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

"Ten Things I Hate About You"Markie

By Commander in Love . . .
Lysander VanderPuls-Hawksley, CO-EXEC Officer, USS Galaxy

"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.


"Tunnel"Markie
by Lt. Dr. Vladimir Malgin, ACMO

Location&Time: Quarters, during blackout.

... "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...

-= In a dream =-

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...

-= Back on this side of dream =-

"... WHAAA! What a?! Dammit. Dream..."



OOC: Takes place still in the midst of the Blackout where Dr. Quick and his
new buddy Bosco are discussing the ‘do-ability’ of the various females aboard the Galaxy. Ladies. . . .don’t take offence please. I decided to keep the text to Dialogue only seeing as it was still pitch black and the voices would be the only thing detectable. Try to keep that picture of two voices in the dark as you read.

--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)

=== “Guy Talk”===

Starring

Jeb Quick and Bosco

(Somewhere on Deck 6)

“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’]

“Character Is What You Are In The Dark”Markie

Primary Cast: Lt. (JG) Victor Krieghoff; K’vala Mahask (APC)

Secondary Cast: Several Faceless Klingons; Security Officer Hanley

*****

Stardate 50309.05

Alpha Quadrant

USS Galaxy

Deck 3

Outside Klingon Diplomatic Quarters

1525 Hours

~ 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. ~


"Enter the Lights"

By

Lt. Curtis Geluf, Drive and Navigation Systems Chief, Engineering

"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.


"What Would Bhrode Do?"

Lt. Jeremy Savoie

Chief Helmsman

[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 ;-)

"Relay Checks in the Dark"

by Lt Cmdr K'Eytyanna Samara, Chief Engineer / Comms Chief

--------------------------------------------------------

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.


"I love the smell of Phaserfire in the Mornings."Markie

Starring John Q. Bhrode, CO USS Galaxy, Fleet Captain.

Unauthorized apearance by Commander Karyn Dallas, Chief Counselor

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'.

*** Five Minutes Later ***

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!


"Kind to be Cruel"Markie

by

Lieutenant Commander James Lionel Corgan
Chief of Security (on paper), USS Galaxy

Legate Kylar Curran,
Chief Federation Liaison Officer,
USS Galaxy

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.


"Diplomatic Maneuvers In The Dark"

by

Legate Kylar Curran,
Chief Federation Liaison Officer

Lieutenant Commander James Lionel Corgan
Chief of Security (on paper), USS Galaxy

Lt. (JG) Victor Krieghoff
Security Officer

NPC Ensigns So'ka and Hanley

****

"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.


“Rebecca the Potty Mouth”Markie

Starring the Queen of vulgarities herself:

Commander Rebecca von Ernst

(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.


"What Bhrode Did."Markie

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.


"Lysander's Loose Gasket"

Rebecca the Potty Mouth as seen from the opposite side.

Starring the King of Komedic Romance Himself:

Commander Lysander Etc. Etc etc. VanderPuls-Hawksley

(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 Rebecca's smegging smegger of a smeggin' Mother to make into a smegging Hologram? Lys demanded of no one in Particular. "NOW that loon is going to think I had something to do with it all!" He ranted, again to the empty room at large.

"You did. Momma said that if YOU hadn't tried to make Auntie Commmander Rebecca's hologram as crazy as the real one, YOU wouldn't have..." began Samantha Widdlestein (Aged 10) who had followed Lys into his room, as they were right across the deck from those of her family. The private affairs of one Commander Hawksley were of deep and potent import to the lovestruck young woman, as she was going to marry him someday.

"Who asked you, bugface? Who even let you in?" demanded Lys.

"Momma also says that I should have watched out for you , when YOU were playing with those hologram personality matrixes. Because you're a nit wit and even I, at Aged Ten have more self Control and basic intelligence than you." replied Samantha, using a trick Arel Smith had taught her when dealing with men. When in doubt, shift all blame to them, they'll never notice anyways.

"What? WHAT? Smeggin' rot! You're the one who figured out how to code a psych evaluation into the smeggin' Partial Boolean Response..." Lys started to rant.

"I'm only ten. No one believed me. YOU got in trouble with Starfleet Command for making a hologram of Auntie Commander Rebecca in the first place." Sam said sagely.

"I never did thank you for that." Muttered Lys, flexing his fingers and wondering how many years he'd get for strangling his halfsized pest.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. You didn't HAVE to marry it" Sam shrugged.

"Because of YOUR good idea, I married a hologram of the love of my life, pissed her off, almost got arrested AND saw a really good commercial idea get whisked off to the Daystrom Institute before I could patent it!" shouted Lys.

"I'm ONLY ten! What do you want from me? BLOOD?" shouted Sam back.

"Well, the damn Engineers made a HOLOGRAM. OF HER MOTHER!" Lys retorted.

"My momma?" asked Sam, a Hirogen stiletto apprearing in her tiny fist like a starglimmer and twinkling dangerously.

"HER MOMMA!" Lys shouted in frustration, never noticing the stiletto disappear again.

"Oh." Sam pondered this development for several moments.

Unlike Rebecca, Miss Widdlesteain kept a close eye on the romantic pulse of the ship. Being only ten, she figured she needed a LOT of background data before she got too old to get married herself.

And, of course, since she was DETERMINED to marry Lysander some day, she kept a VERY close eye on his romantic comings and goings.

She'd seen his relationship with Auntie Lieutenant Amy Grant-Green fizzle and die. Of course, the fact Sam had relayed SEVERAL rumours to Auntie Lt.Amy didn't help, nor had Sam's registering Amy as MIA after the Hirogen Attack.

Sam had also noticed Lt. Alia Drakely making eyes at Lysander, and had arranged the Lieutenants' transfer off the ship post haste.

Sam had also noticed a Nursing tech named Kathy Sierra slinking out of Lys' quarters early one morning. Amazingly enough, Miss Sierra was posted to the USS Prospero under John Q. Bhrode for the last year, before quitting the fleet and workign on Leo Streely's Private Pleasure Planet.

But Sam had NEVER known what to do about Commander Rebecca Von Ernst. Every attempt to, had met resistance from Starfleet or fate itself.

Frankly, she wondered if her darling Lysander was insane for continuining to pine after the ONE woman who didn't even notice it. With Sam's help, Lys had even made a hologram of Rebecca, to practice being 'nice' to her with. In typical Lys mistake, he ended up marrying it in a 'Wedding Simulation' gone awry.

And now THIS complication. Lys and Rebecca posted to the same ship. Doing the same job.

Rebecca handling the myriad forms and details that made a Starship function. Lysander doing the same with the social interaction of the crew. Almost like.

. .

Almost like the ideal officer, split into two halves. like two halves that SHOULD fit together but simply won't.

Once again locked into that damn race to out-perform each other.

"You're a dead man." she informed him ten seconds later.

Lys sat and twisted the wedding band on his hand, still there after a year in the Klingon Deep space Fleet, after he'd inadvertantly married the Hologram of his beloved Rebecca. It wasn't sentiment that left it there, just a deep and abiding mistrust of the physicians who claimed they could use a laser scapel to get it off. Lys liked the finger.

"Dead man." Sam reiterated in a sing-song tone, skipping out into the corridor.

