-= Deck 8, USS Lone Star =-
The Captain and Ensign Burgundy were standing alone in a small conference room within the Science Department. Semantically alone, anyways. The room had been rebuilt so that one corner gave way to a part of Perdita's tank, equipped with audio emitter should they choose to make their presence known in a civilized manner.
Lieutenant Commander Animo claimed to be very busy at the moment, however, making their presence or lack thereof a philosophical question more than anything else. It mattered little to the two humanoid officers currently staring at a holo projection showing the rapid deployment and disassembly of small robotic sensor drones in the ship's wake. It was the fourth time Burgundy had watched the exact same sequence, and he was idly wondering if the Captain would notice what he himself had missed the first two times. Burgundy's jaw was clenched. Perdita was laughing at him inside his head. He wasn't sure whether it was his imagination or an actual telepathic laugh. Either way it made him more pissed off at them.
With the patience he normally reserved for Admiral Stanton and (other) exceptionally pretty women, Captain de l'Isle breathed as though succumbing to a panic attack: two in, three out. Three in, four out. Each beat imperceptible; each smothering his frustration not only with Burgundy, but also with this obfuscated problem, and with the fact that they appeared to have to solve it together.
"There," Burgundy paused the projection, slowly rewound it a couple of seconds and pointed to a very thin blue light streak between the ship and the infinitesimal drone that was just about to disassemble behind it. He was angry. Angry at Felix. Angry at Perdita. Angry at the universe at large. He turned to the Captain to explain, starting at the very beginning for no particular reason other than being pissed off at the whole ordeal.
"I had a design for the sensors. It was simple, it did the job and precisely only just that. But then you had stealth demands!" his arms were overly animated, and one wall had lit up with an animation going through the nineteen different revisions to the slipstream ship wake sensors. "So I added shielding, directed the tachyon beam and added an element for disassembly assistance," -- a fancy way of saying explosive -- "But of course with the turbulence of slipstream the little things wobbled and twisted so we couldn't get any input," he was rambling, and Perdita was snickering continuously inside his head. "I added stabilizers, I increased the strength of the tachyon pulse, I had to compensate for increased weight, I rewrote the sensor software," he continued going through a long list of incremental modifications, louder and louder.
Felix had begun to envision punching Burgundy in the throat as opposed to actually doing it. He rolled the major knuckles across the palm of his right hand, sometimes out of sequence, imagining their collision with the man's Adam's apple. How the chasm of his pastry throat would crumple like a dissenting soufflé. Each of these words had rippled across his ears before. Each was dispiritingly repetitive. So, each time, the captain found himself forcing Burgundy's airway shut in a single punch, embodying the ripples of crushed flesh and corrupt pleasure that would come from it.
"So what's stopping you from finishing up, Burgundy? Surely you aren't asking for the insight of an ex-pilot. Or your commanding officer." This was a holding quip. With concentration, and without visualising the visitation of pain upon his Prepondrian bridge officer, there was a solution here. "Stop giving me the history lesson and give me the (beat) problem." Felix had tried to stop swearing at Burgundy; it gave him nothing but ammunition. And it was against the Starfleet code of conduct. Allegedly.
Burgundy stared at him. "No," he stated flatly, jaw clenched. "I certainly don't need any more help from you." His tone was sarcastic and condescending. "As I said my first solution was perfectly adequate for the job. All your extraneous demands and forced modifications are what got us into this mess." He folded his arms and fell silent, staring at the projection that now ran the short sequence where a streak of light appeared between the probe and ship on a loop.
Felix watched it, too. "Just a couple of extraneous alterations to stop us being detected and destroyed, yes," he pitched cheerily. He scrubbed the timeline path up and back, interrupting Burgundy's viewpoint, speeding and slowing the motion spot as much for study as for sport. He had to reserve any true reaction for when Burgundy actually crossed the line: mutiny, perhaps, or more likely total insolence. "One way or another we still can't run with this until we have more data on the problem."
The captain started to rise to leave.
"We have the data we need," the science officer muttered. "I'm running calculations on it already, and we'll either have a result or a non-result in a week or so. The research is of a nature where more data won't be helpful beyond this point." he waved a hand dismissively. "No, the problem is not that." Burgundy turned back to face his captain. There was something else than anger in his eyes; insecurity. Almost perfectly hidden, but visible none the less to someone with Felix' experience and keen people sense. "It's the bug that was propelled aboard by the tachyon beam." The ensign clenched his jaw yet again. "And that, Captain, is decidedly your problem. I wash my hands of that mess."
Even the dim hum of the auxiliary conference room seemed to quieten, expecting the CO's reaction. Felix clapped his hands – usually a reliable way to clear a room of Perdita Animo, who disliked the smacking sound on that particular frequency – and spun on the spot, turning to face Burgundy like it was an afterthought; like he had been going to leave but had remembered something inconsequential, like Burgundy, whom he now approached sympathetically.
"It must have been difficult for you," Felix said, smiling thinly.
The science officer took half a step back. He wasn't sure what the question was about, but it somehow got under his skin. "No, not really… I… what?" The defense he'd started formulating fell apart before he even uttered it. This wasn't about the research. That much was clear. Although he couldn't cognitively comprehend right away what the Captain was getting at, he felt it in his gut.
"The feelings of inadequacy," the Captain revealed simply, searching Burgundy's visage as though inspecting a relic for signs of damage. "Usually, a scientist loves to track and find the error. But I suppose your deep-seated feeling of incompetence marrs that, does it? Originating from your childhood – or an old relationship, perhaps? I can see how it drives your emotional imbalance. Makes you give up on a problem, say things you don't mean." Each word, as the sentence progressed, became more studded.
The atmosphere was dense as the two officers locked eyes with each other. Felix studying his subordinate with determined curiosity; the ensign looking back with a face that turned from ill-concealed anguish to defiant anger. "Fine," he said at last. "I'll find the little critter." He turned around and stormed out, not waiting to be dismissed. Felix' combination of ruthless inquisition and authority had cut him deeper than he liked to admit. Years of forced therapy had attempted to unveil his being in a controlled manner, but each time he had resisted. Now, as he was cornered and so harshly dissected and condemned, his thoughts and emotions were in turmoil. For the first time in his adult life he had trouble holding back tears.
He had to find that crappy little beetle. He had to show the Captain. His very self-worth hinged on it.
-=-=-=-=-
by Captain Felix de l'Isle and Ensign Burgundy
SD241911.17 - "Rules Are Rules, Darling." [Felix/Edie]
Felix was used to tearing through the ship in a hurry and having a
private turbolift didn't hurt, either. That had been one of his CEO's
suggestions: considered zany and unnecessary at first, it had saved his
life on at least two occasions. This time it allowed him a vital extra
two minutes to sneak up on his chief engineer.
“Veronica. Tighten that coupling a little bit more…. Yes….. That’s it!” Edie stood above the much younger Lieutenant Veronica Bellfountaine, one of her most trusted Engineers in the department. The CEO had a look of satisfaction on her face. She knew Lonie liked his couplings tight - her technological companion would be most pleased.
“I can already see an increased energy output of zero-point-zero-zero-five….Hah!” Edie’s glowing smile turned frown in the blink of an eye though - she was not a telepath but had a way of sensing Felix’s approaching presence… Even more so when he had bad news to deliver.
“The answer is NO.” She didn’t give the man a moment to express himself.
If the Captain hadn’t known better he’d have sworn he heard the ship sigh alongside Freelove’s emphatic, pre-emptive response. He followed her as she slunk around the perimeter of her engine. (It was, without dispute, her engine.)
“It’s Starfleet procedure, Edie, I can’t do anything about it. The chief of security and head doctor have to come on the away team during a first contact scenario, Zolog is the only trained command officer but his demotion rules him out, and much though I trust our Cardassian helmsman, the fleet might not see it that way if something goes tits up. Fact is, I need you on the bridge.”
There were some words Edie could have muttered aloud in that moment - they were not nice ones though and she elected to keep them for herself. She was sure her buggy eyes said it all. “I can command from down here, you know…. I’ve known this moment would come again some day… I have been prepared!” The flighty CEO rushed over to a nearby console and tapped away for a moment. One would question how it would be possible for her hair to look anymore frizzled, but it certainly did in that moment. The mad scientist had been unleashed.
A familiar blue light and hum of a transporter beam materialized a makeshift and tattered looking Captain’s chair, adjacent Edie’s slipstream core. “I’ve already pre-programmed an automatic reconfiguration protocol to turn this room into a functioning bridge. All I need is to give my command.”
“This is…” Felix wrung his hands, searching for terminology that wouldn’t cause more upset for his chief engineer, but wouldn’t hamstring him, either. “Impressive, Commander, but also against protocol. Now, I’m not much one for that, but –”
Was he really going to challenge her on this? How dare he… Edie thought this briefly before bursting into a flurry of words - many of which were indiscernible.
“But,” Felix insisted above this new inferno of noise, “the command and engine rooms have to be separate in case of systems failure or invasion. It’s only when the bridge and battle bridge are no longer functioning that the engine room becomes a command centre.” Also, de l’Isle didn’t add, I thought we gave that chair to the orphanage on Barius III at least three years ago? Edie, alas, had what he could only call ways.
As quickly as her temper had given away, Edie grounded herself again. “I hate it when you’re right. You know that?” She loudly and dramatically sighed. “Very well. Lieutenant Bellfountaine is more than capable of keeping this place in organized chaos…. She knows the consequences if she doesn’t.” The old woman gave both officers a cheshire like smile.
The engine thrummed as the pair of recipients absorbed the consequences.
"Mister Touvey has the bridge, but I'll expect your voice up there when you've handed over to Lieutenant Bellfountaine." Felix pulled his uniform straight and nearly said something foolish – don't do anything I wouldn't do – before thinking better of it and remembering, as he often didn't around his beloved chief engineer, that she could outfox the lot of them. Still, there was one thing, one utterance that would keep them all safe; that would unwind even his slyest of old foxes.
"Keep Lonie safe for me, Commander," Felix said sincerely, before pressing his palm to her shoulder and resuming his course.
Edie stroked the nearby console gently, if only to compliment Felix’s statement. She simply gave him one of her flighty nods in reply and the two parted ways. There was no need for further words between the two Officers - besides Felix, Lonie could not be under the watch of someone else who cared about him more than Edie.
“Veronica. Tighten that coupling a little bit more…. Yes….. That’s it!” Edie stood above the much younger Lieutenant Veronica Bellfountaine, one of her most trusted Engineers in the department. The CEO had a look of satisfaction on her face. She knew Lonie liked his couplings tight - her technological companion would be most pleased.
“I can already see an increased energy output of zero-point-zero-zero-five….Hah!” Edie’s glowing smile turned frown in the blink of an eye though - she was not a telepath but had a way of sensing Felix’s approaching presence… Even more so when he had bad news to deliver.
“The answer is NO.” She didn’t give the man a moment to express himself.
If the Captain hadn’t known better he’d have sworn he heard the ship sigh alongside Freelove’s emphatic, pre-emptive response. He followed her as she slunk around the perimeter of her engine. (It was, without dispute, her engine.)
“It’s Starfleet procedure, Edie, I can’t do anything about it. The chief of security and head doctor have to come on the away team during a first contact scenario, Zolog is the only trained command officer but his demotion rules him out, and much though I trust our Cardassian helmsman, the fleet might not see it that way if something goes tits up. Fact is, I need you on the bridge.”
There were some words Edie could have muttered aloud in that moment - they were not nice ones though and she elected to keep them for herself. She was sure her buggy eyes said it all. “I can command from down here, you know…. I’ve known this moment would come again some day… I have been prepared!” The flighty CEO rushed over to a nearby console and tapped away for a moment. One would question how it would be possible for her hair to look anymore frizzled, but it certainly did in that moment. The mad scientist had been unleashed.
A familiar blue light and hum of a transporter beam materialized a makeshift and tattered looking Captain’s chair, adjacent Edie’s slipstream core. “I’ve already pre-programmed an automatic reconfiguration protocol to turn this room into a functioning bridge. All I need is to give my command.”
“This is…” Felix wrung his hands, searching for terminology that wouldn’t cause more upset for his chief engineer, but wouldn’t hamstring him, either. “Impressive, Commander, but also against protocol. Now, I’m not much one for that, but –”
Was he really going to challenge her on this? How dare he… Edie thought this briefly before bursting into a flurry of words - many of which were indiscernible.
“But,” Felix insisted above this new inferno of noise, “the command and engine rooms have to be separate in case of systems failure or invasion. It’s only when the bridge and battle bridge are no longer functioning that the engine room becomes a command centre.” Also, de l’Isle didn’t add, I thought we gave that chair to the orphanage on Barius III at least three years ago? Edie, alas, had what he could only call ways.
As quickly as her temper had given away, Edie grounded herself again. “I hate it when you’re right. You know that?” She loudly and dramatically sighed. “Very well. Lieutenant Bellfountaine is more than capable of keeping this place in organized chaos…. She knows the consequences if she doesn’t.” The old woman gave both officers a cheshire like smile.
The engine thrummed as the pair of recipients absorbed the consequences.
"Mister Touvey has the bridge, but I'll expect your voice up there when you've handed over to Lieutenant Bellfountaine." Felix pulled his uniform straight and nearly said something foolish – don't do anything I wouldn't do – before thinking better of it and remembering, as he often didn't around his beloved chief engineer, that she could outfox the lot of them. Still, there was one thing, one utterance that would keep them all safe; that would unwind even his slyest of old foxes.
"Keep Lonie safe for me, Commander," Felix said sincerely, before pressing his palm to her shoulder and resuming his course.
Edie stroked the nearby console gently, if only to compliment Felix’s statement. She simply gave him one of her flighty nods in reply and the two parted ways. There was no need for further words between the two Officers - besides Felix, Lonie could not be under the watch of someone else who cared about him more than Edie.
SD201911.11 - A Bucking What? [Felix/Harun]
-= Bridge, USS Lone Star =-
Felix's legs woke him up before life had the opportunity. They roused him at three in the morning; he knew better than to resist the joint cause of his body and his mind. Each compelled him to rise, than rang sonorously through his nerves and senses to ensure the message was answered. Within twelve minutes he was on the bridge and on his second cup of coffee, and on his third status report from an unamused night shift. Nobody needed the captain around for the last two hours of the night shift.
When the Captain had arrived on the bridge Harun was just hitting his rhythm for the evening. While the proud Cardassian would never admit it to any of his Starfleet crew members, working the late shift was actually rather wretched for him. Only the years of training and drill that made the movements on the conn automatic kept him a competent pilot until his brain caught up with his body.
He looked up briefly from the sixth diagnostic of the evening when Felix came in and settled to read the status reports. His greeting was the standard “Good evening Sir,” but Harun knew better than to ask the man why he’d decided to check in on the night shift. After the rather unfortunate incident with the Admiral the Cardassian did not want to give any further impressions that he was doing anything untoward on the Lone Star. Questioning the Captain would give way to discussions that he had something to hide.
He had just pulled up the mapping to see about getting ahead of the next shifts work when an alert flashed across his screen with a soft beeping noise. Slender grey fingers moved across the controls as he frowned and brought up the long-range scanners. His dark brows knitted together while the data populated on his console. “Sir,” he said, tilting his head in Felix’s direction though not actually turning to face the man, “you may want to have a look at this.”
“Beats status reports, whatever it is.” Felix was up on the shoulder of his helmsman before the man’s statement had finished. Their eyes tracked a wiggling spot, initially a point on Harun’s monitor with gravometric and course heading data rolling around its position. “Put it up on the main viewer, Mr Touvey. Any guesses as to what this bucking bronco might be?”
“Bucking what?” The words were out of his mouth before he remembered that he wasn’t asking Felix any questions he didn’t want answers to and he was turning in his seat to peer at the human. His hands still moved across the helm despite his momentary distraction, a credit to good Cardassian multitasking, and the display appeared on the main viewport.
“An old fairground game. Still found in Yridian bars.”
Harun turned his eyes away from Felix to look upon the larger display that was no closer to telling him what lay off to the port side of the Lone Star than it had on the smaller screen. Harun didn’t understand what it was about making things larger that gave humans the impression that it would yield more information but he supposed it was a compensatory thing.
Turning his eyes back down to the console he got back the scanner report, “It appears to be some sort of explosive. Scanners are detecting trace amounts of radiation with…” Before the Cardassian could finish an explosion rocked the Lone Star and brilliant golden light intermingled with hues of red, blue, and green flashed across the main viewport. Harun squinted his eyes against the bright display and then said, deadpan. “It’s some sort of pyrotechnic Captain.”
From the major colours came a multi-spectral sizzles that fizzed out, emanating into dimensionally geometric curves – floral and mathematical, the CO surmised. “A firework. Probably. But let’s do this the right way. Yellow alert, raise shields. Mister Touvey, heading 660 mark two, three quarters impulse. Evasive manoeuvers for anything inbound.” He patted the back of the helmsman’s chair.
“Yes, sir,” Harun’s eyes dropped from the viewport to his console even though his hands had begun the task. He had just begun to maneuver the ship away from the ship when the sensors picked up several more small objects. More fireworks Harun thought irritably until the sensors flared to alert him to a large object coming up behind them.
Automatically the conn officer put the ship in a starboard oriented nose dive a great deal faster than the three quarters impulse that the Captain had ordered. He looked up at the view screen to see the long gray underbelly of a ship passing over them and from its hull fluttered a large cloth like object that Harun couldn’t pick out the origin of at first. Without waiting for Felix’s order he increased magnification on the cloth.
“Welcome,” he read slowly since it wasn’t a language he was overly familiar with, “Rally enthusiasts.”
“That may be a –”
One of the tendrils of the cordon licked the primary optical sensor, interrupting the captain. His eyes darted between the pricks of light. There would be a pattern or progression – he spotted it, holding his legs steady as Harun played dodgems with a hodge-podge of shuttlecraft. Racers, and otherwise. Scrabbled together. Not entirely spaceworthy but with hectoring love and stray parts under the bonnet.
Not far off a Bobcat.
“Zero one zero mark four zero, get us up and out!”
Harun’s fingers flew over the console as he tilted the ship upward seemingly oblivious that he had not warned the crew to find something to hold onto. The viewport showed a spinning display of ships and fireworks before he increased speed and the Lone Star shot up like a cork from a champagne bottle, neatly threading the needle between two of the larger ships that looked as if they might have been modified cargo ships in the brief glimpse that was seen before the Lone Star was completely free of the fray.
With the immediate danger past he leveled out the ship and adjusted the scanners and magnification so that upon the screen the whole parade could be seen. He recognized a few of the ships by their configuration and he frowned, “A race, Sir?”
Anchored back in his chair, Felix extended the command terminal projection from the arm rest. The race diagram and current status – as far as he could discern them, anyway – appeared at the bottom of the viewscreen, just as the remainder of the bridge crew relieved the previous day’s final shift and slotted into their places.
“There are more than four thousand ships out there,” Felix said, astonished. “What have we just walked into? Zolog? Harun, hold our position.”
“I’m trying to isolate official traffic, Captain, but the computer is learning on the job. This is a major event, though. It’s being relayed out to – several dozen systems, possibly more.”
Harun shifted in his seat and resisted the urge to inquire for more details about the race. As a pilot he was naturally competitive, as a Cardassian it was worse for there was a burning need to prove his superiority to the whole of the quadrant. He managed to contain himself even though it was a moment before he noticed the alert on his console that told him they were being hailed.
