USS
Galaxy:The Next Generation Sim Log Stardates: 50207.30 - 50208.06 |
The sliding pressure door to Fleet Captain John Brhode's reception area hissed open suddenly, and the tall lanky figure of Dr. Jebediah Quick stumbled inside awkwardly. His expression and manner was very much one of surprise, as if he been leaning against the door it when it had suddenly decide to open of its own volition.
Clumsily regaining his balance and attempting to adopt the attitude of 'Nobody saw me do that therefore I can pretend it didn't happen.' Dr. Quick scanned the outer office.
Unfortunately, someone HAD seen him do it. Seven somebodies as a matter of fact.
The waiting area was filled to the brim with rather nervous looking Starfleet Officers in various states of worrying themselves into nice stomach ulcers and/or screaming hissy fits. One of the young Caitians in fact had adopted the rather disgusting habit of chewing on his long curved claws, a nervous gesture he learned from a human roommate back at the Academy.
"May I help you...Dr. Quick?" The dark eyed Betazoid behind the desk inquired of the newcomer, the subtle pause in her query no doubt being enough time to glean the identity of the stranger from his own mind. John Brhode was no fool. The receptionist was more than a pretty young face, her extrasensory perceptions also constituted a very effective securrity wall in screening out possible threats with violence on their minds.
What was he doing here again?
Someone had said something. . .
"Uh.er.yes..uh actually you can Miss..uh" Quick scanned the desk for the receptionists nameplate.
There was none.
"Miss.Tri*cough*lind*cough*elly." The ever resourceful Doctor slipped in the Betazoids unknown name under a mask of coughing hoping she'd be impressed. ~~Oldest trick in the human book!~~ Quick mused; quite proud of himself for being sneaky, forgetting that THIS TOO was being read by the receptionist.
"You can actually inform..uh." Quick groped for a name. Whose office had he fallen into? And why? Perhaps some sort of psionic 'you are here' system would be feasible. . . something involving a cyclotron and someone elses' cerebral . . . "Uh.inform your BOSS (~~quick thinking Jeb!! ~~) that I'd like to have a word with him."
Biting her bottom lip slightly to keep from giggling over the bushy-haired scientists amusing thoughts, the young lady nodded and keyed the office intercom.
"Captain Brhode? A Doctor Jebediah Quick to see you."
"Who's he when he's not bothering me? Some damned doctor? Send him to Malgin, the prissy little no good..." Bhrode's voice trailed off to a comm link murmer.
The receptionist chewed her lower lip and counted to five. "He's
from the Advanced Starship Design Board...R and D, and on your VIP list. . .?"
she added, wincing in anticipation.
Every eye in the room swiveled to appraise the Doctor who was oblivious to it
all, being rather enthralled by a lstrange color pattern in the waiting room
seat cusions... ~~ I can see. . . .e-t-e-r-n-i-t-y..~~
"QUICK?!? ABOUT TIME! In my office! Now! Doubletime!" barked the intercomm.
"The Captain will see you now..." the receptionist said, with a beautific smile.
At length the polished inner doors sighed open and the receptionist indicated that Quick could enter with a slight nod of her head.
The room of officers exchanged glances, glad THEY weren't Quick. A Ferringi Exchange Officer started offering long odds in a hushed whisper for how long 'this one' would last. For his own part Jebediah was wondering what he had (literally) fallen into, but decided to see where this random exercise in Chaos Theory took him.
~~There is no logical rational reason why I should endeavor to keep a meeting with some random stranger whose office door decided to eat me. . . .therefore by going ahead and KEEPING this meeting I defy the laws of reality and sunder the very fabric of the Universe itself, thus destroying all of reality as we know it!!!!~~~
Quick brightened at the thought. ~~~ Cool.~~~
And without hesitation he strode through the doors.
* * * * * * * * *
John Q. Bhrode tugged his tunic lower and watched the civilian who'd just wandered into his office. The large room was still bare of any personal items, the blocky desk covered with datachip after datachip.
Quick made a beeline for the enormous window, overlooking the berth facility. GALAXY hung there, like a fly caught in a silvery spiders' web, and Quick was instantly drawn to the subtle aesthetic curves of hull plating accentuated by the surrounding halo of spotlights.
~~~How utterly artistic in a Leah Brahms sort of way.~~ he mused.
Bhrode watched him for a few moments, eyes like glittering diamond chips.
"Took you long enough to get here. You're late." Bhrode finally said, by way of introduction.
Jerking away from the window as if stung, Quick noticed as if
for the first time the stern, sour-faced man before him. "Ummmmm..."
he said intelligently as he looked the gentleman up and down focussing at last
on the neat little buzz- cut atop the man's dome. Now somewhat self-conscious
of his own appearance, Quick ran a hand through his own wild mop of hair that
seemed to sprout out in all varied directions.
Bhrode's frown deepened.
For a modern day Flower-Child like Quick, there was a natural tendency to view the military with distrust. Coming face to face with a one-man ass-chewing , Federation-Issue machine like Brohde, therefore was something akin to sitting down to lunch with Judas Iscariot himself.
Not that Jeb Quick had the slightest clue who it was he was talking to.
"Yes. . . Very nice to meet you...Mr. Jo*cough*anny*cough*topher. . . . My name is Je--''
"Stow it.'' Bhohde interrupted, ''I know who you are. You were supposed to be here weeks ago to brief my staff on these new ship systems on the GALAXY starship refit, with emphasis on the weapons systems." and here Bhrode let a slow lazy grin out, to float across his face in an extremely nasty manner.
"But they're all tied up getting the ship ready for launch... so you brief me instead. So I can Launch." he snapped, his face returning to the mask.
It was round about that point that the significance of the giant Starship floating outside the window began to dawn on Quick.
The words....''weapons-systems'' . . . ''starship-refit'' and ''staff-briefing'' seemed to click with something in the dark recesses of his often cluttered mind.
~~~What was that thing I was reading the other day about advances in Pulsed Phaser Technology?~~~ Quick wondered, forgetting completely that it was rather something HE had written himself.
Another glance out the window at the Tri-Nacelled ship floating menacingly in her berth, and suddenly it all came home to him.
~~Three Nacelle?~~
"Great Googly Moogly MAN!!" he gasped in astonishment. "Don't tell me you guys actually built the silly thing!!!"
Bhrode stared in shock. He silently counted to ten, and then to a significantly higher number in a vain attempt to bring the newly discovered tic in his cheek in time with the pulsing of his forehead vein.
The entire Admiralty Board had warned him that Dr. Quick was a certified Grade A Genius. And that he was also a certified Grade A raving lunatic. But to FORGET that you'd designed the re-fit for -the- GALAXY class of starships?
Bhrode found himself reaching three digits in his 'centering and calming' count. With a mental note to yell at Commander Dallas, Karyn for not being there to calm him down, Bhrode attempted to explain a few facts for this "damn dirty hippie" currently goggling at the GALAXY like he'd never seen it before.
"Yes DOCTOR. we built her. Actually, we modified her. Hence my use of the word 're-fit.' They did. To the specifications YOU sent them. You are Dr. Jebediah Quick, are you not?" Bhrode demanded, his voice cold.
"Yeah well, usually." The wild haired man gestured again out the window. "But that's no reason to go and do all THIS." He indicated the starship helplessly.
"Well, you're Dr. Quick, that was the USS GALAXY, and it's now all mine. So tell me all about this Pulsed Phaser whassit that everyone points the finger at you about and generally pisses and moans over. And for that matter, tell me about the rest of this crapola you shoved onto MY SHIP!" Bhrode shouted
Tearing his eyes away from .'IT'.Quick studied Bhrode with a quizzical expression. "The Pulsed Phaser?" he repeated, "You built it too? Good Lord dude, what textbooks are ya'll reading up here? Mutt n' Jeff meet Mr. Scott?"
Bhrode pointed one blocky finger at the ship in the window. "THAT little PPC of yours is going to unbalance the status Quo of the Alpha Quadrant in the Federation's favor. That PPC is going to give the Romulans a kick in the ass. I can take a Warbird out with it, if it works as promised. The Galaxy packs more punch than even that PROMETHEUS piece of crapola. My XO's are literally drooling over her in the Tactical Simulators."
~~What the heck does the Greek god of Fire have to do with ass kicking?~~ a distant part of Quick's mind wondered, but it got drowned out by the rest of his brain 'fuzz'
"Well that's all cool of you bro', " he said, "but I don't think you got your sources straight on this stuff."
Bhrode ignored the 'bro' for an icy minute.
"Excuse me? I seem to see your name all over these diagrams and charts. They even call the Warp Field Stabilizing fins a 'Quick Fix Fin.' Didn't you. . ." Bhorde began.
"Well yeah I DID sorta design this three nacelled variant of Brahm's pet project, but I never actually figured anyone would go ahead and build it."
"Let me get this straight. They gave you the GALAXY class warpfields and, in the face of all Logic and Canon Engineering, you figured out a way an ODD number of Warp Nacelles can work? And you didn't think they'd ever 'use' the data you came up with on your 'lunchbreak? Is that right?"
Quick gestured frantically at the larger than life Starship, his whole body shaking with disbelief.
"Why? Because it WAS A JOKE! That bitch Brahms kicks me out of her dorm room and threw all my stuff out on the curb sophomore year, and so I did this little a little doodling over some blueprints she was preparing, just to piss her off. I just put that third nacelle there because it looked cool, man !!"
Something Brhode said clicked in Quicks mind. " Whoa Dude! You mean the extra engine thingie works?" he exclaimed, "COOL!"
Bhrode stared aghast in horror at the jittering Doctor.
"Since the NX class, it's been thought you had to pair Warp Engine Nacelles in tandem , or the fields would tear the ship apart. THAT thing works in every simulator imaginable, for some reason." Bhrode mused.
~~~ Probably because your simulator program is screwed. . .. ~~~ Quick thought but didn't say anything. ~~~That thing is gonna make mashed potatoes out of anyone silly enough to fly in it.~~~
Then the Fleet Captain stood and tugged his tunic down. He shoved his lined and Federation Issued face right into Quick's.
"I'm SO glad you're coming along with us, when we see how your little 'joke' actually works in practice. At least if I die when we flip the 'on' button, it's going to be with my other hand wrapped around your neck. By the power of the Admiralty Board of Starfleet, under the 'Emergency Powers Act' you are hereby drafted into Starfleet as a 'Consulting Civilian' and accompanying the USS Galaxy on her shakedown cruise. Complaints may be directed to the Admiralty Board. Dismissed!"
Two thoughts immediately flashed through Quick's foggy mind.
A. ~~ I'll never work. My life is at an end. The conflicting sub harmonic vortices coming of an unbalanced tertiary nacelle will resonate on the singularity level ripping open the space time continuum and thrusting us out into the Outer Darkness of hell itself...~~~
and
B. ~~~I'm drafted? Cool. I wonder when I get my phaser gun?~~~
The Federation General Council Great Chamber, Geneva Earth.
The Federation Council chamber was a hive of murmors at the best of times. When a Council member had the floor and introduced a point of order, the discussions and shifting of allegiances created the impression of a hive of insects in the arched Great Hall.