=/=

Olga


Dr. O'Connell went to the bridge to take care of the wounded instead of them coming to her. She figured that Bhrode would have stopped barking by now but she was wrong. When she got there, he was still fouled mouth as ever. Her and her medics got the wounded off the bridge quickly as to not be a target for his uncouth demeanor. She heard him say something but chose to ignore him.

She had things to do and listening to Bhrode degrade and embarrass her was not one of them.

Once in sickbay, she worked on the injured. Sooner or later, she'd be scolded by Bhrode for downright ignoring him on the bridge but in her opinion, he just liked hearing himself bark. She laughed to herself, "Maybe I'll buy him one of those Klingon dogs and they can watch each other drool and bark." She laughed out loud while the others thought that she had gone daft. She looked at her staff looking at her, "Sorry, I just had one of those "what if " Bhrode visions."

They laughed and went back to what they were doing.


“Carry-Off Baggage”Markie

Primary Cast: Lt. (JG) Victor Krieghoff

Secondary Cast:
Armory Supervisor Chief Mate Holly Davidson
Marine Armorer Corporal Darren Stark

*****

Stardate 50309.07

USS Galaxy

Deck 7

Victor Krieghoff’s Quarters

0919 Hours

“Well, that’s everything,” Victor sighed, looking around the room. Despite being a Junior Officer’s cabin, and sharing a bathroom with an adjoining cabin, it was larger than any of the quarters he’d been assigned previously aboard ship, and gathering his things back up into the transport cases he’d spent the remaining days of his convalescence unpacking and rearranging had taken a bit. “I shouldn’t have dug out my files and bothered to replicate the pictures and other things,” he decided, looking at the neat stacks of items waiting to be recycled back into the replicator.

He idly ran his hand over one of the cases and looked around the room. “It would have been nice to stay here,” he sighed, “especially with the adjoining cabin unoccupied. I’ve got more space here than anyplace I’ve been except that small apartment on DS9 that Risa and I had…” He let his thoughts drift for a moment, and then frowned suddenly. “That’s a sure sign of depression – I need to find something else to do before I start getting out the pictures I kept in my ‘failed relationship’ box and start thinking about getting drunk again.”

Straightening up, he moved about the room and double-checked everything. “That’s everything,” he finally decided. “I just need to recycle the replicated material, and pick up my case from the Armory and I’m done. Nothing to do after that but wait for the transfer notice to arrive – unless that’s what the Commander wanted to see me about this afternoon before I go on shift with the Klingons. Maybe I’ll get the transfer notice in person this time, that’d be a change.”

He made one final look, satisfied himself that there was nothing open except the one case he was living out of until the notice came, and started for the door. “Might as well go on and make the trip to the Armory while I have the time. I don’t have any ammunition replicated, so there shouldn’t be a problem getting the paperwork filled out. It isn’t like they can’t block the patterns anyway.”

With a command, he killed the lights and departed, the door closing silently behind him. ~ I wonder what it would be like to be someone else? Someone that people didn’t react to the way they do me? Would Risa and I still be together, then? Would we have ever gotten together in the first place? Would I have made friends with any of the people I’ve known – the ones that wanted to turn and run or take a swing at me on sight? Would I have a family, a stable job on a station or ship where I didn’t get transferred every time I turned around? Would I …”

He snorted, startling a pair of ratings that were sidling out of his path as he approached the turbolift and waited for a car. ~ What’s the point of all this? Risa left me because the reason she wanted to be with me wasn’t something you can make a relationship work on, and she couldn’t deal with my doing my job impartially - that’s all there is to that. The rest of it is all meaningless because I’m not someone else, and I won’t be. I may not be happy with the way things are, but they’re good enough. I can’t change what I am any more than a tiger could. Why would I want to? I’ve got people who care about me: Papa and Mama, Cousin Greta, Uncle Bernhard’s widows, and the rest of the family. I’ve got a job that’s worth doing, even if I don’t stay in one place to do it… I can live with that. ~

The turbolift doors opened, and he stepped inside. “Main Armory.” ~ Hell, that’s more than a lot of people have, right? ~ “Right,” he sighed to himself as the car started into motion. “Right.”

****

Stardate 50309.07

Alpha Quadrant

USS Galaxy

Deck 38

Main Armory Office

0929 Hours

“…telling you it’s all over the ship,” the lanky marine corporal insisted. “I got it from a Chief down in Engineering who was in the crawlways tracing relays that ran through the Klingon quarters during the blackout and saw them.”

“Bull!” The woman across the desk from him snapped, looking up from her desk’s LCARS screen for the first time. “There is no way he did that – no way.” She frowned at the Marine and shook her head, her thick blonde braid falling over one shoulder. “Where do you get off coming up with this crap? Bad enough you people are all over the place, in our way, but now you have to dish out garbage like this on top of that? Oh, and get your feet off my desk!”

The Marine leaned forward in his chair without moving his feet. “It isn’t a load of reactor wash, Holly” he persisted. “I’m giving it to you straight: your commander was shacked up with the Klingon Princess two nights ago – carried her into her rooms like it was their honeymoon or something, and then went at it like an animal with her for the rest of the night. Grunts, groans, screams – some of them even hers,” he smirked. “You’ve got a Klingon Love Slave for a commander, Davidson. Can’t blame him though, a couple of the ones with the Princess are hot as photon torpedoes. I wouldn’t mind taking a run at them myself.”

“Please do,” Davidson ground out past gritted teeth. “Do it now, in fact.”

“Oh I can’t, Holly. Not just because I’m on duty either – I just don’t want to be ruined for life the way your boy is.” He snickered. “Even if they’re supposed to be rougher than a Marine DI and hotter than a plasma leak in bed, I don’t go sticking anything important in something that’ll get it broken or burned off. Not like your boss – he’s either missing what he was using or wrecked for anything else. It’s like they say: ‘When they go to the forehead,” he clapped his hand to his forehead, palm down, in a crude parody of a Klingon, “they ain’t got it when they get out of bed!’”

Exasperated, the woman leaned forward and slapped the Marine’s booted feet off the desk. “You are so full of it, Stark! I’m surprised your skin isn’t brown from all the shi-”

The entrance request buzzer to the armory sounded, cutting her off in mid-word. Both occupants turned to check the monitors set up to display the exterior of the door and the surrounding area as mandated by the heightened security protocols.

“One of yours,” the Marine observed, “an officer. Don’t recognize him, though.”

“Lieutenant Krieghoff.” She shivered. “He’s… new. Had some kind of injury that kept him restricted to quarters until after we were underway, and then got dropped straight onto the Klingon security detail – that’s why you haven’t seen him.”

“Really?” Stark perked up. “You think he can settle this for us? He’d have to know if your boss and the Princess were making like wild monkeys, then, right?”

“Shut up, Stark,” she snapped, shivering again. “You don’t ask officers questions like that and you know it – and especially not him.”

Stark started to reply, then stopped and looked between his companion and the monitors and back again. “What’s wrong, Holly? You two have some kind of a history? He a past conquest gone bad?”

“No, thank God,” she sighed. “He just… Hell, I don’t know, he just … “

“He just… what?”