“Sir,” he said as he looked down at his display, “We’re being hailed by…” He squinted at the name on the identification sequence of the transmission. “A representative for rally enthusiasts incorporated.” Once he was bidden he tapped to open up the channel that was audio only.
“Attention unidentified vessel,” a nasally voice that sounded like it was coming from the depth of a well sounded through the bridge and set Harun’s teeth on edge for its rather imperious tone. “This is Viliana Zets of the Olympic Rally Race Course Commission. You are in the middle of the course for the first race, vacate immediately or you will be forcibly removed.”
For once, de l’Isle concurred with his helmsman. “This is Captain Felix de l’Isle of the Federation Starship Lone Star – and, well, I doubt it, Mrs Zets.” He paused while her scanners, and those of the ships that hovered about them with curiosity, registered his ship’s offensive array.
“And that’s just the guns,” murmured Lt Commander Animo via the forearm unit of the captain’s chair – at a frequency only Felix could hear.
First contact, commander, he reminded his chief scientist, who really had no business trying to read his mind at a time like this.
“The Lone Star has travelled a long way to witness this – spectacle,” Felix decided, after exchanging a glance with Harun.
There was a pregnant pause on the channel. Far longer than Harun was particularly comfortable with because silence in communication was, historically speaking, never a good sign for the Lone Star. Yet just as he was about to turn towards Felix to make a suggestion Ms. Zets came back on with her tone had changed to something that oozed skepticism.
“Oh really?” Ms. Zets sounded like a grade school teacher that had just been told that the dog had eaten homework. “I wasn’t aware that the Federation had any interest in the games. Surely a formal announcement could have been sent to the committee indicating your attendance so that you could have been formally received. At the very least you would have been directed where to place your vessel so that you were not in the middle of the opening procession. This is really highly inappropriate.”
In the following silence that signaled that Ms. Zets was winding herself up into a tirade of righteous indignation Harun gave a glance to Felix and then said quickly in a way that he used to placate his particularly fussy aunt, “Actually Ms. Zets, we’re not formally representing the Federation. This is a matter of personal interest… we heard about the games and the crew expressed an interest in watching the festivities.” The Cardassian’s expression gave a silent indication of ‘help me sell this’ to both Felix and the rest of the bridge crew.
Felix beamed, ever his first reaction, as he both forgave and appreciated his pilot’s intervention. Good save, he thought, while adding, “The officiating staff is particularly notorious in our sector for… for their protocol. And their reception for external observers.”
“Oh really,” said Mrs. Zets again sounding even more skeptical. However, before she could go on yet another monolog it sounded as if someone in the background was clearing their throat. “One moment,” Ms. Zets said and the comms went silent again though the channel was still open. After a moment that felt far longer than it actually was Ms. Zets came back on, her voice dripping with false enthusiasm. “The committee expresses its formal welcome to its esteemed guests of the Federation vessel Lone Star and her crew.”
Harun visibly cringed at the way the games official drew out the vowels of the words ‘Lone Star’ as if someone were grating their nails down a metal surface. However, he managed to keep his mouth shut as Ms. Zets continued, “We are now sending the coordinates for you to dock your vessel at the VIP platform so that you might attend the opening ceremonies. A committee representative will meet you there to answer any questions.”
The last bit sounded as if Ms. Zets was saying them through clenched teeth or whatever tooth-like equivalent the female possessed. “Welcome to the games.”
Harun dropped his eyes down to his console as an alert flashed across the screen, “Coordinates have been received Captain. Setting course.”
The Captain watched his Cardassian officer carefully. It seemed that, despite his casual dislike for all things Starfleet, the Lone Star had become his home and sanctuary these last months: enough that he was defensive on her behalf.
"Sounds like we are welcome, Mr Touvey, wouldn't you say? Take us in."
The trip to the platform was a short one even at impulse. Harun kept the sensor array up in order to ensure the Lone Star did not have anymore near misses with the cavalcade of ships still progressing to what Harun assumed to be the opening ceremonies.
It was all routine until the feedback from the sensors to where he had to park came back and he frowned. Did they really think they could fit the Lone Star into a slot that small? With his brow ridges knitting together, Harun’s hands flew over the console much in the way that he had when he was dodging ships not an hour before but this was far more nerve racking.
“It's going to be a tight fit Sir,” he said as he slowly positioned the Lone Star’s hull between two smaller luxury vessels. For the first time since he boarded the Lone Star, Harun was wholly dependant on the Lone Star’s guidance system and he bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood as it went through the docking sequence.
When the display lit up green he let go of his lip and hoped no one had noticed how nervous he’d been. “Docked, Sir,” his voice was steady despite his nerves.
“Good job, Mr Touvey.” Felix was even-handed but Harun would know that he’d noticed the discrepancy in performance. Nobody on the bridge would have picked up on it, and he wouldn’t take it any further – for now. Turning to Zolog, he formulated the job to come.
“Have Tonx and Dr Vaughn meet me in transporter room two. Zolog? You’re with us.” Felix then hesitated. Edie was technically the ranking officer but experience told him he’d need four Slobarian boars to tow her away from her engine room. And he was pissed with Perdita for pushing her luck at the wrong moment.
So why not? Hand it to the Cardassian. For now.
“Harun, you’ve got the bridge.”
Felix swept off with Casparo Zolog in tow, just as the morning shift poured through the other turbolift doors, ready for another new day in Starfleet.
-=-=-=-
By Captain Felix de l’Isle and Lieutenant Harun Touvey
Felix's legs woke him up before life had the opportunity. They roused him at three in the morning; he knew better than to resist the joint cause of his body and his mind. Each compelled him to rise, than rang sonorously through his nerves and senses to ensure the message was answered. Within twelve minutes he was on the bridge and on his second cup of coffee, and on his third status report from an unamused night shift. Nobody needed the captain around for the last two hours of the night shift.
When the Captain had arrived on the bridge Harun was just hitting his rhythm for the evening. While the proud Cardassian would never admit it to any of his Starfleet crew members, working the late shift was actually rather wretched for him. Only the years of training and drill that made the movements on the conn automatic kept him a competent pilot until his brain caught up with his body.
He looked up briefly from the sixth diagnostic of the evening when Felix came in and settled to read the status reports. His greeting was the standard “Good evening Sir,” but Harun knew better than to ask the man why he’d decided to check in on the night shift. After the rather unfortunate incident with the Admiral the Cardassian did not want to give any further impressions that he was doing anything untoward on the Lone Star. Questioning the Captain would give way to discussions that he had something to hide.
He had just pulled up the mapping to see about getting ahead of the next shifts work when an alert flashed across his screen with a soft beeping noise. Slender grey fingers moved across the controls as he frowned and brought up the long-range scanners. His dark brows knitted together while the data populated on his console. “Sir,” he said, tilting his head in Felix’s direction though not actually turning to face the man, “you may want to have a look at this.”
“Beats status reports, whatever it is.” Felix was up on the shoulder of his helmsman before the man’s statement had finished. Their eyes tracked a wiggling spot, initially a point on Harun’s monitor with gravometric and course heading data rolling around its position. “Put it up on the main viewer, Mr Touvey. Any guesses as to what this bucking bronco might be?”
“Bucking what?” The words were out of his mouth before he remembered that he wasn’t asking Felix any questions he didn’t want answers to and he was turning in his seat to peer at the human. His hands still moved across the helm despite his momentary distraction, a credit to good Cardassian multitasking, and the display appeared on the main viewport.
“An old fairground game. Still found in Yridian bars.”
Harun turned his eyes away from Felix to look upon the larger display that was no closer to telling him what lay off to the port side of the Lone Star than it had on the smaller screen. Harun didn’t understand what it was about making things larger that gave humans the impression that it would yield more information but he supposed it was a compensatory thing.
Turning his eyes back down to the console he got back the scanner report, “It appears to be some sort of explosive. Scanners are detecting trace amounts of radiation with…” Before the Cardassian could finish an explosion rocked the Lone Star and brilliant golden light intermingled with hues of red, blue, and green flashed across the main viewport. Harun squinted his eyes against the bright display and then said, deadpan. “It’s some sort of pyrotechnic Captain.”
From the major colours came a multi-spectral sizzles that fizzed out, emanating into dimensionally geometric curves – floral and mathematical, the CO surmised. “A firework. Probably. But let’s do this the right way. Yellow alert, raise shields. Mister Touvey, heading 660 mark two, three quarters impulse. Evasive manoeuvers for anything inbound.” He patted the back of the helmsman’s chair.
“Yes, sir,” Harun’s eyes dropped from the viewport to his console even though his hands had begun the task. He had just begun to maneuver the ship away from the ship when the sensors picked up several more small objects. More fireworks Harun thought irritably until the sensors flared to alert him to a large object coming up behind them.
Automatically the conn officer put the ship in a starboard oriented nose dive a great deal faster than the three quarters impulse that the Captain had ordered. He looked up at the view screen to see the long gray underbelly of a ship passing over them and from its hull fluttered a large cloth like object that Harun couldn’t pick out the origin of at first. Without waiting for Felix’s order he increased magnification on the cloth.
“Welcome,” he read slowly since it wasn’t a language he was overly familiar with, “Rally enthusiasts.”
“That may be a –”
One of the tendrils of the cordon licked the primary optical sensor, interrupting the captain. His eyes darted between the pricks of light. There would be a pattern or progression – he spotted it, holding his legs steady as Harun played dodgems with a hodge-podge of shuttlecraft. Racers, and otherwise. Scrabbled together. Not entirely spaceworthy but with hectoring love and stray parts under the bonnet.
Not far off a Bobcat.
“Zero one zero mark four zero, get us up and out!”
Harun’s fingers flew over the console as he tilted the ship upward seemingly oblivious that he had not warned the crew to find something to hold onto. The viewport showed a spinning display of ships and fireworks before he increased speed and the Lone Star shot up like a cork from a champagne bottle, neatly threading the needle between two of the larger ships that looked as if they might have been modified cargo ships in the brief glimpse that was seen before the Lone Star was completely free of the fray.
With the immediate danger past he leveled out the ship and adjusted the scanners and magnification so that upon the screen the whole parade could be seen. He recognized a few of the ships by their configuration and he frowned, “A race, Sir?”
Anchored back in his chair, Felix extended the command terminal projection from the arm rest. The race diagram and current status – as far as he could discern them, anyway – appeared at the bottom of the viewscreen, just as the remainder of the bridge crew relieved the previous day’s final shift and slotted into their places.
“There are more than four thousand ships out there,” Felix said, astonished. “What have we just walked into? Zolog? Harun, hold our position.”
“I’m trying to isolate official traffic, Captain, but the computer is learning on the job. This is a major event, though. It’s being relayed out to – several dozen systems, possibly more.”
Harun shifted in his seat and resisted the urge to inquire for more details about the race. As a pilot he was naturally competitive, as a Cardassian it was worse for there was a burning need to prove his superiority to the whole of the quadrant. He managed to contain himself even though it was a moment before he noticed the alert on his console that told him they were being hailed.
“Sir,” he said as he looked down at his display, “We’re being hailed by…” He squinted at the name on the identification sequence of the transmission. “A representative for rally enthusiasts incorporated.” Once he was bidden he tapped to open up the channel that was audio only.
“Attention unidentified vessel,” a nasally voice that sounded like it was coming from the depth of a well sounded through the bridge and set Harun’s teeth on edge for its rather imperious tone. “This is Viliana Zets of the Olympic Rally Race Course Commission. You are in the middle of the course for the first race, vacate immediately or you will be forcibly removed.”
For once, de l’Isle concurred with his helmsman. “This is Captain Felix de l’Isle of the Federation Starship Lone Star – and, well, I doubt it, Mrs Zets.” He paused while her scanners, and those of the ships that hovered about them with curiosity, registered his ship’s offensive array.
“And that’s just the guns,” murmured Lt Commander Animo via the forearm unit of the captain’s chair – at a frequency only Felix could hear.
First contact, commander, he reminded his chief scientist, who really had no business trying to read his mind at a time like this.
“The Lone Star has travelled a long way to witness this – spectacle,” Felix decided, after exchanging a glance with Harun.
There was a pregnant pause on the channel. Far longer than Harun was particularly comfortable with because silence in communication was, historically speaking, never a good sign for the Lone Star. Yet just as he was about to turn towards Felix to make a suggestion Ms. Zets came back on with her tone had changed to something that oozed skepticism.
“Oh really?” Ms. Zets sounded like a grade school teacher that had just been told that the dog had eaten homework. “I wasn’t aware that the Federation had any interest in the games. Surely a formal announcement could have been sent to the committee indicating your attendance so that you could have been formally received. At the very least you would have been directed where to place your vessel so that you were not in the middle of the opening procession. This is really highly inappropriate.”
In the following silence that signaled that Ms. Zets was winding herself up into a tirade of righteous indignation Harun gave a glance to Felix and then said quickly in a way that he used to placate his particularly fussy aunt, “Actually Ms. Zets, we’re not formally representing the Federation. This is a matter of personal interest… we heard about the games and the crew expressed an interest in watching the festivities.” The Cardassian’s expression gave a silent indication of ‘help me sell this’ to both Felix and the rest of the bridge crew.
Felix beamed, ever his first reaction, as he both forgave and appreciated his pilot’s intervention. Good save, he thought, while adding, “The officiating staff is particularly notorious in our sector for… for their protocol. And their reception for external observers.”
“Oh really,” said Mrs. Zets again sounding even more skeptical. However, before she could go on yet another monolog it sounded as if someone in the background was clearing their throat. “One moment,” Ms. Zets said and the comms went silent again though the channel was still open. After a moment that felt far longer than it actually was Ms. Zets came back on, her voice dripping with false enthusiasm. “The committee expresses its formal welcome to its esteemed guests of the Federation vessel Lone Star and her crew.”
Harun visibly cringed at the way the games official drew out the vowels of the words ‘Lone Star’ as if someone were grating their nails down a metal surface. However, he managed to keep his mouth shut as Ms. Zets continued, “We are now sending the coordinates for you to dock your vessel at the VIP platform so that you might attend the opening ceremonies. A committee representative will meet you there to answer any questions.”
The last bit sounded as if Ms. Zets was saying them through clenched teeth or whatever tooth-like equivalent the female possessed. “Welcome to the games.”
Harun dropped his eyes down to his console as an alert flashed across the screen, “Coordinates have been received Captain. Setting course.”
The Captain watched his Cardassian officer carefully. It seemed that, despite his casual dislike for all things Starfleet, the Lone Star had become his home and sanctuary these last months: enough that he was defensive on her behalf.
"Sounds like we are welcome, Mr Touvey, wouldn't you say? Take us in."
The trip to the platform was a short one even at impulse. Harun kept the sensor array up in order to ensure the Lone Star did not have anymore near misses with the cavalcade of ships still progressing to what Harun assumed to be the opening ceremonies.
It was all routine until the feedback from the sensors to where he had to park came back and he frowned. Did they really think they could fit the Lone Star into a slot that small? With his brow ridges knitting together, Harun’s hands flew over the console much in the way that he had when he was dodging ships not an hour before but this was far more nerve racking.
“It's going to be a tight fit Sir,” he said as he slowly positioned the Lone Star’s hull between two smaller luxury vessels. For the first time since he boarded the Lone Star, Harun was wholly dependant on the Lone Star’s guidance system and he bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood as it went through the docking sequence.
When the display lit up green he let go of his lip and hoped no one had noticed how nervous he’d been. “Docked, Sir,” his voice was steady despite his nerves.
“Good job, Mr Touvey.” Felix was even-handed but Harun would know that he’d noticed the discrepancy in performance. Nobody on the bridge would have picked up on it, and he wouldn’t take it any further – for now. Turning to Zolog, he formulated the job to come.
“Have Tonx and Dr Vaughn meet me in transporter room two. Zolog? You’re with us.” Felix then hesitated. Edie was technically the ranking officer but experience told him he’d need four Slobarian boars to tow her away from her engine room. And he was pissed with Perdita for pushing her luck at the wrong moment.
So why not? Hand it to the Cardassian. For now.
“Harun, you’ve got the bridge.”
Felix swept off with Casparo Zolog in tow, just as the morning shift poured through the other turbolift doors, ready for another new day in Starfleet.
-=-=-=-
By Captain Felix de l’Isle and Lieutenant Harun Touvey
SD201909.11 - "Then and Now." [Felix/Tonx]
-= Four months ago, after the Captain's Table =--
Only three of them looked set to make it to the hot tub. Felix had intended to surprise his senior staff: it was an innovation he had put forward with the latest refit under the catch-all title of 'complimentary recommendations'. It was his chief engineer – last seen near Regina, Harun and the gin cabinet – who had made sure each one of them was incorporated.
Regina Monkfish, who refused to immerse her feet in any water whose filtration system she had not personally overseen, continued to amuse the present company with recollection of her latest passion: atonal Yridian sea shanties. Mercifully they were more fable than warble.
Her audience had dwindled to one: Crewman Flarcess. A Yridian.
Tonx looked to Regina and then to Felix with a smirk as she lowered herself into the hot tub until the water came up to her neck. It seemed compulsory to let go a content sigh as she sunk into the hot water, and leaned her head back as she closed her eyes. "This… this was a fine idea, mon capitan." There was no way the cheeky Chief Sec was going to miss out on something so decadent, nor was she entirely surprised that Felix had something like this in his quarters.
Felix reappeared with two Corsaic spritzers. "Good team building, I thought. We'll all see one another naked out in the field. A certain someone already does."
As he passed Tonx her drink and chintzed the remaining glass together with hers, he shot a look at the nearest console. It blinked off almost shamefully.
"Enjoy your evening. Captain. Chief. Lieutenant." Perdita Animo's voice prickled. "And others."
"They're gone," said Felix, a moment later, with some confidence. He started to peel off his upper clothing slowly, releasing a similar noise to Tonx's as his jacket slipped. "Thank Edie for the hot tub. She insisted the apartment was too good not to have one, and she designed the schematics for the extension herself. I corrected some design elements, but... I've got the most luxurious captain's quarters in the whole o' the fleet." Rarely, when both inebriated and at ease, his accent slipped. Became a bit further away from town than expected; was a bit less varnished. "Far be it from me to question why."
Taking a sip of the drink Felix had given her, Tonx's gaze lingered on Felix's torso, her eyes drawn towards some of his scars. The man had a past, but didn't they all? "Does no good to question. Just be grateful, Cap," she replied with her characteristic and charismatic smirk. "Though. . .when you say the whole of the fleet, do you mean our new fleet, or the greater fleet?"
With drunken objectivity Felix sunk himself into the broth, replying in a similar vein.
"The greater fleet. We're not attached to Omega. Not officially – although I'd rather be," Felix added hastily. "I don't really know why that is, apart from the drive, and where they're sending us. Perhaps there's hope on the other side of the Beta Quadrant," he suggested.
Tonx laughed softly, "I shouldn't have asked the question because it's led us down the path of talking shop." She took a slow draw of her beverage, and closed her eyes as she savored the moment, "People don't know what they are missing by not being here." Resting her head back against the side of the tub, she then let her head flop towards Felix to look at him, "I might have to beg you to let me have a soak in here after each mission."
"You'd be welcome, Tonx. When you're not confined to quarters, that is." Felix spoke in a friendly way and dodged good-naturedly the resulting flick of water that headed towards his face. He settled, his glass only splashed on the outside by the dappled foam of the bath. As he did, his face seemed to reflect that he was somewhere else: relaxing his body while his mind chewed over something new. Oblivious, even, to his pal, protegé and, twice, lover and her advances.