But with the Junior Member from Earths’ latest proclamation, the room had ground to a shocked halt. Even his own supporters looked aghast at his timing.
Kirel of Andor lept to his feet, being the voice of ‘reason’ with Ambassador Spock still absent on one of his ‘missions,’ and the nomanitve ‘Number Two’ in the Minority ‘Dove’ Party.
“You cannot DO that! It specifically states in the Constitution that the Diplomatic Corps. . .”
Claude Guignon, the Junior Represtentitve from Earth stared down the Andorian.“Thank you sir, But I still have the floor, No?. I move for the Council to accept this plan as outlined, under the Emergency Powers Act enacted last week. Mister Vice President?” and Guignon indicated the elderly Caitian sitting ont eh posium and moderating eh meeting.
The Vice President of the United Federation of Planets let his rheumy gaze pass over the crowd. His lips peeled back from chipped and yellowed fangs.
“As the Emerrrrrrgency Powerrrrrrs Act, enacted last week states we MUST accept the proposal from the Majorrrrity parrrrrrty without the benefit of the vote, then so be it.”
The Vice Presidents’ disgust was palpable, but with Spock gone, the Minority Party had been swamped out by the opportunistic ‘New Defense Reform’ party.
“I object. . .” began Kiral again.
‘SILENCE!” roared the old Caitian, none of his races’ temper diluted by the years.
‘The Juniorrrrrrr Rrrrrreprrrrrresentitve from Earrrrrrrrth still holds the floorrrrrrrrrr, and will do so until the Emerrrrrrrrrgecny Powerrrrrrrrrrs Act is rrrrrrrepealed.” Stated the Vice President, more moderately.
Claude Guignon drew himself up taller. In another era, he would have looked just like a religious fanatic. But in the24th century, religion has been replaced by other systems.
“So. . . the Federation Liasion Corps now exists … no?” he declared. Another being might have gloated, but Council member Guignon had a mission of his own choosing.
“Yesss.” Sighed the Vice President, longing for the old days, when it was all trade tariffs and eh Klingons calling for Kirk’s head on a platter.
Guignon’s eyes roamed to where Fleet Admiral Nakamura glared at him. Nect to Nakamura, Commodore Illyanovitch from Intelligence traded inscrutable gazes with the politician.
The Vice President’s words for the record settled the matter.
“In the thrrrree hundred and thirrrrd Generrrral Session of the Generrrral Council, Bill Alpha seventeen thousand, Ninety seven is herrrrreby adopted underrrrr the Emerrrrgency Powerrrrs Act without Discussion, dissolving the Federrrrration Borderrrrr patrol, Diplomatic Corrrrrps, and Federrrration Burrrreau of Investigation and establishing the Federrrration Liason Officerrrr Corrrrrps, to perrrrrform the duties of those offices, rrrrreporting to this body.”
Amidst the buzz of discussion, Guignon moved to his next point.
“We now ask that the esteemed member from the Mithrite Alliance be heard, regarding the allocation of discretionary funds to the…’
You’d think stars would have shifted their courses, at the grave import of what had just happened.
Lysander stared out the porthole and glowered at the workbees manhandling a skeletal piece of support bracing past the view.
~~~Smegging Princess.~~~ he mused.
True to her form, Commander Von Ernst had simply left, in the middle of the flurry of activity to get the ship ready for launch, to go to the Academy.Captain Bhrode was calling for people’s heads to be delivered to him right and left, and she had ALL the files coded to her own personal mnemonic system.
Wondering WHY the baby talk system held such fascination for her, Lysnder turned back to the new Weapons sytems refit specifications (which he’d found filed under “Newbibbitty Boombibbitty Boom”)
With the ship still practically deserted and under Security lockdown, Lysander had a lot of space and solitude to work in. Something he luxuriated in, after a year of the close quarters and violent accomodations of he Imperial Klingon Deep Space Fleet.
With a sigh, and a guilty feeling that no one was screaming at him for “Sitting like some weak and crippled, honorless P’takq when you could stand like a warrior and flog your enemies to death with their own spleens!” Lysnader sank deeper into the brand new ‘comfy’ chair and glowered at the pile of PADDS he’d brought with him.
Of course, with the smegging ships Computer cores offline, the ship was a boring place to be.
Still. . . at least it was quiet and peaceful. And it had that ‘new ship’ smell to it.. a smell of. . .
“LYSANDER DARRRRLING, THERE YOU ARE!” rent the decks’ peace and quiet, the shriek sounding like a wounded Denebian Devil.
Lysander jumped out of the chair, halfway to the nearest Security Mini-Armoury Phaser II lock down point, before he registered the source.
“Smeeeeeeeeeg!” he muttered, as Miss Samantha Mekeala Widdlestein (Aged 10) bore down on him like an Ambassador Cruiser charging a Klingon Blockade.
“Darrrrrrling!” she trilled, her face lit up like a warp core “I have been positively SEARCHING for you everywhere. Arel says “If you love something set it free. If it doesn’t come back, hunt it down and squish it.” And THAT’s what I did with YOU darling! Except the squishing bit. I let you go, knowing we’d be re-united here! Mummy says don’t fight fate and this is fate. Stop slouching and hug me, Darling.” She moved to hug Lysander.
Carefully keeping the couch between himself and the slight form Lysander circled warily. Long , painful and embaressing experience had taught him that Miss Widdlestein’s company was best enjoyed at a distance, preferably measured in Galactic Units
“Errrrrr? You? First HER and now YOU?” he replied
“HER?” asked Miss Widdlestein, scrunching her nose and wondering if she should dye her hair red. “SHE is here? I thought . . . didn’t they transfer her to Breen?”
“huh?” retorted a lost and befuddeled Lys.
“Darling!” she cooed again.
“Smeg that! What are you Bugface, six now?” he demanded crossly.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Every kid on Starbase 212 knew that look, and to avoid any dark access tubes for a year or so if it was aimed at them.
“Ten. I am TEN now. Do you KNOW what I had to do to get us here? Do you KNOW what my mother said? Mummy said that. . .” she began.
“Ask me if I care. Don’t you have a home or something? This is supposed to be a secure area…” Lysander began again.
“Oh, some Security geek was on the gangway. I kicked his shin and ran past him. Arel says ‘All the Other Security People are Dorks, it’s on the application.’ What’s the little red dot in the middle of your forehead?” Sam breezed.
“Smeg, I was about to ask you the same.” Lysander replied.
At a tap on the viewport, both swiveled to see a pair of Marines in EVA suits, pointing what seemed to be shoulder mounted plasma cannons at them from outside the ship. The targeting lasers making identical points on each of them eminatting from the grossly huge tubes.
“Is this… little girl . . . bothering you Sir?” asked a voice that made them both jump, as they goggled at the Marines with Heavy Weapons outside the ship.
Ignoring the emphasis on ‘little girl’ Lysadner replied ‘I should smegging well say so…errr…” as he grasped for the name of the woman who’d appeared in the lounge as if by magic.
“Master Gunnery Sergeant Major Goldstein, sir.” Was the clipped reply, as the black battlearmor clad figure seemed to float towards a helpless Samantha without apparent effort or even moving.
“Right.” said Lysander watching with grim satisfaction as the tiny figure was hauled up in one servo assisted hand.
“We’re still supplementing the Security people, since they seem sort of dim, even for Fleeties. Begging the Commanders’ pardon.” Betty said.
“Oh carry one. I should tell you about the time that Old Corgan killed this android and then…” Lysander nebbished.
“Fascinating, I’m sure Sir. To the Captain?” Betty asked, holding Sam far enough out that her kicks wouldn’t connect and shaking her for emphasis.
“Oh… if you insist Gunny.” Lysander cackled.
“Of course I do, sir.’ Betty replied.
Samantha was staring at Betty with enthralled eyes.
“How old do you have to be when you apply to the Corps?” Lysander heard her asking, as she dangled at the end of Betty’s arm.
“Eighteen. Keep that knife in your left sleeve and I won’t take it away from you.” Lysander heard as the puzzling reply.
~~ Women!~~ he mused, mostly to himself.
The stars in a galactic night, everlasting as the galactic night was, were beautiful as they twinkled and sparkled in the infinite expanses of space. Around each star was its own set of asteroid, chaotic little balls of rock and minerals that circled the flaming giants that bore life. And if the odds were in the favor of the solar system and the exact positioning of the gigantic rocks called planets, one or two of them may even contain life. Odds were also that some of this life would become sentient, and take off to find more ways to expand.
The Sol System showed signs of sentience gone mad. Humans traded their beautiful blue planet for the cold, unforgiving void of space. They expanded, marring the asteroids, draining planets of their resources, and moving on. Then the structures in space grew, like skeletal hands intertwining around the planets like vines around a stone wall, until the face of the solar system was changed.
And what heed did the humans give to this marvel of engineering and natural beauty, working together in a symbiosis that took decades and even centuries to figure out how to perfect?
About as much attention as it took to look briefly out of a porthole.
At least, that was how it felt to Indiana native, Ensign Jody Brenton. He briefly looked out the porthole of the runabout Saskatchewan, making a brief note of how pretty the stars were out in space, before retreating to the inside of the runabout with the rest of his companions.
“Hey guys,” Jody twanged in his Midwestern accent, comically reminiscent to the cowboys of an earlier time, “Looks like we’re near.”
Jody was thoughtful enough to herald the arrival of the runabout at Utopia Planitia Shipyards long before the pilots thought about announcing the arrival time. The runabout weaved, kicking up smatterings of ion wake as the small ship puttered through the yards on impulse power. Two hotshot pilots manning the runabout smirked; two cocky examples of fleet stereotypes. Adjusting their aviator shades, their fingers flew over the instrument panels, touching the buttons of their ‘little lady’ and coaxing a positive response. It was almost sexual, allowing two men to play with her buttons, built the runabout didn’t seem to mind. She clicked and giggled, her moves feeling like she was being tickled.
Narrowly hitting a dry dock, the runabout fancily barrel rolled between a work bee and a spinning chunk of a Constellation’s saucer section, the two pilots made a game of their transit. Avoiding the debris of the shipyards deconstruction area.
Thanks to advanced inertial dampening systems, the passengers didn’t notice. Or rather, six different passengers. The first was Jody Brenton, the farmboy from Indiana turned meat truck. Big for even a kid from the Midwest, he was lounging on his chair, carefree and smiling as usual. He was a people person, and keeping happy kept people calm. Or so his mother told him.
Next to him was his academy chum, Ensign Brin Taro. The turquoise skinned Andorian kept to himself, leaning up against the runabout interior, his eyes averted to the floor. He radiated a ‘don’t go near me’ field. People person he wasn’t. A ying to Brenton’s yang.’
As silent as the Andorian, Lieutenant jg Walter Marsh sharpened his combat knife with a laser scalpel. Meticulously, the laser scalpel went up and down the shiny blade; the metal glowing with each pass. The ends of his headband hung loosely over his shoulders, caressing his shadowy cheeks.
Lieutenant jg, T’lan was busy re-aligning her ‘katra’ in the center of the room, cross legged and her fingers and palms joined in a Vulcan prayer. Her eyebrow twitched when she heard every noise, her concentration broken time and time again. Though austere on the outside, she secretly wished the erratic humans would keep quiet.
