USS
Galaxy:The Next Generation Sim Log Stardate: 50209.09 - 50210.16 |
OOC: Who need Liam? I hope you are liking! I like all your stories and am glad to have chance to practice my english! XO-Olga
"Errrrrrrrr....." Lysander opened with.
The comment made sense, as he was looking at a Mark III hologram of the mother of the woman he loved, in Bhrode's Ready Room. When confronted with apparently a Mark III hologram Emergency Hologram based on the maternal parent of the woman you love, and the woman you love is a raving lunatic herself to begin with and most likely ready to blame you over this latest outrage; most things you could say suddenly seem trite. You have to look at things like this within their context.
Lys followed "Errrrrrrrr....." up with a nervous, tittering giggle. His wildly rolling eyes landed yet again on the form of the Command Emergency Hologram. The selected form barely reached his shoulder. Seemingly a Terran Female in her early Fities, a long scarlet braid looped over the grey and black slim shoulder matching the Command Red at her neck. The hologram engineers had even managed the tiny laughlines around the warm brown eyes.
The Hologram's eyes looked far more warm than the 'similar in form but lacking in emotion' doppleganger pair of eyes in the face of Commander Rebecca VonErnst. Slooooowwwwwwly the dead brown marbles of the tiny girl tracked from the hologram, back to Lysander's face.
"Smegging good job they did off that holo-pic, dont you think? That android smegger I had, took a pic of us all back at my farm! You remember my farm? The Android? Errr.. The one next to Holli's? Your mother's farm? I bought it on our honey...err... shoreleave that time? You were there for the... err.. dinner....OH! right. Photographic memory. Smeggin' forgot! Of course you remember my farm! Errrrr . . ." Lys ventured.
Rebecca's eyes hardened even more, if that were possible.
~~Helllloooooo? What goes ON in that head?~~ Lys pondered to himself.
"Number Two! Shut your cakehole! I chose this routine from the ones offered, because **I** wanted an advisor who doesn't compute things to the tenth decimal place." Bhrode snapped.
"Oh. Rather. Smeggin' good job, Sir! See? It wasn't ME!" Lys babbled in a stage whisper to an uncaring Rebecca.
"Get a room, you two!" drawled Leo Streely, lounging in a chair, one pudgy leg swinging over the arm.
Rebecca's expressionless face turned to Leo, and one tiny red eyebrow arched itself.
"Your suicide hypothesis has a error percentage of over Ninety eight percent." she informed the pudgy Inspector.
Leo nonchalantly scratched his bottom.
"Says you! So?" he demanded.
"So, Ninety Eight Percent is unacceptable." Rebecca replied, with a disdainful 'sniff.'
"Pfffft. That's why I wear the badge, toots." repleid Leo, waving a pusgy hand in dismissal.
"errrr... Ninety Eight?" dithered Lys. "Because I get ninety nine point seven eight five three six three five when I use an intersticed Probability matrice and apply Shroddinger's Paradigm to..."
"Intergalactic Journal of Higher Mathematics, Vol. XXLCM last may! Page 343, Shroddinger's Paradigm was rebutted!" Rebecca snapped at him, her peevishness forcing its way through her mask.
"Really? No one told me! But.. what about the constant of the Bell Curved Fourth Dimensional Expressed Function..." Lys nattered on.
"Ohhhh... shut UP!" snapped Rebecca.
"Hologram, have the Medical team filed their autopsy yet?" snapped Bhrode.
"negative" said the twin of Holli VonErnst.
"Counseling get a psych workup of the killer yet, Hologram?" Bhrode pressed.
"Negative" replied Holli.
"I get it! It's a Holli-gram!" snapped Lys, again with a nervous titter.
The Hologram addressed someone other than Bhrode for the first time.
"Commander. Captain Bhrode prefers that I be addressed as 'hologram.' I am a Mark III Emergency Command Hologram. I have been programmed with the Command and Tactical Expertise of over seventy Five Flag Rank officers, using the Dahlquist method of Canonical Accuracy, along with a Hueristic Personality Interface Module." the Hologram informed Lys.
". . . noodlehead. . ." Rebecca muttered to herself.
"Language!" tutted the Holli-gram.
Rebecca's eyes fell back to Lys, and promised slow, horrible deaths by means too gruesome for the 'R' rating of this narrative.
"Holligram! Hehehe...errrr..." He said, feeling Rebecca's gaze fall on him again.
As Bhrode launched into full Ass-Chewing mode, demanding answers to the question "Why was a member of the crew found with their throat slit?" Lysander let his mind wander.
First, he wondered if the 'Hueristic Personality Interface' had anything to do with the Vectored Matrix Personality Subroutine he'd developed over a year ago, to test some theories he held regarding Hologrammatic interaction, and talk to a version of Rebecca that didn't run stutter-screaming in the opposite direction, tripping over anything handy. (Ed Note: Galaxy: 'lanjep')
Secondly, he wondered if he was now barred from using the 'Holo-Rebecca' routine he'd enjoyed for over a year, while serving as an exchange Officer withthe Klingon Deep Space Fleet. The chats he'd had with his 'idealized' version had been one of the few things that had kept him sane (comparetively!) during ayear with the Klingons, while the real version of one Ms. Rebecca VonErnst had been terrifying the crew of USS Prospero.
Thirdly, he wondered if he preferred vanilla to chocolate ice cream . (Hey! Who ever accused Lys of being deep?)
Fourthly, he wondered if Rebecca's Smegging Amazingly Long Legs came from her mom? He craned his neck to check. Yep. Niiiiiicccceeeeeeeee. . .
Lys tore his eyes away from the lower appendages of the VonErnst Family women, long enough to hear the tail end of Leo's Orders for the day.
". . . and DEPUTY... if you think I'll sit idly by while you offer 'Free Body Cavity Searches' to female crewmembers on Deck seven.."
"WHAT! That wasn't me! I must have an evil twin aboard! DOPPLEGANGER!"
"...you have another think coming!"
"It wasn't ME! Honest! Someone must have cloned me!"
"Do I look stupid, deputy? Do you think your little ass grabbing tactics and smokescreens are going to fly with me? I tossed you in the Brig once and I'll do it again in an eyeblink!"
". . .ng facist pile of monkey poop..." Leo muttered.
"WHAT WAS THAT MISTER?" Bhrode thundered.
"I said 'Heaping fastest piles of junky coupes!' it's an... Indian expression my partner uses all the time. Sheeeeeeeesh! What did you THINK I said?" Leo retorted.
"errr..." ventured Lys, hoping to nudge the conversation back onto track.
"Numbers One and Two! You are together on this day and night! Solve this problem NOW! Deputy! You get on the ball here, or you WILL be guarding the Waste Solid Reclaimation Processing Room on Deck Thirty Five!" Bhrode barked.
Rebecca and Lysanders' eyes locked again, in horrified recognition.
Had the Captain just ordered them to spend large amounts of time in each others' company?
So far, despite sharing a job and office, they had managed by unspoken consensus to avoid each other whenever possible. Rebecca handled the myriad of forms and paperwork happily and efficiently, while Lys handled the interpersonnel aspects of running a starship. Where Rebecca's tersly worded memos struck fear into the hearts of late report writers and sloppy spellers everywhere, Lys' genial, interdeck wanderings took him into contact with almost any crewmember or passenger at random, seemingly able to track down scuttlebutt and nip problems in the bud before Bhrode noticed them.
Rebecca spent HUGE amounts of time in their office or her cabin, doing paperwork. Filing, verifying, spellchecking.
Lys spent HUGE amounts of time all over the ship, seemingly chitchatting with an array of people that was staggering. Verifying, scuttlebutting, starting or squashing rumours.
One officer the epitome of 'backdoor' backscratching, favour trading, and gossip mongering, the other the 'paper pusher' extrodinaire, able to cut red tape with a sigle wave of her dainty hand.
"Miss Effecient" and "Mister Socialite"... night and day... 'Good Cop' and 'Bad Cop'. . . oh no.. wait... that's Raven and Leo. Nevermind.
~~Say something nice! Invite her to dinner!~~ Lys's tiny pea brain pressed him.
"Errrr...." he began.
"I have paperwork." Rebecca declared, avoiding his eye as she pushed out of the room.
... "There is at least on good thing in this blackout. It is that I can get some rest without any asshole scratching my poor eyes with their dammit appearances! And what is good is that black color corresponds with my mind..." Vladimir chuckled and fallen on the couch with happy groan. He smiled "All what I want now is a deep and peaceful sleep..." He closed his eyes, not yet knowing that his wish won't be handed to him...
Vladimir opened his eyes, after strange sound hit his ears, and widen them a bit more, seeing that peaceful cozy quarters were replaced by subway train. And the sound itself was the clanking of wheels on rails. ~Whoa, dudes,~ he thought, ~I don't like 20th century dreams. Chief, beam me out!~ This wish wasn't granted, so nothing changed. Vladimir gave up and looked at other passengers - a man in the cloak, a woman (obviously wife of man in cloak), A man, male and female teenagers, kissing empassiongly. Vlad frowned ~Excellent company... Just cool! Damn!~
Suddenly train started slowering and finally stopped. Of course in the middle of tunnel. Silence filled the train, but for boy and girl it seemed to mean nothing - they were kissing as if nothing happened. Woman raised her hands and exclaimed "No, this is ridiculous! They are kissing as they are alone!". Main in cloak shrugged an said "I don't see anything bad in this..." However he was quckly iterrupted by woman "You always have everything OK. From the very time we married!"
"Okay, " Vlad thought ~This is going to be interesting. Since I have no way out of this crazy place, I;d better join the rules of game... And they all seem to be like a couple of Corgans to me, so...~ He couphed "Okay, people. Train has arrived to the last station - 'The tunnel'. Please leave the train..."
Man said "I feel unease... Claustrophobia and stuff... Dangit!". Vlad replied in his fashion "And who feels good in these times?" Man in cloak smiled, pointing at kissing pair "They are."