Felix's teasing caused her to laugh again, and she shook her head, "Smart arse." She knew he'd take it as the jest that it was, and she was about to say something else when she saw him get a far-away look about him. She'd seen him with that look before, and tilted her head ever so slightly, "Where's that mind of yours gone, boss?"
Where had it gone?
"Slipstreamed to far away, it would seem.” His gaze came back to her. It was tricky not to; many people he knew had found themselves just drawn to Tonx. As his chief of security he’d seen her use it to her advantage, and as a barfly, more. “Do you think I’m becoming too serious in my old age? Ten years ago, we’d be on round three already and I’d not have cared who found out. Now, my head’s telling me that those boundaries exist for a reason. That you could’ve lost your commission lately, and that people even talking about this would screw up your career.”
-= Four months later =-
“Stop it,” someone said, and Felix wasn’t entirely sure if it was him or Tonx.
He was certain that, a number of months previously, he’d said it would screw up their career. And although he'd never tell her, the fact that they were now on the other side of the galaxy and well away from Starfleet jurisdiction had assuaged some of his worries, albeit not all of them. He and the Lone Star had been sufficiently chastised of late; he had no interest in losing his command.
But every good CO deserves a fuck every now and then, right? he mused to himself.
“Starfleet must never find out,” he said by accident, rolling onto his back and kicking something – whatever it was – off his desk. "My turn."
Tonx gave a sing-song laugh, "They won't hear about this from me." She placed her hands on his chest, giving him a knowing look coupled with that charismatic smirk of hers, "Besides, what else are we supposed to do when we're away from port for so long? Nothing wrong with scratching an itch, right? Just so long as we don't let it interfere with our duties."
"Correct." Felix winked. "Speaking of duties..." Neither of them heard the door chime when Zolog rang it. Lonie provided him with the customary 'the Captain is unavailable' chant and sent him on his way.
-=-=-
by Captain Felix de l'Isle and Lieutenant Greer 'Tonx' McKenna
CO and CSec, USS Lone Star
Only three of them looked set to make it to the hot tub. Felix had intended to surprise his senior staff: it was an innovation he had put forward with the latest refit under the catch-all title of 'complimentary recommendations'. It was his chief engineer – last seen near Regina, Harun and the gin cabinet – who had made sure each one of them was incorporated.
Regina Monkfish, who refused to immerse her feet in any water whose filtration system she had not personally overseen, continued to amuse the present company with recollection of her latest passion: atonal Yridian sea shanties. Mercifully they were more fable than warble.
Her audience had dwindled to one: Crewman Flarcess. A Yridian.
Tonx looked to Regina and then to Felix with a smirk as she lowered herself into the hot tub until the water came up to her neck. It seemed compulsory to let go a content sigh as she sunk into the hot water, and leaned her head back as she closed her eyes. "This… this was a fine idea, mon capitan." There was no way the cheeky Chief Sec was going to miss out on something so decadent, nor was she entirely surprised that Felix had something like this in his quarters.
Felix reappeared with two Corsaic spritzers. "Good team building, I thought. We'll all see one another naked out in the field. A certain someone already does."
As he passed Tonx her drink and chintzed the remaining glass together with hers, he shot a look at the nearest console. It blinked off almost shamefully.
"Enjoy your evening. Captain. Chief. Lieutenant." Perdita Animo's voice prickled. "And others."
"They're gone," said Felix, a moment later, with some confidence. He started to peel off his upper clothing slowly, releasing a similar noise to Tonx's as his jacket slipped. "Thank Edie for the hot tub. She insisted the apartment was too good not to have one, and she designed the schematics for the extension herself. I corrected some design elements, but... I've got the most luxurious captain's quarters in the whole o' the fleet." Rarely, when both inebriated and at ease, his accent slipped. Became a bit further away from town than expected; was a bit less varnished. "Far be it from me to question why."
Taking a sip of the drink Felix had given her, Tonx's gaze lingered on Felix's torso, her eyes drawn towards some of his scars. The man had a past, but didn't they all? "Does no good to question. Just be grateful, Cap," she replied with her characteristic and charismatic smirk. "Though. . .when you say the whole of the fleet, do you mean our new fleet, or the greater fleet?"
With drunken objectivity Felix sunk himself into the broth, replying in a similar vein.
"The greater fleet. We're not attached to Omega. Not officially – although I'd rather be," Felix added hastily. "I don't really know why that is, apart from the drive, and where they're sending us. Perhaps there's hope on the other side of the Beta Quadrant," he suggested.
Tonx laughed softly, "I shouldn't have asked the question because it's led us down the path of talking shop." She took a slow draw of her beverage, and closed her eyes as she savored the moment, "People don't know what they are missing by not being here." Resting her head back against the side of the tub, she then let her head flop towards Felix to look at him, "I might have to beg you to let me have a soak in here after each mission."
"You'd be welcome, Tonx. When you're not confined to quarters, that is." Felix spoke in a friendly way and dodged good-naturedly the resulting flick of water that headed towards his face. He settled, his glass only splashed on the outside by the dappled foam of the bath. As he did, his face seemed to reflect that he was somewhere else: relaxing his body while his mind chewed over something new. Oblivious, even, to his pal, protegé and, twice, lover and her advances.
Felix's teasing caused her to laugh again, and she shook her head, "Smart arse." She knew he'd take it as the jest that it was, and she was about to say something else when she saw him get a far-away look about him. She'd seen him with that look before, and tilted her head ever so slightly, "Where's that mind of yours gone, boss?"
Where had it gone?
"Slipstreamed to far away, it would seem.” His gaze came back to her. It was tricky not to; many people he knew had found themselves just drawn to Tonx. As his chief of security he’d seen her use it to her advantage, and as a barfly, more. “Do you think I’m becoming too serious in my old age? Ten years ago, we’d be on round three already and I’d not have cared who found out. Now, my head’s telling me that those boundaries exist for a reason. That you could’ve lost your commission lately, and that people even talking about this would screw up your career.”
-= Four months later =-
“Stop it,” someone said, and Felix wasn’t entirely sure if it was him or Tonx.
He was certain that, a number of months previously, he’d said it would screw up their career. And although he'd never tell her, the fact that they were now on the other side of the galaxy and well away from Starfleet jurisdiction had assuaged some of his worries, albeit not all of them. He and the Lone Star had been sufficiently chastised of late; he had no interest in losing his command.
But every good CO deserves a fuck every now and then, right? he mused to himself.
“Starfleet must never find out,” he said by accident, rolling onto his back and kicking something – whatever it was – off his desk. "My turn."
Tonx gave a sing-song laugh, "They won't hear about this from me." She placed her hands on his chest, giving him a knowing look coupled with that charismatic smirk of hers, "Besides, what else are we supposed to do when we're away from port for so long? Nothing wrong with scratching an itch, right? Just so long as we don't let it interfere with our duties."
"Correct." Felix winked. "Speaking of duties..." Neither of them heard the door chime when Zolog rang it. Lonie provided him with the customary 'the Captain is unavailable' chant and sent him on his way.
-=-=-
by Captain Felix de l'Isle and Lieutenant Greer 'Tonx' McKenna
CO and CSec, USS Lone Star
SD241909.03 - "What Goes Up." [Felix/Casparo]
The words emerged only stubbornly from the captain’s mouth, loathe as he
was to speak them. Each one seemed to crush Zolog slightly further,
compacting his vertebrae individually until he was only as tall as
Felix. For the first time, the CO felt pity for the man.
“Do you have any official response, Commander?” It was the last time in a while he would be addressed by that rank. Felix did his best not to emphasise it.
Casparo was crestfallen. It felt as though a singularity had nested in his chest, pulling into it every screed of positivity. Everything he had achieved, everything he’d worked for was suddenly not there.
“I was trying to protect the crew, sir.” His dignity was disintegrating but not just yet. “Collective responsibility. I…”
Not unkindly, Felix closed down any further comment. “That’s enough now. We understand.” As though the first person plural would somehow make it better. That it would, inexplicably, absolve him of some of the awfulness that was about to reach its full assault.
The captain was silent as he approached Casparo. Technically he should have uttered the words: confirmation of the unfairness. Instead his hands managed the deed wordlessly. Zolog looked baleful as the full, hard-won pip was plucked from his collar.
The two men stared at it. After a minute Felix closed his hand.
“What happens now?” Casparo asked.
“Now,” Felix said, “I’m going to get you very, very drunk.”
“Is that an order, Captain?”
“You bet it is.”
Casparo stood and watched his CO skulk toward a blank panel. He was rooted. As soon as he took a step away from this spot he would no longer be the same person. He neither knew how nor wanted to be anybody else.
“There are two saving graces to your situation, Casparo. Sit down. Sit,” Felix insisted, when he didn’t, and at last Zolog moved, retreating without looking to where the captain had pointed. Within moments a glass of something green and foaming had been delivered to his hand. “Drink it.”
The fair-haired, dark green humanoid studied it stupendously for a moment. It looked suspiciously like Romulan Ale: while now synthesised across most of the Federation, it didn’t smell much like the beverage he’d seen once, on a holodeck, in training. Looking up, he found the captain’s eyes on him, waiting for his command to be met. Casparo took a tentative sip and coughed wildly, waving the fumes excitedly from his face.
“First time’s always the hardest.”
Immediately quite intoxicated, Casparo blurted: “Is that demotion or this stuff, Capt’n?”
“Both. Saving grace number one.” Felix swigged from his own before refilling both as he spoke. “You studied xenolinguistics and communications science at the Academy, did you not?”
Casparo dredged through his rapidly diminishing active memory. “Yeah Cap, I–”
“Good. Part of the orders were not to let you lead a department, but I’m overruling that. We need a communications officer. You’re it.”
More time on the bridge looking at his old chair. Casparo’s head dangled, staring into his drink. “Comms,” he repeated, in a dull, fragile tone. His green-brown face reflected in the pool of ale, providing only a silhouette. “Great. What’s the other one?”
Felix leaned forward, but Casparo seemed to pay this no mind. “You just did the one thing that might finally make the crew respect you.”
Without looking up, Casparo asked: “They didn’t respect me?”
“Drink,” Felix insisted. “We have some talking to do, you and me.”
Casparo necked the rest of the glass and promptly fell back into the sofa.
“Although possibly not today,” the captain acknowledged, settling back into his chair and pouring himself another half.
For the first time, he almost felt sorry for him.
-=-=-
By Captain Felix de l’Isle and Lieutenant Casparo Zolog
“Do you have any official response, Commander?” It was the last time in a while he would be addressed by that rank. Felix did his best not to emphasise it.
Casparo was crestfallen. It felt as though a singularity had nested in his chest, pulling into it every screed of positivity. Everything he had achieved, everything he’d worked for was suddenly not there.
“I was trying to protect the crew, sir.” His dignity was disintegrating but not just yet. “Collective responsibility. I…”
Not unkindly, Felix closed down any further comment. “That’s enough now. We understand.” As though the first person plural would somehow make it better. That it would, inexplicably, absolve him of some of the awfulness that was about to reach its full assault.
The captain was silent as he approached Casparo. Technically he should have uttered the words: confirmation of the unfairness. Instead his hands managed the deed wordlessly. Zolog looked baleful as the full, hard-won pip was plucked from his collar.
The two men stared at it. After a minute Felix closed his hand.
“What happens now?” Casparo asked.
“Now,” Felix said, “I’m going to get you very, very drunk.”
“Is that an order, Captain?”
“You bet it is.”
Casparo stood and watched his CO skulk toward a blank panel. He was rooted. As soon as he took a step away from this spot he would no longer be the same person. He neither knew how nor wanted to be anybody else.
“There are two saving graces to your situation, Casparo. Sit down. Sit,” Felix insisted, when he didn’t, and at last Zolog moved, retreating without looking to where the captain had pointed. Within moments a glass of something green and foaming had been delivered to his hand. “Drink it.”
The fair-haired, dark green humanoid studied it stupendously for a moment. It looked suspiciously like Romulan Ale: while now synthesised across most of the Federation, it didn’t smell much like the beverage he’d seen once, on a holodeck, in training. Looking up, he found the captain’s eyes on him, waiting for his command to be met. Casparo took a tentative sip and coughed wildly, waving the fumes excitedly from his face.
“First time’s always the hardest.”
Immediately quite intoxicated, Casparo blurted: “Is that demotion or this stuff, Capt’n?”
“Both. Saving grace number one.” Felix swigged from his own before refilling both as he spoke. “You studied xenolinguistics and communications science at the Academy, did you not?”
Casparo dredged through his rapidly diminishing active memory. “Yeah Cap, I–”
“Good. Part of the orders were not to let you lead a department, but I’m overruling that. We need a communications officer. You’re it.”
More time on the bridge looking at his old chair. Casparo’s head dangled, staring into his drink. “Comms,” he repeated, in a dull, fragile tone. His green-brown face reflected in the pool of ale, providing only a silhouette. “Great. What’s the other one?”
Felix leaned forward, but Casparo seemed to pay this no mind. “You just did the one thing that might finally make the crew respect you.”
Without looking up, Casparo asked: “They didn’t respect me?”
“Drink,” Felix insisted. “We have some talking to do, you and me.”
Casparo necked the rest of the glass and promptly fell back into the sofa.
“Although possibly not today,” the captain acknowledged, settling back into his chair and pouring himself another half.
For the first time, he almost felt sorry for him.
-=-=-
By Captain Felix de l’Isle and Lieutenant Casparo Zolog
SD241909.01 - The Humiliation of Casparo Zolog. [Felix/Kreik]
Three months at slipstream hadn’t quite given the disgraced crew of the
USS Lone Star cabin fever, but it had come close. Even her captain and
motivator-general was starting to grind at the gears, changing between
them with the tired monotony more familiar to a miner or a hauler.
“The time is 0500 hours,” the computer declared again. The first time that day, although the days had started to become the same. Earlier in their journey Felix had held out against it until, say, ten or quarter past the hour, when the ratchety voice became truly intolerable. These days – whichever they were – he tended to rise before it, chiselling out a little victory from the monotony of voice, travel and repetition.
Slumberous, de l’Isle went about his morning stretches, eyed by Lester. Tonx hadn’t stayed the night that night. He stretched, only clad in his boxer shorts, overlooking the false sunrise over the arboretum below.
“Bridge to Captain.”
Felix didn’t bother to move himself from his stretch. “De l’Isle.”
“Incoming call from Admiral Kreik.” Tonx cut a great tone of bemused when she wanted to, and this was one of those times. “She says she’ll wait for you to get dressed.”
Orders. At last.
“Put here through to my ready room. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
-=-
The emblem of Starfleet Command lingered holographically in the corner of his office, taunting him as Felix arrived. He swiped to accept the transmission, the pixels sweeping into the three-dimensional image of the half-Klingon woman.
“Admiral.” He nodded. “I was expecting Admiral Stanton, perhaps Admiral McArnh.”
“They’ve still had enough of you and your crew, by all accounts. Besides, this one’s from Chief JAG and she asked me to relay it directly.”
Felix remained at attention: a forcible cruelty for a man who insisted upon it from his own crew only because his rank demanded him to. Behind him, one display tinkled with the influx of mission orders.
“It has been determined by the office of the Judge Advocate General that the Lone Star’s lack of discipline did indeed disrupt the conference on Calapina Four and bring the service into disrepute. It is her judgment after consultation that every active officer interviewed during the investigation, your chief of the boat and your chief science officer included, is found guilty under section 4B of the military justice code and sentenced to three months’ suspension of privileges.”
Kreik raised a hand, expecting Felix to object. He held his face and body mutinously still: an officer experienced both at the bluff and the hold. She appraised him for signs of poker, finding none.
Perdita? Why Perdita? For doing nothing, he supposed. Felix deferred the thought in case his expression betrayed even a hint of what was going through his head.
“In this case,” she continued, her own voice flattening, “that is deemed to have been served. A marker will be placed on the permanent record of all crew, except for yours. The Admiralty gave up on that some time ago.”
Felix’s mouth quivered open but Kreik intercepted his words in a flash.
“And don’t bother volunteering to take responsibility. That won’t work, either.”
It slumped shut.
“Furthermore, in the case of Commander Casparo Zolog.” What? Something within Felix’s torso became hot. “This case was brought to court martial and heard by the Chief JAG with participation from Commander Zolog via a quantum subspace channel. He declined the use of an advocate and represented himself.” Kreik seemed to find this both unintelligent and impressive, given the contortion of her eyebrows. “He was found guilty of gross negligence in this matter with the penalty being demotion and the discharge of all previous awards and medals.”
The heat became white and boiled Felix’s shoulders two inches higher. “That’s out of line, Admiral!” he exclaimed.
“Maintain your stance!” she roared back. Her gaze became a laser that bore into his. The captain’s chest rose and fell like a tango dancer’s. “It is not for you to declare what is appropriate or inappropriate in this matter, Captain. This has gone to the top and been appealed on Lieutenant Zolog’s behalf.”
“Lieutenant?!” Felix gasped. That made Casparo Zolog only the third officer he had encountered to receive a double-demotion. The first two were him.
“As the officer on duty for the majority of this catastrophe he must bear the consequences of his actions. It is only because you are in deep space that he was not reduced to Ensign, or decommissioned.”
Despite travelling at slipstream, flames of azure and russet and teal licking the windows of the ship thirstily, the Lone Star seemed, for once, very still.
“The JAG has shown leniency in this case,” Kreik continued. “You are to inform him of this outcome and assign him a new role aboard the Lone Star, effective immediately.”
“I require an executive officer and you have removed my only two candidates,” Felix growled.
“Not so, Captain. A slipstream carrier shuttle is already on its way to you. It contains your new two-eye-see and other supplementary officers.”
There was a pause.
“Try not to let your damned ship ruin their careers. Kreik out.”
-=-
On the bridge, Lieutenant Skrillo jumped a little from her place at the helm as a violent sound emanated from the Captain’s ready room. Then another, and the sound of something breaking.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” said Casparo Zolog. At last, his demeanour began to collapse; the joy flooded from his voice as his shoulders tightened in anticipation.
“I have a feeling I know what that is.”
-=-=-=-
by Captain Felix de l’Isle
“The time is 0500 hours,” the computer declared again. The first time that day, although the days had started to become the same. Earlier in their journey Felix had held out against it until, say, ten or quarter past the hour, when the ratchety voice became truly intolerable. These days – whichever they were – he tended to rise before it, chiselling out a little victory from the monotony of voice, travel and repetition.
Slumberous, de l’Isle went about his morning stretches, eyed by Lester. Tonx hadn’t stayed the night that night. He stretched, only clad in his boxer shorts, overlooking the false sunrise over the arboretum below.
“Bridge to Captain.”
Felix didn’t bother to move himself from his stretch. “De l’Isle.”
“Incoming call from Admiral Kreik.” Tonx cut a great tone of bemused when she wanted to, and this was one of those times. “She says she’ll wait for you to get dressed.”
Orders. At last.
“Put here through to my ready room. I’ll be there in three minutes.”
-=-
The emblem of Starfleet Command lingered holographically in the corner of his office, taunting him as Felix arrived. He swiped to accept the transmission, the pixels sweeping into the three-dimensional image of the half-Klingon woman.
“Admiral.” He nodded. “I was expecting Admiral Stanton, perhaps Admiral McArnh.”
“They’ve still had enough of you and your crew, by all accounts. Besides, this one’s from Chief JAG and she asked me to relay it directly.”
Felix remained at attention: a forcible cruelty for a man who insisted upon it from his own crew only because his rank demanded him to. Behind him, one display tinkled with the influx of mission orders.
