-= 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.
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]
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