"No, no... That is not for long, lad." cut Vlad. Man stood up, walked to the emergency communication with driver panel and pushed the button "Hello? Machinist? What a f**k happened? Why we're stuck in the tunnel?" No response came and Vlad sarcastically said "And what if he died?" Man turned his glance on Vlad "WHO?"
"Machinist. What? It is not that wonder. And if you ask about assistant, then I will say tha... Umm... he kneeled near body of machinist and is crying, unable to control himself. He was like father to him - picked him on the street, gave the profession, raised to be his apprentice..." Woman stood up "What you say is preposterous! Very dumb jokes, young man..."
Vlad gave a smirk "And to sit under ground in tunnel with self-important face is not dumb?"
... "Hello! HEY! Machinist" yelled Man in cloak "What's that?How much we're going to stay in this f**king tunnel? (pause) Answer! Right now! Answer, when asked, motherf**ker!"
Finally voice came from speaker, but it told not so expected thing "Cretin!" and speaker turned off. Vlad laughed "You were right, lady, he's alive." He looked at poor call button 'under pressure' by man and continued "You know, I look at you and...I have a feeling that you're late on something..."
"SHUT UP!" only told Man in cloak and continued his struggle against the button, desperately trying to call machinist again.
"Okay, okay. My mouth is shut..." agreed Vladimir and watched the scene for few seconds. Then laughed "By the way, What are you expecting? You have already... chatted with machinist and what? Train stays still like mountain and, if I am not mistaken, you were already publicly announced as 'Cretin'. You may push this button or head of that dolt" he pointed at boy (who is still kissing girl) "And we won't move faster, trust me. So sit back, relax and tell us, where are going? You know, I am from KGB..."
"You're from ass, not from KGB." replied Man in cloak without any emotion. He was already overwhelmed by Vlad's words.
Vladimir smiled even broader "I won't agrue. Well, version numero uno. You're hot lover and are late for a date. Who votes for this version?.. Right - nobody. You don't look like Romeo, despite you surely can kill someone..." Woman weakly interrupted "Man, you're not from KGB, you must be from circus, no?"
"Well, in some sense, we ARE in circus. This is not subway. Subway is transport. Transport moves. Our train doesn't move, so THIS is not subway. So we'll continue our quest for truth. First version collected no votes. So we're swiftly passing to second. You're agent of CIA and are hurrying for meeting with agent 007." He stopped looking at stunned faces "Okay-dokey. Close your mouths. He is not from CIA. He is a businessman and is late on a business lunch. Or... He is pagan and is late for ritual... He is communist and is hurrying for underground meeting to celebrate the anniversary of first Congress of Communist Party of Soviet Union..."
Suddenly man inserted a word in Vlad's tirade "Businessman? Not a chance. In such... 'costume' on the business lunch? Incorrect". Vlad thought for a second "You're right. Either pagan or communist."
God knows, what have happened further if girl hadn't exclaimed loudly "It's erec..." She stopped on half-word, seeing stares from passengers. boy grumped "Hey, what are ya staring at?" Vlad snickered and addressed Woman "Yeah, lady, this is not soap opera. Your eyes will pop out from eyelids. I will tell you what happened in about half an hour."
"Wha?! You dar to talk to me in this way?" screamed lady and stood up. Her dress hid the muscles... That was last thing that Vlad saw before he recieved friendly gift from lady - strike in the face...
"... WHAAA! What a?! Dammit. Dream..."
--ALSO. . .Keep in mind that Quick still thinks Bosco is a human which leads to some funny misconceptions. (He still cant see what Bosco looks like)
“Electra Rrrrrreece?”
“The babe? Dude like I’d totally do her with bells on!”
“Bells?”
Nevermind, what about Commander Dallas?”
“The Councelorrrrrrrrr?”
“Yeah.”
“. . . .I do not think that is possible forrrrr the fffffemale to have rrrrelations . . . .”
“Ha! Like they say Bosco old buddy; If they don’t have it in the hips, they must have it in the lips.”
“I do not think that would be possssssible in my cirrrrcumstances.”
“Oh whatever. Your turn.”
“Lieutenant Grrrrrey.”
“Which one is that?”
“The Engineerrrrr who cant ssssspeak.”
“Oh yes, yes, I remember now. I was down in Engineering. . . .the one I designed mind you, when she came running up to me waving some sort of PADD or something. I think that was right before the lights went out at Space Dock.”
“Fassscinating. . . . .and?”
“The Lieutenant? Oh. . . .sure, why not. She’s cute.”
“Again I do not underrrrrstand yourrrr fascination with handicapped girrrrrrls.”
“Whoa dude, its not like a fetish or anything, I just think every woman has their own place in the cosmic multiverse of Goddesshood. Each possessing their own delicate flower of beauty waiting to be discovered.”
“Flowerrrrrrr huh? Do you fffffind that line worrrrks for you often?”
“Like totally. My turn. . . . what about the Chief Engineer herself? You into cross species ‘fraternization’? “
“Like you would nnnnnot believe Doctorrrrrr.”
“Heh. . .yeah with her you’d be like crossing six or seven taboo boundaries at once.”
“And rrrrisking multiple frrractures assss well.”
“Hmmm. . .. whatever. . . .ask me another one.”
“Doctorrrrr O’Connell?”
“Yeah, I’d do her.”
“And the Commanderrrrrrrr?”
“. . . . ( a pause ) I think he already did her If the rumors are true.”
(A strange hissing laugh)
“Nnnnooo nnnnno. Not Lysanderrrrrrr. I meant the otherrrrrrr Comanderrrrr. Von Errrrnst.”
(Shocked) “The kid? Dude, I’m like all for fighting the system, but there are laws against things like that. What is she like 12?”
“I do not know. Forrrrgive me, I get confused with Earrrrrth customs. On my worrrrld we brrrrrreed females by age 8.”
“EIGHT!! Who are you David Koresh or something?
“Excussse me?”
“Never mind. I can never keep track of these remote colonies and their obscure laws. You must really be from “Little House on the Planet.”
“Whateverrrrrr.”
“Okay, so back to business, what about the 10-Forward Manger?”
“STRRRRREEEEEELY!!!!?????!!!!!!” (A loud mysterious hiss of disgust) “I do not engage in Chrrrrrrowwww’lrrrr!!”
(puzzled) “Streely? I thought her name was Erin something or other. . . .maybe I’m confused.”
“Obviousssssly. You parrrrrrtake in too much of that recrrrreational weed you werrrre telling me about.”
“No, no, no Bosco. Its more than recreational. It’s a means of expanding one’s consciousness to become one with the Universe and all of Humanity.”
“One with the Univerrrrrrse? Isnt that what you convinced the computerrrrr to trrrry to become? Which is why we arrrrrre sitting in the darrrrrk?”
“I reject your negative waves dude. Keep them off my aura.”
“Ffffffine. What about the Prrrrrincesss?”
“Princess, what princess? I didn’t know Starfleet went in for Royalty?”
(hissing Laughter) “The Klingon Prrrrincess, sssssilly. She’s a passsenerrrr. Would you do herrrrrr?”
(suddenly alert) “Klingon Princess! What Klingon Princess?”
“I don’t rrrremember herrrr name exactly. Devorrrrrrah orrrr something like that.”
“De’Vorah! Ha! Dude, like I already scored that babe years ago!”
“!(shock)!”
“ No really. De’Vorah, Klingon Princess? Six foot of olive skin and attitude? Living Sword of Kahless and all that? Sure I knew her.”
“You scorrrrred the heir to the Klingon throne? You lie like a Grrrramellian Grrrround-Worm Doctorrrrr.”
“No really Bro. She wasn’t the heir back then, but I met her at some Interstellar Government Field Trip back when I was undecided about my sixth major. We met at a Diplomatic dinner. I complimented her on her cleavage. . . . she broke my nose. . . . . . badda-bing, badda-boom, the rest is history.”
“(long pause) I sssssssso do not believe you.”
“Well its try Bosco old buddy. I’ll prove it once the lights go back on.
Incidentally I seem to remember she had this cute little tattoo of a. . . . . . . “
(And the blackout continues)
=/=
[OOC: I’m guessing on the time here – I went with something right at the end of the Captain’s shift, to explain why he was waiting for Savoie to make it to the Bridge. Occurs simultaneously with ‘Points of Authority’]
*****
~ Wonderful, just wonderful. ~ Victor stopped for a moment to check the corridors to either side as the mass of drunken, whooping Klingons ahead of him moved on. ~ The first Klingons I see since DS9, and they have to be in my least favorite condition – drunk. Hell, I think it’s the *only* condition I’ve ever seen Klingons in now that I think about it. ~ He waved off a pair of ratings who were approaching to see what the commotion was. “Nothing to see folks.”
One of them stopped and frowned as they neared, a reaction he was used to seeing. The other, a young ensign, shivered and stared at him with undisguised fear and started to back away – a reaction that he was also, unfortunately, used to. ~ Must be a Betazoid - that’s their normal reaction, anyway. ~ As he watched, the presumed Betazoid grabbed the arm of his companion and tugged, pulling him back the way they’d came.
Turning back to the corridor, Victor moved up to keep the end of the Klingon party in sight. ~ All in a day’s work aboard the Galaxy. Terrify a few innocent crewmen, escort some drunken Klingons through the halls while trying to watch out for assassins that might be after them, and, on top of it all, I get to watch my commander throw up something that looked like tainted reactor coolant in Ten Forward. I thought days like this only happened on Deep Space 9. ~
Once around the corner, he picked up his pace in order to catch up with the party. The Princess was loudly singing something that reminded him of Aida as performed by a gutshot rhinoceros, and from the general accompaniment, he assumed that things were still going well. ~ With Klingon, at least it’s always easy to tell. ~
He moved up to the back of the party and caught the eye of Hanley, one of the two close-in security team members with a hand signal and passed on that everything was secure behind them. Hanley nodded, apparently relieved that something was going the way it was supposed to, and flicked his fingers in the ‘all clear’ acknowledgement.