She reached for the intercom switch and thumbed it. “Yes, sir?” While she waited for him to respond, she whispered to the Marine, “Just wait, you’ll see what I mean.”

****

Stardate 50309.07

USS Galaxy

Deck 38

Outside Main Armory Office

0929 Hours

Victor reached out and thumbed the manual buzzer outside the Armory doors. The switch, so new that its mounting plate was still unpainted, clicked once and reset. ~ Guess they have other things higher on the list than painting new equipment. God knows removing that plaid décor from Security Main needs to happen soon before someone has an ‘accidental’ phaser discharge and solves the problem for them. ~

A moment passed while the equally newly installed scanner performed a bioscan and matched his readings up to the updated list it kept on file, and then the Armory Supervisor’s voice sounded through the speaker just above the buzzer. “Yes, sir?”

Victor winced inside at the tone of her voice. ~ Another one for the record books – I did it to her through a sealed and locked door. ~ “I need to pick something up from the vault, Chief – personal property, not issue.”

“Aye, sir. Buzzing you in now.” There was another pause, and the door swished open.

Victor stepped inside, noting the Marine Corporal slouched in a chair across from the Armory Supervisor’s desk as he entered. “Morning Chief,” he nodded, as she stood - and then frowned as the Corporal kept sitting, staring at him. ~ What, Marine’s don’t salute any more?” Victor arched one eyebrow and waited, but the Marine never moved. ~ Hell, he’s wrong and we both know it. I’m out of here any way as soon as the Commander gets me in his office… why not? ~

“Son,” he said softly, the Marine starting when he realized that Victor was addressing him directly. “Isn’t it customary for you to stand when an officer – even a ‘fleetie’ – when one walks into the room?”

“Ummm… yessir,” the corporal stammered.

“Then why aren’t you doing it? Or are you trying to tell me something by sitting there?”

“Oh!” The Marine snapped to his feet and stammered, “Sir, morning, sir!”

“Better…” Victor pretended to study the man’s uniform. ~ How old is this boy? Eighteen? Nineteen? God, was I ever this young? ~ “… Corporal. Now what’s your name, son?”

“Stark, sir. Darren Stark. Armorer for Second Platoon.”

“All right, Corporal Stark – at ease.” Victor shook his head. “I’ll let it slide – once, but that’s all. Don’t let me catch you pulling that crap again – I know the last thing you want is for Gunny Goldstein to be getting a call from a fleet officer telling her that you were stupid enough to get caught ignoring common military courtesy. She doesn’t need the embarrassment, and you don’t need the hell you’ll catch when she gets her hands on you – do you?”

“No... nosir.”

“Wise call, Corporal. Try to remember that standing up part, will you? The next time out it might be someone who really will bite your head off.” `My heart isn’t in this – time to wrap it up. ~

“Ummm… yessir. I will.” Stark nodded vigorously.

“Good plan, Corporal.” Victor turned to Davidson. “There should be a case in the vault registered to me, Chief – can you pull it for me?”

Davidson nodded quickly, looking down at her screen as she typed in a query and located the item. “Got it, sir. One case flagged with your name back in Beta section. It’ll just be a minute.” She turned and darted through the door to the main weapons vault, leaving Victor and the Marine standing there.

Stark looked at the chair, then at Victor, then at the chair again. Finally, as Victor watched, Stark edged around the chair, then the corner of the desk, and positioned himself where he could ostensibly watch the monitors in Davidson’s absence. ~ Great, just great – and this one’s a Marine, yet. Probably a good thing I haven’t had kids. With my luck they’d all take one look at me and start screaming the moment they got their eyes open. ~

The two stood in silence for a minute, then another, before the door to the vault opened back up and Davidson passed through it a large metal case with several small blinking lights on it in her hands, a PADD balanced atop it. She set it down, eyed Stark with a frown when she realized he was blocking her from using the desk as a barrier between herself and Victor, and settled for thrusting the PADD out like a shield. “Please sign here, sir,” she got out evenly – then winced as she realized what she’d forgotten in her rush to get him out of the Armory.

~ I am *not* going to embarrass her in front of a Marine. ~ Victor took the PADD, started to sign, then stopped and swapped it over to his left hand before he reached out to heft the case up onto the desk. “Almost got me with that one, Chief. You know regs say I have to check it in your presence first. I know these spot checks are what you’re supposed to do, but did you have to try it in front of the Corporal here?”

Something that might have been gratitude mixed with the apprehension in her eyes. “I… Just doing my job, sir.”

Victor didn’t look up as he keyed in a release code and waited for the case’s own internal sensor to identify him. “Well keep at it, Chief. Maybe you’ll get me next time.” The case beeped, hissed as it matched room pressure, and clicked open.

Victor simply looked at the only item inside for a moment, then reached out and touched it, fingers running along polished black wood and dark metal – the only example of his family’s tradition that he’d made on his own since his father had pronounced him ready. Reaching down, he lifted it free, still amazed at the spark of eagerness that filled him as he broke the action to ensure it was unloaded, closed it, and then swung the stock to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel towards the ceiling. ~ Perfect. The only thing I’ve ever done that came out… perfect. ~

“Looks good, Chief,” he said after a moment, lowering the rifle. “I can sign for it now.”

As he started to set the rifle back into the case, Victor stopped, catching sight of Corporal Stark’s eyes following the light as it played along the barrel. ~ I’ve seen that look before – even scared he can’t stop looking. ~ “Would you like to hold her, Corporal?”

“Would I?” Stark blinked. “Yes, sir, I would. I-if it would be all right, sir?”

“It would.” Victor broke the action open and carefully handed the weapon across the desk to the Marine. He looked at Stark for a moment critically and added, “The stock will be too long for you, and the balance will be off because of that – she’ll be point-heavy.”

Stark looked in the breech, gingerly closed the action, and raised the rifle up to his shoulder, torn between looking at it and watching Victor. “I… see that, she is.” He lowered the rifle, looked at it again, and then handed it back nervously. “She’s a beauty, sir. My grandfather, he had a gun like that back on the Charon Eta Nine colony when I was a boy. What gauge is she?”

~ Gauge? ~ Victor looked at him for a second, then blinked and laughed, startling both Stark and Davidson. He carefully set the rifle back into the case. “She’s not a shotgun, Corporal – she’s a rifle.”

“A… rifle?” Surprisingly, it was Davidson who spoke up. “Chemical propulsion, right, sir?” she looked at the weapon in the case, measuring it with her eyes. “How big a cartridge does she use?”

“That’s right, Chief, she uses chemical combustion propellant.” ~ Maybe I just needed to talk the right language to get her to stop being afraid of me? ~ “She’s a .750 KCG – one of three in that caliber ever made.”

“.750?” Davidson looked confused.

“Traditional Terran measurement for firearms calibers, Chief. It’s a measure based on one inch being equal to .1000 caliber.” Victor started to warm to the topic. “She’d use a 19mm round in more conventional terms.”

Stark coughed in disbelief. “Nineteen millimeters?”

Davidson ignored the Marine and frowned, thinking. “With a 19mm round… What does the projectile itself weigh? It has to be huge.”

“She was built to use a 900 grain solid,” Victor explained. “With the powder loads she was designed for, she generates a muzzle velocity of 2400 feet per second and something like 10,300 foot-pounds of energy down range at point of impact.”