Lieutenant Shelly O’Rorke was the closest thing to someone normal in the crew. A lawyer by trade, she was reading the latest issue of ‘Legal Monthly’. Her annoyance was closer to the surface from the Vulcan, and for good reason. She had a neighbor.
That neighbor was Lieutenant E’xch, the cockiest, gutsiest, most aggravating Denobulan in the galaxy. He was one of the many rapidly promoted officers because he showed ‘potential’. Problem was, potential went into the ego stroking star like puffweed fumes to his head. Attention and accolades were his goals, and he honestly believed everything the Admirals said. He also claimed to be a ladies man, much to the chagrin of Shelly O’Rorke.
“On Denobula, I have five wives.” The smug Lieutenant sang, “For a Denobulan my age, that is quite an accomplishment. It shows virility, you know.”
”Go away, Lieutenant.” Shelly murmured unattentively.
“Now surely, you would be impressed to know that I was at the top of my class, and that I have been decorated multiple times by Admiral Jurgen…”
”Shut up, Lieutenant.”
“You haven’t heard the best of it. Why… once I held back a dozen L’huraxani Honor Guard with nothing but a Type One phaser…”
Jody stepped in to shut up the chattering Denobulan Lieutenant. Speaking like a negotiator dealing with a bomb threat, he said, “Sir, the lady said she didn’t want to talk. Let her be, ok?”
Acting hurt, the Denobulan Lieutenant went on the offensive to strike back at the Ensign, “Ensign, you never talk to a Lieutenant like that. Especially me. If I can take care of two dozen L’huraxani Elite Honor Guard with my bare hands, then what do you think will happen to you?”
“Now… come on…” Jody smiled, his deep voice part calming and part warning, “You know I don’t want no trouble. Just want y’all to ride in peace, ok?”
“Hmmmphh…” E’xch snorted, looking down at the lower ranked officer who was a good head taller than him, “You’re just an Ensign.”
“Shut up, E’xch!” A voice from behind everybody barked. As everyone turned around, T’lan was silently meditating, acting none the wiser. She was the only other female in the room, and the voice that demanded silence was female, but T’lan acted as innocent as if it could have been Lieutenant O’Rorke.
Brenton, O’Rorke and E’xch looked at the Vulcan, agape. The silent types, Taro and Marsh, could have cared less.
“You talk too much.” O’Rorke scolded.
E’xch snorted a response, but recoiled back. Brin Taro’s eyes locked onto the Denobulan, speaking more than his mouth could spew forward. This stopped Lieutenant E’xch’s verbal excess. He slunk back, sitting in the corner and keeping quiet.
T’lan didn’t smile, but did derived satisfaction from E’xch’s silence.
The pilots broke up the Security Officer’s tense standoff, their aviator accent sickeningly thick, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are currently flying over the beautiful and scenic Utopia Planitia shipyards. Over to your left, we have what we like to call the masher… that’s the pretty little glowing thing that melts down starships. And over to your right is a classified vessel.”
”Heh heh….” The other pilot laughed jovially, “It has a third nacelle. It’ll never fly.”
E’xch’s face plastered itself onto the port porthole. He stared starry eye out the porthole like a starstruck teen. He started to gibber uncontrollably, and his face turned as white as chalk. Over and over, he stammered, “Tweek… tweek… tweek….”
The Galaxy was sprawled out on her dry dock like a Dominion
War pin-up girl, toting an extra large megaphaser cannon that would make a Starfleet
Marine bawl with erotic passion. Scantily clad in tritanium armor, she held
three bountiful warp nacelles and two perky pulse phaser placements on top of
the saucer section. Her graceful neckline at the engineering section were sculpted
from an artist, while the recent battle additions were like a form
fitting suit of platemail armor. She was a warrior, beautiful and deadly. “Tweek……”
Lieutenant E’xch drooled.
“What’s his problem?” Ensign Brenton chuckled good naturedly.
Shelly O’Rorke stepped up to answer, “Tweek. Denobulan for ‘powerful’.”
“Hah! You don’t say. What do we call the Lieutenant? Munchkin?” Walter Marsh’s leathery voice crackled.
Ensign Brenton laughed out loud. Ensign Brin Taro snickered, the first noise he made during the entire trip.
“Ahhhh… so he speaks.” Lieutenant E’xch peeled his eyes away from the USS Galaxy, his gaze spastically switching back and forth from the silent Andorian to the powerful ship off their port bow.
Brin Taro glanced once, then back down on the floor. He was concentrating hard on who knew what. Hard to tell if he was trying to act tough, or if he was trying to ignore E’xch. The Denobulan received the hint with one look from cold faced Andorian’s eyes.
Once again, it was the pleasantly sociable Jody Brenton to speak on behalf of the Andorian security officer. “Sir, that is Ensign Brin Taro. We were school chums back at the academy. He’s one of the silent types, but y’all don’t let that fool you. He’s a master of Andorian Sand Scorpion fighting. He’ll bust you down to a notch or two until you’re a yeoman.”
”Hah! Guess how hard he would have to smack you to do that!” Shelly jested, “Go ahead, guess, Lieutenant!”
“I don’t think another cutting comment would help
this conversation anymore, Miss O’Rorke.” E’xch snipped at
the most vulnerable target, “And I’ll have
you know, I have a ninety seven percent rating at Anbo Jytsu. I’m a dangerous
person when I need to be.”
Roused from her meditation, T’lan added, “Anbo Jytsu training at the academy is nothing compared to the rigors of Andorian Sand Scorpion martial arts. You would be thinking illogically if you thought you could win a fight with Ensign Taro.”
“But Anbo Jytsu is the ultimate martial arts! I would learn nothing less!” E’xch indignantly sniffed.
“He is a practitioner of the martial arts. You have basic training. Needless to say, your logic is skewed.” T’lan unemotionally rumbled. Ensign Taro, before the center of the argument, shrugged his shoulders in silent amusement.
Taking the comment the wrong way, E’xch’s wounded pride demanded satisfaction. “Did you just insult me.”
”Vulcans do not insult. We merely point out the obvious.”
E’xch dropped the argument after figuratively dropping his brass orbs. He slinked into the corner, suspiciously closer to Lieutenant O’Rorke. Shelly snorted, rolling her eyes back and burying her head into her magazine.
Walter Marsh wasn’t done. He had one last comment to add into the conversation, “Lieutenant. How long have you been an officer?”
E’xch answered truthfully and arrogantly, “About… two years. Why, lieutenant?”
Walter Marsh stared down at the floor, shaking his head disdainfully and clucking his tongue, unimpressed by the brash Lieutenant’s constant lording. “Kid, I know your type. Some Admiral or Captain sees some potential in an Ensign, and they promote them. Sometimes, the kid gets lucky and gets a few medals, but he gets promoted too fast, leaving them not enough time to learn the basics about leadership and humility. We called them munchkins during the war, and because they thought they knew how to survive….”
“Uh huh….” E’xch eagerly waited for the end of the story.
Marsh concluded, “…they would often make mistakes… fatal mistakes. They would end up being the first to get fragged due to their actual ineptitude. Kid, if you were at the war, you would be phaser bait, and truthfully I’d be the one booting your ass out of the trenches. Don’t hit on the women and don’t disrespect your peers. Ok?”
To illustrate his point, Lieutenant Marsh deactivated his laser scalpel and threw his knife in the air. He pulled the knife sheath out of his gym bag, and seamlessly the knife slid into the sheath as it plummeted to the floor.
E’xch, deadpanned and somewhat scared of the grizzled Dominion War Vet, walked backwards, hitting the rear exit unexpectedly. He jumped off of his feet, turning around to see that he hit the wall instead of going through the doorway. But as he was retreating to his private room, the shuttlecraft clanked to a halt as docking moors snapped into place, shaking the ship and sending Lieutenant E’xch off balance. He held onto a bulkhead for dear life, while the others calmly shook but didn’t lose their footing.
The aviators in the pilot seat announced, “We have arrived at docking padd 4 C Alpha Gamma White, Utopia Planitia shipyards. Thank you for flying Calvin and Calvin’s Runabout Spacelines. Have yourselves a pleasant tour of duty.”
“Over and out.” The other Calvin crackled over the speaker
The doors to Engineering parted like a theater curtain at the begining of a play, the scene laid out with colored key panels and the quiet hum of machinary.
Ella felt a twinge of excitement like she had never felt while on stage. This was it, she thought. This was big time. She walked over to the officer who looked the least preoccupied and handed him a prepared PADD.
*ENSIGN ELLA GREY, REPORTING IN FOR DUTY. IM SUPPOSED TO SEE LT. COMMANDER SAMARA.*
The officer nodded and pointed towards the Cheif Engineers office. Ella signed 'thank you' even though she didn't think the man would understand and headed over.
*************
Just as Ella was about to reach the door, a string of vile cursing
came from inside, "I don't care what the goddamn kangaroo fucker says,
there is no way in hell that I am going to let those buffoons back on the ship!!
The fusion reactor was working before they decided to tinker with it.... I don't
care who they call themselves! They could be the Martian Frisbee Champions,
and I still wouldn't let them over here... Go talk to your superior then.
K'Eytyanna out."
Looking after slamming a fist on the desk, a black-haired woman with an angry scowl on her face noticed that she wasn't alone. Visually calming herself by breathing slowly, she grinned after a few moments,
"Hello, you must be one of our new engineers. I am Lt Commander K'Eytyanna Samara, Chief Engineer. You must be Ella Grey, right? I know I have a bad rep, but if you do your job right, you hopefully won't need to be on the recieving end."
Ella remained passive but her blue eyes sparkled with amusement.She would have to remember some of the Cheif's quaint terms for one of her mother's garden parties. Ella took out her PADD and quickly keyed in a new message before handing it over to K'Eytyanna.
*I PLAN TO DO MY JOB WELL, SIR. I WASN'T AWARE THAT THE MARTIANS PLAYED FRISBEE.*
Grinning, Kay smiled and handed the padd back, "This is gonna go really well. I'm deaf and you don't speak. I just hope that somebody else in this department is blind, so we can really screw with theCaptain's mind. Oh, by the way, you just got promoted to Assistant Chief, and you will be also in charge of Damage Control. Knowing Brohde's reputation, that is going to be one pretty hairy work, but I think you can handle it. Has anyone shown you around yet?"
Ella shook her head and tried not to let her jaw drop for the second time in a day. Assistant Chief? Already? 'Wow' didn't even cover it.
"Well, let me show you the dime tour then." Kay replied.
Minutes felt like hours. Waiting inside the docking hatch, Kylar could feelthe psychological effect Brhode was trying to exact on him. The security guard who'd disappeared several minutes ago had not returned as yet. The walls felt closer, caving in on him as he hunched inside the small cubicle.
Members of the crew, young and old, Terran and alien alike filed past him. He could smell their distinct odors, and he felt sweat beads form on the back of his neck. He was becoming irritated at being forced to wait this long. He tugged down his uniform and ducked around the corner to come to a dead stop against the hulking guard who was at this point returning for his mark.