Victor fell back, then stopped and frowned as the party in front of him ground to a halt near the Princess’ quarters and quieted down for a moment – but Klingon voices continued to sound behind him. ~ Dammit! I knew there were some missing when we left Ten Forward! ~ He threw a quick signal to Hanley letting him know that he was falling back to check on the voices, then turned and started back the way they’d came at a run. ~ I *hate* diplomatic work! You’re hamstrung I what you can do to protect your charges, you have to be nice to sentients that deserve nothing better than a trip to the nearest incinerator, and, to top it off, they *always* want to do things they shouldn’t. I hate this! ~
He whipped back around the corner, slapping his combadge. “Computer, locate Klingons on ‘X’ deck that are not contiguously located with the Princess’ party.
“There are four Klingons present that fit the parameters. All are stationary outside the turbolift doors at the juncture of corridors…”
“That’s enough – thank you.” Victor ran over the ship’s layout in his head as he rounded another corner on his way back to the turbo lift. ~ They must have followed us up in the next car, that would be about right with the security delays we dropped in to prevent someone coming out behind us. Okay all I have to do is get them headed this way, and back with the rest of the party, that can’t be too difficult. As long as there isn’t an assassin lurking in a random duct, ready to pop out, or God doesn’t strike us down I can do this. ~
As he rounded the last turn to the turbolift, the voice of the computer sounded and he looked up out of reflex.
INITIATING SYSTEM RE-BOOT. WARNING, LIFE SUPPORT ON HALF POWER. SYSTEM WILL BE BACK ONLINE IN ONE HOUR, SIX MINUTES AND FORTY-TWO SECONDS. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER AUDIO WARNING
Without further warning, the lights went out, and the ship went quiet – just as Victor rounded the turn and plowed into a mass of people coming from the other direction. Accompanied by the sound of several grunts and at least one almost cat-like hiss – and the unmistakable feel of metal-reinforced leather garments as he slammed into them – the lot of them went down to the deck in a tangle with a jarring crash.
As he crashed to the floor, momentarily stunned, Victor addressed a thought to the ceiling in resignation. ~ I got the message, God – you hate me. ~
The pile of drunken Klingons was motionless for a moment as their brains processed what was happening, and then they all began to shout and flail about, reaching for weapons and trying to get to their feet. “Treachery”: “Traitors!” “Assassins!” “Feel my wrath, cowards!”
Victor rolled to the side as a heavily-booted foot grazed his side, drawing a grunt from him. Another wild swing caught him in the shoulder as he started to get up and speak, spinning him into the wall. “Unf!” ` Dammit, I have to stop this – they’re going to kill someone if this keeps up! ~
“I got him!” a deep voice cried from across the hall.
“No, fool, you have *me!*”
“”Over here!” Another voice to his left said, the sound of a d’k tagh being unsheathed sounding in the darkness. “I have him cornered!”
“No!” That voice was female, even if huskier and deeper than normal. “Look out you fool, that’s–“ Her words were cut off by a meaty impact and the sound of a body smacking into the wall.
~That’s it! ~ Victor got to his feet, reaching out for the nearest body. ~ This ends right now before anything worse happens! ~
The first thing Victor’s hands caught hold of was an arm, Klingon by the heavy leather sleeve, and he spun its owner around in a circle, releasing him to stumble towards the wall behind him. “Enough!” he snapped, his voice falling into a deep ‘command mode’ as he took a step forward and reached for the next Klingon. “Stand down!”
“Murderer!” The Klingon to his left replied, following the word with a wide sweeping swing of his arm that brought the d’k tagh whistling past Victor’s face in the darkness. “gaQaw’!” [I (will) destroy you!]
The Klingon to Victor’s right that hadn’t been spun out of the way moved in swinging. One fist grazed the wall and struck sparks as the claw-like metal spikes on the back of his gauntlet scraped along it. “ylHlv!” [Attack him!]
Ducking, Victor dove towards where he’d heard the sound of the woman hitting the wall. Banging into the legs of the Klingon with the d’k tagh, he wound up sprawled against the side of the corridor as the Klingon staggered back. ~ Dammit, I wish I could just phaser them and end this, but I can’t. Phasering Klingon diplomatic party members, even drunken homicidal ones, is a fast ticket to a diplomatic incident – but Klingons, even diplomatic parties, brawling in the hall are so common that they aren’t even a blip or the sensors. ~
Scuttling to the side as the third Klingon rebounded from the opposite wall and joined the confused melee, Victor found the downed woman by running into her as she started to rise. ~I do *not* need another body in this mess! ~ He threw out a hand, felt it hit her chest, and pressed the woman back against the wall roughly. “Stay there!” he growled. “You’ll just get in the way!”
She tried to reply, and caught at his arm, but her response was lost as the Klingon with the d’k tagh roared and charged forward, his blow missing Victor, but still catching him in the circle of his arms and carrying him into the wall.
“Hnff!” Victor grunted as the air was almost driven out of him. He caught the arm he hoped was the one with the weapon, turned inside the Klingon’s reach as he felt the warrior’s other hand groping for a grip, and drove his elbow into the warrior’s head. Something gave under the blow, and the Klingon yelled in pain. ~Nose – I was too high. ~
Victor continued to turn, carrying the Klingon with him, and slammed the warrior into the corridor wall. Something metal clanked as it hit the deck right after the impact and Victor grunted in satisfaction. ~That takes care of the knife, anyway. ~
Footsteps sounded behind him, coming up in a rush, and Victor pushed away from the wall – and the warrior there – instinctively, letting himself fall backwards and to the side as a fast-moving, bulky shape brushed past him. There was a crash as the charging Klingon passed him and met the one against the wall solidly, the impact shaking the deck. With twin gurgles, the two dropped slowly to the floor with soft thuds.
~Two down – but there’s still one more…. ~
As Victor straightened up into a crouch, powerful hands caught him and wrenched him off his feet, throwing him into the opposite wall of the corridor. For an instant, his mind was as black as his vision of the corridor, and in that time the Klingon was on him again. “Assassin!” the warrior hissed into his face, the fumes from whatever he’d been drinking making Victor’s eyes water.
“No,” Victor grated, finally able to do something now that his opponent had stopped moving and had let him know where he was. His hands slapped out on either side of where he judged the warrior’s head to be, one striking the ear and having the desired effect, the other missing. As the Klingon roared and snapped his head back, Victor brought a knee up in the oldest brawling move known to any humanoid culture, the warrior’s padded codpiece only partially protecting him. “I…” he shoved the warrior back, “…am…” one hand caught the front of the Klingon’s tunic and jerked him forward and down into a rising knee, the blow driving into the gagging warrior’s chin, “…not…” Stepping to the side without releasing his hold, Victor swung the warrior around as the Klingon continued to make gagging sounds, and stepped forward to jam him into the wall face-first, “…not…” Releasing his hold, he let the warrior fall limply. “…an assassin…” he growled as he staggered back.
One foot caught on an outthrust limb from the earlier Klingon collision’s resulting pile, and he lost his balance, and fell to the side. Another body broke his fall, hands reaching for him, and he reached out as he fell, catching the owner by the throat with his right hand and shoving back to pin them against the wall while getting his feet under him. “Do you want some, too?” he snarled, his face so close he could feel the other’s breath on his skin in the darkness.
“luq,” [Yes, I do/I will] the husky, deep voice of the woman he’d rescued earlier breathed as her lips brushed his cheek and then found his.
A jolt ran through him at the contact, an electric feeling unlike anything he’d ever known before, striking something primal buried within him. He growled once, deep in his throat, and kissed her back, vaguely aware of long hair brushing his face as the moment spun out into another and then another – and then the emergency lights snapped on.
The Klingon woman in front of him had her eyes closed, one hand wrapped around the wrist of the hand that still pinned her to the wall, the other braced against the wall to support her. “iey,” [delicious] she breathed huskily as she drew back. Her eyes opened, darker than normal in the dim lighting – and recognition flashed across her face.
She straightened up, showing herself to be slightly taller than Victor, and her supporting hand came up and shoved Victor back as she angrily spat, “toDSah!” [insulting epithet] and reached for the d’k tagh at her side.
~ I was kissing a Klingon?~ Distracted, Victor barely evaded her first cut, and dodged the second only because she stumbled on the same outstretched arm that had thrown him into her a moment earlier.
With a wordless cry, the Klingon woman turned her stumble into another cut, and forced Victor back again. ~ She’s too good – can’t drag this out. ~ Stepping back again, he waited for the woman to start moving up, then dropped down on one hand and spun in a dance-like kick that a fellow officer had shown him on Starbase 155 years ago. Expecting him to keep retreating, the woman grunted as his foot caught her in the abdomen, bending her over, and dropping her long hair over her face, obscuring her vision.
~ Now. ~ taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Victor completed the handstand spin, landed on his feet, and kicked upwards again, the toe of his boot catching the woman on the side of the jaw, snapping her back upright, and sending her to the floor in a heap, unconscious.
Victor stood there for a second, shaking and catching his breath, trying to gather his thoughts. ~ Well, this is a big mess. How the hell am I going to explain this one without tanking my career and having all these Klingons after my ass for my having the gall to kick their drunken asses? ~ He sighed. ~ At least they were drunk. If they hadn’t been, I’d be a dead man right now. ~
He leaned back against the wall, looked from side to side, and realized that there were no witnesses. ~ No one saw anything. The three over there never saw who it was they were fighting, and the woman… ~ He looked at her for a moment, remembering the kiss, then shook his head. ~ The woman won’t say anything; otherwise she’ll have to admit that I knocked her out.. So… they did it to each other. Embarrassing, but not dangerously so – and safe for everyone concerned. ~ Nodding once, he started to try and sort out the tangled trio next to the wall, casting a glance at the Klingon woman every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t coming to. ~ The crew’s going to be going crazy with this blackout, I bet no one even asks for a report on this mess… and a damn good thing it’ll be too. For all of us. ~
"Should be just another 30 seconds." Curtis said to the darkness. After almost an hour in complete pitch-black, Curtis was ready to see light again.