“Grains?” Stark looked confused. “What’s that in real weight?”

Davidson shook her head, eyes a little wide as she did the math. “That’s about… two and a half ounces of ... lead, right, sir?”

“Dead on, Chief.” ~And that marks the longest conversation I’ve had with you that didn’t involve you trying to get away from my presence as soon as possible. ~

The Marine choked. “Two and a half…? What the hell do you... I mean, it’s a good thing she’s an antique, sir – I’d hate to think about what that would do to anything it was fired at. It’d be like flying a shuttle into them at full impulse.”

“Oh no, Corporal,” Victor replied as he signed the PADD receipt and closed the case up to the sound of another beep. “I don’t just leave her on the wall, and she’s not an antique. I made her five years ago - she’s a working gun.”

“Excuse me, sir?” It was Davidson again. “You… made… her? As a… working gun?”

Victor nodded. “Old family tradition, Chief, we’ve been doing it since 1685. And, yes, she’s a working gun – I hunt with her. No point in making a weapon that’s just going to sit on the wall, is there?”

“You… hunt… with it?” Davidson’s interest faded, replaced by apprehension – and a little horror. “You actually shoot that thing at *living* animals?”

“Only dangerous ones, Chief.” ~ Well, I just lost any ground I gained there. She doesn’t get it either. No one does anymore. ~ “I hunt predators - Terran lions and tigers, Andorian Ice Bears, Capellan Power Cats – things like that. There’s no point in hunting anything that’s not hunting you back.”

“You *kill* animals with that thing?” Davidson repeated, as though still trying to understand the concept. “Deliberately? You…. “ Her vocabulary failed her in mid-sentence and she was left with her mouth open.

With a sigh, Victor nodded. “The word you’re looking for is ‘hunt,’ Chief. I deliberately go out into their native habitat, stalk them in the wild, and then shoot and kill them before they can kill me. That’s what ‘hunting’ is.”

“You murder animals!” the Armorer finally got out. “Why? What possible reason could there be to do something like that? That’s barbaric!”

~ Well, at least she hasn’t called me a monster yet. ~

“What kind of monster are you?”

~I spoke too soon. ~

“Chief,” Victor said tiredly as he picked the case up. “If you don’t understand, then nothing I can say will make you understand. Just chalk it up to…” he paused, thinking. ~ Dammit, I didn’t want this again, what do I say here? How do I…? I don’t. Hell, I’m leaving the ship anyway just as soon as the Commander has his little meeting with me anyway, why bother? They never understand, and it doesn’t matter if they like me anymore. Tell her the truth. ~ “Chalk it up to the fact that I’m just like the animals I hunt, Chief – a predator. It’s what I am; I was born that way, and I’ll die that way. The only difference between me and one of those half-ton killers you’re so upset over dying is that I’m a little more discriminating in what I kill. That’s all.”

Victor stopped, the realization that his voice had been steadily rising in volume as the speech went on suddenly striking him as he looked at the white, terrified face of the Armorer. ~ Damn. ~ “Sorry, Chief,” he continued softly as the woman edged back around the desk next to the now silent Marine whose hand was suspiciously near his issue sidearm. “I was out of line. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Davidson nodded once, jerkily, in acknowledgement.

~ Time to go. Explaining won’t help – not anymore. ~ “I input the replicator codes for her ammunition into the computer a few days ago, Chief – they’re flagged so there’s a record made and a notice is sent when a request for replication is made. You have to sign off on it before I can make any ammunition. I also tied the case locks transponder to the ship’s computer so there will be a flag when the case is opened – and I’m the only one with the security codes for it.” He waited a second. “I don’t think it’ll be an issue in a couple of days anyway.”

Again, her response was a single, jerky nod.

Resignedly, Victor nodded to the Marine, who still hadn’t shifted his hand from near his sidearm. “Corporal, I owe you an apology too. I was out of line.”

Stark nodded back and found his voice. “Understood… sir.”

With a final look at the two of them, Victor nodded once more and exited the room in silence.

****

Stardate 50309.07

USS Galaxy

Deck 38

Main Armory Office

0939 Hours

As soon as the doors closed, Holly collapsed into her chair with a release of pent up breath. Beside her, Stark slumped back against the wall and finally dropped his hand away from his weapon. “I – I understand,” he whispered. “Is he – is he like that all the time?”

“No,” she sighed, dropping her head forward to rest it on folded arms, her braid dropping limply to the side. After a moment, she added, “No, that was the worst he’s ever been. Normally it’s... it’s not so bad.”

“I’ve never.. I mean.. not like…” Stark stammered, then stopped and braced himself. “Gunny can do that to you when she wants to – make you scared just by walking in the room or by looking at you – just like looking into the eyes of a mugato right before it charges.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “It’s isn’t like that with him though – the Gunny only turns it on to make a point. Him… I don’t think he *can* turn it off. I think… I think it’s like he said – he’s just like one of those animals inside.”

There was a pause before Holly made a small sound of agreement. “I thought… I thought he was going to go for my throat when he was yelling at me. I was standing there, thinking “Oh God, he’s going to kill me’ – and I couldn’t move.” She shuddered. “What’s wrong with me?”

“I think the real question is ‘What’s wrong with *him*,” Stark added. “How can they let him just walk around like that? He needs to be in a cage somewhere.”

“A cage far away from me,” Holly whispered.

Stark shook once, like a dog shedding water from his coat, then straightened up and looked down for the first time since Victor had left and saw the tension in Davidson’s shoulders. He smirked once, then reached out and massaged. “It’s cool, Holly, he’s gone now. Just relax and let me take care of you here.” He began to work at the muscles on her shoulders, his hands moving down her back. “I’ll fix all this tension you’ve got built up, Holly,” he continued soothingly. “Just relax and let me work my magic on you….”

“Stark,” she replied as his hands inched till lower, never lifting her head. “You have one second to get your hands off of me before I rip your ‘magic’ off and shove it up your nose.”

“Hey, hey!” he stepped back, raising his hands. “Don’t be that way, Holly! It wasn’t like that!”

“Sure it wasn’t, Stark,” she replied as she lifted her head and glared at him, her fear shifting to anger and happily finding an outlet nearby. “You’re the most disgusting piece of garbage I’ve ever seen in uniform – I can’t believe you were actually trying to put the move on me! If you ever lay a hand on me again, you won’t need to sleep with a Klingon to lose your equipment because I’m going to cut it off and serve it to the Chief Engineer’s pet targ!” She stood up, one finger jabbing into his chest. “And after that, I’ll be back to….”