"Captain Brhode will see you now." The deep gravelly voice of the brooding officer carried confidence and daring down to the diminutive liaison officer.
Kylar stuck his pointed chin out, the dark hairs of his goatee bristling with the slight sheen of perspiration, and stared up at the behemoth.
"Take me to your leader." The Kelvan sneered at the guard as he drilled a cold stare into him. The 6 and a half foot giant just glared back at him, never breaking his emotionless visage. Kylar almost hoped for a confrontation, but he needed to establish intellectual superiority over the minions foremost. Better to defeat them psychologically. More damaging to the psyche. Much more difficult for stupidity to heal than wounds. How did that Earth adage go? 'I may be fat, but you're ugly, and I can diet.'
"He's on the Bridge. Take turboshaft 8." He moved aside to to let the smaller of the two pass and gestured down the hall. He touched the panel to the left of him after turning his back to the Kelvan. Major mistake if the Legate was on the attack.
"Designate signal markers to turboshaft 8." The dark consoles running through the center of the corridor lit up to flow a trial of light measured against the body to lead him to his target.
Kylar nodded and made a mental note to keep an eye out for this one. He followed the red flow of bread crumbs to the shaft. Officers and crew passed him by as he ventured forth through the greyed out corridors. Work crews were still refitting various power panels and couplings throughout the ship it would seem on the countdown to launch.
He found the turboshaft and stepped inside. The stench of benzite gas still hung in the air, as well as some form of perfume. A pair of humans and an Andorian were already occupying the space when he entered. If he was in the mood, he'd discuss military history with the Andorian, but this one looked like a wimp, wearing the soft teal of the Sciences division of Starfleet.
The shaft doors closed with a sigh.
[Please state your destination]. Kylar grimaced. A female voice. No one listened to women as well as men. They weren't as strong, as evidenced by Kalinda from the first expedition. If it weren't for her, surprise would've been theirs and the Alpha Quadrant at the very least would've been under Kelvan rule.
"Main Bridge." The turbolift moved instantly along its path to deposit its passengers. Some little man, balding and sporting a sheriff's star was blathering on behind him. The woman he was yammering on to was trying to ignore him, with little success. The lift stopped, and she exited, muttering something about El Magnifico.
Again, the lift continued on after the door closed.
"I've never seen that kind of inisgnia before. Are you some kind of secret agent? Can I join up? I'm a G man...G-spot man. . . " Leo Streely, hunk o' man extraordinaire, tapped Kylar on the shoulder where his rank patches were positioned and tried to peer over at him.
The Kelvan could not believe the indignity of being touched by this stinky little toad and instantly grabbed his fingers where they intruded on his space. He twisted them hard, making little Leo shriek in pain.
"Hey! What's up with you tough-ass types? First Raven, then you! OW!" He was bent over in an inhuman effort to save his fingers from breaking. "I can arrest you for assault you know!" Kylar simply glared at the puke, then feeling sorry for him, released his grip.
"Don't ever touch me again, you poor excuse for a lifeform, or suffer the consequences." Leo nursed his wrist. He pointed at his shiny star on the right breast with his uninjured hand.
"This says I'm a certified deputy of security, as well as a bona-fide Jedi Master." The Andorian in back chuckled and Leo gave him a look almost as injured as his hand, which still ached but was thankfully unbroken.
"Deputy, if you ever come near me again, I'll have you certified alright, for I will have what little mind you have left forceably removed through your ears as I make damn sure you hear my words." The doors silently sighed open behind him, revealing the Bridge of the USS Galaxy. He put a finger up to Leo's face as he was about to say something, his mouth agape. "I mean it." He exited the turbolift without saying another word then, letting the doors slide shut behind him.
"You will bend to my will...." Leo whispered the plying ways of the Jedi in mindtrick skills as the bulkhead separated them on their diverging paths.
Kylar took in the scene around him. No one seemingly noticed his arrival amidst the last-minute rush to complete the refit of the working systems on the bridge. Cabling, structural beams, and parts of crew were dangling about. The garbled sounds of electronics fluttered about as consoles were tested. He stared out the working viewscreen to admire the size of the StarDock. The Galaxy was docked at the edge of one of the giant platforms moored outside and he could see the flutter of the stars against the reddish vista of Mars below. Other platforms could be seen from this vantage point with varying degrees of vessels frm all walks of life. Freighters, research, scout, and military, which he admired the sleekness of against the more robust exploratory older ships.
His eyes passed from the screen around the bridge to the other side, where Brhode's Ready Room was located. He ducked under a beam sagging over Tactical on his way to the doors and ringed the buzzer. His eyelids slowly rolled to the door as he awaited the response.
[Who is it?!] The exasperated grunt of Captain Brhode rung through the intercom. Several of the crew stopped what they were doing for a quick moment to get a look at Brhode's next victim in the interview process he had started upon taking command of the Galaxy.
"Legate Curran, Captain. We have an appointment, I believe?" He tried to maintain his cool. This was going to be a tough meeting.
[Wonderful. The Liaison puke. Fine! Get in here!] The door sighed open as the lock clicked to allow entry.
Kylar inwardly smiled and was actually looking forward to the conflict. This was going to be fun.
"Enter!" barked Bhrode at the chime to his new Ready Room.
He'd just moved aboard, prior to the lauch for the ship and the room was bare and impersonal. Where some Fleet officers had starship models, exotic weaponry, or holopics of Casey Diernan, The Federation President and themselves, Bhrode had blank walls.
Where some Officers had desks full of trophies, and gold plated antique pens and astrolabs to fiddle with, Bhrode had a rank of precisely aligned Datachips, and a stack of PADDS in the regulation 'foursquare' arrangement. And nothing else.
The sole adornments were a holopic of a younger Bhrode and a group of Fleet and Marines, all standing around a Jem'Hadar corpse and grinning, arms interlocked almost as if they were holding one another up in wearied fatigue. . . and a pair of hand made cowboy boots, peeking around the corner of the desk.
When the Legate entered, Bhrode's wintery grey eyes narrowed in the sort of look that made Ensign Fudgeknocker whimper.
He took in the shining linked and unfamiliar silver insignea on the man's collar and he tugged down his tunic in irritation.
"Sit." Bhrode's voice cracked, indicating the chair before his desk.
"I will stand, thank you." He faced down the man whose reputation in Starfleet was larger than life. Through his immediate perception and peripheries, he sized up the situation in a matter of seconds. This would be a hard-nosed encounter, and a duel of egos. No dancing around the issues.
Bhrode just grunted and continued assessing the being before him. The frown on his face indicated that he found -something- about the immaculate, spick and span officer distasteful.
"I surmise you know who I am, Captain, and what I am doing here?" He tucked his hands behind his back, after setting the satchel on the offered chair, and burned his hardened gaze into the older man, who he couldn't say was wizened in his years.
"I would assume you're what the Federation Council is calling a Liason Officer and you're here to tell me you're going to be my babysitter, and you're looming over me in some halfassed psychological ploy to try to obtain the 'higher ground.'" Bhrode finally broke his silent contemplation to reply.
"I am not here as a 'babysitter', as you so aptly put it Captain, but only to ensure that Starfleet regulations are adhered to in an expeditious manner." He narrowed his focus on the Captain, maintaining composure as he attempted to dissuade a sneer on his part. "But if you feel you are being subjugated to the task of a child needing discipline, maybe you subconsciously feel the need to be babysat." Glitter in his eyes. No emotional response from Brhode, though.
"You're a Kelvan." The statement was not a question, it was a simple flat fact.
"How perceptive of you, Captain. You did do your homework after all."
"This is not the Andromeda Galaxy. Your people were given a home here and were told the consequences if we had to kick your tentacled extra-dimensional asses again. You cross the line on my ship, and Council mandate or not, I'll be all over you like ugly on a Targgoth. That is not a threat. It is a promise." Bhrode answered, his face icy, but the tic in his cheek giving proof of strongly suppressed emotions.
Kylar knew Brhode would try to enforce his idea of power over him with the typical human threat when one felt inferior to another.
"You can promise nothing, Captain, except your own sense of inferiority in the face of intelligence. You are an irrational being who has a tendency to make inefficient and irrational decisions, which in turn become actions. Do not make threats with me, Captain, for I *am* here because of a Council mandate, and you answer to the Federation just as much as I do, with the exception that the Council has ordered you to be the first in a long line of future hierarchies of structure to be host to the newly anointed Liaison Corps. Have you thought why you were the first?"
"Absolutely. I never should have called Admiral Nevachyev a 'fat milch cow' on that Fleet exercise. Or maybe it was when I mentioned Hanson should have survived Wolf 359 so we could shoot him for stupidity. Either cause, let's review that Brief, shall we Mister. . . ?" Bhrode asked.
"I am simply an aide, to work alongside yourself and fellow Command crew. To undertake in the negotiations of First Contact encounters, facilitate matters of intergalactic law, assist in the needs of Ambassadors to and for the Federation, and ensure strict adherence to Federation treaties, charters, and rights of the citizens of the Federation and all its allies. Especially to ensure rules are not broken by Starfleet in matters of great import." He emphasized the last sentence as if to stress he was speaking directly to Brhode himself.
Bhrode stifled a yawn. "I am told... rather ... ordered by Starfleet Command to allow you access to my ship and the Command areas thereof at all times, at a security clearance my Executive Officers and myself alone enjoy. This displeases me greatly. Basically, I think you're going to be in my way. I don't like things that get in my way. I usually kick them clear out to Breen. So don't get in my way, Legate." Bhrode said.
"So long as you adhere to Starfleet rules and regulations, Captain, I will stand aside. If I see any potential incidents that could jeopardize the reputation of the Federation, I will arrest them immediately and suppress them permanently if need be. Do not threaten me Captain, for I can and will use the powers at my disposal if I need to."
Bhrode digested this for a moment.
"You interest me greatly, Legate. I've never killed a Kelvan before. In this form, you don't look like shit." Bhrodes' eyes swept the figure again. "They have one of those belts on display at the Fleet Museum. One of my Academy instructors was on the Enterprise when they encountered your race. He always claimed that Admiral Kirk didn't even break a sweat nailing your asses."
Bhrode was almost taunting the Legate, seeing how far he could push this being.
"*CAPTAIN* Kirk spent more time chasing emotional demons
from the weakness Kelinda had shown in his favour. Not once did he show any
kind of offensive tactic in establishing superiority over Rojan, for he would
have been killed without thought. You had the element of surprise back then,
but we have defeated the psychological weakness that is inherent in your species.
Why do you dwell on the past, Captain? Do you honestly think you
can institute mindplay on one whose mind is infinitely more disciplined than
your own?" He stared down the bridge of his nose at the aged dinosaur before
him.
"You have a somewhat better than average tactical mind, Captain, but that is your only saving grace. I am here to teach you discipline in your actions, and efficiency in your decisions. Terrorism is a failing, and signifies a fear of looking weak in your crew's eyes. All it accomplishes is motivation in doing enough to get the job done, but no more. You need to learn positive motivational skills."
"Tell your masters that their message has been received. Now git. Shoo. Go away Mister Curran, Legate and mouthpiece of the fat politicians. 'Positive Motivational Skills'.. my ass. You'll be nattering about group hugs next."