Still, the dark had its advantages. Curtis found that his hearing worked even better in the dark than normal. He was picking up fully decernable whispers comming from the outside hallway. It was nice to just sit and listen, as he often did. But not being able to see just added something surreal to it.
Just then, the lights, in a blinding ray of glory, re-activated and returned to full power.
*SYSTEM BOOT AND DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE* came the computer voice.
Just to make sure, Curtis commanded the computer, "Computer, number of crewmen designated Dr. Quick on board."
*THERE IS ONE DR. QUICK ABOARD THE GALAXY*
Curtis heaved a sigh of relief, "Thank God." he mused, and continued about his work.
[OOC: Takes place immediately after "A Study in Comparison" and during "Enter the Lights".]
Few places onboard a starship without power could be darker or more isolated than a turbolift.
For a good while, Jeremy just stood pacing and swearing, not sure what the hell to do. A few more attempts at communication had been in vain. He could see absolutely nothing. There was no emergency power, no ambient light to reveal even the slightest contrasts of shape or distance.
Everything was pitch black and deathly silent like space itself, minus a few billion stars.
Of course the helmsman had no idea what had caused the blackout, but he would have bet his commission that it had something to do with that quack, Quick. He still hadn't even met the man, yet Jeremy was certain he had become the scientist's most ardent detractor. Well, perhaps except for the captain.
Bhrode was pissed, Jeremy was sure of it, certainly at the mess the ship was in and very probably at Jeremy himself due to his absence from his place on the bridge. He recalled again the musings about Old Piss and Vinegar he was having with himself on his way to the turbolift. If there was one thing he had learned in his short tenure under Bhrode, it was that the old man demanded one hundred percent from his officers. He'd welcome miracles.
He'd accept perfection in duty. But he wouldn't tolerate anything less than total dedication and all-out effort. Jeremy realized that if he were going to keep from having his ass kicked from here to the Gamma quadrant he'd better have not only an explanation for his being late, but some evidence that he made every attempt to overcome whatever obstacles that had gotten in his way.
Feeling his way around the lift, Jeremy carefully positioned his right foot onto a rail in front of him. Bracing his hands against the wall to his left, he pushed himself up with a quick thrust, using his right let and his arms to hold him in place above the floor. His position was precarious and he still couldn't see anything, but he knew that if he could reach the ceiling, there should be an access hatch that led out of the lift. Fishing around in the dark with his one free leg, Jeremy was finally able to stabilize his position somewhat by landing his left foot on top of the lift control panel box.
The helmsman paused for a moment to make sure he wasn't going to slip somehow. With every breath, he continued to curse the name of Doctor Quick.
Carefully, Jeremy then leaned out toward the center of the ceiling with his right hand, feeling around for the access hatch that he knew had to be there. After several seconds of blind feeling and blind faith, his fingers felt a gap that ran in a straight horizontal line. It had to be the hatch.
Leaning out even more, as far as his awkward position would allow, Jeremy pounded upward on the hatch several times with his hand until it finally loosened.
The next part was going to require a little bit of gymnastics. Pushing the hatch door out of the way as best he could, Jeremy then brought his outstretched hand back to the side of the hatch opening closest to him.
Turning until he was almost leaning backwards, with one swift motion Jeremy took his left hand off the wall and reached back over his head to grab the edge of the opening, allowing himself to fall from his stance against the wall so that he was now hanging from one side of the hatch opening. With all his strength, Jeremy hoisted himself up through the opening using only his arms. It was a bit of a struggle, but he finally managed to get himself into a position where he could bring a leg up to help pull himself out of the lift and onto its roof.
Breathing heavily and taking the opportunity to curse Quick a few more times out loud, Jeremy stood up and looked around.
Still nothing but blackness. He would have to continue relying solely on feeling his way around.
Moving to the edge of the lift roof, Jeremy found the shaft wall and began feeling around for ladder rungs. He hoped Doctor Quick hadn't left something so 'trivial' out of his design plan. When he finally found them, Jeremy knew he had only to climb upwards until he reached the lift entrance to the bridge, find the manual door override, and he'd be home free. Well, free enough to face Bhrode's barking, anyway.
Slowly he ascended, using one outstretched hand to carefully feel the wall along the way now and again for anything that might be a door or a manual override. After a few minutes of climbing, Jeremy's hand came across what seemed like a release lever of some sort. He didn't think he was -that- close to the bridge yet, but considering the darkness and complete lack of reference, perhaps this was the door already.
Jeremy learned the hard way that pulling on unseen levers was not always a good idea.
As he did so, the ladder rungs on which he was standing and to which he still held with one hand, retracted into the shaft wall, causing Jeremy to plummet almost twenty feet back down to the lift below. Landing with a solid 'thud', he had the wind knocked out of him and he remained lying flat out on the lift roof, trying to catch his breath.
The air slowly returned to his lungs, and Jeremy had a growing awareness of severe pain in his left shoulder. He sat up carefully, then looked above into the blackness. "WHO THE FUCK DESIGNS A SHIP WITH RETRACTING ACCESS LADDERS?!" he shouted into the nothingness with incredulous rage. Trying to move his shoulder and finding he couldn't, he realized it had been dislocated. There was no way he could climb with a dislocated shoulder.
So, recalling a piece of survival training from his academy days, Jeremy carefully rolled to his side, braced himself, and with a hard thrust against the lift roof, popped the shoulder back into place.
As the sound of his pain-induced screaming filled the shaft, he was at least glad there was no one there to hear it.
Lying on the lift roof with tears in his eyes, Jeremy remained motionless for several more minutes, fighting to keep himself from passing out from the excruciating pain he felt. He could move his arm again, but doing so was mercilessly painful. Very carefully, Jeremy removed his shirt, and tying the sleeves around his neck, fashioned a makeshift sling in which to support his left arm.
At this point, Jeremy wanted nothing more than to give up and just wait for someone to find him -- dead or alive -- in this lift shaft. But he knew that wasn't what Bhrode would do or expect of one of his officers. Damn his inner passion! So one more time, Jeremy stood up and carefully felt his way to where, much to his surprise, the retracted ladder rungs had somehow automatically un-retracted. Pushing on the first one with his foot as if afraid the rung were actually made of rubber and this whole thing was some cruel hoax, Jeremy finally decided to trust that these rungs were indeed climbable again. And he vowed not to touch another lever unless he -knew- he was at a door.
The climbing now was much slower than before due to Jeremy's injured arm and general trepidation. It took nearly thirty minutes before he reached what had to be a door. As he even more cautiously felt around for the manual release, light flooded the shaft as the voice of the ship's computer echoed from sources unseen.
::SYSTEM BOOT AND DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE::
Although he probably should have been very relieved to hear the computer's declaration, Jeremy was in fact suddenly filled with panic as from below, the rumbling of the re-activated turbolift approached.
"Shit!" Jeremy exclaimed, trying to hold onto the rung with his arm in the sling as he fought with the door release with the other. "Open the god damn door, someone . . . " he muttered.
With the lift car just moments below, the door next to Jeremy finally opened as the manual release kicked in with a 'click' and a 'hiss'. With all the strength he could muster, Jeremy threw himself through the now open door and tumbled out onto the bridge. All eyes locked on the bruised, shirtless form that popped out of the turbolift shaft, as the car came to stop at the door just seconds behind him.
Exhausted, dazed, and in a horrific amount of pain, he weakly looked up from the floor and bleary-eyed, met what he knew could only be the gaze of one man.
"Lieutenant Savoie . . . reporting for duty, sir," he breathlessly managed.
And then darkness returned, this time only for him.
OOC: As a note for people, they do have TORCHES in Star Trek ;-)
--------------------------------------------------------
Crawling through a Jefferies Tube and pushing an engineering kit in front of her, K'Eytyanna was glad for once that Klingon eyesight was far better then human standards.
Runners that she had sent out with pre-replicated hand-held torches had reported that everyone seemed okay, except for the idiots that were playing Marco Polo in the dark.
Reaching the junction she was looking for, Kay opened the door with the manual pump switch and once it was open enough, he just used her Klingon strength to open it.
Standing, she checked with her tricorder and headed over to the correct section.
Tapping her foot for a couple of seconds, she yelled out, "Goddamn it, Cadet. Hurry up."
A few seconds later, a pimply-faced cadet stuck his head out and shone a torch in her face.
He gulped when she growled before replying, "Sorry, Lt Commander."
"Just get over here."
While K'Eytyanna worked on the checking the two relays with her tricorder and making adjustments as needed, Cadet Matthews tried not to make any more mistakes.
Finally, she grinned, "There, done. Head back to Engineering. I am heading to the bridge to give a report to the captain."
Matthews nodded and left as quick as he could.
It was a beautiful morning in space. A billion suns were blazing away.
No doubt birds (or other local fauna or flora) were doing whatever they do to welcome a new day on a billion planets.
Bah. Who cares?
"Lights, forty percent level." Bhrode barked at the computer.
++ILLUMINATION AT FORTY PERCENT. GOOD MORNING FLEET CAPTAIN DOCTOR QUICK.
YOU HAVE TEN MESSAGES... WARNING, UNABLE TO ACCESS MESSAGES. DOCTOR JEBEDIAH QUICK DOES NOT HAVE COMMAND ROOT PRIVILIGES TO THE MAIL QUEUE OF FLEET CAPTAIN DOCTOR JEBEDIAH QUICK. ERROR IN LOGIC SUBROUTINE 1i82737b. PLEASE NOTIFY ENGINEERING OF FAULT. SWITICHING TO PRIMARY BACK UP CORE CREW MANIFIEST... ERROR! BACKUP CORE MANIFIEST OFFLINE! ERROR!++ the computer cheerfully chirped at him.
"Damn Engineers. . .at least Power is back on. Coffee, Black, Hot."
Bhrode mumbled heading for the Sonic shower, to bathe 'by the book'.