“It has been determined by the office of the Judge Advocate General that the Lone Star’s lack of discipline did indeed disrupt the conference on Calapina Four and bring the service into disrepute. It is her judgment after consultation that every active officer interviewed during the investigation, your chief of the boat and your chief science officer included, is found guilty under section 4B of the military justice code and sentenced to three months’ suspension of privileges.”
Kreik raised a hand, expecting Felix to object. He held his face and body mutinously still: an officer experienced both at the bluff and the hold. She appraised him for signs of poker, finding none.
Perdita? Why Perdita? For doing nothing, he supposed. Felix deferred the thought in case his expression betrayed even a hint of what was going through his head.
“In this case,” she continued, her own voice flattening, “that is deemed to have been served. A marker will be placed on the permanent record of all crew, except for yours. The Admiralty gave up on that some time ago.”
Felix’s mouth quivered open but Kreik intercepted his words in a flash.
“And don’t bother volunteering to take responsibility. That won’t work, either.”
It slumped shut.
“Furthermore, in the case of Commander Casparo Zolog.” What? Something within Felix’s torso became hot. “This case was brought to court martial and heard by the Chief JAG with participation from Commander Zolog via a quantum subspace channel. He declined the use of an advocate and represented himself.” Kreik seemed to find this both unintelligent and impressive, given the contortion of her eyebrows. “He was found guilty of gross negligence in this matter with the penalty being demotion and the discharge of all previous awards and medals.”
The heat became white and boiled Felix’s shoulders two inches higher. “That’s out of line, Admiral!” he exclaimed.
“Maintain your stance!” she roared back. Her gaze became a laser that bore into his. The captain’s chest rose and fell like a tango dancer’s. “It is not for you to declare what is appropriate or inappropriate in this matter, Captain. This has gone to the top and been appealed on Lieutenant Zolog’s behalf.”
“Lieutenant?!” Felix gasped. That made Casparo Zolog only the third officer he had encountered to receive a double-demotion. The first two were him.
“As the officer on duty for the majority of this catastrophe he must bear the consequences of his actions. It is only because you are in deep space that he was not reduced to Ensign, or decommissioned.”
Despite travelling at slipstream, flames of azure and russet and teal licking the windows of the ship thirstily, the Lone Star seemed, for once, very still.
“The JAG has shown leniency in this case,” Kreik continued. “You are to inform him of this outcome and assign him a new role aboard the Lone Star, effective immediately.”
“I require an executive officer and you have removed my only two candidates,” Felix growled.
“Not so, Captain. A slipstream carrier shuttle is already on its way to you. It contains your new two-eye-see and other supplementary officers.”
There was a pause.
“Try not to let your damned ship ruin their careers. Kreik out.”
-=-
On the bridge, Lieutenant Skrillo jumped a little from her place at the helm as a violent sound emanated from the Captain’s ready room. Then another, and the sound of something breaking.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” said Casparo Zolog. At last, his demeanour began to collapse; the joy flooded from his voice as his shoulders tightened in anticipation.
“I have a feeling I know what that is.”
-=-=-=-
by Captain Felix de l’Isle
SD201908.04 - 'Admiralgate.' [all hands]
“As it happens, Admiral: yes. I can see how this is rather awkward.”
Felix was an experienced officer when it came to the stifled giggle. He had masked a couple away without due notice of JAG; a few had wafted past suspicious ambassadors. On one occasion he’d smuggled a smirk right over the snouts of the Vulcan Confluence of Ophthalmic Obstetricians. Admiral McArnh was an entirely different matter.
Somehow, Grey seemed to glower with increased incandescence over his diplomatic uniform. Many of the fleet's colours had decorated his shoulders over the course of his career: yellow, red, teal, silver, black, white, like the shades of a repulsive looking bruise. de l'Isle had been bollocked by him in each one and knew it was likely to be painful.
"Awkward is far beyond the low end of the scale explaining the difficulty of the situation, Captain." It served Felix right, as far as Grey was concerned. If he hadn't convinced him to come back to the fleet in the first place, this wouldn't be happening. "Every party to the conference has filed direct complaints to Starfleet Command. The low bar here is shitstorm."
He pronounced the final word with a calm venom he knew would play with his friend's complacency.
“It’s a complex affair, sir. Barely worthy of your time," Felix suggested, pushing an imaginary blond lock from his forehead.
Having been otherwise inanimate, Grey reached forward and flipped a padd over violently. It jumped, pivoted and landed askew, projecting above the day's diplomatic taskboard. "Barely worthy and yet here it is, consuming my time almost entirely."
Felix winced imperceptibly, each pip stretching perpendicular to his worried cervical muscles. He would lie for his crew, of course. But in this instance it had happened somewhat communally. And, besides, both McArnh and, if it came to it, Stanton knew him far too well.
Their only chance to get away with it would be to make sure their story was absolutely straight.
"Not only had this better be good, but it had better be fucking astounding," Grey prompted.
“Yes, sir. The story begins on the bridge. The officer of the watch was Lieutenant Harun, at his own insistence,” Felix confirmed. “It was his first night shift, a part of his agreed training to match his, er, bridge protocols up to Starfleet's. And of course, this happened.”
-=-=-=-
Harun sat in front of the investigative officer a cup of coffee, unfortunately not raktajino, in his hand. The Cardassian stared at the wisps of steam wafting up from the pristine Starfleet mug, his expression hard set but clearly tired as he was still running on rotational hours.
He supposed Starfleet had chosen his usual sleep period to question him for a reason. After all, in their shoes that would have been what he would have done; wait until people were tired and less prone to hold up some elaborate story in order to extract the truth. Unfortunately for Starfleet, Harun had been trained for just this scenario.
And he had to protect Regina.
“Lieutenant Touvoy,” the investigator began touching pale, stick-like fingers on the button to begin the recording, “Would you, in your own words, tell us the events between star dates 201402.19 and 241903.15.”
“Us?” Harun inquired looking around the room that only contained himself and the Starfleet officer in her smart red uniform, “Is there someone else we’re not accounting for?”
The investigator gave Harun a nonplussed look but there was a hardening about the eyes that Harun found satisfying, “A figure of speech Lieutenant. I need the account of your actions between those two dates for the record.”
“How do you want them?” Harun asked as he raised the coffee mug to his lips and took a measured sip. It was weak and tasteless but his body craved the caffeine and so he drank anyway, “Factually? Chronologically? I did a lot of things over those few weeks, most of it was flying looking for the missing ambassador.”
“Lieutenant,” the word was heavy and all but crackled with irritation, “Are you trying to be difficult?”
“Not at all,” Harun said lowering the mug, “I’m trying to be precise and give you precisely what you need for your investigation.”
The investigator did not look convinced but she breathed out a huff of air and settled back in her seat, “Fine. Chronologically, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant.”
Harun helped himself to another sip of the coffee as he considered; the truth was such a flexible thing and always subject to the unyielding mistress of perspective. Harun knew the feeling but he wasn’t about to tell the Starfleet investigator that. “I don’t know how much help it will be to you. I was on my sleep cycle when the ambassador was discovered missing and asleep when he was found.”
“Just tell me what you can Lieutenant, start with when you were first on shift.”
“That was stardate 201402.18, outside the parameters of your inquiry.”
More air and glaring, Harun pretended not to notice, “Just tell me Lieutenant.”
“Nothing entirely unusual,” Harun began and settled himself back in his chair, ignoring the twinge in his lower back, this was going to be a long conversation. “We completed the shift change, I was at the helm overseeing routine maintenance programs on the ships navigation in accordance to the systems checklists expected of the officer on duty for the night shift. A few minor abnormalities were reported by the computer but were quickly resolved by engineering.”
“Whom in engineering?”
Harun stopped and returned to the present moment, “Excuse me?”
“Whom in engineering did you speak to?” the investigator repeated looking to make a note of another possible witness to corroborate. Harun wondered if he had perhaps mis-stepped, would engineering know what happened? That he had purposely pushed the maintenance for navigation over other more pressing systems? Would they tell the investigator?
Harun closed his eyes and composed his face in an expression of concentration, he of course knew exactly whom he had spoken to and what exactly had been said, Cardassian memories being what they were, but he wasn’t about to get that detailed with the investigator. “Ensign Reese, I believe… I spoke to her and a few others multiple times on multiple shifts during those few weeks I can’t be sure. I’m sure the repairs will be in engineering’s log and will have a name attached to them.”
That seemed to appease the investigator and Harun continued, “After routine checks on navigation had been conducted, I went through the checks on the transporter system since there was a scheduled transport of items for the Arboretum and Mapuche later in the shift. There was one issue with the transporter system that also required repair but it was not as quick as with the navigation. Again, I believe I spoke to Ensign Reese or perhaps Chief O’Brady but I could not be certain. This resulted in a delay of the transport.”
“How long was the delay?”
Harun sighed into his coffee, “Six hours. The transporter was not functional until after I had gone off shift. I was informed the next evening that some prized oysters had gone bad in the Mapuche delivery as a result and there was an odor that required engineering to go back into the transporter system. They were still in the middle of sorting out why all other transports reeked of oyster when I came back on shift on star date 241902.19.” Regina had also been involved in the de-oystering but Harun figured it was best to leave her out of the narrative if it wasn’t necessary.
“When did you find out the ambassador was missing?”
“Beginning of my shift on star date 201902.20. I was told by Commander Zolog that the ambassador had failed to appear in the transporter room at the allotted time and had missed transport to the Lone Star. It was believed at first he was simply delayed and communications had not reached the crew but after a full day it was determined he had gone missing.”
“And what did you do after that?”
“Set coordinates for his last known location per the orders of Commander Zolog. A process I repeated for every possible location we had for the ambassador over the next few weeks until he was discovered in the storage crate on star date 241903.15.” Harun allowed a little bit of irritation to fill his voice but as soon as the investigators eyes raised to his face, he gave a little apologetic nod.
The investigator reached out and touched the console to stop the recording, “Thank you Lieutenant Touvoy, I think I have all I need here. Is there anyone you think I should be speaking to in regards to this incident?”
“Chief Engineer Freelove and her team I’d imagine,” Harun said and started to rise, “Also, Commander Zolog since he was supposed to be the Ambassador’s escort. Was there anything else?”
“No, you may go Lieutenant but be available in the event I have other questions.”
Harun offered her a sardonic smile, “I don’t think that will be difficult Commander.”
-=-=-=-=-
The Chief of Security knew how this game was going to go, and she was not amused to be sitting on the 'wrong side' of the interrogation room. She knew better than to push her luck and was careful to keep a neutral expression. She didn't want to find herself confined to the ship again if she could help it. It was harder to keep her tone neutral, but she was trying, "As I mentioned, we investigated the ambassador's disappearance and hit multiple dead ends. The decision was made to put the investigation on hold since we still had to deliver the other ambassadors to their destination."
"And at what point did the Admiral arrive?"
Tonx resisted the urge to smirk since she could see what the investigator was doing. She knew full well when the admiral arrived since it was in the CSec's duty log, and was likely in the Captain's log, as well. Taking a slow, deep breath, Tonx replied, "We were diverted to pick up another group of delegates that were to be delivered to the convention. We were told these delegates consisted of five diplomats, but when we rendezvoused with the transport ship carrying them, we found not just five diplomats, but the Admiral as well.
"Starfleet failed to mention we would be picking up admiralty. We'd managed to get VIP quarters arranged for the five diplomats, but I hadn't arranged anything for the Admiral since we weren't expecting him. Said admiral decided to take it personally, even though we'd managed to get him quarters arranged within the hour," she replied.
The investigator tilted her head, "How did the admiral take it personally?"
To this, Tonx gave a wry smile, "When he found out we hadn't solved who'd caused the Ambassador's disappearance, he decided to 're-open' the investigation and made a point of telling me I was a terrible security officer who wouldn't be able to follow an evidence trail if it were fluorescent. If you know anything about me, aside from a few disciplinary things more related to my weakness for a pretty face and a lovely cocktail, I've done very well as a security officer, with more than a couple of commendations."
"Yet you are still on the Lone Star?"
To this, Tonx did smirk, "Due to my weakness for a pretty face and adult beverages, I assure you."
"What happened next?"
Tonx looked to her hands as she carefully chose her words, "A few of those in my department didn't like how the admiral was treating me, and may have locked him in his quarters when I was off duty. They may not have known he was claustrophobic. I'm not exactly sure all of what happened next because. . .well, I was off duty."
-=-=-=-=-
For her part, Andraste did...far, far less to hide her disdain for the entire process.
All she knew was that she hadn't wrapped the daffy admiral in plastic film, so why was it now her problem?
"Yes. Again. I got a call from the admiral in the VIP quarters. He was completely in a panic. It took me a little while to figure out what he was saying in able to actually take care of his seriously spazzing self." Her interrogator gave her one of those incredulous, raised-brow looks that she just returned for a moment. Neither said anything. "What?" the doctor finally said.
"Not much of a bedside manner for a chief medical officer."
Andra shrugged. "I'm a practical woman. Compassion and pragmatism can go hand in hand and had the admiral been suffering a real medical emergency, I would have been more sympathetic." The look told her to continue and she listened to it, this time. It was, of course, simply because she wanted this whole thing over with. "He was having a panic attack because he was locked in his quarters. And is claustrophobic."
"Isn't claustrophobia a recognized phobia and thus a recognized disorder?"
"Yes."
"So...how was this not a legit emergency for the admiral?"
Andra gave a look that could with grass and very clearly, if silently, asked: Are you a moron?
The look was returned, with interest.
"Claustrophobia. The irrational, extreme fear of small, confined spaces. Have you seen the quarters the admiral received? They're bigger than mine."
A long pause. "Isn't claustrophobia also categorized as the fear of being trapped and unable to get out of a space?"
A dry look. "If his condition is that bad, he should not be in space."
"Not very sympathetic."
"I suppose not. Practical."
Their little standoff continued for some moments before the next question followed. "Alright. So. What happened after you understood the nature of the admiral's distressed call?"
Andra arched her brow in a show that she didn't appreciate the near-pun, intended or not. "I went down to his guest quarters and used my medical codes to do an emergency override. The admiral flew out of the room, knocking me on my ass in the process, and stood there gasping for a while. Once I was back on my feet and he had calmed down, we returned to his room and he requested a sedative. I administered a mild one and left him to go to bed, with the doors unlocked."
"And then?"
"And then..." She shrugged. "I went back to sickbay. I don't know what happened next." She paused then, frowning as she recalled something. "Although he did mention something about possibly calling on...science or engineering or something to fix something in his room that was bothering him."
-=-=-=-=-
“Of course I wrapped the admiral in cellophane!”
The look on the investigator’s face suggested that this was not at all a natural course of action, no matter how certain Burgundy sounded of himself. “You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world,” she stated flatly, “Can you tell me how you reached that conclusion?”
The science ensign rolled his eyes and sighed. “The admiral called Engineering, because he was having some sort of meltdown about a supposedly technical issue in his quarters,” he made air quotations around the word ‘technical’ and his grimace suggested how little he thought of the admiral’s cognitive capabilities. “Naturally, because the request was so obviously not related to anything technical - it was something about ‘oysters’, which I believe is an animal of some kind - and the admiral was sounding like a panicked kruus-wontlay Engi-”
“A what?”
Burgundy stopped himself and stared at her. What exactly had he been saying that confused her now? Oh, right! “A kruus-wontlay is a worm-like animal with a set of short sprouts around its trout. It’s common around the tropical regions of Prepondria and famous for the sound it makes when it can’t find a mate during mating season. Like… Nevermind,” he stopped himself before actually imitating one, lest he’d lose his dignity. “Anyway, where was I?”
“Engineering?”
“Oh, yes! Engineering called Science, because the lab is close to the admiral’s quarters. They called in a favour with our chief, and subsequently I had to go.” He muttered a set of curses and tried to think of new ways to murder a gelatinous lump. Not that he thought Perdita was close enough to hear his thoughts, but he could always recall them later.
“So, I got there, right? And what do I see?” he asked in a way that made it a little unclear whether it was a rhetorical question. “A body! Right on the damn bed!”
“A dead person? Are you saying that the admiral failed to notice a dead person on the bed in his quarters?” The investigator looked incredulous. She flipped through her previous notes, trying to see if anyone had mentioned a dead body before; it seemed very unlikely that she would forget such a thing, but still.
“What? No! It was the admiral!” He clarified, making things even more convoluted and confused.
The investigator looked at him for some time, expecting him to expound. When he didn’t she cleared her throat and made a few notes before deciding which question to follow up with. “The admiral was dead? He is alive today.”
“No. Not dead. Lifeless.”
The investigator adopted a deadpan expression. Her frustration was only apparent by the way she pinched the ridge of her nose. She decided not to dig further into the depths of semantics with the science ensign. Instead she opted for trying to go forward. “What happened next?” She had a feeling they were closing in on the whole cellophane thing.
“The admiral was motionless and pale - almost translucent. And the stench about him! Horrid stuff! It was obvious that he’d entered his rejuvenating torpor but failed to calcify. He must’ve felt that the process was going awry and called in while he was about to go under, and that’s why he wasn’t lucid. So I quickly wrapped him in cellophane, to save his life.” Burgundy’s posture testified a pride in his own actions.
“The admiral is human.” the investigator said dryly, while scanning through the earlier testimonies and Dr Vaughn’s medical notes. The kind doctor had noted the dose of the administered sedative as ‘enough’.
“I know.”
“... Humans don’t rejuvenate the way Prepondrians do. In fact, we don’t rejuvenate at all.”
“You don’t? So you’re just… what? In your forties?” He inspected her from top to toe, unembarrassed. Now he felt indignation at the fact that he was forced to explain himself to someone he considered to be a child, or barely more.
The lieutenant - who was 32 - neglected to answer. She sneered a little and looked down at her notes. “How did the admiral end up on the red carpet, still wrapped in cellophane?”
“I dunno. I just called it in to Zaphod. Zopol? Zo-something. The XO. I said the admiral’s situation had been taken care of, and that I didn’t expect him to have any further issues.”
“And the ‘stench’, as you say?”
“Yeah, I’d been wrong about that, apparently! Who’d’ve thought that, huh? I didn’t learn of the crate under the bed until after the whole thing.” Burgundy shrugged and smiled a little. It was quite amusing, after all.
-=-=-=-
Regina sat patiently. Although the events had occurred in a flurry of gold braid and poor judgment, she was ultimately sure that, had the whole she-bang been left to her, none of this would have happened.
"Sorry," the investigator said, returning from a side-room.
"Yes," said Regina flatly, although not without sympathy, staring insistently at the officer's right ear. Without flinching she produced a sonic antibacterial spray pod, which sat between the hands she had been about to clamp together as she prepared for questioning mode. The CoB’s gaze altered a fraction, suggesting forcefully with her eyes that her counterpart should use said device.
“Chief Monkfish.”
Regina cast her head aside impertinently. The investigator grunted forlornly and acquiesced, rinsing her hands for a second time in the potent invisible mist.
“Being a rich source of iron and cobalamin, the Terran oyster is a particularly sought-after delicacy. But at what cost? Rogue molluscs have felled armies. Gastroenteritis, vibrio vulnificus and overemphasised sexual potency. As the chief of the boat it is very much my responsibility to ensure that these matters – hygiene, in particular – do not compromise ship’s operations.”
The interviewer checked the clock, whose numerals had rolled onto fat zeros for the fourth time. “At what point did you realise the confusion?”
“About three months ago, while reading the long-term projections for fleet logistics.”