Bhrode turned his attention back to his terminal, with a dismissive snort.
"No problem, Captain. I just wish to inform you I'll be taking up residence on Deck 3 in the VIP quarters. I am required to maintain close contact to the Bridge and officers quarters on Deck 5. Be aware that you will be unable to use the lavatory without my watching you don't bend regulations to your will in doing so. I'll see myself out, thank you." The Legate gathered his satchel and resolutely exited the Ready Room.
With that, the battle lines had been drawn, and the struggle for supremacy began.
It was with a mixed mind that Hugo waited to see Bhrode for the first time in what he considered too long. But there was his indecision right there. He looked forward to seeing him again...he had a liking for the man that no one had seemed to understand...that no one else he knew had shared, until now.
Edith had come back with a smile on her features from her meeting with Bhrode, she'd liked his attitude, impressed her...and something about Shakespeare...
What concerned Hugo was the thought that he'd go in there and Bhrode wouldn't give a damn about seeing him one way or another...afterall, it had been a long time...and Hugo had changed a lot. Married, as settled as possible with a Starfleet Officer as a wife, Marines ditched for teaching...what would he think?
"Can't I go in yet?" Hugo asked, motioning to the door with a hand as he halted his pacing.
The brunette smiled...even if it was more of a smirk. "I'm afraid not..." She gave a seemingly casual glance back to her work. "You seem awfully eager..."
"Hm." Was Hugo's only response as his arms folded and he strolled about, looking up at the ceiling.
After what seemed like an hour, he was finally allowed through, and Hugo moved quickly for the door, slipping carefully into the room, finding himself standing a couple of feet back from the desk, his posture almost as if he was about to be inspected. Dilemma: How should he address him? Hell...he was a teacher now...a civilian...shove it, he should say what he wanted to, that was one of the reasons he left the Marines in the first place. "Hello Captain, been a while." He said with a smile.
John Q. Bhrode glared up from the PADD he was inspecting.
"Park it Mister." he indicated the chairs, bolted to the deckplates in front of the brushed steel desk. Bhrode's wintery grey eyes raked Grant from head to toe. His frown deepened.
Dropping down into a seat, Hugo's spine automatically stiffened under Bhrode's scrutiny as he looked back at Bhrode.
Then the usually dour Captain broke into a grin. He reached into his desk and produced a blue bottle of what could only be highly illegal Romulan Ale and two glasses.
"'Captain?' at least it beats what you used to call me. I have a pipsqueak of an XO who can import the stuff from the novas know where. He doesn't say and I don't ask. I just confiscate one bottle out of three." Bhrode mentioned in passing, filling both glasses and passing one to Hugo.
Hugo held back the sigh of relief and instead gave a laugh as he lifted the glass slightly before taking a drink. He gave a slight cough at the strength, looking at the glass with a smile. "Seems you got yourself a good deal."
Bhrode nodded and kept staring out the window at his ship. "well. . . as I live and breathe.. the Ice settled down and got married. Betty Goldstein is gonna laugh her frown right off her face. You remember her? That tiny little thing under the stripes? She got the Medal of Honor for saving us all. I hear the Commandant of the Corps had to hold her down for them to pin it on her." Bhrode chuckled.
Hugo gave a laugh at that. "Well, from what I heard, you were one of the more enthusiastic at holding her down..." Hugo replied with an eyebrow arched in amusement, looking innocently into his drink.
Bhrode waved a negligent hand. "She deserved it. Should be an officer. She's got balls. Too damn pigheaded for her own good. It's like USS Odyssey Reunion week around here. Old Leftenant "Injun Jim" is a major now and commanding the Marine FIST aboard. Betty's a MGSM and putting the fear of God and the Corps in my Security drones. I'm saddled with some civilian lunatic who apparently designed the re-fit of the ship as a 'joke' and the ship itself is going to be the biggest political provocation since the Romulans crossed the Zone."
Hugo gave an almost sly smile. "You always did have a way of making sure you were right in the middle of things...now don't try and persuade me you're not revelling in it all..."
Bhrode's sly grin spoke volumes.
"I met your better half earlier. I'd rather tell Goldstein she's short and kick some more Jem Hadar in the teeth than have that one mad at me." Bhrode swirled the blue liquor around and studied it, seemingly nonchalant.
Hugo gave a laugh as he shook his head. "I learnt that one the hard way."
"Anyways, I don't have a lot of time. Just wanted to see 'Jimmy the Ice' one time before I had to put back on the Face of Command." Bhrode's eyes drifted back to the ship.
"What do you think of her?" He asked, a touch too innocently.
Hugo's own gaze followed Bhrode's, looking at the ship with his head tilted slightly to one side. The tone he picked up on in Bhrode's voice made him want to smile, yet at the same time made him realise there was something expected of him. He thought carefully for a moment over the right word. He finally found one that served the needed purpose. "Intricate."
Bhrode snorted.
"Damn powder keg. This maniac who designed the refit did too good of a job. The Federation has twelve of these, someone's gonna get some ideas about expansion by force. The Romulans are going to shit if they're looking down the business end of this ship." Bhrode toyed with the glass some more.
"And that's *not* what this is all about?" Hugo said quietly, watching Bhrode but knowing he would take it for the rhetorical question it was.
"You know me Ice, I go where they tell me to and kick the asses I find there. With Picard fartarsing around on rebuilding of Enterprise next door... that lady is THE 'Pride of the Fleet' for a while. I need to know about my people. I feel. . . . " Bhrode stared off into space.
"Go on..." Hugo leant forward a little, taking a drink, feeling the need for it at the way the conversation was going.
"I feel like I can't trust any of them. None of them are like you and I. None of them know what it's like to trust someone with your life, to have people trusting you with theirs." Bhrode swivelled that creepy gaze back to Grant.
Hugo held it with ease, giving him a faint smile, but it was more of a token thing for the man because he knew only too well what Bhrode meant. "They'll learn when they have no other choice but to."
"I know how you feel about... well... what you're doing now. I won't re-activate your commission unless I have no other choice Jimmy. But, with this new Federation Liasion Corps crapola.. it may not be me doing it. I have a bad feeling, Ice. A real bad feeling."
"Look, Flowerbuck..." Hugo shifted a little uneasily in his chair. "I know what you're saying...and I've also learnt that men with instincts like yours were once burned...but I've moved on from that old life. I'm a teacher now...I work with children...I'm a happily married man...and I don't want to have to go back."
Bhrode glared, the mood shift was palpable.
"If some alien bastards come for those kids and that family, I expect that Ice Grant is gonna be right by my side. Because I'm going to kick their alien asses so far up their bodies, they will be removing my bootprints from the inside of their heads. Assuming they have heads."
Bhrode's hand banged the tabletop hard.
"You were a whiny little fuck back then and you've gotten softer since. If the shit hits the fan, you better wise up and do what the hell the Corps trained you to do. Or else you're going to be a liability to us all. Now get the hell out of my sight." Bhrode thundered.
Hugo knocked back the last of his drink and set the glass neatly on Bhrode's desk, shaking his head slightly as he stood...'a whiny little fuck that was good enough for you to use to save your god damned fucking arse at the time...' ran through Hugo's mind as he headed for the door. Who the *hell* did Bhrode think he was? Hugo had given up the Corps...a liability? He was a *civilian*, he had nothing to do with it anymore...the idea was he didn't have to do a damned thing anyone told him to anymore...especially men like Bhrode.
The incoming call was quickly patched to Bhrode's temporary office by the Stardock Two staff.
When it's the Chief of Tactical and Strategic Planning calling, you put him through.
When it's CTSP calling for Bhrode, hell.. ANYONE calling for Bhrode, you put them through twice as fast.
"When is that damn ship leaving port?" demanded Admiral Jurgen Hoth, his face flushed.
Bhrode did the stare.
"I asked you a question, dammit." Jurgen Hoth pressed.
"When I damn well decide it's ready. You bastards double crossed me." Bhrode said in a flinty tone.
"What?" demanded the Admiral.
"The whole Admiralty Board. you rolled over and let them install these... commissars... on our ships. These damned Federation Liason Corps people.You specificaly gave me free reign in my crew, and then you let them plant a goddamn babysitter on me." Bhrode informed him.
"I had nothing to do with that. . . " Hoth began.
"Jesus H Christ on a hoverboard! You believe your own lies, or can't you tell the difference anymore?" Bhrode thundered.
Hoth stared flabbergasted.
"You should have seen it. A Kelvan, the pompous little shit, standing here and telling ME about discipline. Haven't I taken enough mobs and made them into crews? You and I both have the same rep, Jurgen. We're the ones they send in when the shit's up to their noses." Bhorde was winding down, his blocky fingers still curling into fists however.
"I want to know about. . ." Hoth started again.
"Wonder Boy and Von Ernst are sharing duties and that is that. O'Connell can handle teh Threat Arch without you shoving your hand up his ass and making his lips move. You promised me free reign in training those two, unless that was more bullshit the Council's gonna change now?"
"And your Second officer?"
"None of your damn business." retorted Bhrode
"It's that cripple isn't it?" Hoth demanded.
"That cripple can be a damn fine officer, for a woman and an Counselor. You mind the Tac Weenies and I mind my Command Staff." Bhrode replied.
"She's a cripple! What is it about that ship, you all have to have a damn crippled woman as.."
"You want VonErnst back like Price would give her to you? You want another Yar Hallas? No? Then shut your damn fool mouth." Bhrode replied.
"When is the ship leaving port?" demanded Hoth, in a quieter tone.
"As soon as my crew is assembled and this maniac Quick says everything is ship shape. Unless the Council has some commissar to watch him work too?" Bhrode fussed.
"You had better watch your tone...I'll be watching you and that ship very closely, you can bet on that. Or my name isn't Jur. . ."
The power died with a slow whine. Servo capaciters smoked sparked and jumped in the walls.
The entirety of Stardock Two switched to Emergency power generators, washes of red light everywhere.
==This is a class one power outage. All non essential systems are on standby mode. Please remain calm, Technical Operations will have power returned to essential systems in three standard hours. No life systems threat.==
While the LD comm was down, the internal comm line to Bhrode's desk was lit like a Xmas tree.
"Captain, Dr Quick on line one. Chief Engineer on line two, Fleet Engineering on three, Power Services on Four. Security on five. . . "
Bhrode sighed and flipped the first switch, coming into the middle of a conversation.
" . . and if you DO that, you shunt the whole generator load backwards into the dockside power couplings! You can't just go and DO that when the ship's in standby mode! No one would even try it! You are a nutcase!" a voice was raging.
"Really? It seemed like a cool idea..." mused the voice of Doctor Quick.
"Dr Quick?" Bhrode asked, with his forehad vein throbbing uncomfortably.
"I mean, if you tried to backflush the warp core and it worked , why not the..." Quick continued.
"DR QUICK!" Bhrode bellowed.
"Wow, like, your power distribution node talks!"
"Bhrode here."
"Who? Oh .... sure. It's a comm, I got it. What?"
"You called me?"
"I did? Oh... OH! Yep. We urmmm.. there's a problem."