Bhrode, clad in a Robe, Grey, Bathing, Lightly Starched, Fleet Issue was reading messages and reports on his terminal with a scowl on his face.
The Emergency Command Hologram stood behind him (As the relay to the Primary Core Databanks was unaffected by the problems with the computer cores still, for some reason.)
The 'Cup of Joe' at his elbow was in a mug reading the legend. "I feel the need. . . . for a Retrograde Warpcore Backflush Manuever!"
". . . tell this guy in Stellar Cartography that I'm not going three million parsecs off course so he can look at a Cosmic String. He can shoot probes at the Nebulea though....frikking scientists...always in the way on a warship... but he'd better be able to tell me if this Nebulea is crawling with Hirogen BEFORE they come swarming aboard THIS time."
Bhrode was muttering.
"Aye Captain." the hologrammatic Computer Interface replied.
"How long before even the backup memory core is back online with corrected crew data?" Bhrode demanded of the Holli-gram.
The hologram of the older, still scarlet haired slim woman seemed to consider, for a moment.
"Latest Projections show all three cores online within one day, five hours, seventeen minutes." the hologram intoned in a cold voice.
"Too damn long. . . I need those locator systems back." Bhrode muttered.
"Commander Von Ernst's estimates show that if the Engineering crew worked without sleep, using stimulants from Sickbay, the Primary Computer core could be reset and online within five hours, three minutes. With an error rate of plus/minus three minutes, and the deaths of five crew projected due to terminal exhaustion and. . ."
"Belay all that. If anyone's going to kill Engineers around here, it's going to be me, not the dope." Bhrode snarled.
"Yes Captain Bhrode. Her backup calcualtions show that if the Bynars were tortured first, they could re-route the ODN links and..." the ever agreeable Holli-gram replied.
"No torture, not yet. Dr. O'Connell seems to want to run more hologram recreations. She's not buying Streely's 'suicide' theory." Bhrode mused, reading the Medical Dept's report.
"Both Commander Hawksley and VonErnst have logged official protests over that conclusion." Holli-gram informed Bhrode.
"Tell O'Connell 'denied.' I have her estimates and autopsy results. And I was notified of her little joke that three of her 'recreations' had my face on the victem. I want Counseling to get me a Psych profile of the Ensign and a report of the usual Murder-Death-Kill sociopathic. . . "
"Commander Karyn Dallas was last in her office, when the Personnel Locator system was last operative at 0700 hours this morning." the computer told Bhrode.
"Dallas. Bhrode here. Report!" he snapped at the air.
Karyn's voice held a weary tone. No doubt, she'd spent the night awake, pouring over the victem's records and evaluations. ~~Takes her job seriously. Maybe too much. Needs to get laid.~~ Bhrode mused for the 198873th time.
"Captain. He was just a kid. He doesn't fit the usual suicide role.
Decent family, seemed to have his head on straight... no depressive episodes. Nothing, and I've gone as far back as his childhood. He's got my vote as 'Person least likely to commit suicide amongst this crew'" she told Bhrode.
"Between the Engineers and this damned looney Quick, we can't account for his actions or any one elses at the time of death. Thank you for your report. Go to bed dammit, you're useless if you kill yourself Commander." Bhrode snarled.
"But.. I wanted to check..." Karyn began.
"That was an order." Bhrode cut her off curtly.
"But. . ."
"Bed. NOW. Unless your little hoo-doo routine can prove to me that someone killed that boy and WHO that bastard is? Because if you point me at him, I'll provide the asskicking." Bhrode let his irritation bleed over onto Karyn. Too bad. Suck it up, Commander.
"No. I can't." Karyn admitted, with a rebellious and sulky overtone to her tired voice.
"Then I suggest you take your narrow ass to bed before I order your staff to tie it there and certify you as a pathologically obsessive perfectionist. Unless you'd prefer to study isolation paranoia complex disassociative development on a com relay station orbiting the ass end of nowhere?" he told her.
Her frigid silence let him now she was offended. Again. There was a muffled thud and curse finally from Dallas over the internal comlink.
"What was that? Who's a 'frazzin' Smegger of a bastard?'" Bhrode demanded, thinking she had been talking to him.
"Not you, I hit this bannister again. WHY are these stairs here? It wouldn't be so bad if the office replimat wasn't up there in the Lounge area! AND my bathroom is up there too! Up and down these frazzing, stupid steps all day long! My offices were designed by a cretin." Karyn exploded.
"Take it up with Doctor Quick. He apparently felt ramps are a capitalist affectation of the exploitation and oppression of angles, and they blocked his cosmic Feng Shui." Bhrode replied with a bored air, as he perused Princess DeVora'H's latest complaints with a smirk.
"I am NOT putting that exoskeleton on every time I need to use the bathroom! GET ME A RAMP!" Karyn replied.
"Engineering is a bit busy right now, what with redoing the decor and violating regulations and all." Bhrode replied.
"How is my staff supposed to..." Karyn began again.
"Frankly, My Dear Commander, I Don't Give a Damn." Bhrode quipped with a chuckle, as he read that the Princess hated the Kelvan only slightly more than he did. Time to mandate the arrogant smirking fart spend every waking moment with her. Maybe the Klingons would fold and spindle his 'Liasion Officer' for him?
"But. . ."
"That was a joke Commander. Here's an order. Bed, Commander Dallas. Go to it before your big mouth gets you and your chair in hot water. I'm aware of your dilemma and will fix it. Bhrode out." He cut the link and let his laughter bell forth. Karyn Dallas was a spunky thing and that amused John Q Bhrode mightily.
"Shall I log a work order to expedite the construction of a ramp in the Counsling Office module on Deck Twelve?" the Command Hologram asked Bhrode.
"No. Pick two names at random from the list of petty offenders sent to the next Captain's Mast Disciplinary Hearing. Assign them to function as the Commander's Aides, for the foreseeable future. They can move her chair for her, fetch her drinkie poohs, whatever she's bitching about.
One thing we have a surplus of is bodies standing around doing fuck-all." Bhrode observed.
"aye aye sir." replied the Hologram in that flat voice again. Inside the computer core... lists were accessed. Names were cross checked against all three databases.... and finally, the lucky pair of "Aides to Commander Karyn Dallas" were selected and notified.
"ohhh.. holy sweet [BLEEP] you tubby sammich snacking [BLEEP]er! We're gonna be [BLEEP]ing giving sponge baths to a hottie!" Crewman Jay crowed, checking their 'daily orders' again.
Crewman Silent Bob pointed at the PADD again, with a worried expression on his face.
"What? What the [BLEEP]? You mean where is says Crewman Doctor Jebediah Quick and Associate? That shit? DAMNNNnnn! All our orders say that shit all damn week! Someone gave the computer some of that chronic.
Some of that ganja...the [BLEEP]ing mojo . . " Jay was crowing, as they made their way to Counseling.
tbc
OOC: Jay and Silent Bob are Karyn's 'Toy Boys?' now? OH MY! And Bosco? How is Security going to handle Leo -and- Bosco groping (literally!) around in the dark? Good thing the lights came back on! And this Hologram of Rebecca's mother? OH MY! Like Princess Phaserbanks doesn't have ENOUGH grist for her angst-mill! You just KNOW that Lysander guy had something to do with it? But WHY? Bhrode's looking pretty pissy, and it's NOT gonna be pretty aboard the ship for a while!
Corgan rolled his eyes in disgust. He turned back to address the Legate, "Legate, I don't need to explain myself. I answer to the Captain unless otherwise ordered. I did as ordered, and I did it for the ship's concerns. I was given consent by the Klingons to search them... ~After jumping through a few hoops.~, Princess DeV'oraH agreed to be searched, and believe it or not, they were already intoxicated when I arrived. Don't try to blow things out of proportion. I didn't cause a diplomatic incident."
The commander restrained his flowing anger. He wanted, no, needed, to punch a new eyesocket into Curran's pretty face. Diplomats, always getting in the way of his duties.
"Besides the technical difficulties," The commander added, "They seemed to have a good time... until now. They were signing the praises of Ten Forward, and they convinced me to join in a few drinking songs. Appearantly, they said I had balls... and as you know, is a Klingon sign of respect. Does that sound like their honor has been seriously damaged by me? I think not. What do you guys think?" He turned to the Klingons. All of them, except the haughty Princess, gave out a half hearted cheer.
Kylar only crossed his arms and let this human sputter on. Maybe he'd run out of air and leave, but he could only be so lucky. This hallway air was fetid with belches of grotesque fragrances and pungent odors of gas. Amongst the belches and snores, the occasional toot of flatulence sent ripples of rancid stenches throughout the stale air. He could only wish the ventilation system would turn itself back on. He was going to be incinerating a LOT of uniforms on this assignment.
Corgan went aside with the Legate, concerned that whatever points he made out would be overheard by the Klingons. The most sensitive part, a suspected murder, was something he didn't want the Klingons to hear.
"Legate Curran, perhaps you're right. Perhaps I may cause a diplomatic incident. I take full responsibility, orders or not, concenting or not, and history can judge me as something akin to Hitler or Khan Singh. Quite frankly, I don't care at the moment. But what if the weapons inspections didn't take place." He allowed his starting argument to sink into the stone faced diplomat. He whispered, "At the least, maybe someone will get stabbed in a fight. If it was a Federation citizen, this would sour relations between the Federation and the Klingons for decades. If it was another Klingon, we would be blamed for not watching over their safety, and... the same would happen. But because of the murderer, we have to worry about the Klingon's safety. What if the murderer got a hold of the Princess's punching dagger, say... he was disarmed. The Princess would be seriously injured or even killed. Either way, it would ruin our diplomatic relationship with the Klingons."
He stopped the Legate in mid sentence, "But that's not all. You see, because the Federation was supposed to be responsible for their protection, the Klingon Empire would blame us for the death of the Emperor's daughter. They would see that as an unforgivable sin, only satiated by blood vengeance.
