Corridor, Deck 15
Timeline: MD032

Deck Fifteen curved like a long drawn-out river--if it were possible for geographic features to form perfect right angles in segments. Its corridors were wide and bright, perfect for games, long strides, and for the business of burning-off energy between duty shifts. The air was cool but not entirely forgiving, each breath Gideon dragged in carrying a faint tang of recycled ions and the cleanser the maintenance personnel used. He was drenched through already, his grey undershirt clinging dark to his chest, his boots leaving a staccato of thuds against the deck. It was the rhythm of a man in over his head.

Burke, damn him, looked hardly worse for wear--longer stride, steadier lungs, the sort of unflappable tempo that hearkened back to his days when he commanded the Templeton.

Gideon tried to match it, tried not to let the his hoarse throat nor the wheeze in his chest betray him. Sweat stung his eyes but he pushed-out a grin anyway.

"Cap--" He sucked air, coughed, and pushed the words harder. "I'm tellin' you... Port-side bulkheads used to rattle like loose teeth if we pushed Templeton past warp six. Tell me I'm wrong."

He leaned into the corner of the corridor, his boots squealing faintly, his chest on fire, trying to keep pace. Damn that Burke. Thirteen years older and in better physical shape, Gideon thought.

"You felt it too, I know you did," Gideon said, a half-plea, half-laugh through his ragged breathing. He risked a glance ahead at Burke. "Don't tell me that... was just my imagination, Cap."

Sweat running down his back, Burke flashed a smile. His legs were being pushed to their limit. Gideon was proving a far more potent challenge that he would have during those years on the Templeton. But pride, and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge his aging body were keeping his legs going. For now.

'Alright,' he said, sucking in a breath. 'They did.' Sucking in another breath, daring to glance at the younger man as they barrellled down the corridor. 'Back in. Eighty-Eight. We got caught in. A fight. Klingons. Templeton wasn't the. Same. After. Especially the port-side bulkheads.' The last words a rush before he sucked in another breath, legs beginning to burn.

Gideon produced a sound that resembled something between a growl and a gasp, half-choked by his own lungs. "Knew it! The word ricocheted down the corridor like a cracked victory bell. His legs felt like they were filled with lead, every step just one more I-O-U he never recalled signing. Still, the grin remained plastered on his face.

He jabbed a finger forward, the gesture more of a wobble than anything else. "Miranda-class, Cap. Doesn't matter... if... the dang bulkheads rattle, she'll... keep on. Workhorse. Of the fleet. Getcha home with dents... in her teeth. And grease... on her knuckles. But... she'll getcha home."

The stitch in his side lanced further into his core. Gideon found himself doubling-over mid-stride, boots scuffing, one hand pressed to his ribs like he'd been stabbed. "Wait--Cap. Hold up a tick--just a... breather." His voice was a strangled chuckle, equal parts pride and horrible pain. He reached out and braced a palm against a cool bulkhead, head down, his chest still heaving, sweat dripping onto the deck around his feet.

Thank God! Burke thought, slowing down, then turning back towards Gideon. 'I don't remember this happening on the Templeton,' he needled gently. 'Didn't they encourage a good run on your last posting?' He smiled, and patted the man on the shoulder, 'some water should do you - us! - good?'

Gideon wheezed-out a phlegm-laced laugh that cracked in the middle. He tilted his head back, eyes squeezed shut, and dragged a breath that rattled like a pair of dice in a cup.

"Encourage a good run?" he managed incredulously, between broken gulps of air. "Cap, last ship I was on, they encouraged sittin' still and not breakin' anything. Closest I got to cardio was climbin' a Jefferies tube to fix fried relays."

Frowning, Burke shook his head as he gently lead the man down the corridor towards the Crew Lounge. 'It's disappointing to hear that the Aotearoa was so lax in how they handled the crew - I know we're no longer at war, even a cold one, with the Klingons, but there's plenty of threats out there that we need to deal with. Were they lax with anything else?'

He let out another wet and wheezy laugh that rattled from chest to throat and back. "Lax, Cap? Everything was lax." He shook his head, letting a bead of sweat roll down his temple. "Morale was a poster on the wall. Pretty pictures, shiny ship, all smiles--never touched by a boot or a grunt. Aotearoa burned through three captains in less than twenty-eight months. Just when ya thought you could get used to things, the new CO would show up and change it all around."