Night time at the Red Dwarf was anything but calm and peaceful. Rowdy Starfleet officer, malevolent marines and salty shipyard workers all mingle in one large, stupendously noisy bar and grille located on Stardock 2 at Utopia Planitia shipyards. The Red Dwarf was the social place to go if you were an officer looking for a good time, a good pint of Romulan Ale, or a bite to eat. There was no place else that could match.
It was a Friday night at the Red Dwarf, meaning that it was crowded with more officers than the norm, but not enough to endanger the dock’s strict fire and hull breach regulations. The joint was hopping with people, dancing to music, mingling at the numerous red oak tables and chairs,harassing the barmaids, ordering drinks at the counter bar that seemed to span an entire city block, and just having a good time under the Red Dwarf’s glaring red lights. Stealthy speakers that blended into the walls pumped out ancient Earth party tunes to set the mood.
A security detail, assigned to the USS Galaxy, was now taking its first opportunity to get to know each other outside the runabout in this chaotic setting. Lieutenant E’xch thought he was a natural in this kind of environment, ‘charming’ the people whom he joined with tales of bravery and testicular fortitude. Lieutenant Shelly O’Rorke feigned interest, trying her hardest instead to talk to someone else. Lieutenant jg Walter Marsh wasn’t helping the beleaguered O’Rorke. He was cradling a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass, pouring shots into the glass and gulping them down gruffly. Neither was Ensign Brin Taro of any help. He leaned up against the wall of the bar, close to the table but looking down as usual. Lieutenant T’lan at first thought she could help her comrade in arms, but decided that E’xch illogic would trigger a massive migraine. She let O’Rorke become E’xch’s listener, closing her eyes to the social setting and trying to find order within her in such a chaotic world. All were drinking, except for the Vulcan. Each one was slightly buzzed from the bar’s drink selection.
“Why, at one time I single handedly found the cure to the Lesefian Genital Wart Plague. The people of Lesef Prime were most greatful.” Lieutenant E’xch spouted off, “Why, to show their gratitude, they sent Lesari, their high priestess of promiscuity, and all ten of her best disciples to my quarters and…”
“E’xch, I don’t want to hear it!” O’Rorke sighed, then snapped.
“But you haven’t heard the best part!” E’xch objected.
“Oh… I’m sure I heard it before in one of your cheap, ‘best selling’ holonovels, you hack.”
“I’ll have you know, they are high quality works of art that have been approved by the Streely Erotica Association, all which I am very proud of!”
“Oh god, I wasn’t expecting an answer to that…”
Much to O’Rorke’s relief, big boy and meat truck master Ensign Brenton returned. The Red Dwarf was slow on service during peak hours, so the friendly and impressionable Ensign from the American Midwest was sent out for livations. With a smile and a chuckle true to his pleasant nature, Jody was back with a tray of drinks. Her savior, granted he was much younger than her, was her knight in white armor and a black stetson. She was going to be saved from the black knight E’xch!
Lieutenant ‘Tweek’ E’xch wasn’t letting up on his lecherous assault, “You know, if you want, you could play the role as the high priestess of promiscuity….” He said with a leer.
“Ummm… sure, whatever.” O’Rorke shoved E’xch to the side, gratefully taking the tray from Ensign Brenton’s hands, “Thank god you’re here! I was wondering what happened to my synthale.”
“Right where you left it ma’am,” His good natured jest put O’Rorke in the mood to enjoy herself, “And right where I picked it up. That’s a synthale for you… a Black Hole for E’xch…”
“Thank you, Ensign. Now, get me a terran nacho platter….” E’xch ordered.
Jody deflected E’xch’s order, the Denobulan seriously overestimating the hold he had on the lower ranks, “Hey Brin… got your Andorian Sunrise.”
The blue faced officer walked away from his wall and took the drink from his tray, “Thanks, friend.” He said coldly. Unfriendly wasn’t his intention, it was how Brin Taro always talked.
“No problem, good buddy.” Brenton’s voice twanged, “And a…” He saw the bottle of Jack at Walter’s table, and a similar bottle of Jim Bean on his drink tray, “I guess you served yourself.”
”Leave the bottle.” Walter grimaced as another shot slid down his throat.
“Alright… then…. T’lan gets the bottled water and I get the longneck of Coors.” Jody distributed the drinks among the rest of his group. Sitting down to his brown bottle of beer, he said, “So, here’s to being together for a great tour of duty.” He raised his glass in a salute, beckoning the rest of his mates to join in.
“Here here!” E’xch trumpeted, his glass clinking into Brenton’s bottle. Lieutenant Marsh’s shot glass then joined in followed by Brin Taro and O’Rorke. Glass met glass in a symphony of good times, but the last one to join in was a tall glass of clear mineral water.
Everyone looked dumbfounded to see a Vulcan joining in on a toast.
“Believe it or not, Vulcans derive satisfaction from joining in socialization rituals with other species.” She explained, “And since you are crewmates, I thought establishing a social bond would help in our co-worker relationships. Therefore, ‘toasting’ was a most logical choice.”
Brenton was the first to speak, always diplomatic and kind, “Why, you’re the friendliest Vulcan I have ever laid eyes on, T’lan. Most Vulcans I’ve meet were downright cold. They didn’t like a good ol’ boy from down home, you know what I’m saying?”
“Most Vulcans don’t care to be around humans due to their irrational and illogical behavior, but unlike a few people in my race, I do not see that as a valid obstacle for social interaction. As a matter of fact.” T’lan leaned over the table and sipped her drink, “I find some of you people… fascinating.”
O’Rorke was genuinely impressed by the Vulcan, spoke to Jody, “In other words, she likes us.”
“That would be an inaccurate term. Vulcans do not ‘like’. And I admit, a certain member of our group tests my patience.” She icily glanced at E’xch.
Being the bonehead that he was, E’xch innocently asked, “Are you talking about Marsh or Taro?”
Lieutenant Marsh sighed, sending another shot of liquor into eternal oblivion, “F**king moron…”
Brin suppressed a smile, but didn’t keep his hand from hovering dangerously close to the backside of E’xch’s head.
The boisterous cries of hardy partying Starfleet Marines were heard over at the next table, singing an ancient Earth tune out of tune and out of proportion. “Black velvet in that little boy’s smile…. Black velvet in that slow southern style…” They bellowed like drunken water buffalo, high on good spirits and liquid ones too. “A new religion that will bring ya all to your knees, black velvet if you…… PLEAAAAASSSSEEEEE!!!!!” They sang along to the jukebox’s low toned song, stomping and swaying to the infectious bass rhythm of the old Earth hit, also hitting off noisy ‘na na’s’ at every beat.
“Marines… go figure.” Marsh belted another shot and poured another bitterly.
In the background, one exceptionally inebriated marine, the center of everyone’s attention, bawled out, “You should have seen that security officer from the Galaxy. What’s his name… Corrigan or something? He told off Betty, I swear it. Stupid security officer doesn’t know his place, he does.”
“I wish they would shut up.” E’xch commented, and for the first time everyone agreed with the Denobulan nicknamed ‘Tweek’, “Perhaps I ought to do something about these people. Stand aside, I will tell them to keep the noise level down.”
“Don’t be an idiot, munchkin.” Marsh blocked his way with an outstretched hand, “These are marines. They’re like us, only stupider and more prone to anger. You’ll be phaser bait at their hands.”
“Nonsense!” E’xch huffed, “They are taking away enjoyment from my evening, and I won’t stand for it!
The marine continued, “Saw the security chief myself, I did. He’s a scrawny little dork who wears glasses like a computer geek! And his eye scar looks like it was a nail scratch! And he had the nerve to tell us to go away! Bet he wouldn’t be so tough if we had a round with him!”
“E’xch, contain yourself. It would be unwise to provoke a violent reaction from these people.” T’lan merely observed E’xch’s face turn bright red, his eye ridges crimson and his hairs bristling on edge.
“And the department is a joke! Best of the best my ass!” Another marine joined in.
E’xch couldn’t contain his anger any longer. “THAT’S IT! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR TIRADE, YOU IGNORANT SONS OF DENEVIAN SLIME DEVILS!!!!!!!!” He yelled, hitting the marines head on with his scream.
It also silenced the bar.
Bad omen.
“Ho… boy. E’xch really done it this time.” O’Rorke gasped.
“I suggest you all grab your bottles. You may need to use them.” Lieutenant Marsh suggested. His years of experience as a bar warrior and a trench fighter were not easily ignored. Soon, everyone except Brin Taro and T’lan were uneasily holding onto their drinks, unsure if they were going to finish them before the evening was over.
The group of security officers, save for T’lan (who thought
this precursor to aggression was the most illogical human practice yet), escaped
from their seats to back up their loudmouthed friend. The group of marines faced
them, as varied as the security officers. There were four humans, three males
and one female, all serious faced and flushed with intoxication. There was a
completely sober Vulcan marine, who stood to the side, uninterested in
fighting for an illogical reason. Lastly, standing nearly a shoulder below everyone
else, was a Ferengi with snaggled teeth and huge lobes. Brenton thought, ~”Bizarro
team…”~
The first marine, a platinum blond, Germanic man, walked up to E’xch, tapping the Denobulan on the shoulder, shoving him with his finger. He said, growling like an impudent lord with a thick German accent, “You want us to be quiet? Huh?” He shoved again, “Do you? Do you think you can make us be quiet, crater face?”
“I’ll have you know that my ridges are a sign of virility, unlike your steroid shrunken testicles.” E’xch retorted smugly.
“Hey!” A deep voice of a huge black man boomed, coming from a man as big as Ensign Brenton, “You can’t talk to us like that… unless you want your ass kicked.”
“Bring it.” Brin Taro’s wintery voice blew in like a subarctic frost.
“I’ll bring it all right. I’m bringin’ it all to your momma’s after we’re done with you!” Rasped another officer, the other token Caucasian human whom looked dangerous with his balled fists.
“Want to say that to us up close, or are you going to hide behind that bar table of yours?” Lieutenant Marsh challenged.
“Bring it, mister!” A woman in the group, also platinum blonde and very young, snarled, acting tougher than her small frame would normally allow, “I say the b*tch is mine.”
“F**k you, slut! Go play with your Starfleet Suzie dolls!” Lieutenant O’Rorke walked dangerously close to the female marine, eye to eye and nose to nose. The female stare down was in action, and one woman was going to walk away with plenty of claw marks.
The Ferengi grinned, showing off all his sharpened teeth. He hissed once defensively as the security officers and marines inched closer to each other. He added into the smack talk, saying, “Starfleet security doesn’t have the lobes to take on marine officers. I say we take them out back for a lesson in humility.”
“Whoa! Hold on there boys!” Brenton stepped in between the two groups, his hands outstretched to give the two groups a meter of free space, before anything else went out of hand, “Come on now, everyone. We are all Starfleet officers. Why are we fighting each other?”
“Because you’re loudmouthed Denobulan couldn’t shut up.” The German officer retorted.
“Or perhaps it was because you dishonored our department’s name, shiester star.” E’xch venomously hissed.