They would swear vengeance against the Galaxy first, then the Federation would be dragged in as they tried to protect us. And during the turmoil, the Klingon goverment would either side with the Emperor, or Martok would call of the blood vengeance, which would result in anarchy and civil war. Either way, they would come after us sooner or later, with the first, second and third Klingon battlefleets crossing the Organian treaty zone, and attacking the colonies of Caleb V, Denebalan Prime and Ortos III. The colonists would be massacred before the fifth, sixth and twelth fleets arrived, and when they fight... both sides would walk away with heavy losses."
~"See how much he likes taking his own medicine."~ Corgan thought heartily, "And it was all because we didn't do certain safety precautions during this trip, such as weapons search."
"Fine argument you make, 'Commander, with the exception of one potentially fatal fact." He was genuinely surprised at the passion of thought put out by this subhuman creature.
"Every species in this quadrant is familiar with the Klingons and their strong senses of pride and arrogance. Any potential murderer who approached the Klingons for nefarious purposes would realize they are adept warriors who do not give one single thought to slitting their throats for even looking at them the wrong way. They are prideful, and live on an honour code. They are known to carry weapons at all times, hidden and in the open.
Any criminal intent against the Princess would be made with weapons already prepared for the action. If the Princess were to be killed by a 3 inch punch skiv, it would be by one who already carried it hidden on their person or persons. They are weapons designed for silent attack in the middle of the night. Keep in mind, that Klingons are born to fight. They are not easy foes to take down."
"That's assuming that the assassin isn't skilled enough to take down a Klingon, and that's a dangerous assumption to make." Corgan pointed out.
"What would General Martok then do if he were to find his Emperor's daughter were mortally wounded because she or one of her guards had been disarmed?"
The insufferable cut him off! How dare he?
"Ummm..." Corgan pointed out, "The bodyguards weren't disarmed, only the diplomats..."
"You talk about war, 'Commander?" He caught himself as his more refined mind reacted to the previous statement. "Only the diplomats? Then explain to me why the entire bodyguard detail save one is defenseless? Nevermind.
You will follow *my* orders or none at all, for you will be in the Brig."
"Hello? Are you listening?" He whispered under his breath.
~"Let him speak. He'll tire out in a few minutes."~ Conscience quipped.
"Yes... Just because I'm not staring at you eye to eye, doesn't mean I'm ignoring you. Go on." Corgan hurried.
"The Federation Council discussed every option you feel to take upon yourself to contradict for what reason other than by a man who relishes war, and would love to prove comparing the pulse cannon to the size of the sock in his pants when in combat with the flagship of the Klingon Empire. The size of the entourage and details of the defenses they would carry were written on contract for this journey to lanjep, 'Commander. It was debated from one end of the spectrum to the other, and warnings were issued to the Princess and her envoy after the conditions were agreed upon." He paused for effect.
"By order of the Federation Council, and Starfleet Command is in compliance with this order, the Princess is to remain untouched, with no removal of their weapons. Failure to abide by this order is tantamount to treason, and conspiracy to commit murder. If she or any of her guards have had their defenses confiscated, they are to be returned *immediately*, or you and Captain Brhode will face conspiracy charges at the least, and Second-Degree Murder charges if she should die during this journey. Any further damages to her if not in compliance with these orders, and all parties responsible for disarming her will be brought to trial on Qo'NoS and exiled from the Federation as per the agreement signed by General Martok, Kahless the Emperor, and the Federation Tribunal." He waved his hand as if trying to emphasize a point, and prevent Corgan from cutting him off.
"The Federation will deny any and all involvement as per conditions of the contract. You see, 'Commander, as you humans would say, 'All the Bases Have Been Covered'. Either you comply, or I will have you removed from this post and replaced with someone who will. If you are that paranoid, assign Security Officers as part of her escort. This is allowed."
Exasperated, the Chief of Security replied, "For one, you and Brhode should have hammered that out a long time ago before I was ordered to do the searches, so don't go blaming me for starting the Third Galactic War. And secondly, I know the guards are exempt. And third, I have guards assigned to the Klingons for the entire trip. I interpreting Captain's orders in the best possible manner, and though I take responsibility for my actions, you must take responsibility for not sending over the proper revised diplomatic protocols to security, or discussing these protocols with the Captain."
"If the Captain had been forthcoming on his intentions, maybe I would have, but it would seem the PetaQ had other designations in mind. As for protocols, they have been in place for some time, and been sent to your office upon the Princess' arrival to the Galaxy. I would assume that in order to be assigned the rather important task of Security Chief on board the flagship vessel of the Fleet would require thought processes of your own machinations, but I see Starfleet protocols have been amiss in the transfer. The feeble attempt to deflect your mistakes back to the Liaison Office only assures me of ineptitude, or perhaps it is Captain Brhode only attempting to cause consternation in our own duties and obligations." His eyes glazed over for a stitch in time. ~I wouldn't put it past him.~
"Hey!" The Cheif of Security snapped, "I said revised, not the standard package diplomatic protocol. You two should have agreed to any changes and brought them to me!"
Calm again as the cold, calculating security chief, Corgan extended his hand out in greeting, "Just because we argued over protocol, doesn't mean I'm going to hold a grudge against you. Now that our grievences are out of the way, perhaps introductions are in order?" Corgan stated, as So'ka and Hanley handed out wrist lights.
The Kelvan stared at Corgan's outstretched hand, and refused to uncross his own arms.
"Introductions in what sense, 'Commander? I know who you are, as you know who I am. The only reintroduction I see to remind you of is that while you are assigned as Head of Security detail for Princess De'VoraH, you are under my command. You are now outside of Starfleet protocols in this matter and answer to me only, not Brhode. I will make sure he is aware of the 'protocols' in the jurisdiction of my Office. I have enough on my hands dealing with his incessant intervention in determining the needs of the Liaison Office and adherence to Federation statues and regulations. This petty complex he has is only going to embarrass this crew, and further, the Federation."
"You think working with Brhode is tough? At least you have authority higher than him. I have to follow his orders. You try to do my job for awhile..."
James chuckled, almost buckling under the heavy weight of a propped up Klingon, "Not easy balancing the ship, the captain and the Federation's interests, and with Captain Brhode, they ususally conflict, just like now. Christ, and worse yet, I'm treated like I can't wipe my own ass. Annoying sometimes... isn't it?"
The euphemisms these subhumans held was puzzling. Why would one want to wipe a donkey? This human was talking to him like he was a... friend, or something. Kylar had no use for friends, but he needed allies.
"Ah... yes. Annoying."
"And worse yet, I get threatened by you, Brhode, everybody under the sun over things that are beyond my power. Let that be a lesson to you, Legate. At some point, threats are meaningless to me. So what if I get exiled and dishonorably discharged? Life goes on, I move on, and I get away from all the noise. There's no point. By the way, the punching dagger is in security storage locker 1A. I'll send Handley to return it right away, but if Brhode throws a fit, it's both our asses."
"You mock me, 'Commander? Do you hold no allegiances? The officers and crew of this vessel rely on you to maintain the peace and protect their lives, and you return that unwavering trust with 'so what'? Do you not realize that order is needed so that we can predictably rely on our resources in times of need? You need to learn how to focus on the task. That is why I expect you to answer to my authority from now until you are re-assigned back to Security duties. I live in eternal exile, as you can see." He waved an arm around him. Innocuous Klingons, humans, belching, farting, snoring, and in some cases vomiting.
"I am exiled to live my life in this limited human form, surrounded by emotion, irrational thought, drivel, and barbarism. Child-like thought and action. Discipline is lax and lenient. Yet, for all the horror of living amongst the 'noise', I have allegiances to the Federation that go beyond personal gain. This maintains structure and harmony, as well as provides drive for efficiency. I have been assigned a task for reasons I do not question, but pertains to achieving a focussed objective of which I am aware of. You *will* do the same, or you will be scrubbing plasma conduits with the Mark II's for the rest of your meaningless life. Same will go for Brhode if he attempts to abduct your mule. I for one do not own one, and have no idea why you stated as such that I do. I have yet to see a policy on the officers and crew of this vessel being partnered with any animals, unless of course it is a fetish of the human species."
"Wait... what mule? Jesus Christ, Legate, don't you know human slang?" James gasped.
****
"We are in a position of representation of the Federation and you want to use unsanctioned slang?" The Legate snorted derisively and looked away to the sounds of scuffling down the corridor. It was gradually getting louder.
"All part of being a spacer, my man... but I digress." Corgan growled. Attempting to smooth over any arguments was futile with the Legate, "What I want to say is that I care about the crew and their safety. But it's hard to focus on any goddamn assignment when everyone wants to pull you in separate directions. You try to pull me this way, Brhode pulls me in the other, and then when I try to assert some authority in my department, trouble starts."
He threw his hands in the air and sighed, "It's like nobody is satisfied, no matter what I do. In this kind of environment, punishment means nothing because it's unavoidable."
"And please." Corgan braced himself for another once of the Legate's preachy statements, "I don't want to hear it. You preach like my father. And no, don't take that in the literal religious way." He added sarcastically, "That's just my slllaannnggg talking."
From out in the darkness, the Legate and the Chief of Security heard the commotion of shuffling bodies and heavy impacts on durasteel. There were scuffles, punches, growls, curses and snarls somewhere in the impenetrable darkness. Most of the voices were decidedly Klingon in nature, and one of the curses included the deep voice of the stubborn and unbearable Princess DeV'oraH.
Corgan groaned as if the weight of the starship was slowly crushing him, "Oh for f**k sakes... can't they stay out of trouble for one minute? Hold on Legate, unless you want to talk them out of this?"
"Oh, no, 'Commander.' By all means, use your 'slang' to defuse the situation. Maybe they will give up their asses to you." The Legate smirked as he waved his arm down the corridor.
"Suit yourself." Corgan replied, ~"@$$hole..."~
The Chief of Security bolted a few meters back to the ambassador's quarters. His wristlights slowly lit the hall, one tube of light creating a halo of sanctuary from the darkness. Soon, he saw the cones of light from the other bodyguard's wrist lights, and then uncovered the darkness from the Klingon's quarter's entrance.