“Three months ago? That’s imposs–” She relented at the sight of Monkfish, whose eyes risked phasering her. “And what gave you the idea at that time there might be a problem?”
Smugly, Monkfish sat back, her slim shoulders flat and angular against the back of the chair. “Because Gnerix is the name of the major planet in the Gnerix system, where all male occupants consume only bivalve shellfish and are all, also, called Gnerix.”
The interviewer emitted a huff that was also a hiss; the kind that ex-spouses made at divorce proceedings. “So –”
The chief talked at the same time, as she had done for much of this interview. Her role in the drama was to be recounted in her own words, in her own time. The officer had made that much clear at the outset: in her own words, in her own time. Regina smiled peaceably, and restarted.
“After reports of a mollusc-related hygiene transgression you can understand that I activated all necessary protocols, rescinded leave and rest time for all maintenance personnel and instigated a ship-wide search. With the first officer’s approval,” Monkfish added hastily. The Captain had, as was sometimes the case in health and safety situations, been coincidentally unavailable. “As the senior crewmember I decided it only appropriate that I should be the one to check the admiral’s deck and, naturally, his quarters. Without delay, given the emergency! Thereafter the sedge of heron, the remainder of the arboretum and then the bridge crew. That is the order of things. It is established. I arrived at the admiral’s quarters and, while doing so, referred to the entry log.”
Remarkably, the interviewer mused, the only person who had thought to do so. Which made the coming minute or so of testimony more diabolical.
“I for one do not blame the admiral for insisting that his quarters should be perfect. The crewmember who signed off on the job has already been severely reprimanded. I was not on duty,” she confirmed, rewiring a reaching frond of hair back into her buzzing red hive. “His complaints were appropriate and were dealt with by a number of senior officers in rapid succession. I was proud of my crew at this stage, and I could see from the admiral’s tranquility that he was similarly impressed. Ensign Burgundy had obviously helped him prepare to meet the mollusc-feeding delegation by encasing him with the clear film used in Gnerix processional post-dinner marches. They believe it helps them retain the odour of the feast and he certainly had that about him. So, seeing that he was fit and eager for his duties to commence, I contacted Commander Freelove and asked her to take care of his transport personally.”
“Not the transporter chief?” Monkfish’s view of the crew, her role in it and personal roles were one for review, but she suspected her CO would give one reply: we already know.
“Of course not! Chief engineer’s teams were already running diagnostics on the whole transporter subsystem and, besides, Edie and I like to do one another favours from time to time.” Which reminded Regina: she needed to check her pal’s special plants upon her return.
“Tell me what happened next,” said the woman, with driving, fatigued impatience.
“With the admiral no longer in the room I was surprised that his olfactory presence… lingered. Either the transporter problem had resulted in more molluscs being sent to his quarters than he had ordered –”
“Or they had been the explanation for the smell all along.”
The suggestion was meant to bite back at Regina but, like many brushes and combs had in the past, seemed only to deflect.
“I called Commander Freelove and asked her to join me immediately. She did and, when she arrived, we located a crate of half-eaten molluscs. It was a dreadful scene.” Regina sprayed herself fortifyingly with a micro-canister that had been, and was immediately again, concealed in her hair. “Some dangling from their shells, others clearly struggling for their lives. And, in the middle of the crate, the ambassador – clearly afflicted with a desperate sexual longing and only half-covered with his ceremonial plastic. A sorry state. Not fit to negotiate on behalf of his people.”
“Do you remember what Commander Freelove said, or did, at this juncture? What either of you did?”
“I do not. I believe that is when the ambassador became… enamoured with me. At which point I passed out.” Regina looked indignant. “It is no surprise. The interaction gave me vibriochlamydia. I was quarantined for some time.”
-=-=-=-
“This entire situation has been… unfortunate.” Edie spoke to the investigator now. The Chief Engineer reeked of incense and her arms flailed with animation as she spoke.
“Unfortunate? That is putting it lightly Commander Freelove.”
“Well you see. It is much easier for you and I to judge as bystanders. I doubt either of us would be able to resist the charms of Chief Monkfish after several weeks contained in a box of delicious shellfish.” The Commander nodded in agreement with herself and then continued to explain the sudden interaction between the ambassador and the Chief in much detail to the investigator.
“I…. I…. I think we will continue along from that… Uh…. Event.” The investigator had lost her composure for a moment. A look of disgust appeared for a moment on her stone looking face. “Commander. Just what caused the transporter malfunction?”
“Oh.. That..” Edie sighed. “Well that was easy enough to figure out, eventually. Darned particular series of events that led up to that really.” The Chief Engineer recalled her efforts to the investigator. “There was Ensign Grovensor’s mishap in the jefferies tube between decks sixteen and seventeen. You see. The Ensign was new to our repair and maintenance teams. He had found a misalignment in the ODN network and took it upon himself to fix those crossed wires.” Edie shook her head and waved her finger in a ‘tsk, tsk’ motion.
“You see. Lonie prefers that particular sub-junction just the way it is. The poor Ensign had good intentions but ended up causing Lonie to misbehave. A damned feedback loop actually. The poor man ended up with a nasty shock. Lonie can really bite when he wants too.”
“Lonie?” The investigator stopped recording notes for a moment and looked up. “Who.. Is that?”
“She didn’t mean that Lonie.” Edie rubbed the bulkhead beside them. “Anyways. There was also Lieutenant T’Var’s experiment gone wrong.” Edie went on to explain how the science officer had crossbred several different plants in the botany lab. “Who would have thought? A taraxacum and rafflesia arnoldii hybrid would release such sticky spores into the ventilation shafts of the ship. You see. There was so much going on at the time, from a maintenance perspective, that the filter systems in the botany lab were due for a change over. It would have been completed later that day actually.”
“There was the hatch left open from the ventilator system in junction forty-eight, which led to the spores binding with the relay junction on deck twenty one. It overwhelmed the transmitter pathway of the waste disposal system in the junior officer’s quarters throughout the ship. Trust me. You wouldn’t have wanted to take a shit in those quarters during this whole fiasco either. Poor Ensign Figaro ended up covered head to toe in… half the ship’s fecal matter….”
The investigator continued to take notes with rigour as Edie rambled on for several more minutes, adding more and more events which had all transpired at the same time. Each one had synergistically contributed to the unfortunate transporter incident.
“And finally. That error in the backup phaser generator junction, caused by the overload in the ODN network from fixing those crossed wires, lead to the auxiliary port thruster matrix overload and then the failed filtering system which overwhelmed the waste disposal system. That all caused a catastrophic feedback overload in the transporter sub-subsystem. You see, each by itself would normally never cause an issue with the transporter system. It was just a matter of worse case circumstances, several, all happening at the most inconvenient of times. Damned amazing in a way if you ask me….”
“Amazing is one word for it.” By this stage her inquiry had lasted at least a week longer than she had originally envisaged. She craved company. Company that wasn’t certifiable, and that didn’t figure calamity out of every ODN juncture.
There was only one loose end. “And Chief Monkfish? She was… unconscious?”
“Oh.. Regina? I just revived her with some good old mouth to mouth. Reminded me of that night we got wasted in shuttle bay two…” Edie stopped herself for a moment. “Please strike that last comment off the record my dearest investigator. Are you getting hungry? All this talk of spoiled ocean dwelling delicacies has really got me craving some bacon covered scallops and peas.”
Let it end, pleaded the investigator’s very sense of self.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and disappeared quickly into the side-room, not returning for some time.
-=-=-=-
“Madame Investigator? I’m here for my interview. Hello?”
Zolog waited patiently for at least twenty-two minutes before he left.
The investigator left the water closet twenty-two seconds after that.
-=-=-=-
“And that, sir, is how the admiral arrived on the red carpet wrapped in cling film.”
“I have never witnessed a series of events more deliriously improbably and mishandled by a crew of highly intelligent yet antisocial incompetents,” Grey thundered. “I quote.”
“That was about fourth on the list of potential ship’s mottos during the refit,” Felix blathered automatically.
His old friend, a patient man, famed for his dark and humid temper, was menacingly close to his face. There, suddenly, giving him no room to wield his blitheness.
“I will give you in one sentence both an order and a piece of advice, Captain. Go now, go quickly and go far, as far as your sensors can see and then further, taking your incoherent sprawl of mavericks and do not come back until you have achieved something that is not an interstellar disgrace.”
Stunned, gripped to the mottled floor, Felix reached for any high-calibre banter as a response. His hubris had run out of turf. He realised he was waiting for more: a dismissal, or a have I made myself clear. That he was taking up space. That the Lone Star itself was taking up space in an otherwise useful chain of resources, one that was better served saving lives or spreading peace. Not pandering to an expensive box of narcotics-grade psychopathic idiots.
“Yes, sir.”
Admiral McArnh thrust a PADD into Felix’s gut disgustedly and left his own office, leaving de l’Isle rooted to the spot. Eventually he lifted his head, catching the numbers and spatial diagrams that headed the mission order.
Heading 28 mark 343 mark 1.
Where there was nothing known, and where nobody had thought to go, because there was nothing there.
And because it was a very, very long way away, so it would be a very, very long time until anyone heard of them again.
-=-=-=-
by the crew of the USS Lone Star, in no particular order:
Captain Felix de l’Isle, Commanding Officer
Lieutenant Harun Touvoy, Chief Helm
Lieutenant Greer ‘Tonx’ McKenna, Chief of Security
Lieutenant Andraste Vaughn MD, CMO
Ensign Burgundy, Science Officer
CPO Regina Monkfish, Chief of the Boat
Commander Edie Freelove, Chief Engineer
Commander Casparo Zolog, Executive Officer
one seriously pissed off Admiral Grey McArnh, Director, OF Diplomatic Corps
and a Starfleet investigator (retired, traumatised)
Felix was an experienced officer when it came to the stifled giggle. He had masked a couple away without due notice of JAG; a few had wafted past suspicious ambassadors. On one occasion he’d smuggled a smirk right over the snouts of the Vulcan Confluence of Ophthalmic Obstetricians. Admiral McArnh was an entirely different matter.
Somehow, Grey seemed to glower with increased incandescence over his diplomatic uniform. Many of the fleet's colours had decorated his shoulders over the course of his career: yellow, red, teal, silver, black, white, like the shades of a repulsive looking bruise. de l'Isle had been bollocked by him in each one and knew it was likely to be painful.
"Awkward is far beyond the low end of the scale explaining the difficulty of the situation, Captain." It served Felix right, as far as Grey was concerned. If he hadn't convinced him to come back to the fleet in the first place, this wouldn't be happening. "Every party to the conference has filed direct complaints to Starfleet Command. The low bar here is shitstorm."
He pronounced the final word with a calm venom he knew would play with his friend's complacency.
“It’s a complex affair, sir. Barely worthy of your time," Felix suggested, pushing an imaginary blond lock from his forehead.
Having been otherwise inanimate, Grey reached forward and flipped a padd over violently. It jumped, pivoted and landed askew, projecting above the day's diplomatic taskboard. "Barely worthy and yet here it is, consuming my time almost entirely."
Felix winced imperceptibly, each pip stretching perpendicular to his worried cervical muscles. He would lie for his crew, of course. But in this instance it had happened somewhat communally. And, besides, both McArnh and, if it came to it, Stanton knew him far too well.
Their only chance to get away with it would be to make sure their story was absolutely straight.
"Not only had this better be good, but it had better be fucking astounding," Grey prompted.
“Yes, sir. The story begins on the bridge. The officer of the watch was Lieutenant Harun, at his own insistence,” Felix confirmed. “It was his first night shift, a part of his agreed training to match his, er, bridge protocols up to Starfleet's. And of course, this happened.”
-=-=-=-
Harun sat in front of the investigative officer a cup of coffee, unfortunately not raktajino, in his hand. The Cardassian stared at the wisps of steam wafting up from the pristine Starfleet mug, his expression hard set but clearly tired as he was still running on rotational hours.
He supposed Starfleet had chosen his usual sleep period to question him for a reason. After all, in their shoes that would have been what he would have done; wait until people were tired and less prone to hold up some elaborate story in order to extract the truth. Unfortunately for Starfleet, Harun had been trained for just this scenario.
And he had to protect Regina.
“Lieutenant Touvoy,” the investigator began touching pale, stick-like fingers on the button to begin the recording, “Would you, in your own words, tell us the events between star dates 201402.19 and 241903.15.”
“Us?” Harun inquired looking around the room that only contained himself and the Starfleet officer in her smart red uniform, “Is there someone else we’re not accounting for?”
The investigator gave Harun a nonplussed look but there was a hardening about the eyes that Harun found satisfying, “A figure of speech Lieutenant. I need the account of your actions between those two dates for the record.”
“How do you want them?” Harun asked as he raised the coffee mug to his lips and took a measured sip. It was weak and tasteless but his body craved the caffeine and so he drank anyway, “Factually? Chronologically? I did a lot of things over those few weeks, most of it was flying looking for the missing ambassador.”
“Lieutenant,” the word was heavy and all but crackled with irritation, “Are you trying to be difficult?”
“Not at all,” Harun said lowering the mug, “I’m trying to be precise and give you precisely what you need for your investigation.”
The investigator did not look convinced but she breathed out a huff of air and settled back in her seat, “Fine. Chronologically, if you don’t mind, Lieutenant.”
Harun helped himself to another sip of the coffee as he considered; the truth was such a flexible thing and always subject to the unyielding mistress of perspective. Harun knew the feeling but he wasn’t about to tell the Starfleet investigator that. “I don’t know how much help it will be to you. I was on my sleep cycle when the ambassador was discovered missing and asleep when he was found.”
“Just tell me what you can Lieutenant, start with when you were first on shift.”
“That was stardate 201402.18, outside the parameters of your inquiry.”
More air and glaring, Harun pretended not to notice, “Just tell me Lieutenant.”
“Nothing entirely unusual,” Harun began and settled himself back in his chair, ignoring the twinge in his lower back, this was going to be a long conversation. “We completed the shift change, I was at the helm overseeing routine maintenance programs on the ships navigation in accordance to the systems checklists expected of the officer on duty for the night shift. A few minor abnormalities were reported by the computer but were quickly resolved by engineering.”
“Whom in engineering?”
Harun stopped and returned to the present moment, “Excuse me?”
“Whom in engineering did you speak to?” the investigator repeated looking to make a note of another possible witness to corroborate. Harun wondered if he had perhaps mis-stepped, would engineering know what happened? That he had purposely pushed the maintenance for navigation over other more pressing systems? Would they tell the investigator?
Harun closed his eyes and composed his face in an expression of concentration, he of course knew exactly whom he had spoken to and what exactly had been said, Cardassian memories being what they were, but he wasn’t about to get that detailed with the investigator. “Ensign Reese, I believe… I spoke to her and a few others multiple times on multiple shifts during those few weeks I can’t be sure. I’m sure the repairs will be in engineering’s log and will have a name attached to them.”
That seemed to appease the investigator and Harun continued, “After routine checks on navigation had been conducted, I went through the checks on the transporter system since there was a scheduled transport of items for the Arboretum and Mapuche later in the shift. There was one issue with the transporter system that also required repair but it was not as quick as with the navigation. Again, I believe I spoke to Ensign Reese or perhaps Chief O’Brady but I could not be certain. This resulted in a delay of the transport.”
“How long was the delay?”
Harun sighed into his coffee, “Six hours. The transporter was not functional until after I had gone off shift. I was informed the next evening that some prized oysters had gone bad in the Mapuche delivery as a result and there was an odor that required engineering to go back into the transporter system. They were still in the middle of sorting out why all other transports reeked of oyster when I came back on shift on star date 241902.19.” Regina had also been involved in the de-oystering but Harun figured it was best to leave her out of the narrative if it wasn’t necessary.
“When did you find out the ambassador was missing?”
“Beginning of my shift on star date 201902.20. I was told by Commander Zolog that the ambassador had failed to appear in the transporter room at the allotted time and had missed transport to the Lone Star. It was believed at first he was simply delayed and communications had not reached the crew but after a full day it was determined he had gone missing.”
“And what did you do after that?”
“Set coordinates for his last known location per the orders of Commander Zolog. A process I repeated for every possible location we had for the ambassador over the next few weeks until he was discovered in the storage crate on star date 241903.15.” Harun allowed a little bit of irritation to fill his voice but as soon as the investigators eyes raised to his face, he gave a little apologetic nod.
The investigator reached out and touched the console to stop the recording, “Thank you Lieutenant Touvoy, I think I have all I need here. Is there anyone you think I should be speaking to in regards to this incident?”
“Chief Engineer Freelove and her team I’d imagine,” Harun said and started to rise, “Also, Commander Zolog since he was supposed to be the Ambassador’s escort. Was there anything else?”
“No, you may go Lieutenant but be available in the event I have other questions.”
Harun offered her a sardonic smile, “I don’t think that will be difficult Commander.”
-=-=-=-=-
The Chief of Security knew how this game was going to go, and she was not amused to be sitting on the 'wrong side' of the interrogation room. She knew better than to push her luck and was careful to keep a neutral expression. She didn't want to find herself confined to the ship again if she could help it. It was harder to keep her tone neutral, but she was trying, "As I mentioned, we investigated the ambassador's disappearance and hit multiple dead ends. The decision was made to put the investigation on hold since we still had to deliver the other ambassadors to their destination."
"And at what point did the Admiral arrive?"
Tonx resisted the urge to smirk since she could see what the investigator was doing. She knew full well when the admiral arrived since it was in the CSec's duty log, and was likely in the Captain's log, as well. Taking a slow, deep breath, Tonx replied, "We were diverted to pick up another group of delegates that were to be delivered to the convention. We were told these delegates consisted of five diplomats, but when we rendezvoused with the transport ship carrying them, we found not just five diplomats, but the Admiral as well.
"Starfleet failed to mention we would be picking up admiralty. We'd managed to get VIP quarters arranged for the five diplomats, but I hadn't arranged anything for the Admiral since we weren't expecting him. Said admiral decided to take it personally, even though we'd managed to get him quarters arranged within the hour," she replied.
The investigator tilted her head, "How did the admiral take it personally?"
To this, Tonx gave a wry smile, "When he found out we hadn't solved who'd caused the Ambassador's disappearance, he decided to 're-open' the investigation and made a point of telling me I was a terrible security officer who wouldn't be able to follow an evidence trail if it were fluorescent. If you know anything about me, aside from a few disciplinary things more related to my weakness for a pretty face and a lovely cocktail, I've done very well as a security officer, with more than a couple of commendations."
"Yet you are still on the Lone Star?"
To this, Tonx did smirk, "Due to my weakness for a pretty face and adult beverages, I assure you."
"What happened next?"
Tonx looked to her hands as she carefully chose her words, "A few of those in my department didn't like how the admiral was treating me, and may have locked him in his quarters when I was off duty. They may not have known he was claustrophobic. I'm not exactly sure all of what happened next because. . .well, I was off duty."
-=-=-=-=-
For her part, Andraste did...far, far less to hide her disdain for the entire process.
All she knew was that she hadn't wrapped the daffy admiral in plastic film, so why was it now her problem?
"Yes. Again. I got a call from the admiral in the VIP quarters. He was completely in a panic. It took me a little while to figure out what he was saying in able to actually take care of his seriously spazzing self." Her interrogator gave her one of those incredulous, raised-brow looks that she just returned for a moment. Neither said anything. "What?" the doctor finally said.
"Not much of a bedside manner for a chief medical officer."