But before the two officers could charge in with all fists flying, Brenton stopped the two with his brute strength, “Come on now, fellas. We don’t need to do this. We’re Starfleet officers, not children at the playground. We don’t need to start any more trouble for the fine proprietors of the Red Dwarf. Lets just get each other a round of drinks and be friends, ok?”
Brenton wanted to drive his point home by offering a handshake to the marines. He turned to his friends, who eased up their defensive stances, and was progressing to turn around to see the marines. He was glad to try to make peace. He hated to fight, and he hated to see the rivalry between the marines and security continue. Perhaps this was a first step toward reconciliation.
The marine rivaling the gentle giant in size did not realize this dream. His hand swept upwards as he turned around, flicking off Brenton’s prized black suede Stetson. Ensign Jody saw his cowboy hat fly off his head and onto the ground, and watched in horror as the Ferengi stepped on the Stetson, crushing his cowboy hat with a cruel grin.
“What’ll you do about that, honky?” The big marine rumbled.
Something inside the chivalric cowboy snapped somewhere between the cap’s death blow. His mind screamed enough. Nobody messed with the Stetson. NOBODY!
The marine who flicked off his hat balled his fists and swung,
but was deflected by a block. He couldn’t have anticipated what was to
happen, because Jody Brenton’s hamlike fist was flying at warp 9.9 into
the bridge of the black officer’s nose. The big man fell as if pole-axed,
hitting the
floor with a bang. Enraged, Jody jumped after the officer as he tried to recover,
his arms grappling with the big marine’s muscular arms.
The other marines wanted to jump in, but if it wasn’t for Lieutenant Marsh’s quick thinking, Jody would have been the recipient of a flurry of boots to the ribs. Marsh’s hand swung upwards, beaning the German officer in the head with a bottle of JD. Whiskey and glass showered over the marine’s head. The German staggered back, and then charged into Marsh. E’xch, still trying to register what was going on, was jumped from behind by the Ferengi. The big eared alien snarled and howled as E’xch tried to fling him off his back.
Or would have charged into Marsh. Brin Taro came in with the
save, tripping the marine as he ran by. Smugly, the Andorian smiled, but then
was met with a boot to the gut by the other Caucasian male in the party. The
Andorian artfully dodged and blocked the terran marine’s quick reacting
fists and
feet. They broke off, the Andorian in a sand scorpion defensive stance, and
the marine facing off in a French Savate stance.
The two women were the next to face off. Once before prim and
proper like an English lass, the female marine was a tiger the next. She pounced
on Lieutenant O’Rorke, buffeting her with well placed blows to the solar
plexus and the jaw. O’Rorke barreled into their table, scattering drinks
and glass as the marine jumped over the table to grapple her. The marine’s
slender fingers were around her throat. Shelly croaked as she felt the air escape
her. Desperately, she fisted her hands and slapped, her hand clapping the marine’s
ears. She wailed balefully as O’Rorke rolled her off.
T’lan observed the violence in action, still seated even though her table had been upturned by O’Rorke and the female marine. Currently, O’Rorke and the marine were throwing fists wildly. Ensign Brenton and the huge black marine were wrestling like two gigantic lizards, trashing The Red Dwarf as if it was Tokyo. The German and Marsh were circling around each other, waiting for a weakness to show up. E’xch was running around the bar, screaming as the Ferengi was yanking painfully at his hair. In retaliation, E’xch’s fingers grabbed a hold of the Ferengi’s lobes and squeezed. The Ferengi let out an ear splitting shriek, adding to the horrid noises and screams. E’xch was still running and screaming, not letting go of the Ferengi on his back. Brin Taro and the kickboxer were on the main dance floor, the blinking disco lights highlighting their ballet like fighting movements.
“So illogical.” The Vulcan marine commented, “Such violence from these people. It is a wonder that you are one of them.”
Smugness and snide comments from one Vulcan to another was the most insulting way to speak to anyone in the universe. To hell with their hidden veils of emotions, T’lan decided to put the Vulcan marine in his place. Her hand rested on his shoulder and pinched hard at his nerve. He grimaced, showing the Vulcan version of feeling pain, and collapsed, unconscious.
“Perhaps some you will understand the error of your comment.” She spoke coolly.
Soon, the entire bar was erupting into one large fight. It would start with one inflamed marine or security officer bumping into another marine or Starfleet officer, and then it would spread, the flames of chaos engulfing the bar. Those that couldn’t escape were caught up in the fighting. Those that did almost jammed the doors in their bid to avoid the flames.
The security party was still fighting the marines, until a group of Klingons saw the fights break out and decided that it would be great fun to join in. Klingons were tossing around marines. Marines were beating up Klingons. Starfleet officers were trying to fight both off, and were hard pressed to keep themselves together.
Eventually, the security group found themselves together one
last time, surrounded by angry fighters, without a chance of escaping unharmed.
Everyone was bleeding from a punch or a kick, except for T’lan, who seemed
unscathed in all the fighting. Brin Taro’s left antennae was broken. “I
can’t see colors!” He complained as he shoulder threw a Klingon
over the bar counter. E’xch was still running around, wailing with the
Ferengi like a
fire engine, the Ferengi pulling locks while the Denobulan pulled lobes. Jody
was slammed into the wall and buffeted with blows by his big opponent, but then
he broke away, grabbed a wooden bar chair, and busted the piece of oak furniture
over the marine’s head. Marsh and the German were locked throat on throat;
a match of endurance that would see the first person to pass out as the loser.
Shelly was now fighting a drunken Klingon woman, and
winning due to her lighter feet, while her female fighting partner on the marines
side headbutted a Klingon in his forehead ridges… and didn’t get
hurt herself.
T’lan shook her head at the illogic of it all, seriously considering leaving her friends inside the bar. The escape entrance was close.
Then it was closed. Uniformed Starfleet security officers holding riot force shields and type twos barged their way in, phasering and bashing people that got in the way. The security group, seeing the Shore patrol come in, froze in place. In a brief hit of common sense, the Klingons and the marines also stopped fighting.
The lead Shore Patrolman yelled over a microphoned voice, “YOU ARE ALL UNDER ARREST.”
Frozen, Lieutenant O’Rorke cried, “Oh crap…”
TBC
(OOC: Takes place just prior to him shorting out Main power)
The ship that Brahms built was a whole new lady, completely redone from bow to stern, and stunningly redesigned down to the tiniest little bolt.
Simply put, the Galaxy was gleaming.
The grand old lady of the fleet, whose keel was laid down nearly 999 year before, was barely recognizable even by those who knew her intimately.
It wasn’t just all the 'cool looking' doo-dads that a young Jebediah Quick had hung all over the hull during his Sophomore year at College that made the new Galaxy-X special however.
It wasn’t just the overhanging third nacelle that the same half-stoned kid had added --'just to fry that slut Brahm's noodle'-- It certainly wasn't just the mammoth Pulsed Phaser Cannon slung underneath as a symbol of a man's eternal fascination with the phallic symbol and its opposition relationship to the God-Mother of the Universe.
(Quick had lazily doodled the PPC during one of his Psychology of Feminism Electives)
No, what made the Galaxy-X special was more than all of that.
It was, in fact...... the PAINT!!
Eccentric genius that he was, what Quick truly was at heart was a frustrated Interior Designer.
While Starfleet had ooooh'd and ahhh'd over the more technical aspects of the Galaxy X, they had also unwittingly adopted the intricately designed and artistically chosen paint schemes for the internal corridors and passageways of the 'Ship that Quick built'
While the good Dr. Brahms (that slut) had designed the original in unimaginative shades of beige and brown, the eminently creative (and dashingly good-looking) Dr. Quick, had experimented with bold swashes of varied colors and textures that each conveyed a separate artistic theme.
Gone were the plain whitewashed bulkheads of Bob Price's ship, and in their place stood an artistic masterpiece where each and every corridor and subsection conveyed a certain philosophical truth in the depths of its wall paint and choice of carpeting.
Deck 4 was ‘Harmony’. Subtle shades of burgundy and mauve tinted with gold blended together in a swirling representation of true galactic 'togetherness'.
Deck 8 was ‘Possibilties’. Here in a bold Avant Garde risk, Quick had contrasted stark variations of orange and gold trim over a marbled blend of blue-greys. A combination any sane artist would have rejected, but as the title implied......."It has Possibilities"
Deck 10 was a Masterpiece!
Instead of the typical plain wooden doorways leading to 10 forward, Quick the artiste’ had changed media and included an intricate wood-cut scene into the face of the doors. Prancing little goat-legged fauns pranced their way through a sylvan forest pursuing a group of wispy naked woodland nymphs frolicking about a campfire. Every tiny detail was finely carved and positioned, and so lifelike the figures that if viewed casually, one could almost swear the little creatures actually moved!!
(Of course the preponderance of the little naked nymphs had already caused several alarmed parents to ban their children from the vicinity of 10 forwards ‘obscene’ doors.)
~~Why is true art always viewed as obscenity?~~ wondered the lanky figured Dr. Quick as he strode past the aforementioned doors where a stumpy little bald man wearing a Sheriff’s Star sat leering and giggling to himself.
Oblivious to the hustle and bustle of activity around him, Jeb Quick had been wandering aimlessly about the ship for several hours now in a seeming half-dazed stupor.
~~It’s like being inside a Dream~~ he decided as the warm wonderful colors sparkled at him from every exposed surface. Here a Comm console was bordered in tiny pink daisies, and there the latch to Weapons Locker #12 bore a smiling "Have a Nice Day" Happy Face.
"The ironic contrast of positive and negatives energies served to produce a marvelous state of Harmonious Neutrality, thus emphasizing the Yin and Yang of Starship Security Procedures......" Quick had written of the 'Happy Phasers'.
"A damn freaking embarrassment." an anonymous member of security had said of the same locker.
Turning a random corner and hopping into a turbolift, the wild-haired Quick was whisked away by a chrome plated turbolift to a random series of random decks. The doors hissing open briefly to allow him a peek before shutting again to travel onwards:
Deck 14.....Purple walls over Green carpeting.
Deck 26.....Bare linoleum with walls stenciled with tiny 'flower arrrangements'
Deck 36.....Engineering. Pinks and Blues abounded....sort of a Neo-Nursery look.
Deck 38.....The brig.
One word.
Plaid!
(Well its supposed to be punishment to be put in the brig.)
Reaching the bottom of the turbolift shaft, Quick reversed directions and returned to Deck 6 where his quarters lay.
Deck 6. The Masterpiece!!! Done completely in thick orange Shag Rugs and with lime-green bulkheads, this deck was a Flowerchild's dream come true.
Little did everyone on the ship realize, but rather than the standard flashing red LEDS to indicate Red Alert, The new Galaxy-X untilized a new lightbulb of Quick’s personal selection.
To be specific…..Blacklights!
The system had yet to be tested so much of this was unknown to the crew (and Brhode in particular), but once the first Romulan decloaked off the starboard bow, the entire ship would be plunged into a dance-club wonderland of glowing blacklight neon.
(Remember Quick designed this ship as a joke.)
Whistling merrily to himself and pushing his bushy black hair out of his eyes, Quick rounded the bed leading to his personal quarters. He keyed the door code quickly, and proceeded to walk inside.
It was only when his nose reverberated off the door, did the loopy scientist realize that the door hadn’t opened in the first place.