Gideon shook his head, remembering his time aboard the old Walker-class refit. "She was a fine little ship for surveying, though." He paused, a gulp of air that made his chest ache more than the running had. "But I sure am glad to be here."

'And we're glad to have you,' Burke replied with a wide smile, clapping him on the back. They entered the Crew Lounge, which was surprisingly bustling considering the quietness of deck fifteen in general. Though, the Captain reflected, it was known as a running deck. 'I just hope you're not expecting to burn through commanding officers at the same rate,' he chuckled. Finding a conveniently empty table, Burke motioned for the younger man to take a seat while he went to fetch some water.

As he returned and slipped in to his seat, he put a jug of water and a pair of glasses on the table. 'You know, I'm surprised you took up a post on a Walker-class. Good for surveys, I know, but I'd always imagined you going for something bigger after the Templeton.'

Gideon poured himself a glass, the tremor in his hand subtle but very much there, water sloshing against the rim. He tipped it back in one long pull, Adam's apple working, then set the glass down with a hollow clack. A bead of sweat ran down his temple to his jaw and fell, lost somewhere on the tabletop.

"You as well as I do, Cap, bigger ain't always better," he said. "Templeton... she was a good scrapper. Had her dents, her quirks, but she was honest with you. Walker-class, though? She was more like a stubborn mule. 'Course, you knew where you stood--either she'd move or she'd plant her feet, and God help you if you pushed her too hard. I kinda respected that."

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, shirt damp and sticking. "Truth be told, after Templeton, I wasn't lookin' for bigger. Weren't lookin' for shinier, neither. I just needed somethin' that floated." Maël's eyes went a little distant. "Aotearoa was... quiet. Too quiet. But we made the most of her, bein' a refit and all."

His gaze came back to Burke, sharp again. "But here? Feels different. Got weight to it. Like the air's carryin' more than just ions and recycled breath. Got a decent CO, too."

Gideon raised a glass of water in silent salute.

Burke demurred, but raised his glass to acknowledge the complement. 'We'll see - I'm at the beginning of my test, not the end.' As he ran a hand along his sweat-tacky arm he shrugged, 'I took a posting that would challenge me - lord knows I've seen most of what patrolling the borders can throw at a man. So it's time to go beyond them and find out what I'm made of.'

"Cap... reckon we oughta talk about what's waitin' for us out there," he said, nodding toward the viewport where the black of space was only interrupted by faint pinpricks of light. "Klingon homeworld--can't be the proverbial garden stroll."

'We won't be there long,' Burke replied with a small smile. 'Just enough time to ensure that the convoy drops off our supplies, a quick tour of Pinnacle Base and her work if we so desire, and most likely a few formalities.' Forehead creasing as he raised his eyebrows in thought, he proceeded to analyse their present condition. 'We've already crossed into Klingon space with the minimum of resistance - just an escort from both the Imperial Fleet and some new friends from a Minor House who was smart enough not to ignite a war.'

'Azetbur won't tolerate any action against a Starfleet vessel, and the Imperial Fleet, and Imperial Intelligence are just about powerful enough to take on any Great or Minor Houses we know are spoiling for a fight. So there's an uneasy equilibrium for now.' Leaning back in his chair and plaiting his fingers together, he continued, 'in three weeks, we'll be the other side of Klingon space, and out into the frontier. Out there it's just Romulans, ambitious Klingons and the unknown we need to face.'

Gideon turned the glass in his hand slowly, watching the thin line of water chase itself around the rim. He lifted his leg and pulled his knee closer to himself--a less-than-professional look. His grin had slipped, the exhaustion in chest replaced by something else--something heavier. It pulled his shoulders down as if someone had doubled the deck's gravity.

"Three weeks out the other side," he said, thoughtful and distant. "Romulans, Klingons, whatever else. I hear ya, Cap. Sounds like a list of ghosts just waitin' their turn."

He set the glass down and lifted his eyes, locking on Burke's with a rare and steady sharpness.

