Eleven months after the world's weirdest olympiad had poured into Lone Star space, the wayward vessel continued its drift through the outer reaches. Felix found himself once again opposite Regina Monkfish. It was funny how someone that used to drive you mad could end up being reassuring with their madness a decade later.
Each of them had a whisky; the Captain watched as Regina wiped the rim rhythmically with a damp disinfecting wipe after each sip.
"And there's still no news from Starfleet, Captain? Honestly. You would think they had all come down with some sort of virus. Perhaps a purging tincture was supplied about at Starfleet Command. Maybe long-term communications are down. *There might have been spiders.*"
Felix pretended to mull her suggestions over. He missed having an XO; even Casparo Zolog's mutton interruptions would do but instead he had become the galaxy's first trappist communications officer. The Chief of the Boat and her inane, hypoxytrithate-induced elucidations would have to do for now.
"The last pod was supposed to contain our new Chief Medical Officer and Executive Officer. That was four months ago."
"But it exploded," Regina added helpfully. "Into 4.7 million pieces. I catalogued the majority –"
"And your work was instrumental," Felix replied. His head rung. "We've had the two test communications from Outpost 404. But other than that, we've scanned and we've scanned, and there's nothing."
"I could clean the array again, Captain?"
Roused to stand, Felix levered himself out of his ready room chair. "You did an excellent job of it this morning, Chief. No need to go out again." She had, he thought, to be the only person ever to have rubbed down the *outside* of the external sensors. Alone. With vinegar, and wire wool. "I'm not sure the problem is at our end. So it must be at theirs."
"So we should go back," Regina added, after a time.
That wasn't the question. He heaved artificially and lent his empty glass down on the table. One of Regina's underlings – a pair of identical twin Andorians she had taken to having in her shadow –provided a bottle to the CoB, who topped them both up. The Andorian petty officer retreated back into the shadows. Sometimes, Felix couldn't tell if they were still in the room.
The question was: how could he do best by his crew? Hell, it had been boring out this far. All the new races they'd met had been demure, polite, in hoc to some grand organisation or other that paid little mind to their starship from a far-away federation of planets. Not like anybody else on board held all that too dear anyway; they'd all taken it as read that Starfleet didn't want them long before anybody had actually told them, collectively, to scram. Would going back make things any better for them? And if they did and there was nothing to save? They'd be breaking mission orders and voided from saving themselves in the future. Out here together, then, or sectioned off back home.
"We'll give them another week," Felix said again. "And then – and then we'll see."
He sat back down, his blond fronds bouncing into place after him. "Cheers, Chief."
Regina beamed, enjoying her role as confidante. "*Yes,* Captain*.*"
"You must be enjoying the peace and quiet anyway? No–"
The room's hue crashed into flashing burgundy as a certain Ensign came on the line.
"Red alert, senior staff to the bridge!"
Felix rolled his eyes. "Famous last words," he mumbled to Monkfish. As the doors opened he seemed to pass his glass into an open space in the air, which took it away.
=-=
by Captain Felix de l'Isle and Chief Regina Monkfish