Andra shrugged. "I'm a practical woman. Compassion and pragmatism can go hand in hand and had the admiral been suffering a real medical emergency, I would have been more sympathetic." The look told her to continue and she listened to it, this time. It was, of course, simply because she wanted this whole thing over with. "He was having a panic attack because he was locked in his quarters. And is claustrophobic."
"Isn't claustrophobia a recognized phobia and thus a recognized disorder?"
"Yes."
"So...how was this not a legit emergency for the admiral?"
Andra gave a look that could with grass and very clearly, if silently, asked: Are you a moron?
The look was returned, with interest.
"Claustrophobia. The irrational, extreme fear of small, confined spaces. Have you seen the quarters the admiral received? They're bigger than mine."
A long pause. "Isn't claustrophobia also categorized as the fear of being trapped and unable to get out of a space?"
A dry look. "If his condition is that bad, he should not be in space."
"Not very sympathetic."
"I suppose not. Practical."
Their little standoff continued for some moments before the next question followed. "Alright. So. What happened after you understood the nature of the admiral's distressed call?"
Andra arched her brow in a show that she didn't appreciate the near-pun, intended or not. "I went down to his guest quarters and used my medical codes to do an emergency override. The admiral flew out of the room, knocking me on my ass in the process, and stood there gasping for a while. Once I was back on my feet and he had calmed down, we returned to his room and he requested a sedative. I administered a mild one and left him to go to bed, with the doors unlocked."
"And then?"
"And then..." She shrugged. "I went back to sickbay. I don't know what happened next." She paused then, frowning as she recalled something. "Although he did mention something about possibly calling on...science or engineering or something to fix something in his room that was bothering him."
-=-=-=-=-
“Of course I wrapped the admiral in cellophane!”
The look on the investigator’s face suggested that this was not at all a natural course of action, no matter how certain Burgundy sounded of himself. “You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world,” she stated flatly, “Can you tell me how you reached that conclusion?”
The science ensign rolled his eyes and sighed. “The admiral called Engineering, because he was having some sort of meltdown about a supposedly technical issue in his quarters,” he made air quotations around the word ‘technical’ and his grimace suggested how little he thought of the admiral’s cognitive capabilities. “Naturally, because the request was so obviously not related to anything technical - it was something about ‘oysters’, which I believe is an animal of some kind - and the admiral was sounding like a panicked kruus-wontlay Engi-”
“A what?”
Burgundy stopped himself and stared at her. What exactly had he been saying that confused her now? Oh, right! “A kruus-wontlay is a worm-like animal with a set of short sprouts around its trout. It’s common around the tropical regions of Prepondria and famous for the sound it makes when it can’t find a mate during mating season. Like… Nevermind,” he stopped himself before actually imitating one, lest he’d lose his dignity. “Anyway, where was I?”
“Engineering?”
“Oh, yes! Engineering called Science, because the lab is close to the admiral’s quarters. They called in a favour with our chief, and subsequently I had to go.” He muttered a set of curses and tried to think of new ways to murder a gelatinous lump. Not that he thought Perdita was close enough to hear his thoughts, but he could always recall them later.
“So, I got there, right? And what do I see?” he asked in a way that made it a little unclear whether it was a rhetorical question. “A body! Right on the damn bed!”
“A dead person? Are you saying that the admiral failed to notice a dead person on the bed in his quarters?” The investigator looked incredulous. She flipped through her previous notes, trying to see if anyone had mentioned a dead body before; it seemed very unlikely that she would forget such a thing, but still.
“What? No! It was the admiral!” He clarified, making things even more convoluted and confused.
The investigator looked at him for some time, expecting him to expound. When he didn’t she cleared her throat and made a few notes before deciding which question to follow up with. “The admiral was dead? He is alive today.”
“No. Not dead. Lifeless.”
The investigator adopted a deadpan expression. Her frustration was only apparent by the way she pinched the ridge of her nose. She decided not to dig further into the depths of semantics with the science ensign. Instead she opted for trying to go forward. “What happened next?” She had a feeling they were closing in on the whole cellophane thing.
“The admiral was motionless and pale - almost translucent. And the stench about him! Horrid stuff! It was obvious that he’d entered his rejuvenating torpor but failed to calcify. He must’ve felt that the process was going awry and called in while he was about to go under, and that’s why he wasn’t lucid. So I quickly wrapped him in cellophane, to save his life.” Burgundy’s posture testified a pride in his own actions.
“The admiral is human.” the investigator said dryly, while scanning through the earlier testimonies and Dr Vaughn’s medical notes. The kind doctor had noted the dose of the administered sedative as ‘enough’.
“I know.”
“... Humans don’t rejuvenate the way Prepondrians do. In fact, we don’t rejuvenate at all.”
“You don’t? So you’re just… what? In your forties?” He inspected her from top to toe, unembarrassed. Now he felt indignation at the fact that he was forced to explain himself to someone he considered to be a child, or barely more.
The lieutenant - who was 32 - neglected to answer. She sneered a little and looked down at her notes. “How did the admiral end up on the red carpet, still wrapped in cellophane?”
“I dunno. I just called it in to Zaphod. Zopol? Zo-something. The XO. I said the admiral’s situation had been taken care of, and that I didn’t expect him to have any further issues.”
“And the ‘stench’, as you say?”
“Yeah, I’d been wrong about that, apparently! Who’d’ve thought that, huh? I didn’t learn of the crate under the bed until after the whole thing.” Burgundy shrugged and smiled a little. It was quite amusing, after all.
-=-=-=-
Regina sat patiently. Although the events had occurred in a flurry of gold braid and poor judgment, she was ultimately sure that, had the whole she-bang been left to her, none of this would have happened.
"Sorry," the investigator said, returning from a side-room.
"Yes," said Regina flatly, although not without sympathy, staring insistently at the officer's right ear. Without flinching she produced a sonic antibacterial spray pod, which sat between the hands she had been about to clamp together as she prepared for questioning mode. The CoB’s gaze altered a fraction, suggesting forcefully with her eyes that her counterpart should use said device.
“Chief Monkfish.”
Regina cast her head aside impertinently. The investigator grunted forlornly and acquiesced, rinsing her hands for a second time in the potent invisible mist.
“Being a rich source of iron and cobalamin, the Terran oyster is a particularly sought-after delicacy. But at what cost? Rogue molluscs have felled armies. Gastroenteritis, vibrio vulnificus and overemphasised sexual potency. As the chief of the boat it is very much my responsibility to ensure that these matters – hygiene, in particular – do not compromise ship’s operations.”
The interviewer checked the clock, whose numerals had rolled onto fat zeros for the fourth time. “At what point did you realise the confusion?”
“About three months ago, while reading the long-term projections for fleet logistics.”
“Three months ago? That’s imposs–” She relented at the sight of Monkfish, whose eyes risked phasering her. “And what gave you the idea at that time there might be a problem?”
Smugly, Monkfish sat back, her slim shoulders flat and angular against the back of the chair. “Because Gnerix is the name of the major planet in the Gnerix system, where all male occupants consume only bivalve shellfish and are all, also, called Gnerix.”
The interviewer emitted a huff that was also a hiss; the kind that ex-spouses made at divorce proceedings. “So –”
The chief talked at the same time, as she had done for much of this interview. Her role in the drama was to be recounted in her own words, in her own time. The officer had made that much clear at the outset: in her own words, in her own time. Regina smiled peaceably, and restarted.
“After reports of a mollusc-related hygiene transgression you can understand that I activated all necessary protocols, rescinded leave and rest time for all maintenance personnel and instigated a ship-wide search. With the first officer’s approval,” Monkfish added hastily. The Captain had, as was sometimes the case in health and safety situations, been coincidentally unavailable. “As the senior crewmember I decided it only appropriate that I should be the one to check the admiral’s deck and, naturally, his quarters. Without delay, given the emergency! Thereafter the sedge of heron, the remainder of the arboretum and then the bridge crew. That is the order of things. It is established. I arrived at the admiral’s quarters and, while doing so, referred to the entry log.”
Remarkably, the interviewer mused, the only person who had thought to do so. Which made the coming minute or so of testimony more diabolical.
“I for one do not blame the admiral for insisting that his quarters should be perfect. The crewmember who signed off on the job has already been severely reprimanded. I was not on duty,” she confirmed, rewiring a reaching frond of hair back into her buzzing red hive. “His complaints were appropriate and were dealt with by a number of senior officers in rapid succession. I was proud of my crew at this stage, and I could see from the admiral’s tranquility that he was similarly impressed. Ensign Burgundy had obviously helped him prepare to meet the mollusc-feeding delegation by encasing him with the clear film used in Gnerix processional post-dinner marches. They believe it helps them retain the odour of the feast and he certainly had that about him. So, seeing that he was fit and eager for his duties to commence, I contacted Commander Freelove and asked her to take care of his transport personally.”
“Not the transporter chief?” Monkfish’s view of the crew, her role in it and personal roles were one for review, but she suspected her CO would give one reply: we already know.
“Of course not! Chief engineer’s teams were already running diagnostics on the whole transporter subsystem and, besides, Edie and I like to do one another favours from time to time.” Which reminded Regina: she needed to check her pal’s special plants upon her return.
“Tell me what happened next,” said the woman, with driving, fatigued impatience.
“With the admiral no longer in the room I was surprised that his olfactory presence… lingered. Either the transporter problem had resulted in more molluscs being sent to his quarters than he had ordered –”
“Or they had been the explanation for the smell all along.”
The suggestion was meant to bite back at Regina but, like many brushes and combs had in the past, seemed only to deflect.
“I called Commander Freelove and asked her to join me immediately. She did and, when she arrived, we located a crate of half-eaten molluscs. It was a dreadful scene.” Regina sprayed herself fortifyingly with a micro-canister that had been, and was immediately again, concealed in her hair. “Some dangling from their shells, others clearly struggling for their lives. And, in the middle of the crate, the ambassador – clearly afflicted with a desperate sexual longing and only half-covered with his ceremonial plastic. A sorry state. Not fit to negotiate on behalf of his people.”
“Do you remember what Commander Freelove said, or did, at this juncture? What either of you did?”
“I do not. I believe that is when the ambassador became… enamoured with me. At which point I passed out.” Regina looked indignant. “It is no surprise. The interaction gave me vibriochlamydia. I was quarantined for some time.”
-=-=-=-
“This entire situation has been… unfortunate.” Edie spoke to the investigator now. The Chief Engineer reeked of incense and her arms flailed with animation as she spoke.
“Unfortunate? That is putting it lightly Commander Freelove.”
“Well you see. It is much easier for you and I to judge as bystanders. I doubt either of us would be able to resist the charms of Chief Monkfish after several weeks contained in a box of delicious shellfish.” The Commander nodded in agreement with herself and then continued to explain the sudden interaction between the ambassador and the Chief in much detail to the investigator.
“I…. I…. I think we will continue along from that… Uh…. Event.” The investigator had lost her composure for a moment. A look of disgust appeared for a moment on her stone looking face. “Commander. Just what caused the transporter malfunction?”
“Oh.. That..” Edie sighed. “Well that was easy enough to figure out, eventually. Darned particular series of events that led up to that really.” The Chief Engineer recalled her efforts to the investigator. “There was Ensign Grovensor’s mishap in the jefferies tube between decks sixteen and seventeen. You see. The Ensign was new to our repair and maintenance teams. He had found a misalignment in the ODN network and took it upon himself to fix those crossed wires.” Edie shook her head and waved her finger in a ‘tsk, tsk’ motion.
“You see. Lonie prefers that particular sub-junction just the way it is. The poor Ensign had good intentions but ended up causing Lonie to misbehave. A damned feedback loop actually. The poor man ended up with a nasty shock. Lonie can really bite when he wants too.”
“Lonie?” The investigator stopped recording notes for a moment and looked up. “Who.. Is that?”
“She didn’t mean that Lonie.” Edie rubbed the bulkhead beside them. “Anyways. There was also Lieutenant T’Var’s experiment gone wrong.” Edie went on to explain how the science officer had crossbred several different plants in the botany lab. “Who would have thought? A taraxacum and rafflesia arnoldii hybrid would release such sticky spores into the ventilation shafts of the ship. You see. There was so much going on at the time, from a maintenance perspective, that the filter systems in the botany lab were due for a change over. It would have been completed later that day actually.”
“There was the hatch left open from the ventilator system in junction forty-eight, which led to the spores binding with the relay junction on deck twenty one. It overwhelmed the transmitter pathway of the waste disposal system in the junior officer’s quarters throughout the ship. Trust me. You wouldn’t have wanted to take a shit in those quarters during this whole fiasco either. Poor Ensign Figaro ended up covered head to toe in… half the ship’s fecal matter….”
The investigator continued to take notes with rigour as Edie rambled on for several more minutes, adding more and more events which had all transpired at the same time. Each one had synergistically contributed to the unfortunate transporter incident.
“And finally. That error in the backup phaser generator junction, caused by the overload in the ODN network from fixing those crossed wires, lead to the auxiliary port thruster matrix overload and then the failed filtering system which overwhelmed the waste disposal system. That all caused a catastrophic feedback overload in the transporter sub-subsystem. You see, each by itself would normally never cause an issue with the transporter system. It was just a matter of worse case circumstances, several, all happening at the most inconvenient of times. Damned amazing in a way if you ask me….”
“Amazing is one word for it.” By this stage her inquiry had lasted at least a week longer than she had originally envisaged. She craved company. Company that wasn’t certifiable, and that didn’t figure calamity out of every ODN juncture.
There was only one loose end. “And Chief Monkfish? She was… unconscious?”
“Oh.. Regina? I just revived her with some good old mouth to mouth. Reminded me of that night we got wasted in shuttle bay two…” Edie stopped herself for a moment. “Please strike that last comment off the record my dearest investigator. Are you getting hungry? All this talk of spoiled ocean dwelling delicacies has really got me craving some bacon covered scallops and peas.”
Let it end, pleaded the investigator’s very sense of self.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and disappeared quickly into the side-room, not returning for some time.
-=-=-=-
“Madame Investigator? I’m here for my interview. Hello?”
Zolog waited patiently for at least twenty-two minutes before he left.
The investigator left the water closet twenty-two seconds after that.
-=-=-=-
“And that, sir, is how the admiral arrived on the red carpet wrapped in cling film.”
“I have never witnessed a series of events more deliriously improbably and mishandled by a crew of highly intelligent yet antisocial incompetents,” Grey thundered. “I quote.”
“That was about fourth on the list of potential ship’s mottos during the refit,” Felix blathered automatically.
His old friend, a patient man, famed for his dark and humid temper, was menacingly close to his face. There, suddenly, giving him no room to wield his blitheness.
“I will give you in one sentence both an order and a piece of advice, Captain. Go now, go quickly and go far, as far as your sensors can see and then further, taking your incoherent sprawl of mavericks and do not come back until you have achieved something that is not an interstellar disgrace.”
Stunned, gripped to the mottled floor, Felix reached for any high-calibre banter as a response. His hubris had run out of turf. He realised he was waiting for more: a dismissal, or a have I made myself clear. That he was taking up space. That the Lone Star itself was taking up space in an otherwise useful chain of resources, one that was better served saving lives or spreading peace. Not pandering to an expensive box of narcotics-grade psychopathic idiots.
“Yes, sir.”
Admiral McArnh thrust a PADD into Felix’s gut disgustedly and left his own office, leaving de l’Isle rooted to the spot. Eventually he lifted his head, catching the numbers and spatial diagrams that headed the mission order.
Heading 28 mark 343 mark 1.
Where there was nothing known, and where nobody had thought to go, because there was nothing there.
And because it was a very, very long way away, so it would be a very, very long time until anyone heard of them again.
-=-=-=-
by the crew of the USS Lone Star, in no particular order:
Captain Felix de l’Isle, Commanding Officer
Lieutenant Harun Touvoy, Chief Helm
Lieutenant Greer ‘Tonx’ McKenna, Chief of Security
Lieutenant Andraste Vaughn MD, CMO
Ensign Burgundy, Science Officer
CPO Regina Monkfish, Chief of the Boat
Commander Edie Freelove, Chief Engineer
Commander Casparo Zolog, Executive Officer
one seriously pissed off Admiral Grey McArnh, Director, OF Diplomatic Corps
and a Starfleet investigator (retired, traumatised)
SD201904.20 - 'Gizmos on the Nacelles.' [Felix/Burgundy]
-= Bridge, USS Lone Star =-
The Insignia-refit Lone Star was made for the long haul. Each station had a seat, a good one: brushed Vetivian cotton along the beige-grey spectrum. A seat that, literally, remembered the configuration of each officer and adjusted itself to their weight and gait. Upon seating each display would inch to the side, occupying the officer's optimum ocular profile.
Felix de l'Isle didn't have the biggest strides of all the fleet's captains, but he did have most of the chutzpah. His bridge crew looked up from their long-range star maps, ship's systems and language protocols, information dancing on their screens with focus and precision. He glanced along the stations.
"At ease."
He took his own seat at the centre of the bridge. To one side was a place for his XO, on the other a counsellor or medic. His previous CMO hadn't much liked bridge duty but he intended to offer Vaughn some time up here, when she wasn't removing boots, proverbial or otherwise, from derrieres.
Noting the absence of Commander Zolog, Felix settled into favourable mood, exchanging a few remarks with the duty ops officer.
The lift doors opened with a soft, relaxing, but almost imperceptible swoosh; a sound that had been incrementally modified through each iteration of starship classes for centuries. The present combination of volume, pitch, tune and length was the result of a six-year study involving two universities, five different scientific fields and no less than 18,000 Starfleet personnel acting as unknowing test subjects.
It was also the matter of a pending lawsuit regarding intellectual property. The terms of the study were a little vague, as it turned out, and now Starfleet found itself paying huge royalties to a legal entity founded by the lead researcher.
Burgundy thought nothing of this as he entered. His mind was occupied by a series of expletives. Not only had Perdita sent him on a stupid liaison errand again, it was also made all the worse by the fact that Felix was on the bridge.
The science ensign had come to appreciate the new first officer. Not so much that he could be bothered to remember the dull sod’s name, of course. No, the commander had only one meaningful quality: he was not de l’Isle.
He was also benign to a fault, which meant Burgundy could drag his feet a little. That was something, at least.
But he wasn’t here. Damn.
”Captain,” Burgundy said as he approached the big chair. He stood at attention, but only just. ”We’re ready to initiate the previously reported manoeuvre, sir.” He intentionally left out the specifics. The XO would have reported it upwards, anyways. Maybe.
Lonie and the mechanics of coincidence that drove him were not on Felix's side today. “At ease, Ensign. That could be one of two dozen manoeuvres on any given day, as well you know. Clarify.”
Burgundy almost rolled his eyes. Why did it fall on him to do this? Right, because Perdita was an asshole. He took a deep breath. ”We’re ready to put the gizmos on the nacelles,” he said. That should be enough clarification to distinguish it from other business.
Gizmos, nacelles. That rang true with one of Animo's latter, eccentric but probably useful ideas. “The new slipstream scanner technology,” Felix confirmed with the precision that Burgundy was evading. “I've been interested to see the development of this project. I assume Commander Animo has sent you to brief me on its progress.” Suddenly, the Captain was decidedly chipper, and he brokered a gaze that seemed determined to smelt the scientist's face with charm, or impatience.
Burgundy’s eyes darkened. ”Actually they just sent me to report that we’re ready to proceed,” he tried. ”So, may we proceed, sir?” The scientist wasn’t as good as Felix at adapting his tone and demeanor at will. His question was meant to sound positive. It didn’t. Burgundy hated trying to explain complex physics to people he deemed too dumb to understand it. Yet he couldn’t just say so, because ranks. Ugh.