****

Stardate 50309.07

USS Galaxy

Deck 38

Outside Main Armory Office

0940 Hours

~ I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I really yelled at her like that. ~ Lost in thought, Victor moved back to the turbolift on autopilot, ignoring the few ratings and the lone ensign he encountered s they hastily moved out of his way. ~ Thank God, I’m leaving, I don’t think either of us could deal with having me stay around after I did that to her. I haven’t lost control like that since… since the night Risa and I had that fight and broke up. ~

He frowned as he stopped at the turbolift to wait for a car. ~ What the hell is it with dragging Risa up today? It’s ancient history. We were together for all the wrong reasons, it didn’t work out, and now we’re not – so why can’t I let it go? ~

The car arrived and he walked in without looking. “Deck Seven.” ~ Why does this remind me of Risa? What does leaving the Galaxy have to do with her and the breakup? Why… home. I lost a home when we broke up, even if it wasn’t a good one. It’s because it feels like… home… here – and I’m about to leave again. ~ He paused, the revelation a total surprise. ~ I haven’t even been here a month and it feels like home. I like it here: the people, the job… and I’m leaving again. ~

He closed his eyes. ~ I’m tired of leaving home. I guess that’s what’s really wrong with me. I want to find a place where I belong, a place where they *want* me to be there. I wanted it to be here – and it won’t be. I don’t even have to ask what Commander Corgan wants to see me about today, I already know. It’s what they always want to see me about after something happens – it’s transfer time. ~

The car slowed, stopped, and the doors opened. “Deck Seven,” the computer announced in the serene tones it used for all communications.

~ I wonder if Admiral Chapel ever got angry? ~ Victor mused as he exited the car and started down the corridor to his room. ~ Or if she got tired of moving from place to… no, she wouldn’t have, would she? She spent a full five-year tour on the Enterprise under Kirk, didn’t she? Maybe more than that, as many times as he was given command of her. She probably thought the Enterprise *was* home. ~ He smiled sadly as he reached his room and waited for the doors to recognize him and open. ~ I wonder what that feels like? I wonder… ~


“…and a Chill Filled the Room.”Markie

By Lieutenant Commander James Lionel Corgan
Chief of Security, USS Galaxy

And Princess DeV’oraH
Living Sword of Kahless (or whatever title she fancies nowadays) and diplomat, Klingon Empire

Location: Ambassador’s suite, USS Galaxy

As if right on cue, the lights activated once Commander Corgan asserted himself into the Princess’s quarters.

It was a sight he hadn’t seen since his last tour of duty on the same ship.

As he fondly recalled, he had the duty of taking care of an Andorian Ambassador and his lovely assistant. In reality, the whole event was a disaster. It was later found that the Andorian Ambassador was charged with conspiracy and corruption, while his assistant was hailed as a hero and sent to Denebian VII for Ambassador duties. Both people he never saw again, and he was quite thankful for it. Ambassador Ordos was insufferable, and Mika was… tempting.

From what he noticed, the quarters were different from the last time he visited. The first thing he noticed was the sudden change in furniture. The room was decorated with opulent, yet toned down, furniture. No finely carved oak chairs or Denobulan cherry headboards on the bed. The room was completely void of showy wood furniture or expensive silken drapes. The fabrics were more common, though also of better quality, than what would be found in anyone else’s quarters. The bed, though slightly larger, was still made of synthetic plastics and tritanium alloys. The furniture, tables and chairs included, were like everything else on the ship, with a synthetic wood edge and a flat, onyx surface, but small details were paid more attention in the asthetics department.

Then, take all of the small, simple refinements, throw them in a blender, allow the family dog to maul them to bits, and you would get the Princess’s quarters.

Klingons were unaccustomed to what humans would call ‘luxury’. If it wasn’t hard, jagged, ribbed, or equipped with the potential to kill or cripple you, then it wasn’t good enough for the greatest warrior race in the galaxy. The Princess took it upon herself to throw the room in disarray, to make the room more ‘Klingon’ in tastes. This included tearing off all the upholstery on the chairs, spreading fluffy material and shredded cloth all around the mangled seat. Then the bed was next. The mattresses were carelessly tossed to the side of the room and the pillows were empty and stuffed with hard objects and foppishly placed on a hard grate of bedsprings. The bathroom was a mess, with fluids of horrid proportions, guessed only as Klingon cosmetics, spewed and sprayed all over the sink area. In addition, in the kitchen, bowls of uneaten whatever it was, heaped high like a perverted, rotting, squirming Tower of Pisa.

Corgan grunted and strained as the sleeping Princess DeV’oraH squirmed in her drunken stupor, unconscious knockout blow… whatever it was that kept her out of the land of the living for awhile longer, as James hauled her burdensome body back to bed. For a woman, she was heavy, and didn’t look more than a hundred and forty pounds, but Klingons were muscular and strong for their size. It would be no surprise if she was one eighty (and still cutting a fine feminine figure, mind you), minus the heavy armor she wore, because James’ back was complaining once for every pound exerted on his shoulders.

“Jesus f**king Christ…. woman.” He groaned a step closer to the bed, “You must work out… no natural woman could be this heavy and thin at the same… f**king… time….”

Without further delay, James tossed the heavy load onto her pitted, comfortable (by Klingon standards) bed. He heard the squeal of springs that felt the same pain he did by lifting the Princess to her quarters. Her body bounced once on it is back, and then settled under a noise or rusty squeaks.

Then, as gingerly as if he was handling a mummy from Cosak V, he propped a pillow underneath the Princess’s head, rested her head on the pillow, and stepped cautiously away as she snored herself silly.

By god, the room was unbearably hot. Corgan asked the computer, “Computer… temperature please.”

=/=”Yo! The room temperature is thirty five degrees… standard galactic celsius.”=/= The deep voice of Sylvester Stallone announced over the room speakers. Much to James’ chagrin, he set the voice to action hero so that the Princess could hear a true warrior’s voice. Little did she know that it was an old fashioned movie star, but she didn’t need to know that!

“Change the voice to Arnold Schwarzenegger.” Corgan requested. He was glad that his sense of humor was still intact today.

=/=”Request confirmed.”=/= Came a Terminator’s voice, =/=”Awaiting command.”=/=

He looked below at the sleeping, drunken Princess. He was man enough to admit that, somehow, the Princess was somewhat beautiful. Her attitude needed more adjusting than a faulty warp coil, and her spoiled brat personality was a bit too much to bear. Then there were all the boisterous claims, the tests of courage, and the abuse of anyone that wasn’t Klingon enough for her. She was, in all senses, a god awful person to be around.

James would have given nearly anything to put her in her place. There would have been peace on the ship, a more docile diplomat, not to mention Brhode would be congratulating him for a change, just good times had by all. A night in the brig, some assertion of some authority, something to show the Princess that her alpha female dominating ways couldn’t bully him.

But as he saw her on the bed, he felt a sense of calm. She was at peace, content after a day’s good fun. Her hair was mussed, her eyes were teary, and a speckle of dried blood came from the corner of her left lip, but she was at peace. Like it or not, she was enjoying herself (though to hear her admit it would have been much better).

“Goodnight, Princess.” James spoke softly. He thought to make a quick, quiet entrance before she was roused awake, where upon her departure from sleepyland, she would harass and berate anybody in her path. One foot went in front of the other. Then another, and soon enough Corgan was past the bed and halfway across the living room when all the sudden.

The springs moved and clattered on her bed. There was a shift in weight. Corgan froze, his blood stopped pumping and turned as chilled as Romulan Ale. Then, he heard a groan, a head groan, and then the scrape of a gloved hand going over somebody’s mouth.

“By the Living Sword of Kahless…” She smarted, her hand observing the specks of lavender dried blood on her glove, her other hand padding her forehead plate. “…what happened?”

