-= 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