“You may proceed with my order to explain the changes you're proposing to make to my ship's engines.” The bridge crew bristled as de l'Isle spoke. Most of them had heard this thinly veiled tenor before, but none were as dim as Burgundy when it came to pushing it. The science station, to starboard, suddenly became available.
In two angry strides Burgundy had taken the station. He made no attempt to hide his contempt at what he considered an infantile display of power as he powered up the holographic projector in front of the main viewscreen. It came to life in a rush of formulas, atoms, star charts and diagrams. The ensign, similarly, adopted a demeaning and high paced speech pattern. ”This is high warp speed,” he started, pointing to a flurry of formulas, diagrams depicting subspace rupturing, and technical infographs of the basic functions of warp travel. Without letting his audience - which at this point was the entire bridge crew - digest any of it he explained it all in the words of a PhD dissertation and the speed of a sports commentator on coke. He wanted to overwhelm Felix; to show the man that this entire theatre was pointless, because Burgundy knew what he was doing and the captain would clearly never be able to grasp it.
Despite wanting to yawn with aching visibility - like his impetuous younger self might have - de l’Isle watched the grandstanding for a few minutes. What drove Burgundy to his anabolic sense of entitlement? To think that the galaxy owed him a favour and was overdue on its repayment?
“I’m sure some of the botanists downstairs aren’t comfortable with warp dynamics, Ensign, and we’ve appreciated the refresher up here on the bridge. I’m glad to see fourth-year warp field dynamics haven’t changed much since I left the Academy.” They had, but that wasn’t the point. “But what I’m interested in is how you intend to address the gaps in detailed sensor capture when we’re at slipstream. That is what you’ve been working on, isn’t it?”
Burgundy grumbled. Even though it wasn’t exactly what he was working on, it was indeed the result that Perdita eventually wanted out of it. Which meant that he couldn’t with a straight face claim that Felix had it all wrong; once again the ensign got the feeling that his department head had screwed him over.
He gazed thoughtfully at the captain for a moment. Then, deciding to fight this battle with Perdita instead, he turned back to the projection. A few swift motions dismissed layers of abstraction and zoomed in on an Insignia Class vessel forming slipstream fields.
”This is slipstream,” he stated flatly. ”And the lack of formations in its wake is a symptom of our lack of knowledge. Yes, our sensor capabilities are reduced during slipstream, but we can’t solve that problem yet.” Without really intending to he found himself meeting Felix’ eyes. Briefly he wondered why there was no smugness there. Maybe de l’Isle simply hid it well.
It had been one of the few requests from the previous upgrade that had been bounced back to the Lone Star's crew until the next Insignia upgrade. Unexpectedly, it seemed Felix had found Burgundy's level. He nodded for the scientist to continue.
Burgundy turned back and zoomed in on one nacelle, then pressed a button. A series of insect-like attachments appeared, and started falling off into the wake of the ship one by one. ”This is what I - we - want to install. Almost 500 of these, and then drop them behind us as we are in slipstream. They contain a radiation source that we activate when we release them. Within moments of falling behind us they will dissolve. In minutes they’ll be so degraded as to be completely undetectable. But we know their degradation cycle, and can measure the tachyons they emit and thereby the distortions. With enough data from these I believe we can build a simulation engine that can help us understand and eventually calibrate our sensors for the distortions.”
“Like a swarm, compensating through microcalibration.” The Captain checked through his immediate thoughts, resolving them to a pair of questions. “You say the tachyon degradation will take minutes. I'll need you to get that down to seconds for me in case we're on the run from someone who knows their shit with tachyons. Romulans, for example.” His voice began to build with excitement, as it did when he was hooked on an idea. “If we reinforce the outer casing with trimithidine, we might be able to control their degradation cycle better - maybe even initiate when the disintegration happens from the bridge. But then, that risks increasing mid-flight detection, even if it improves the rate at which they disappear.” Felix hummed. “Thoughts?”
The science ensign cocked his head to one side, deeply concentrated. Military risks had not at all been on his mind. He was also surprised that Felix remembered anything of even the basics of science from the academy. ”We could,” he acknowledged thoughtfully, but there was reservation in his voice. ”A reinforced casing may lead to material traces instead…” he was thinking loudly more than making conversation. Idly he pulled up the schematics of the insect-like tools they had designed. With a movement of his hand it shattered into almost a hundred components, carefully designed to fit nearly together. He stood there for a minute, absorbed.
Felix angled an arm in to tap a few times on the Burgundy's display. “But potentially mask our tachyon signature. Single composite alloys are found naturally in space.” He was at the outer limits of his knowledge but knowing everything wasn't his job: teasing that intelligence out of others, however, was.
”Hmm. Yes,” the scientist broke his reverie. ”We can make a coned trimithidine case, with a smaller radiating element that dissipates quicker. The radiation will be aimed towards us, and we can dissolve the casing with a second mechanism.” He had been making sketches in the schematics on his padd while talking, and was already on his way towards the turbolift as he finished. ”I’ll have a prototype ready in 60 minutes,” he added, apparently as another thought.
The doors clamped shut on the turbolift before Felix's final word -- “Dismissed.” -- could be heard over the bridge's hum and chatter. The human moved his body through 120 degrees, mouth slightly open as he sought corroboration from witnesses. Two Lieutenants, who scored among his preferred supplementary bridge officers, met his look and returned their heads to their stations.
de l'Isle returned to his station in languid paces, consumed with preponderance. Every individual had a key, he supposed, a long and unique code that once found yielded access to their best. Their talent, plus the desire to excel in it. Having witnessed the first flash of Burgundy's potential, the Captain found himself briefly satisfied -- tempered immediately with the hunch to wait, and see.
The Insignia-refit Lone Star was made for the long haul. Each station had a seat, a good one: brushed Vetivian cotton along the beige-grey spectrum. A seat that, literally, remembered the configuration of each officer and adjusted itself to their weight and gait. Upon seating each display would inch to the side, occupying the officer's optimum ocular profile.
Felix de l'Isle didn't have the biggest strides of all the fleet's captains, but he did have most of the chutzpah. His bridge crew looked up from their long-range star maps, ship's systems and language protocols, information dancing on their screens with focus and precision. He glanced along the stations.
"At ease."
He took his own seat at the centre of the bridge. To one side was a place for his XO, on the other a counsellor or medic. His previous CMO hadn't much liked bridge duty but he intended to offer Vaughn some time up here, when she wasn't removing boots, proverbial or otherwise, from derrieres.
Noting the absence of Commander Zolog, Felix settled into favourable mood, exchanging a few remarks with the duty ops officer.
The lift doors opened with a soft, relaxing, but almost imperceptible swoosh; a sound that had been incrementally modified through each iteration of starship classes for centuries. The present combination of volume, pitch, tune and length was the result of a six-year study involving two universities, five different scientific fields and no less than 18,000 Starfleet personnel acting as unknowing test subjects.
It was also the matter of a pending lawsuit regarding intellectual property. The terms of the study were a little vague, as it turned out, and now Starfleet found itself paying huge royalties to a legal entity founded by the lead researcher.
Burgundy thought nothing of this as he entered. His mind was occupied by a series of expletives. Not only had Perdita sent him on a stupid liaison errand again, it was also made all the worse by the fact that Felix was on the bridge.
The science ensign had come to appreciate the new first officer. Not so much that he could be bothered to remember the dull sod’s name, of course. No, the commander had only one meaningful quality: he was not de l’Isle.
He was also benign to a fault, which meant Burgundy could drag his feet a little. That was something, at least.
But he wasn’t here. Damn.
”Captain,” Burgundy said as he approached the big chair. He stood at attention, but only just. ”We’re ready to initiate the previously reported manoeuvre, sir.” He intentionally left out the specifics. The XO would have reported it upwards, anyways. Maybe.
Lonie and the mechanics of coincidence that drove him were not on Felix's side today. “At ease, Ensign. That could be one of two dozen manoeuvres on any given day, as well you know. Clarify.”
Burgundy almost rolled his eyes. Why did it fall on him to do this? Right, because Perdita was an asshole. He took a deep breath. ”We’re ready to put the gizmos on the nacelles,” he said. That should be enough clarification to distinguish it from other business.
Gizmos, nacelles. That rang true with one of Animo's latter, eccentric but probably useful ideas. “The new slipstream scanner technology,” Felix confirmed with the precision that Burgundy was evading. “I've been interested to see the development of this project. I assume Commander Animo has sent you to brief me on its progress.” Suddenly, the Captain was decidedly chipper, and he brokered a gaze that seemed determined to smelt the scientist's face with charm, or impatience.
Burgundy’s eyes darkened. ”Actually they just sent me to report that we’re ready to proceed,” he tried. ”So, may we proceed, sir?” The scientist wasn’t as good as Felix at adapting his tone and demeanor at will. His question was meant to sound positive. It didn’t. Burgundy hated trying to explain complex physics to people he deemed too dumb to understand it. Yet he couldn’t just say so, because ranks. Ugh.
“You may proceed with my order to explain the changes you're proposing to make to my ship's engines.” The bridge crew bristled as de l'Isle spoke. Most of them had heard this thinly veiled tenor before, but none were as dim as Burgundy when it came to pushing it. The science station, to starboard, suddenly became available.
In two angry strides Burgundy had taken the station. He made no attempt to hide his contempt at what he considered an infantile display of power as he powered up the holographic projector in front of the main viewscreen. It came to life in a rush of formulas, atoms, star charts and diagrams. The ensign, similarly, adopted a demeaning and high paced speech pattern. ”This is high warp speed,” he started, pointing to a flurry of formulas, diagrams depicting subspace rupturing, and technical infographs of the basic functions of warp travel. Without letting his audience - which at this point was the entire bridge crew - digest any of it he explained it all in the words of a PhD dissertation and the speed of a sports commentator on coke. He wanted to overwhelm Felix; to show the man that this entire theatre was pointless, because Burgundy knew what he was doing and the captain would clearly never be able to grasp it.
Despite wanting to yawn with aching visibility - like his impetuous younger self might have - de l’Isle watched the grandstanding for a few minutes. What drove Burgundy to his anabolic sense of entitlement? To think that the galaxy owed him a favour and was overdue on its repayment?
“I’m sure some of the botanists downstairs aren’t comfortable with warp dynamics, Ensign, and we’ve appreciated the refresher up here on the bridge. I’m glad to see fourth-year warp field dynamics haven’t changed much since I left the Academy.” They had, but that wasn’t the point. “But what I’m interested in is how you intend to address the gaps in detailed sensor capture when we’re at slipstream. That is what you’ve been working on, isn’t it?”
Burgundy grumbled. Even though it wasn’t exactly what he was working on, it was indeed the result that Perdita eventually wanted out of it. Which meant that he couldn’t with a straight face claim that Felix had it all wrong; once again the ensign got the feeling that his department head had screwed him over.
He gazed thoughtfully at the captain for a moment. Then, deciding to fight this battle with Perdita instead, he turned back to the projection. A few swift motions dismissed layers of abstraction and zoomed in on an Insignia Class vessel forming slipstream fields.
”This is slipstream,” he stated flatly. ”And the lack of formations in its wake is a symptom of our lack of knowledge. Yes, our sensor capabilities are reduced during slipstream, but we can’t solve that problem yet.” Without really intending to he found himself meeting Felix’ eyes. Briefly he wondered why there was no smugness there. Maybe de l’Isle simply hid it well.
It had been one of the few requests from the previous upgrade that had been bounced back to the Lone Star's crew until the next Insignia upgrade. Unexpectedly, it seemed Felix had found Burgundy's level. He nodded for the scientist to continue.
Burgundy turned back and zoomed in on one nacelle, then pressed a button. A series of insect-like attachments appeared, and started falling off into the wake of the ship one by one. ”This is what I - we - want to install. Almost 500 of these, and then drop them behind us as we are in slipstream. They contain a radiation source that we activate when we release them. Within moments of falling behind us they will dissolve. In minutes they’ll be so degraded as to be completely undetectable. But we know their degradation cycle, and can measure the tachyons they emit and thereby the distortions. With enough data from these I believe we can build a simulation engine that can help us understand and eventually calibrate our sensors for the distortions.”
“Like a swarm, compensating through microcalibration.” The Captain checked through his immediate thoughts, resolving them to a pair of questions. “You say the tachyon degradation will take minutes. I'll need you to get that down to seconds for me in case we're on the run from someone who knows their shit with tachyons. Romulans, for example.” His voice began to build with excitement, as it did when he was hooked on an idea. “If we reinforce the outer casing with trimithidine, we might be able to control their degradation cycle better - maybe even initiate when the disintegration happens from the bridge. But then, that risks increasing mid-flight detection, even if it improves the rate at which they disappear.” Felix hummed. “Thoughts?”
The science ensign cocked his head to one side, deeply concentrated. Military risks had not at all been on his mind. He was also surprised that Felix remembered anything of even the basics of science from the academy. ”We could,” he acknowledged thoughtfully, but there was reservation in his voice. ”A reinforced casing may lead to material traces instead…” he was thinking loudly more than making conversation. Idly he pulled up the schematics of the insect-like tools they had designed. With a movement of his hand it shattered into almost a hundred components, carefully designed to fit nearly together. He stood there for a minute, absorbed.
Felix angled an arm in to tap a few times on the Burgundy's display. “But potentially mask our tachyon signature. Single composite alloys are found naturally in space.” He was at the outer limits of his knowledge but knowing everything wasn't his job: teasing that intelligence out of others, however, was.
”Hmm. Yes,” the scientist broke his reverie. ”We can make a coned trimithidine case, with a smaller radiating element that dissipates quicker. The radiation will be aimed towards us, and we can dissolve the casing with a second mechanism.” He had been making sketches in the schematics on his padd while talking, and was already on his way towards the turbolift as he finished. ”I’ll have a prototype ready in 60 minutes,” he added, apparently as another thought.
The doors clamped shut on the turbolift before Felix's final word -- “Dismissed.” -- could be heard over the bridge's hum and chatter. The human moved his body through 120 degrees, mouth slightly open as he sought corroboration from witnesses. Two Lieutenants, who scored among his preferred supplementary bridge officers, met his look and returned their heads to their stations.
de l'Isle returned to his station in languid paces, consumed with preponderance. Every individual had a key, he supposed, a long and unique code that once found yielded access to their best. Their talent, plus the desire to excel in it. Having witnessed the first flash of Burgundy's potential, the Captain found himself briefly satisfied -- tempered immediately with the hunch to wait, and see.
SD201904.16 - Define Gate. [Felix/Casparo]
The Lone Star was by now fitted out with key personnel, most of whom
were working fluidly as an ensemble or had been persuaded to do so
through frights and threatenings. There was one niggling, colossal,
overly smooth exception to this fluidity: Casparo Zolog.
Weeks after the man had boarded the Lone Star for the first time, all grinning inanity and hairspray, Felix was still not accustomed to his vapid do-gooder of an executive officer. He wasn't the type that Felix wanted to call Number One and he couldn't see how he'd live up to Paxan, Zim or the other illustrious officers he'd given than title. Sure, his scores were well above average in every field and yes, he completed his tasks with efficiency and aplomb. But there was something missing.
Personality, imagination, inventiveness, defiance, wit: actually, there were a few things missing. de l'Isle tried to concentrate on Edie's latest level-three diagnostic report of the slipstream drive -- my recommendation is that we let Lonie out of the system and get on with it -- but found his focus drifting to a conversation at the back of the bridge.
"That will be just great, Ensign. You're doing a great job," Casparo intoned, to someone that might have been Ensign Burgundy. "You can turn in the report tomorrow morning at 0700."
Felix's eyebrow curled. The configuration report for the lateral sensor arrays had been due -- two hours ago, the Captain noted. And he'd said the word 'great' twice, within two sentences. Zolog was unlikely to outwit a door, let alone a Ferengi marauder or a Romulan scout.
Before he could develop the thought of his XO being outfoxed or indeed eaten by a fox, an eyes-only transmission arrived at his chair. It was the one he'd been expecting: it was brief, high priority and contained no small amount of colourful language, and it came from the fleet's head diplomat:
Captain, report to me the instant I return from clearing up your kneff-tih {fuck-up}.
"Commander Zolog?" The offending, slightly green face appeared in front of the Captain's chair with unwarranted immediacy.
"Yes, Captain. Did I do something wrong, Captain?" Casparo's perfectly tended eyebrows made a V of concern.
~Yes. You joined Starfleet,~ Felix refrained from saying. Instead he stood and batted Zolog's upper arm with his open hand. The first officer was confused by the gesture but, having not worked out any of his boss's extensive range of facial expressions just yet, assumed it wasn't a bad thing until otherwise indicated.
"I'm going to take a walk in the Arboretum and I'd like you to join me. Mr Touvey? You have the bridge."
Casparo bumbled along behind the Captain, looming over him silently like a not unpleasant spectre. They remained in silence in the turbolift, Zolog waiting attentively for orders while de l'Isle drummed the fingers of one hand along the vertical of his thigh muscle. There was truly very little room for manoeuver in this particular kneff-tih. The lift shunted imperceptibly to their right before offering them an entryway to the ship's most luscious feature: its arboretum.
Somewhere between a carefully maintained zoological garden and an outdoor resort, the Lone Star's environmental feature regularly astonished Felix in a small way each time. In the night he'd walk down from his quarters, usually with Lester, and discover some flora with an unusual seasonal effect, or a tonal resonance amongst some of the space's louder trees. Before or after his shift he'd take meditative strolls along the subtle, winding pathways that led to differing sections of the bioscape. Today, two of the Pelibasjan Sonar Monkeys had begun the physical part of their four-day reproductive display. The audible element of their procreation sounded like the first day of the month at a Risian love hotel.
"They -- are they?" Casparo squinted, hypnotised by the rainbow-coloured aura their sexual sweat created as it hit the air. "Wow, he's really taking a hiding --"
"Speaking of which, Commander, we're slightly fucked ourselves," Felix interjected. "I'm not sure if you have heard about our diplomatic mission to Taybid Six, except that it happened." Casparo shook his head emphatically. For his faults, Casparo retained information well and was incapable of bluffing. The former pilot studied his newish charge for a moment, then continued.
"There was an unfortunate sequence of events along the way that led to our not delivering Admiral Quarish in the usual manner. To be more precise, the Admiral was delivered to the red carpet opening of the conference packaged in food hygeine film.""Film? That sounds disgusting. Why did he want to wear that?"
Felix shook his head. "He didn't exactly pick it from potential outfits. It was an accident. One that we're still investigating. But one that the head of the Omega diplomatic mission is vocally unhappy about. The monkey isn't the only one who's ballsed up and we're about to come in for a pasting."
"They were indeed facing skywards, Captain," Casparo replied, with a tone that betrayed genuine concern about the primate's testicular orientation. Some long-abandoned rapidity of wit forced him to continue before the other man had the chance to reply which was, unbeknownst to him, to his benefit. "What do you think happens next, Captain? How can I help?"
The human chose to answer the first of those questions only. "Admiral McArnh wants to run me as a creditor or I'd already be polishing Sadie Stanton's boots."
"I had no idea she was so barbaric," Casparo whispered quickly, and in horror.