~”Oh sh*t.”~ Corgan gave up any hope of a quick escape.

The Klingon Princess groaned and shuffled her way out of bed, complaining bitterly of the hard headache she endured. She stumbled her way to the replicator, and ordered herself a bubbling concoction of… whatever the hell it was. Corgan did not know, though the computer claimed that it was some kind of Klingon hangover cure. The replicator spat out the disgusting, boiling mess into a cyclone like cup, where she graciously took the substance and finished it in one hearty gulp.

“What… are you doing here… Commander?” She croaked, “…don’t tell me you were here for… dishonorable intentions.”

Quickly to his own defense, Corgan replied, “No!”

“WOULD YOU MIND NOT BEING SO LOUD?!?!?!…. Owwww….. owww.. owww….” She boomed, and then stopped as she realized that her own voice amplified as anyone else’s inside her head.

“I mean…” James spoke softly again, “No, madam. You were intoxicated and… lets just say that a few things were done that everyone will regret in the morning...”

“SO YOU HAVE TRIED TO… BY KAHLESS’S BALLS MY HEAD HURTS!!!!!!” She screamed, slamming her fist down on a hapless soapstone carving, shattering it to pieces.

“Umm… no.” He said flatly, “I meant that fight you all got into.” He thought, ~”I wouldn’t screw you even if your tw@t was coated with the essence of Ambrosia. Dream on, woman.”~

“What?” She asked, disoriented, then looked down at her blood flaked glove.

She grinned a sharp, toothy smile, and nodded her head gingerly as to not upset it’s delicate hangover balance. “Ahhhh… I can recall… there was an assassin in the dark. We slew the pe’taq and celebrated over a roasted targgoth…”

“No. My security staff had to calm your group down, and that meant taking a few blows.” Corgan listed, “Ensign So’ka has a pulled tendon in his bicep and tricep thanks to your boys. Not to mention that your crew of drunken Klingons came off with a lot more lumps than the same number of sober Starfleet security. Next time you all want to panic, you mind trying to suppress the urge to beat up everything in sight? Greatly appreciate it.”

He was about to leave when all the sudden, the Princess found it in herself to stumble out of the safe confines of the replicator area and walk challengingly towards the chief of security. Corgan made a note to lower the level of sass next time they spoke, but didn’t dare to back down. He recalled the lessons learned from Professor Maury Thomas, dean of cultural studies and the resident Klingon expert at Starfleet Academy. The sagely voice of the Professor calmly reminded the troubled chief, ~”Stand your ground and don’t look afraid. This will tell them that you are looking for you best interest, and insisting will show that you are looking out for their interests as well. Remember this out of all other things. Stand your ground. However, do not be foolish. You may want to leave when they start pulling out the cutlery!”~

She stumbled once, regained her footing, and snarled in his face, “Then why don’t you… try to keep order on this ship? Make her spaceworthy? Maybe find this assassin in the dark… and then, maybe then, the dishonor of your name and this ship will be wiped clean from the annexes of Klingon history and maybe after an honorable duel or two, it may be honorable enough to transport Klingon warriors once again?!?!? Then after a thousand years of this Gre’kor forsaken mess, we might actually listen to you…”

The Professor’s voice had another nugget of wisdom. ~”If they play the dishonor card, try to point out that you’re being honorable. It is easier than you think. Oh, and do not be afraid to use some horseplay to illustrate your point. They do it all the time, and respond well to it!”~

True to the Professor’s words, Corgan had enough. He was going to show this stubborn, loud, unbearable woman what it was like to push around the last of the Corgan males. Her hand came up, a typical Klingon hold designed to slam the Terran back into the wall to illustrate her point. Corgan was quicker, as well as more rational thinking in the head. His hand came up first and grabbed the woman’s wrist. Then, as her other hand came close to Corgan’s neck, he turned towards the Princess’s back with the one arm and twisted. It took a great deal of the Commander’s strength to keep the bucking, thrashing Klingon woman from giving him a well placed boot or slap, but he nonetheless kept at the effort until Princess DeV’oraH’s left cheek was pressed against the nearest wall. The pressure of his hand against her head kept her eyes staring at the wall for another minute.

“Listen here, PRINCESS…” He growled, panting from exertion, his arms straining to keep DeV’oraH’s bundled up energy contained, “Complain about the ship and it’s honor again, and by god I’ll leave nothing for the worthless jackals at Gre’kor to pick over! From now on, you listen to what we want you all to do, because it’s for our safety and yours!”

”Hope to Kahless that you are trying a mating ritual…” She grimaced, disturbingly contently, as she licked the dried blood from the corner of her mouth, “First you hit me where no one but a Klingon should… and then you try to force me to do whatever it is you are planning? You are brave and foolish…”

James pressed harder on her head, “Don’t start with me, b*tch! Let us do our job, listen and do as we say, and we’ll let you all bumble around this ship having a good time!”

Cautiously, Corgan let go of the Klingon Princess, and slowly backed away.

She spun around and growled passionately, musing as if she was enjoying what the hapless prey would do next. James felt like a cornered beast, snarling, snapping and charging whenever the larger predator attacked. It was all he could do from being torn asunder, and for some reason, it was working.

He finished, “Princess DeV’oraH, whenever a VIP guest comes aboard, my men, including myself, are under an oath to protect our guests from any harm.

Since you’re a guest, we have to protect you and your staff from any harm. Even if it means some restrictions, then so be it. Anything to keep our honor bound vow. Do you understand?”

She thought it over for a second, “Maybe. Honor is important, but your abilities to go through with your vows are questionable.”

“Says you, Princess.” James snapped, “I’ll do what it takes for your safety. s insufferable as you are… I have my duties. If I fail in them, I break my oath, and from what I hear, you Klingons take oaths very seriously. So understand why I do what I do, because I’m under a vow to take care of you.

I won’t fail in it. You have my promise.”

“Are you sure you can keep this promise?”

James replied, drawing out the Princess’s punching dagger, “Want to slit palms over it?”

For a moment, the Princess was frozen in the moment, her emotions still a boiling rage of drunken repercussions, insolence, and intolerance. She didn’t know what or how to deal with this human, who was so willing to put his own safety on the line to defy the Living Sword of Kahless. But he wasn’t defying her, not in his thinking, she realized. This James Corgan was staring her down, telling her in her face that he wasn’t going to let her bully him around, and vowing with his life that they would not be harmed as long as they were allowed to do their job.

How strangely appealing. One defiant human standing up to the Living Sword of Kahless. One of many on this ship. But unlike Captain Brhode, James Corgan was unsure about his odds of success against the Princess. His actions were not inspired by confidence or sureness. He wasn’t sure if the Princess would listen. But that was what was so appealing to the Princess.

The human was brash, reckless, but at the same time caring and full of spirit. He was reckless… when he needed to be, which was here and now.

DeV’oraH mused, ~”He is almost Klingon.”~

“We don’t need a blood vow for this simple task. We will be more co-operative in the future.” She backed down, feeling hurt and weakened. How was she to fight this new opponent, this man who cared not of the odds, but the positive result thereafter? She was beaten and she knew it.

How Klingon of him to wrestle with words and win.

And how Klingon of him to assert his physical power over her.