The sight he saw, possibly the last sight James would ever see in his short tenure as the Chief of Security, was the sight that was going to damn him.
He saw the Klingon's. Princess DeV'oraH, a few of the diplomats, and a couple of Klingon bodyguards, all laying in a punch drunk fugue, were slumped against any vertical surface they could find. The Starfleet security detail was recovering from what looked like a brawl of epic proportions. So'ka gingerly dabbed his bleeding lip with the collar of his uniform, while
Hanley limped over to the chief of security. Lieutenant Krieghoff, his newest addition, was silent, standing over the Princess.
~"Sh*t... we're in so much trouble."~ Corgan sighed again, self defeated. He couldn't have a single talk about policy with a diplomat without having some incident happen. He had the feeling that this was going to be the last straw for both the Legate and the Captain. He just couldn't win. As good as he tried to do his job, everything else tried to undermine his efforts.
It was good while it lasted.
Corgan aligned himself back on the path he was trying to follow, which was right towards his security detail.
"Alright boys..." He surveyed the scene of the brawl, "What happened?"
"Don't know, sir." So'ka winced as he pressed his cuff against his split lip, "The lights went off, and we about to hand out the flashlights until some Klingon yelled... I think it was 'assassin'... and then the next thing we knew we were being attacked."
"Same here, sir!" Hanley rubbed his aching elbow, "Had to pull two of them off So'ka."
James couldn't believe what he was hearing. Klingons, making assumptions, panicking, and attacking everything in sight? Not surprising, but still unreal. Seeing so many drunken, unconscious Klingons, and Princess Dev'oraH slumped over with a trickle of blood trailing out of her mouth made him sick, and very afraid for his own department.
"Krieghoff?" James asked kindly to suppress his annoyance, "What happened?"
"Just a moment, sir, I've got four more to get from back down the corridor - I don't think we want them lying around unattended. It'll just take a second." Victor moved off back down the hall, returning with a pair of unconscious Klingons, one over his shoulder and the other dragged by the collar. ~ I started this - it's my fault. If I hadn't run into those four back there then this fight wouldn't have been necessary... ~ He leaned the Klingon he had by the collar against the wall, and shifted the other from his shoulder to lie next to that one, then vanished back in the darkness to return a moment later with two more, one of them female. ~ Hell. All right, just do what you decided, don't change anything. It's the truth - the only thing missing is who ran into whom first and started it. ~
Corgan silently observed his newest crewmember with calm and ease, with respect mingling in the mix. The new guy, who looked much older than he, was smart and ready for action. He wasn't eager like a new cadet, but ready to do what needed to be done, like a seasoned veteran of many tours of duty. Lieutenant Krieghoff was different than most of his crew. A professional security officer, soldier, and anything else he had to do. It was the way he carried himself, confident, emotions toned down for dignity's sake, every step of his always sure where it was supposed to go.
He needed more men like Lieutenant Krieghoff.
Laying the male he had by the collar across the legs of the two he'd dropped earlier, Victor shifted the female off his shoulder and set her down a bit more gently, giving her a patch of corridor wall to herself. He straightened up, turning back to face Corgan. "I had these four get separated from the main body, sir. I was on the way to retrieve them when the light went out. Someone bumped into someone, and by the time the emergency lights were back on, the four of them had laid each other out. I was checking them to make certain that there weren't any serious injuries inflicted, since at least two of them had knives out when I heard the commotion from up the hall and responded to that."
Corgan grumbled, "Not bad Lieutenant. You're right on the bit there. Did you see what happened to Hanley or So'ka?"
Victor nodded to the other two officers. "Hanley and So'ka were trying to sort this mess out, but the Klingons were all armed and not listening - too much Bloodwine, or whatever it was that they were drinking. About the time I got here, the weapons came out and we did what we had to do to protect ourselves and resolve the situation." He shrugged. "We got lucky. They were too drunk to fight well." Victor paused to glance towards the four Klingons he'd brought up. "If I had to guess, sir, it was my bunch here that started it. One of them was yelling about assassins right before they started mixing it up - there were some other things said, but the combadge translators were out by then with the computer down, and I don't speak Klingonaase, so I don't know what they were saying from that point on."
James listened carefully to the security officer's side of the story, and though he felt like Krieghoff wasn't telling absolutely everything, he also couldn't dismiss the story outright. Krieghoff was cagey, righteous, but very cagey. James felt he knew something else, something that would land him in trouble.
But if the Klingons attacked him, with weapons included, then the Klingons attacked him, giving the security detail every right to defend themselves. "Did you hit the Princess?" He pointed at her unconscious mass, finally getting a lock on to what he was suspicious about.
"To be honest, sir, I don't know," Victor responded with a frown. He looked around the corridor. "I know that one over there is mine," he pointed to a Klingon lying face down on the corridor floor behind Hanley, "but only because he was the first one I got to. He's the only one I can say for certain - but it's certainly possible I hit the Princess in the confusion." He knelt down and checked the Princess. "So'ka was the one on the right side of the hall, and Hanley was on the opposite end of the mess from me." He stood back up. "If one of us did hit her, it was likely me, sir; she's in the right area, anyway. I can't swear to it though - I wasn't looking at faces."
"Understood, Lieutenant... Ensigns. Alright then, all of you will have to write a report after your shift explaining your actions. And if I catch any changes in the story, or any lying, then you'll be penalized. But for now, So'ka and Hanley, haul these Klingons to their quarters. Both of you take one at a time, while Krieghoff watches the group." Corgan did a quick body count, and accounted for all of the group. He was relieved to see that none of the Klingons wandered off during the engagement. He looked up to the roof, wondering what it was about his first assignment as the chief that went so wrong. "Good work everybody. You handled the situation well."
"Thank you sir," Victor responded for the team.
~"I should have been there helping them, instead of arguing with the Legate."~ Corgan muttered dejectedly, away from his busy crew as he approached the Legate and the Princess.
As he walked away, he heard Victor talking to the others behind him. "You heard the man, folks - let's get this mess cleaned up. Hanley, quit trying to be a hero and use both arms on that one. If you mess that elbow up you won't be the only one that's short-handed."
Corgan grinned as he turned his head, observing Krieghoff in action. That boy... no, the man was much older than he, his rank the only thing that indicated a lower status in the pecking order, was a natural born leader.
He heaved the heavy body of Princess DeV'oraH over his shoulders, while turning to the Legate, "I bet it's a penalty too to throw the Klingons in the brig, true?"
"Yes. Take them to their quarters and let them sleep it off. I will discuss the incident with the Princess in the morning." Kylar pointed to Krieghoff and waved him over. "I want him to go to Ten-Forward after you have cleaned up this mess and make sure the Klingons never get their hands on alcohol again. If he has to go to their private stock and switch it with synthahol, then so be it. We are to make the Klingons happy and comfortable during their stay, but the orders are flexible when it comes to their cargo and when the safety of the crew comes into play."
The Legate stopped, realizing that the Lieutenant was looking to his Chief for confirmation of the order. This exasperated the Legate. No one was doing what they were told. He eyeballed Corgan.
The Chief Security Officer let slip a smirk himself and waved over the Lieutenant.
"Help him," Kylar ordered, pointing at Corgan and his unconscious burden.
~ What an ass. ~ Victor nodded and turned to help the Commander with the Princess. "Let me get that, sir," he said, keying the door open and turning to help his commander maneuver the Princess through the door.
Corgan halted for a moment, and addressed the Legate with genuine concern, "If they weren't so important, I would have them cool off in the brig, but their quarters will have to do. This should not have happened. We can't stop them from having a good time, drinking, fighting, and endangering our lives."
Corgan hefted the Princess, shifting her into a fireman's carry with Victor's help, "I hear they need a tour of the ship. I planned on offering the trip tomorrow, but I need someone who can handle the diplomatic ends of thing. Will you be attending our trip?"
"After this incident, it would seem I must. I can't leave something of this import in the hands of the undisciplined. You just keep your security officers eyes on protecting the Princess and her envoy. If an assassination attempt is to be made against her, we are going to take the brunt of it first." The Legate leaned into the quarters assigned to the Princess as James and Krieghoff eased her in without incident.
"Don't worry about it Legate. My crew will do everything you ask from here on in. Worry about keeping the Klingons happy and sober. I'll worry about assassins in the dark. Until tomorrow....." Corgan hefted Dev'OraH's heavy weight, disappearing in the hungry maw of her quarters. Soon enough, the lights were back on, illuminating the mess for anyone to see.
The Legate was going to pull his hair out over this, if he wasn't so concerned with how he was presented. Instead, he left for his quarters a short distance away on Deck 3, and incinerated yet another uniform.
(Soon after the introduction of the Holli-gram)
If the twin doors to her quarters had been designed to be ”slammed” shut, Rebecca would have done so with relish.
Instead the young XO contented herself to quietly fuming in tight-lipped silence until the aformentioned doors slid shut with a peaceful ‘hiss’ “”OOOOOH, THAT NOODLE-HEADED, NO GOOD POOP-FOR-BRAINS, SMARMY PEEPING-TOM OF A DINGLE-BERRY!!!” She exploded in the privacy of her own quarters, the excessive vulgarity just spilling over her snarling lips.
“What the HECK does that Spoon-brained, noodle-noggin, Lysander think he’s doing portraying MY MOMMA as a Cow-Pattie Hologram program!!!???” Rebecca raged to nobody in particular. “Why I oughta. . . .I oughta. . . . “ Words failed her for the moment. “Ooooooo he’ll be sorry about what I oughta do to him.!~”
Not very well versed in the art of cursing, Rebecca was making a valiant neophyte’s effort at making her cussing as unique and effective as possible.
While not exactly High-Art as the Klingons sometimes held swearing, to any who were familiar with the redhead’s usual silent demeanor, it would have been quite shocking material indeed.
“Razzle-frazzing doo-doo brain.” She grumped, forced to make up new words to add to her limited library of vulgarities. . . . “ I hope his silly shiny smile gets eaten by a space-newt.”