"Notoriously so. Practically mirror universe, eats four lieutenants a year, that kind of thing. Anyway." Felix pulled them up next to the pond. A double scull from the rowing team was manoeuvering rapidly around a sedge of heron. Various of the sentient algie glanced up to witness the spectacle. "We're in some kind of shit. I'm going to need you to get word around to the crew. Tell them to look like they're prepping for launch as best they can. Best we can do is wind up the drawbridges from Kincardine Station --" The Captain reconsidered. --"withdraw all current requisitions and appointments on the station to make it look like we're primed for departure. Or, I'd say, the likelihood is that we'll be grounded. And frankly I'm not sure I can be kept cooped up in this sector for much longer."
Casparo recorded all of this, point by point of the two points, to memory, accompanied by a nod for each part of the order. "And tell them to keep quiet," Felix added. "The less that McArnh hears through word of mouth, the better off we'll be."
"I won't let you down, sir."
"Good," Felix grumbled, not without gravity. He led on through the arboretum. "I should get to the bottom of this before I see him, but there's no guarantee he won't pull in the senior staff, too."
"I had heard Chief Monkfish talking about a gate this morning. Admiralgate, I think she said? And I was wondering what gate which admiral had been stuck in, or unable to pass. A cosmic gateway, or a literal gate, or -- have I missed something, maybe, Captain?"
It was not in his heart to crush this particular Zolog's eager face, Felix thought, as they swept around the outskirts of the sprawling, irregular green lawn. Not verbally, and not this time.
"When something's got the word 'gate' at the end, Commander, it's a reference to a political event from Earth's mid-twentieth century. A president of one of the nations, Nixon, was removed from his post for improper conduct. From then it became shorthand for indicating a controversial and usually negative situation. It's appropriate in this case because a large number of us -- meaning the entire crew -- is implicated."
Felix found his shorthand of jokes and quips sucked disproportionately more than they should when they had to be explained.
"Got it, Captain," Zolog announced, when he had. "So by recalling the crew to stations and having them departure ready, we can contain the situation from becoming any worse, which includes by people gossipping about it."
The addressee found himself pausing a couple of metres away from the arboretum's aft exit. "That's exactly it, Commander. In a shitstorm you batten down the hatches and make it work for you as best you can. Minimise risk to any positives you can capitalise on and to eliminate the chance you'll make it worse. The rest -- well, that's up to the powers that be."
The gateway had materialised in front of them, releasing itself from the holographic projection that obscured it when not needed.
"You have the bridge for the rest of this shift. I'll be in my ready room trying to get a timeline together."
Casparo Zolog was mercifully quiet for the remainder of the ride and for once, Felix didn't want to hit him.
"Shouldn't it be the powers that are? In Standard?"
Oh, but now... now he did.
-=-=-=-
by Captain Felix de l'Isle, CO
and Commander Casparo Zolog, XO [NPC apb Felix]
Weeks after the man had boarded the Lone Star for the first time, all grinning inanity and hairspray, Felix was still not accustomed to his vapid do-gooder of an executive officer. He wasn't the type that Felix wanted to call Number One and he couldn't see how he'd live up to Paxan, Zim or the other illustrious officers he'd given than title. Sure, his scores were well above average in every field and yes, he completed his tasks with efficiency and aplomb. But there was something missing.
Personality, imagination, inventiveness, defiance, wit: actually, there were a few things missing. de l'Isle tried to concentrate on Edie's latest level-three diagnostic report of the slipstream drive -- my recommendation is that we let Lonie out of the system and get on with it -- but found his focus drifting to a conversation at the back of the bridge.
"That will be just great, Ensign. You're doing a great job," Casparo intoned, to someone that might have been Ensign Burgundy. "You can turn in the report tomorrow morning at 0700."
Felix's eyebrow curled. The configuration report for the lateral sensor arrays had been due -- two hours ago, the Captain noted. And he'd said the word 'great' twice, within two sentences. Zolog was unlikely to outwit a door, let alone a Ferengi marauder or a Romulan scout.
Before he could develop the thought of his XO being outfoxed or indeed eaten by a fox, an eyes-only transmission arrived at his chair. It was the one he'd been expecting: it was brief, high priority and contained no small amount of colourful language, and it came from the fleet's head diplomat:
Captain, report to me the instant I return from clearing up your kneff-tih {fuck-up}.
"Commander Zolog?" The offending, slightly green face appeared in front of the Captain's chair with unwarranted immediacy.
"Yes, Captain. Did I do something wrong, Captain?" Casparo's perfectly tended eyebrows made a V of concern.
~Yes. You joined Starfleet,~ Felix refrained from saying. Instead he stood and batted Zolog's upper arm with his open hand. The first officer was confused by the gesture but, having not worked out any of his boss's extensive range of facial expressions just yet, assumed it wasn't a bad thing until otherwise indicated.
"I'm going to take a walk in the Arboretum and I'd like you to join me. Mr Touvey? You have the bridge."
Casparo bumbled along behind the Captain, looming over him silently like a not unpleasant spectre. They remained in silence in the turbolift, Zolog waiting attentively for orders while de l'Isle drummed the fingers of one hand along the vertical of his thigh muscle. There was truly very little room for manoeuver in this particular kneff-tih. The lift shunted imperceptibly to their right before offering them an entryway to the ship's most luscious feature: its arboretum.
Somewhere between a carefully maintained zoological garden and an outdoor resort, the Lone Star's environmental feature regularly astonished Felix in a small way each time. In the night he'd walk down from his quarters, usually with Lester, and discover some flora with an unusual seasonal effect, or a tonal resonance amongst some of the space's louder trees. Before or after his shift he'd take meditative strolls along the subtle, winding pathways that led to differing sections of the bioscape. Today, two of the Pelibasjan Sonar Monkeys had begun the physical part of their four-day reproductive display. The audible element of their procreation sounded like the first day of the month at a Risian love hotel.
"They -- are they?" Casparo squinted, hypnotised by the rainbow-coloured aura their sexual sweat created as it hit the air. "Wow, he's really taking a hiding --"
"Speaking of which, Commander, we're slightly fucked ourselves," Felix interjected. "I'm not sure if you have heard about our diplomatic mission to Taybid Six, except that it happened." Casparo shook his head emphatically. For his faults, Casparo retained information well and was incapable of bluffing. The former pilot studied his newish charge for a moment, then continued.
"There was an unfortunate sequence of events along the way that led to our not delivering Admiral Quarish in the usual manner. To be more precise, the Admiral was delivered to the red carpet opening of the conference packaged in food hygeine film.""Film? That sounds disgusting. Why did he want to wear that?"
Felix shook his head. "He didn't exactly pick it from potential outfits. It was an accident. One that we're still investigating. But one that the head of the Omega diplomatic mission is vocally unhappy about. The monkey isn't the only one who's ballsed up and we're about to come in for a pasting."
"They were indeed facing skywards, Captain," Casparo replied, with a tone that betrayed genuine concern about the primate's testicular orientation. Some long-abandoned rapidity of wit forced him to continue before the other man had the chance to reply which was, unbeknownst to him, to his benefit. "What do you think happens next, Captain? How can I help?"
The human chose to answer the first of those questions only. "Admiral McArnh wants to run me as a creditor or I'd already be polishing Sadie Stanton's boots."
"I had no idea she was so barbaric," Casparo whispered quickly, and in horror.
"Notoriously so. Practically mirror universe, eats four lieutenants a year, that kind of thing. Anyway." Felix pulled them up next to the pond. A double scull from the rowing team was manoeuvering rapidly around a sedge of heron. Various of the sentient algie glanced up to witness the spectacle. "We're in some kind of shit. I'm going to need you to get word around to the crew. Tell them to look like they're prepping for launch as best they can. Best we can do is wind up the drawbridges from Kincardine Station --" The Captain reconsidered. --"withdraw all current requisitions and appointments on the station to make it look like we're primed for departure. Or, I'd say, the likelihood is that we'll be grounded. And frankly I'm not sure I can be kept cooped up in this sector for much longer."
Casparo recorded all of this, point by point of the two points, to memory, accompanied by a nod for each part of the order. "And tell them to keep quiet," Felix added. "The less that McArnh hears through word of mouth, the better off we'll be."
"I won't let you down, sir."
"Good," Felix grumbled, not without gravity. He led on through the arboretum. "I should get to the bottom of this before I see him, but there's no guarantee he won't pull in the senior staff, too."
"I had heard Chief Monkfish talking about a gate this morning. Admiralgate, I think she said? And I was wondering what gate which admiral had been stuck in, or unable to pass. A cosmic gateway, or a literal gate, or -- have I missed something, maybe, Captain?"
It was not in his heart to crush this particular Zolog's eager face, Felix thought, as they swept around the outskirts of the sprawling, irregular green lawn. Not verbally, and not this time.
"When something's got the word 'gate' at the end, Commander, it's a reference to a political event from Earth's mid-twentieth century. A president of one of the nations, Nixon, was removed from his post for improper conduct. From then it became shorthand for indicating a controversial and usually negative situation. It's appropriate in this case because a large number of us -- meaning the entire crew -- is implicated."
Felix found his shorthand of jokes and quips sucked disproportionately more than they should when they had to be explained.
"Got it, Captain," Zolog announced, when he had. "So by recalling the crew to stations and having them departure ready, we can contain the situation from becoming any worse, which includes by people gossipping about it."
The addressee found himself pausing a couple of metres away from the arboretum's aft exit. "That's exactly it, Commander. In a shitstorm you batten down the hatches and make it work for you as best you can. Minimise risk to any positives you can capitalise on and to eliminate the chance you'll make it worse. The rest -- well, that's up to the powers that be."
The gateway had materialised in front of them, releasing itself from the holographic projection that obscured it when not needed.
"You have the bridge for the rest of this shift. I'll be in my ready room trying to get a timeline together."
Casparo Zolog was mercifully quiet for the remainder of the ride and for once, Felix didn't want to hit him.
"Shouldn't it be the powers that are? In Standard?"
Oh, but now... now he did.
-=-=-=-
by Captain Felix de l'Isle, CO
and Commander Casparo Zolog, XO [NPC apb Felix]
SD241902.13 - Two Aye See. [Casparo]
-= Starfleet Command, San Francisco =-
Of course, not all of the sons of Zolog practised psychotherapy.
Casparo Zolog stood taller than his peers at the presentation of the Crimson Sphere. He gleamed with accomplishment and efficiency and grooming and all the things Starfleet officers were supposed to be. He was command track efficiency in a uniform: he was the front of the brochure, the one that made it advertising rather than just a photograph.
The problem with Casparo Zolog? He was the thickest bastard you’ll ever meet, in muscle and wit alike.
This made Commander Zolog, second oldest of the seven sons of the renowned psychiatrist, problematic for Starfleet. On one hand Casparo was diligent, noble and persevering. On the other hand every one of his peers was unanimous: we can take it no longer.
“They’re going to give me my own starship soon, dad!” he had effused just that morning to his father, who had encouraged him with stony silence. But Casparo knew that was just a part of his humour.
“I can’t wait to be a captain. If I serve another year or two under Captain Hurn I’m sure she’ll put me forward. I’ve volunteered for the new expeditionary service, too. I’m sure after we’re awarded the Crimson Sphere they’ll consider me.”
It wasn’t that Casparo couldn’t do the sums, the methodology or the execution. The man, who presented more or less as human, was quick in a firefight and could fly a shuttle as decently as he had to. He was a good egg, as it were.
Only he had this unfortunate way of making everyone really bored.
Lovely, but you know.
You know.
“Yes,” said Zolog Bandawi.
“Thanks, dad. Your confidence means a lot to me,” Casparo beamed.
“Medical frigate,” said his father, in an apparently unconnected way, which Casparo chose to ignore.
-= Meanwhile =-
Stubbs and Blair had been on the comms deck for the better part of four hours. Despite the crewman-friendly support balustrades, all polyduranide and health and safety, their head-bashing total was a fair six against nine – unsurprisingly, in his favour.
“D’accch!” Stubbs shrieked. Una Blair, who had sidelined herself from the physicality of this competition some time before, chuckled glibly as her commbadge sounded, taking precedence over Lionel’s wittering.
“Crewman Blair.”
“–like a Klingon in labour,” Stubbs continued. Una swatted at him.
“Crewman?” asked their coordinator, clearly pressed for time. “What’s your progress on the secondary communications sub-processing relay?”
“We’re nearly there, Lieutenant Witterman!” Blair huffed, as though toil-heavy labour were being conducted at her end. “In fact, Crewman Stubbs is just clamping the housing back down now.”
This was a lie. Crewman Stubbs was feeling across his scalp for signs of blood, bruising or other distress. “Good. Next up, I want you to refit the exhaust manifold plating on –”
“Seriously, it might be bleeding,” Lionel whimpered.
“–deck at the secondary landing bay when you’re done. Witterman out.”
“Idiot,” Una hissed. “You talked over the assignment details. Was it the shuttle on C-deck or D-deck?”
“It was C-deck,” Lionel replied, with more confidence than was justified.
“Not D-deck?” Una, although naturally untrusting, was secretly relieved.
“Definitely C-deck.”
Crewman Stubbs and Crewman Blair proceeded to what they thought was the appropriate deck. On C-deck, in approximately twenty minutes’ time, a state-of-the-art high-warp convoy shuttle containing an assortment of command-level officers was due to leave for Kincardine Station, providing the nascent Omega Fleet with much needed personnel resource. On D-deck, a lowly, forty-year-old type-two shuttlecraft, intended for a new lease of life as a tug, rested under baleful, awaiting-repairs lighting.
Una and Lionel diligently began to strip the wrong shuttle of its exhaust manifold.
“It barely even looks used,” Lionel Stubbs mentioned in passing, shaving through a collection of self-sealing stem bolts.
“Much like your sexual organs,” Una retorted, cheerily ripping out the protective gauze from the invective absorption innerplate. This single, irreversible step would mean that any further intervention toward flightworthyness would require a full refit of the exhaust unit: in other words, a twenty-hour operation.
As the cross-hatched material tore from its housing, the doors to the C-deck shuttlebay floor opened to reveal no fewer than seven red- or gold-topped officers, two and a half pips or more, all clearly excited to be conveyed to their next assignment.
Una Blair had the kind of hair that looked greasy, stuck in something, at all times. Lionel Stubbs’s was a Levantine afro with no water-holding properties whatsoever.
“D-deck,” Una cursed at Lionel. “It was D-deck.”
And so it was that Commander Rhia Weir’s assignment to the Lone Star was once again deferred by a mission, perhaps two; that Captain Hurn would be spared the precise, unusual stupidity of the slow, fast-tracked Casparo Zolog; and that Felix de l’Isle of the USS Lone Star would be the next, unknowing recipient of the aforementioned.
“D-deck,” Lionel repeated. This was not a moment wherein he wondered why he was still a crewman.
-=-=-
by Commander Casparo Zolog, inbound (temporary) XO, USS Lone Star
with Crewmen Una Blair and Lionel Stubbs, probably temporary to their current location
Of course, not all of the sons of Zolog practised psychotherapy.
Casparo Zolog stood taller than his peers at the presentation of the Crimson Sphere. He gleamed with accomplishment and efficiency and grooming and all the things Starfleet officers were supposed to be. He was command track efficiency in a uniform: he was the front of the brochure, the one that made it advertising rather than just a photograph.
The problem with Casparo Zolog? He was the thickest bastard you’ll ever meet, in muscle and wit alike.
This made Commander Zolog, second oldest of the seven sons of the renowned psychiatrist, problematic for Starfleet. On one hand Casparo was diligent, noble and persevering. On the other hand every one of his peers was unanimous: we can take it no longer.
“They’re going to give me my own starship soon, dad!” he had effused just that morning to his father, who had encouraged him with stony silence. But Casparo knew that was just a part of his humour.
“I can’t wait to be a captain. If I serve another year or two under Captain Hurn I’m sure she’ll put me forward. I’ve volunteered for the new expeditionary service, too. I’m sure after we’re awarded the Crimson Sphere they’ll consider me.”
It wasn’t that Casparo couldn’t do the sums, the methodology or the execution. The man, who presented more or less as human, was quick in a firefight and could fly a shuttle as decently as he had to. He was a good egg, as it were.
Only he had this unfortunate way of making everyone really bored.
Lovely, but you know.
You know.
“Yes,” said Zolog Bandawi.
“Thanks, dad. Your confidence means a lot to me,” Casparo beamed.
“Medical frigate,” said his father, in an apparently unconnected way, which Casparo chose to ignore.
-= Meanwhile =-
Stubbs and Blair had been on the comms deck for the better part of four hours. Despite the crewman-friendly support balustrades, all polyduranide and health and safety, their head-bashing total was a fair six against nine – unsurprisingly, in his favour.
“D’accch!” Stubbs shrieked. Una Blair, who had sidelined herself from the physicality of this competition some time before, chuckled glibly as her commbadge sounded, taking precedence over Lionel’s wittering.
“Crewman Blair.”
“–like a Klingon in labour,” Stubbs continued. Una swatted at him.
“Crewman?” asked their coordinator, clearly pressed for time. “What’s your progress on the secondary communications sub-processing relay?”
“We’re nearly there, Lieutenant Witterman!” Blair huffed, as though toil-heavy labour were being conducted at her end. “In fact, Crewman Stubbs is just clamping the housing back down now.”
This was a lie. Crewman Stubbs was feeling across his scalp for signs of blood, bruising or other distress. “Good. Next up, I want you to refit the exhaust manifold plating on –”
“Seriously, it might be bleeding,” Lionel whimpered.
“–deck at the secondary landing bay when you’re done. Witterman out.”
“Idiot,” Una hissed. “You talked over the assignment details. Was it the shuttle on C-deck or D-deck?”
“It was C-deck,” Lionel replied, with more confidence than was justified.
“Not D-deck?” Una, although naturally untrusting, was secretly relieved.
“Definitely C-deck.”
Crewman Stubbs and Crewman Blair proceeded to what they thought was the appropriate deck. On C-deck, in approximately twenty minutes’ time, a state-of-the-art high-warp convoy shuttle containing an assortment of command-level officers was due to leave for Kincardine Station, providing the nascent Omega Fleet with much needed personnel resource. On D-deck, a lowly, forty-year-old type-two shuttlecraft, intended for a new lease of life as a tug, rested under baleful, awaiting-repairs lighting.
Una and Lionel diligently began to strip the wrong shuttle of its exhaust manifold.
“It barely even looks used,” Lionel Stubbs mentioned in passing, shaving through a collection of self-sealing stem bolts.
“Much like your sexual organs,” Una retorted, cheerily ripping out the protective gauze from the invective absorption innerplate. This single, irreversible step would mean that any further intervention toward flightworthyness would require a full refit of the exhaust unit: in other words, a twenty-hour operation.
As the cross-hatched material tore from its housing, the doors to the C-deck shuttlebay floor opened to reveal no fewer than seven red- or gold-topped officers, two and a half pips or more, all clearly excited to be conveyed to their next assignment.
Una Blair had the kind of hair that looked greasy, stuck in something, at all times. Lionel Stubbs’s was a Levantine afro with no water-holding properties whatsoever.
“D-deck,” Una cursed at Lionel. “It was D-deck.”
And so it was that Commander Rhia Weir’s assignment to the Lone Star was once again deferred by a mission, perhaps two; that Captain Hurn would be spared the precise, unusual stupidity of the slow, fast-tracked Casparo Zolog; and that Felix de l’Isle of the USS Lone Star would be the next, unknowing recipient of the aforementioned.
“D-deck,” Lionel repeated. This was not a moment wherein he wondered why he was still a crewman.
-=-=-
by Commander Casparo Zolog, inbound (temporary) XO, USS Lone Star
with Crewmen Una Blair and Lionel Stubbs, probably temporary to their current location
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