Her growl was low in her throat, as the Commander replied, “Thank you.” He twisted the dagger handle first, offering the Princess’s weapon back, “The Legate informs me that you deserve this back. I thank you for your co-operation, and the co-operation of your staff.”

As he turned away to the door, the Princess made note of his manners, his walk. Brisk, confident, irradiating the aura of defensiveness. All that got in his way were to be destroyed. So like a Klingon he was, guided by an honor system that was alien and familiar at the same time, and worried not of himself, but of the task, and of his charge.

“I must be going, Princess. Have a good evening.” He left promptly, leaving the doors to slide behind him.

Princess DeV’oraH didn’t think of the greeting, but of the human’s forceful actions. She could have sworn that somebody like him gave her that punch on the lips. Somebody wasn’t afraid to slam her up against the wall and tellthe news to her like it was. The human was a brave man, a stupid, ugly man, but a brave one.

What would it be like to bed with him?

The princess licked her blood caked lips again, hungry for more of that sensation.

***********

While the Princess was back in her quarters, James made his way to re-join his security detail.

What a strange encounter that was. The Princess, a mere annoyance, a stubborn brick of a woman with claws and teeth, was cowed (by Klingon standards) in mere moments. A few forceful words, a shove, a grapple, and it was all over. It was almost textbook in nature how it was handled. Just like old Professor Thomas promised.

~”Be forceful, be firm, but be just, and you will gain their respect.”~ The old professor’s voice regurgitated the last lesson of the semester.

But it wasn’t that lesson that he was worried about. James was worried that too much physical force was used. He loathed to push his weight around, to twist arms to make his point, but he was forced to do so, endangering his career, Klingon/Federation relations, and galactic war over one mouthy, insolent Princess.

It worked, didn’t it? Just like the Professor promised. But that wasn’t all.

Somewhere in the fight, the Princess accused him of hitting her during the brawl. From what he guessed, it was in the lip, because of evidence of a past wound. Then, he recalled another lesson in his Klingon etiquette class.

Something about wounds, parts of the body, and their meaning.

What did the old professor say about the mouth? There were particular ways in which you wounded that spoke volumes where the Klingon voice would not.

The mouth, if hit, could have meant many things, from ‘Congratulations, it’s a boy!’ to, ‘I’m going to kill you!’.

From what he guessed, the wound was from a straight punch. Old Professor Thomas’s voice came back again. ~”Now remember, in a fight with a Klingon, you must be careful how you strike them. A backhanded blow to the left of the mouth suggests a fight to the death. A swinging blow to the left of the mouth suggests that you want a harmless barfight, nothing more, and most Klingons will comply with great gusto. I know… I have a scratch over my left eye from a Klingon’s spiked gauntlet…….”

The professor would talk for minutes on end about this exploits at the embassy on Quo’nos, until he continued with the lesson, ~“…but be careful when you hit the left of the mouth with a straight punch. Whether straight or homosexual, the Klingon will take that as meaning… how do I say it… ‘I want you bad?’ The human words cannot express what the blow really means, but it does derive from the Klingon mythological story where a Klingon Princess was hit in the mouth by a Dar’tee warrior. As you recall, the Princess made such rabid love to the Dar’tee that he was killed from multiple lacerations, blood loss due to teeth bites, bones puncturing including the hip, and it was determined that the more serious wounds were caused during foreplay, which meant that there was nothing to break by the time they were having sex. Poor man…”~ The professor rambled on, ~”He must have used rigor mortis to ejaculate…”~

From what he remembered, James thought that comment was pretty damn funny.

For some reason, the comment lost it’s humor over time.

“Oh… sh*t…” He realized his mistake, “I pray to any god that she isn’t turned on by what I did…”


Leutenant Donovan Black,
Chief Intelligence Officer

Lieutenant Daniel Livadhi,
Assistant Chief Intelligence Officer

-Intelligence Office-

Donovan Black finished the last of his own personal research into the outlands, coalated what he needed, then sat back and finished the last chapter of the Aeneid. He loved Roman literature, as well as anything else that had to do with the histori civilization. It was a passtime, and right now, he wasn't particularly busy. He would need to do some snooping around with the princess onboard. Bhrode would expect no-less, but no cloak and dagger crap either.

He was pleasantly surprised to see Dan Livadhi approaching with the last of the intelligence that his data analysts and computer specialists had been able to dig out of the permanently fawked database. Donovan had spent the last few days cursing the Doctor Quick and all his ancestors, as the intelligence core was completely screwed by his modifications. Black had met Doctor Brahms once, and from his judgement, she was twice as brilliant and infinately more stable than Jebediah Quick.

"Well, Lieutenant, your wife and her group are finally finished sorting through that lousy excuse for a filing system. She has her people and the tech crew working on completely re-doing the system so we can actually find information." Livadhi said, placing the three PADDs of data on Donovan's desk. Black picked them up and looked them over briefly.

"These look good. I'll run them up to Captain Bhrode. I'm sure he'll appreciate the heads-up on what we're in for. The Outlands are a dangerous place." Black stated the obvious, gathering up the total of four PADDs worth. "You're in charge till I get back from the bridge, Dan."

"Sure, no problem.... Hey! The Aeneid." Livadhi said, settling into Donovan's chair and taking the worn copy of the Aeneid. He started reading as Donovan left the room, heading for the bridge.


~Interruptions at Work~Markie
Lt Cutter Kara'nin

"Lieutenant Scarborough, are you almost finished resetting the programming for Astrometrics, yet?" Lt. Kara'nin asked as he entered the large, sophisticated lab.

Lt. Daniel Scarborough was Cutter's Assistant Chief of Astrometrics. Scarborough was a human, of British decent, but beyond that, there was nothing really remarkable to say about him. He was of average height and build, short brown hair which was often combed forward and brown eyes that he hid behind a pair of glasses. He had no accent, despite being British, and was not a very articulate speaker. He was very easily distracted, his train of thought easily knocked off its track, like Cutter, but much more extreme. He fit perfectly into that stereotype of scientists nonscientists hold. Scarborough was, however, very good at his job and very brilliant, which was why Bhrode had picked him to serve aboard the Galaxy.

"Almost," he replied, then began counting quickly on his fingers, "I, uhhh, I estimate we will be done within the hour."

"All right. You have until 13:20 until the probe to 13 Mensa is launched. You should be ready to receive data immediately after launch. Engineering shouldn't be cutting off power to this section, but if they do, Tonik should be able to provide a reasonable backup receiver for all the data in Stellar Cartography," Cutter stated matter-of-factly walking up next to his assistant.

"Oh, ok. Well, uh, I don't think there will be any problems. The Quick virus hasn't struck here again at all," Scarborough said, smiling.

"Tonik has been having some trouble in Cartography, that's why you're taking all the data, but it could easily spread here. I want you to let the program do most of the work, only exit it if you --"

Suddenly, Cutter was cut off by a rather loud sneeze from Daniel, causing everyone else in the room to turn and look. In his jerking reflex, he had hit some incorrect combination of buttons, causing a large error message to flash across the main Astrometrics screen. Daniel Scarborough had allergies, Cutter had found out when they met, and he was allergic to Cutter. Or rather, Daniel was allergic to the dust from his feathers.