Throwing herself in a huff onto the springy sofa, Rebecca was so mad that she didn’t even care that there might not be any such thing as a ‘Space-newt’ , nor if it had a pen chance for consuming ‘smiles’
“Poop-poop-poop.” She sighed at last running out of steam. “”How dare he. . . . . . ooh Noodles!”
Crossing her thin arms tightly across her flat chest, Rebecca furrowed her brows, and puffed out her lower lip in her best ‘sulk-face’ possible. True she may not be able to reveal her displeasure to the crew in general, nor to Lysander in particular, but there was no reason why she couldn’t pout in the privacy of her own room.
The audacity of it all!
Imagine the nerve of that Math-wannabe Lysander in programming the new Command Hologram into looking exactly like Rebecca’s own scarlet-haired mother Holli von Ernst!
While she was not sure on the subject, Rebecca was sure that there must be at least a half-dozen different law-violations in producing such a personalized hologram. Law was not her forte’, but she remembered over-hearing something once about not being able to make specific holograms of certain individuals in the fleet without due cause. She was fairly certain that the fact that Holli was a ‘civilian’ made the offence even worse.
“I ought to sue his noodle-headed poo-poo brain for every cent he’s worth.” (Quite a bit when you considered the Van Der Puls Fortune)
“And then with all that money I would buy up all his stupid pip-shine factories and pour it down the drain!! Ha ha to you pip-shine nose!”
Rebecca tended to be a bit random in her mocking.
As far as a possible lawsuit went, as soon as she calmed down a bit she could send her photographic memories running back through time to her Freshman-year Federation Justice 101 class, and verify these violations.
However, for right now her mind was in too much of a tizzy to do the necessary sorting.. The red haired Commander may indeed remember everything she was ever exposed to, but at times it took a bit of concentration to bring to the forefront of her mind.
(Lysander etc etc Hawklsey being a major impedance to her power of concentration.)
The tiny slip of a girl huffed and puffed for a few more minutes savoring every last drop of her waning anger before uttering a deep sorrowful sigh.
Although she didn’t like to admit it, the reason she was probably most upset was the fact that the sudden unexpected appearance of her “Momma” in full Starfleet Command Uniform had almost caused a crack to develope in the emotionless mask Rebecca tended to wear out in public.
Though the rest of humanity could go to . . . . (heck). . . . for all she cared, the truth was that the 27 year old Rebecca was still very much a Momma’s-girl, and would do anything to protect her doting parent.
~~~Except for the fact that Momma would think the whole thing was hilarious.~~~ she grumbled to herself. Though she hated to admit it, the sad truth was that though alike in hair-color and slim build, the two von Ernst women were total opposites in personality.
Where Rebecca was fragile and reserved, abstaining from any and all social contacts, the much more outgoing Holli was always the life of the party, eager to make new friends, and work her considerable charm on whomever present.
Where Rebecca was cold and calculating in her professional capacity, idly sacrificing her crewmembers lives for minute tactical advantages, the down-home Holli was a friend to all, expressing concern and compassion to everyone, and often acting as a surrogate mom to those around Rebecca.
With a shake of her head, Rebecca recalled the time her Mom had brought a plate-full of Tuna fish Sandwiches (SandWEJes) for the entire bridge crew, and also how she perpetually referred to the adult Lieutenant Commander James Lionel Corgan as “That little ‘Jimmy’ Corgan kid.”
~~~Yeah, Momma’d think the ‘Holli-gram ‘ was a hoot.~~ Rebecca figured.
There was another aspect to this whole deal however, that Rebecca didn’t admit to herself. Something deeper that perhaps was more significant and troublesome.
She could not deny (though she did not admit) the fact that there was something ‘odd’ going on between her mother and Lysander. Though the elder von Ernst was at least 15 years older than the smooth-talking Alpha Centaurian, she was still full of sparkle and life, and still very much in shape, possessing a slim firm body shaped by hard labor on the farm, and even harder work on the long marathon’s that Holli so adored as her life’s hobby.
~~~Another place where we differ.~~~ Rebecca sighed. The Commander’s aversion to physical exercise was a well known fact form her days aboard the original Galaxy, while the long haired Holli had gained instant fame by showing-up the buff Lieutenant Sanchez on a tiresome 16 mile run-off.
Once again Rebecca was despised while Holli became the hero of the entire Tactical Department.
~~Well noodles on them.~~~ Rebecca stuck out her tiny tongue to the empty room. ~~~Why should I run, do I look like a fat-farm candidate to you?~~
She glanced down at her slim elfin frame, where the ridges of individual ridges could barely be seen through her uniform top.
~~~I mean so what if she can run farther, and is more popular than I am . . . .so what if. . .. ~~
Rebecca cut off the thought half-formed. She realized with a shock how her mind had unconsciously changed the subject of her frustration from the fact her Mom’s image was used in the first place, to being (jealous?) over why Lysander seemed to be more attracted to Holli instead of her.
~~~Whoa there funny-face!!~~ she chastised herself, ~~~Lets just put a reign on those thoughts. We are NOT. . . repeat. . .NOT jealous of Momma.
She can date anybody she wants to. She’s a grown woman.”
Well maybe.
When Rebecca pictured her Mom dating (a thought that nauseated her frankly) it was always with some nice OLDER gentleman of about 40 or 50 years old.
Most definitely she did NOT picture the smarmy 20-something Lysander draping his icky self all over her Momma’s giggling form.
“Oooooh ick!” she exclaimed. “He’d probably like. . . . “ she cut off that thought quickly.
It was well known that Lysander. . . . (She struggled for words). . . .’did-IT’ with some of the looser women aboard the Galaxy, and to Rebecca (who was terribly neurotic about the ‘sex’ word in the first place, the picture of her Momma and Lysander was. . . .
“ACK!”
Anathema.
A response to Brian's 'What Would Bhrode Do?" post.
Wheeling in his Chair, Command, Central, Galaxy Mod.II; John Q. Bhrode rolled his eyes at the form of Jeremy Savoie crumpled on the floor.
"So nice you decided to join us. At least you didn't decide to bring a partner to fornicate with on my bridge deck as your encore. You're late!" He sneered.
Bhrode looked around the rest of the Emergency-lights illuminated Bridge.
"Any one else want to go play pattycake on their potty break? Take a lil vacation? Have a cute little picnic while everyone else TRIES TO FIX The FRAGGING SHIP?" he demanded of the silent room.
Every member of the crew present bent their heads over their tasks and hoped and prayed that Bhrode didn't notice them.
"Go to Sickbay, Mister Savoie. The mere sight of your non-regulation self makes me ill to my stomach. Let them patch up your boo-boos, and then report to Commander Hawksley, maybe HE has some ideas what to do with your worthless carcass. I can't belive he actually said those complimentary things about you, based off your history. Oh, and don't crawl around in Turbolift Shafts anymore. If that thing had activated one moment sooner, I'd be looking for another Helmsman." Bhrode snapped.
Noting the silence, Bhrode stood and looked at the Lietenant Junior Grade, still crumpled on the deck. Noting the absence of conscience, he snapped at Electra Reece. "Dammit! Next time, when I tell you to shunt power to the Lifts, you DO it! I don't care if the Grand Nagus AND Jesus Christ themselves are fart-arsing around in there! Suppose I needed Tactical Advantage with the Lifts, and you'd hesitated because some fool was someplace he shouldn't be? You could have just killed us all!" he barked at the hapless OPS officer.
"Sir. I." Electra began, in that odd, robotlike manner of speaking she had.
"Listen good, MISTER Reece! ***IF*** I wanted Savoie smeared into Raspberry Jam, you damn well DO it! Because I'd rather Savoie or anyone else buys it than the whole ship! you people FOLLOW MY ORDERS or I'm gonna know the reason why! Anyone dies, **I ** have to explain to Starfleet Comamnd why. This whole ship goes, and no one's gonna do that.
IS THAT CLEAR?" Bhrode ranted at her.
"Aye." was her clear and disgusted reply.
"Someone clean that mess up and get it off my Bridge." Bhrode waved at Savoie with a disgusted hand.
"Captain's Log, Stardate 50309.12
I have a ship falling apart, a load of snot nosed crybabies for crew to make it all work, and an Imperial Klingon Princess Aboard acting like a Ten Year Old looking for a spanking. We reach Rigel VIII in a week.
Hopefully, we'll get this crate working and find a killer before then."
Bhrode was muttering.
"Sir! Vor'Cha Class Klingon Warship decloaking off the Port Bow!"
Reported O'Connell from the Tac Arch.
Bhrode glared and tugged his tunic lower.
"Battle Stations. Red Alert." he ordered.
"Sir? They are our allies..." began a puzzled O'Connell.
Electra Reece beat O'Connell to activating the Red Alert.
"Nice Mister Reece. I forgive you for not killing Savoie, now." Bhrode said, having seen Reece's response.
Tbc.
(Soon after the introduction of the Holli-gram, and at the same moment as Rebecca is practicing cursing in her room on the other side of the same deck.)
If the twin doors to his quarters had been designed to be slammed shut, Lysander would have done so with relish.
Instead the young XO contented himself to quietly fuming in tight-lipped silence until the aformentioned doors slid shut with a peaceful hiss cutting offMiss Samantha Widdlestein (aged 10) telling him all about her new teacher and class.
Smeg that Smeggin' Runty Redheaded Smegger of a SMEGGER!" He snarled, tripping over the half-opened Starfleet Academy Varsity Fencing Team bag, still open from the Marine 'Seek out and secure all weapons' directive. Apparently 'Sword, blunt, Olympic Fencing" was now deemed as "Violation of Weapons Control Directive Seventeen point five Beta"
"You can req. them from Armoury like everyone else sir." Lys had been told by MGSM"Betty" Goldstein. Succintly but firmly told "Commander Corgan's Orders."
Smegging Corgan. Smegging Ice Queen. All HER fault somehow, he was sure!
Why the HECK did they pick Reb