He was locked out of his own room!
Glaring at the offending obstacle for a moment, Quick decided to ‘Fa la la la live for today’ and tromped off towards Engineering to see what trouble he could stir up.
Night time at the Red Dwarf was anything but calm and peaceful. Rowdy Starfleet officer, malevolent marines and salty shipyard workers all mingle in one large, stupendously noisy bar and grille located on Stardock 2 at Utopia Planitia shipyards. The Red Dwarf was the social place to go if you were an being looking for a good time, a good pint of Romulan Ale, or a bite to eat. There was no place else that could match.
It was a Friday night at the Red Dwarf, meaning that it was rowded with more officers than the norm, but not enough to endanger the dock's strict fire and hull breach regulations. The joint was hopping with people, dancing to music, mingling at the numerous red oak tables and chairs, harassing the barmaids, ordering drinks at the counter bar that seemed to span an entire city block, and just having a good time under the Red Dwarf's glaring red lights. Stealthy speakers that blended into the walls pumped out ancient Earth party tunes to set the mood.
The Marines had commandeered a table to themselves, and were engaged in the loudand highly public sport known as 'Talking Smack' while consuming prettylargish amounts of non-synthahol.
". . . and then I tell Betty 'Hey Gunny, why the hell do I always get stuck cleaning this stuff up?' and she says to me..." Neverovich was saying.
"BECAUSE YOU'RE A MARINE AND WILL DO IT RIGHT, IF I WANTED IT DONE WRONG I'D HAVE HAD THE FLEET DO IT!" chorused the group, in a beer waving, sloshing sort of chorus. They'd all heard Betty;s theme in various forms before.
"But you haven't heard the best part!" Neverovich objected.
"It is illogical to assume that the 'best' part is anything other than the silence that..." began the Vulcan.
"Stow it Yveg! We all heard Betty when... Oh shit... it's Gunny Wolfstein!" reported Corporal Fisk.
"So what? We're off duty." replied Benenton, the other Corporal.
"The Major's death on booze." replied Rifleman Crawford, trying to focus enough to hide the pitcher of beer in fornt of him. He setteled for chugging the dregs and pitching the pitcher over his shoulder.
"Damn guy has a name.. why's everyone afraid of saying his name?" Slurred another rifleman.
"What's his name?" asked Rifleman Direktor, the sole non drinker and recent transfer. A.k.a. 'the New Guy'
"Injun Jim." Slurred Crawford.
"Really?" asked Direktor, who was perhaps a bit too clean cut for his barracksmates tastes.
"No... but he's a Injunnn.." slurred Crawford
"You sure we can't sell you an elevator Pass?" Pressed the Ferrengi of the New Guy.
"Having fun, Ladies?" asked the Gunnery Sergeant, reaching the table through the packed crowd.
'AYE SARGE" the table responded en masse, except Crawaford.
"See.. in Tom Sawyer... dere's dis Injun..issa book... Tom Sawyer, not the Injun...see?" Crawford was draped over Direktor's shoulder, much to the young mans' discomfort.
"Someone tell Crawford that the Cherry's not his date." Gunny Wolfstein observed wryly.
"Pfffft... sarge... The Cherry's got no tits..." guffawed Crawford, mauling the other Rifleman to the hoots of his comrades. Direktor put on the suffering smile of a martyr.
~~~ Friendly Fire Accident in the making, with that prig~~~ Mused the Gunny.
"And you guys got no brains, we ship out tomorrow. Speaking of tits, What's Betty going to say if she finds you degenerates in here?" The Gunny plowed on.
"Damn Sarge! Betty do got a pair, don't she?" Hiccupped Crawford, to the amusement of the group.
"So I have observed. You gonna go tell her?" WOlfenstein challenged.
"Hell no, I'm not THAT drunk. Sarge." Crawford retorted.
The gunny smiled and grabbed a chair from a nearby group of Bee pilots.
"I think I'll join you girls, make sure you don't get into trouble, or piss in the nice Fleet's potted plants." He commentated, somehow waving a barmaid over from the scrum of bodies.
Dead silence reigned a moment. The Marines traded nervous glances.
'First round's on me" he told the barmaid,as the Marines erupted in cheers and hoots and hollers. The pitchers of beer magically re-appeared on the table.
'All right Sarge!
A mobile jukebox wandered past.
"YO! BoX! OVER HERE" roared Fink at the machine.
"oh jesus, not that song again..." whined Benenton to the Gunny
"What song?" asked the Gunny, as the drinks were arriving. He took a swig of his Scotch and sighed.
"Some teran song he's obsessed with.. every time we go out.." The rest of Benenton's complaint was drowned out by the LOUD music, and the baracksmates singing along at full volume.
"Black velvet in that little boy's smile.... Black velvet in that slow southern style..." They bellowed like drunken water buffalo, high on good spirits and liquid ones too. "A new religion that will bring ya all to your knees, black velvet if you...... PLEAAAAASSSSEEEEE!!!!!"
Of course, it was Direktor trying to fit in, that started it all. Or so everyone else later claimed.
"Gosh. . . hey, where did you guys go when The Master Gunne..." he asked, eyes wide.
"Betty. Call her Betty." cut in Wolfenstein, worried this kid was gonna get fragged in front of him. ALready the others were snickering and giving him sidelong glances, the usual hazing of a new transfer would no doubt begin soon.
"Okay.. when Betty pulled that fireteam off Checkpoint Seven and. . ."
"FUCK you Neverovich!" roared Fisk, tossing a handful of peanuts at his opponent. "The damn Jest DID win the Zero Gee ball Championship in '67! Ignorant Nerp!"
Yvegneny surged up and yelled back. "Jest? Your ass they did, you ignorant nerping little twaddle! It was Moscva! Everyone knows that!"
"They went to Security. SIT DOWN YOU FAGGOTS AND SHUT THE FUCK UP!" roared the Gunny.
The two seperated and sat down, glaring.
"Have a drink, chill." the Gunny went on, fixing both with a glare.
"New Guy buys!" input Lop, giggling. Direktor looked more pained, but nodded his agreement.
Crawford was draped over the Jukebox, still wailing along.
"You should have seen that security officer from the Galaxy. What's his name... Corrigan or something? He told off Betty, I swear it. Stupid security officer doesn't know his place." Someone added from the table. Common consenus later said "No one' remembered the commentator.
"No way! He still have his balls? oh wait.. he's a Fleetie. Never mind, I retract my question." the Gunny plowed on, to the laughter of the table.
"I saw the security chief myself. He's a scrawny little dork who wears glasses like a computer geek! And he had the nerve to tell us to go away! Bet he wouldn't be so tough if we had a round with him!" roared Fisk
"Your mother could take him, if she had a round with him too!" Added Direktor, sealing his fate.
"The FUCK?" Roared Fisk, lunging across the table
at his former Sports Trivia opponent. Neverovich responded by throwing
punches.
"My Mother? you asshole, I'll kill you!" replied Neverovich with a jab-jab cross combo
"And the department is a joke! Best of the best my ass!" Another marine joined in. Again, later, some said it was Fisk, some said Direktor, one even said it was the Gunny.The rest developed amnesia on the topic.
The Gunny stood and got between the combatants."You two will shut the hell up, shake hands, and get drunk? Or I'm gonna kick both your asses and then..."
"THAT'S IT! I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR TIRADE, YOU IGNORANT
SONS OF DENEVIAN SLIME DEVILS!!!!!!!!" someone shreiked, like a
terrified little girl.
It silenced the bar.
Well, not the WHOLE bar, the Red Dwarf was far too big for that.
Bad omen, still, though.
Some Fleet weenie was standing and shivering in a manner, later termed 'not to say drunk, but in fine form!" by the Marines.
Wallenstein, the senior oficer, walked up to the guy.
"You want us to be quiet? Huh? "Do you? Do you think you can make us be quiet, crater face?" he asked, poking the younger man in the chest and hoping he could keep his boys from eating this idiot alive.
"Ummm... no?." replied the Security Shrimp. Three more got up from his table.
"Then blow it out your ass." The Gunny replied, to a guffaw of laughter from the Marines and Construction crews.
The situation almost defused, the Marines turned back to the serious business of geting plowed.
Everyone later agreed that Direktor started it for SURE this time.
"Bring it, mister! I say the b*tch is mine." shreiked the usually placid and suffering Direktor, leaping up.
". . . the fuck is wrong with the New Guy?" asked Fisk
"F**k you, slut! Go play with your Starfleet Suzie dolls!" some Fleet type said.
"Oh MAN! They think the Cherry is a girl! KICK HIM IN THE NUTS, LADY!" whooped Neverovich.
The Fleet guys seemed ready to piss themselves.
"Boo!" said the Ferrengi Reposession Commando, on training manuevers with the FIST, laughing at the Fleet Flinch.
"Whoa! Hold on there boys!" some Security drone said as he stepped in between the two groups, his hands outstretched to give the two groups a meter of free space, before anything else went out of hand, "Come on now, everyone. We are all Starfleet officers. Why are we fighting each other?"
"Because you guys are fags? Who's fighting? You got all your teeth." The Gunny muttered, to snickers from the table.
"HE TRIED TO KISS ME!" was what Direktor shrieked, knocking some Fleetie's hat off as he backpedaled away from the group.
Everyone credits the Klingons with REALLY throwing the first punch.
Whoever it was really, it started a full scale riot. All hell broke loose. Bodies rolled on the floor, bottles flew and crashed. Yells and screams, blood and curses flew through the air.
The other thing all parties involved agreed on?
It took a LOT of Shorepatrolmen to get everyone under control and start figuring out what happened.
209 Arrestees in all., 79 of them from USS Galaxy.
Of course, in the process of doing just that, Somehow ,Stardock Two lost all power.
Of course it did.
But the Marines all claimed it was a helluva good fight, and they won it; by four concussed Fleeties, and a Klingon with a broken arm.
=/\=
Curtis checked to be sure he had read the department staff PADD correctly. He
glanced down again, found the name, and didn't know what to think.
"Ella is here?" Curtis asked himself. "And she's the Assistant CHIEF? She just graduated this past semester! I TAUGHT the woman!"
After a few moments Curtis decided that he frankly didn't care what position she was in, he was too excited to see her again. Curtis had taken an interest in all of his engineering students at the academy and was very happy to now have one on board the ship. It felt good to Curtis to know that Ella would be using things HE had taught her tocarry out her duties. The pride of a teacher runs deep indeed.
Wasting no time, Curtis made his way around Engineering, searching for his formal pupil. After looking everywhere else, he found her deeply engrossed in a display panel.
"Ella!" Curtis called out.
Frowning, Ella pulled the computer PADD out of her pocket before even looking to she who was bothering her. The calculations coming up on the panel made no sense to her. This Quick was either a newfound genius or a certifiable lunatic.
She then blinked. Was that...Professor Geluf?
Ella smiled, turned away from the horrible calculations, and gave the man a small wave of hello. Warp Field Theory class had been one of her favorites, meaning he hadn't put her to sleep every day and had some sense of humor. Some engineers could be dreadfully boring and humorless.
Ella keyed in some words and handed him the PADD
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