"Tell me something'," Gideon asked. "You remember that stand-off with the Nausicaans?" He left the question there, and he knew it was the source of his heavy feeling, almost as if he'd dragged an old and weathered metal trunk into the middle of the table and dared the Captain to open it.

'You might have to remind me,' Burke replied, good humour diminishing as he recalled his several run ins with that rough and fearsome species. 'As I recall there were a few when we served together ...'

"Yeah, Cap. Weren't just a few. I'm talkin' about that moon we stopped for--out past the Erymanth system, remember?" Gideon rubbed his mouth with the palm of his hand, lost in thought. "It was big as a planet but cracked right down the middle like some giant had split it with an axe. Glowin' green veins all through." He smiled at the memory. "Science team near wet themselves over it."

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose. His smile disappeared.

"Three Nausicaan raiders dropped in before we even finished the first pass," he said eyes darting around, the trauma coming back.

'I remember,' Burke replied, jaw tightening at the memory, the gall of being ambushed like some wet-behind-the-ears Ensign in a simulation. 'Six shots fired. Four connected. All before we could get the shields up.' His throat tightened. 'Lost a lot of good crew that day. Rassmussen included.' Their Chief Engineer, and Burke's close friend was killed in the initial pass. 'I'll never quite understand how we got out of that scrape.'

Gideon's fingers tightened around the glass. He nodded along with the captain's recounting.

"Rory," he said finally. The name seemed small on his tongue. "Petty Officer Rory Uprichard. Engineering detail. Kid was from some place called Port Talbot. Talked about home constantly. He used to sing this song about a little pot or pan or somethin'." He smiled at the thought of the young man he once knew. "Trouble was, he went out on Deck Four when the hull ripped. Gone before I could even check the damage report." Gideon shook his head, jaw working intensely.

He turned over the empty glass on the table and leaned forward to Burke. "Ain't the part they print in them recruitment brochures, Cap. Exploration comes with ghosts. You find a moon split in two, pretty green light spillin' every what-way, and for a breath you swear you're starin' at the heart of God. Then three Nausicaans come prowlin' for dilithium, teeth bared, and God's just hidin' in the cracks, lettin' us pay the toll." He took a deep breath and settled himself--realizing that despite his history with Burke, he'd better get control of his feelings.

"I don't know I'd trade a Rory Uprichard for a sensor sweep of some weird-lookin' moon," he said finally, "but if you're runnin' things, I'd be more than satisfied to take the gamble you'd keep us safe."

Burke smiled sadly. 'I would gladly trade all the accolades we've received in return to having our comrades back.' He met Gideon's eyes, his smile broadening. 'And thank you for your confidence. It means a lot after what we went through on the Templeton. And I for one, am very glad that you're here to be relied upon. Even if you need to up your cardio.'

Gideon chuckled. "Cardio, cap? Gimme a good three weeks and I reckon I'll be close enough to your level to keep up next time."

Raising an eyebrow, Burke nodded and extended his hand, 'three weeks then, and a small wager. Nothing too fancy for the winner?'

"A wager, huh?" Gideon laughed. "Careful what you're invitin', cap. I got somethin' sittin' in a locker back at Utopia Planitia--friend of mine's holdin' it tight for me. Bottle of Herbsaint. The real deal, from back home. Green glass, cork still wax-sealed. He lifted a finger, wagging it like he was handing down some heavy wisdom. "If I can't keep up with you in three weeks' time, she's yours. All yours. You can drink it, smash it, or pour it over pancakes if that's your fancy."

'All right, that sounds like a deal,' Burke replied with a smile, nodding in Gideon's direction. In five years that bottle of Herbsaint should have matured nicely. If they made it back, he thought, involuntarily, before driving that doubt down deep. 'If you beat me in three weeks, I'm willing to split a crate of my wine with you - there's a few I had put aboard the Hecate with my personal effects. You'll be welcome to help yourself.'

Gideon leaned back in his chair, sweat drying to a tacky film on his shirt. "Cap, you're talkin' about wine like it's water, but I'll take you up on it. Herbsaint for a crate of Burke's best. Stars help me, if that ain't the classiest bet I've ever made." He raised the empty glass again, this time in pure salute, and set it down with a gentle clink.

::OFF::

Captain Robert Burke
Commanding Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard
Chief Operations Officer
USS Hecate

 

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