Cutter sighed, and stepped away while Daniel began wiping his nose with a handkerchief. "Only exit it if you find something important and unexpected, like intelligent life."

"Right," he agreed and immediately turned his attention to the error he caused. Cutter stood quietly for a moment, allowing Daniel to bring up another matter if needed. Daniel and his crew paid the Fruna'lin no heed, they were all busy with their programming. He turned to leave, to help Tonik sort through all the computer problems in Stellar Cartography, but was stopped just before the door. The Red Alert sirens suddenly erupted throughout the room. Something was up.


“Inspector Leo in. . . THE CASE OF TWO MORE BODIES!AND NOT DELTAN TWINS THIS TIME!”

Starring the Galactic Scourge Himself:

SPECIAL DEPUTY INSPECTOR LEO STREELY!!!!!!!!!(no autographs, please!)

Leo had a lot to think about.

And, considering Leo's brain-pan size, that meant WORK.

W-O-R-K is the ONLy four letter word Leo doesn't like to hear Lt. Cmdr. Corgan mutter.

That Centuarian guy with the funny name needed Leo's help. He was in love with the redhaired chick who didn't have boobs, and she was in love with the guy with the funny name. And neither really semed to have the wisdom, the savoir faire, the romantic experience that Old Leo did, to know what to do about it. Which was to get her really drunk and apply the old 'Vulcan Groin Meld' to her.

And old Raven needed Leo's help. His twin brother had popped up out of nowhere, and Raven was acting all distant and funny like. Not that the big galoot was excactly a fountain of chatter about anything before. More like a looming, hulking mountain of imminent and utter destruction.

And Crazy Head Corgan needed Leo's help. He didn't have Leo's diplomatic tact and Security knowledge to run his Department like he should.

Why... today Corgan had simply said "No Security Patrolmen would accept graft." and cut himself RIGHT out of getting his share of the loot!

And Bhrode needed Leo's help. His Galaxy didn't have a SINGLE swindle,scheme or betting pool on it! Not ONE! Even the Ferrengi Quartermaster dude looked at Leo like he was nutts when Leo had suggested they double dip the petty cash funds and split the difference!

Yes, in a few days, it was going to be a TIGHT ship on USS Galaxy. There were a LOT of credits and Latinum Strips and Orion oolongs floating around, and Leo Streeley was JUST the guy to get his pudgy little hands on as many as he could!

Because Leo was a SECURITY DEPUTY! The finest of the fine. A veritable giant of a MAN's man! A big sweaty and glisteningly oiled specimen of Manhood in a posing thong. The sort of people who look Danger and Certain Death right in the eye, and spit in that eye, and yell "What? That all you gott?" at it and then, in a manly and deep voice, sort of like Raven's but deeper. REALLY deeper and sexy sort of. The type to add in that -sort-of-like-Raven's-but-manlier voice and say "Do you feel. . . "

"YO! Little-man! Coming through here!" the voice interrupted Leo's train of thought.

Two Waste Reclaimation Mates swung the heavy Replimat Reclaimation Chute Matter Unblocker next to Leo's daydreaming form. The Crews mess on Deck Ten had reported heavy Enchilada ordering, and they wanted to be ready.

Unlike the Cygnian Chili Incident on 2368.

"Why the hell they decided Waste Reclaimation Compartment Twenty needed a guard. . . ?" one muttered.

"You notice that this place smells like feet ever since he got assigned down here?" the other asked.

"Feet? FEET? this place smells like Bhrode's ASS!" Leo raged. He'd been down here for three days now.

"It smells JUSt like Bhrode's ass! Like a Big, fat smelly Pile of Steaming Monkey PooP. Like Raven's jock!"

"Who's this Raven girl you keep muttering about when you look off into space with that sappy grin on your mug? You must really love her, huh?" the first Waste Reclaimation Mate asked Leo.

"His girl wears a jockstrap? Freak." muttered the other.

"I am NOT like THAT! I just borrowed that Jock because.. umm.. only Raven was looking for it the other day and, when I saw it come in here...and. . ." Leo began again, for the 72166th time this shift.

"You sniffed it!" the First WR mate accused.

"What?" screeched Leo.

"Yeah, and you stuck it under your robes." the other accused.

"So that's where my jockstrap went." said a rumbling voice like fifty tons of gravel going down a rusty chute behind the trio.

"RAVEN! I only borrowed it!" Leo screeched, whirling around fast.

The WR Mates eyed the huge, hulking shadowed form by the door to their smelly domain and wisely decided they needed to do SOMETHING on the other side of the huge piece of Chute Unblocking Gear. The massive form dwarfed even their enormous machines. It looked like someone had painted a fleet Uniform onto a hugely and muscled bulldozer.

"Bhrode wants you. In the Brig" the voice said to Leo, scaring the WR Mates again. While they really had come to HATE Leo (who doesn't?) in the last three days, they still didn't ant to see this giant smash Leo to a gloopy red paste. Unless he was going to do it here. Then they might be able to sell tickets.

"Ohh god...whatever that woman said...any woman..I DIDN'T DO IT!If I get ou the jockstrap back, will

you drop Charges? Raven? old Buddy! Kemosabe! Pal!" Leo moaned.

"Do not use that word 'Blood Brother' with me. I have no brothers in my warband." The voice declared.

"I thought you said..... you... you know... the flint knives...your ...thing." Leo stammered.

"You know of the Kemosabe Naming Ritual? The ceremonial severing of foreskins and the annointing of the warband brothers with the commingled blood of the Man Root?" Leo was asked by that VOICE.

"Yeah! you told me all about it when we was beating up them Borg! I couldn't sleep for DAYS afterwards!" Leo replied with a puzzled frown. (OOC: Galaxy TOS Archives, Episode 602)

"No I didn't!" the voice said, in a tone that boded no arguement unless you wanted a six foot Seven Indian to bend you like a pretzel.

"yes you DID! You said you guys take a flint knife in one hand, and your ..you know... units in the other...and then you CUT your...you know....UNIT!" Leo began, finding it hard to catch his breath for some reason.

"no." The VOICE told Leo.

"YES YOU DID!" Leo screeched.

Major Laughing Horse Log, the Marine Commander stepped from the shadows and glared down at Leo. His blocky and coppertoned face was seemingly carved from stone. His ebon eyes glittered in the stinky comaprtment's fetid air.

"No -I- did not. Are you calling me a liar?" he asked.

"Oh Goddddd........ please let him say this guy is a liar!" moaned one WR Mate, clearly expecting Leo looked at the Marine Green undertunic and the Marine Issue insignea, and his pudgy adams apple worked its way under his flabby chins as he gulped.

"Wahh? Whaaaaa? Whoo? Wha?" Leo began, eying the bulk of the Major.

"Little Brother has some 'splainin to do." Log muttered, pushing leo in front of him out the door.

Silence reigned in the Waste Reclaiamtion Chamber for several minutes.

"That was ONE big Indian." mused one WR Mate.

"yep. Betcha he has one big jockstrap." mused the other.

"You think that little guy took the jockstrap?" the first asked. Then both bust out into gales of laughter, right before the Red Alert sirens went off.

* * * * * * * * * *

The brig was a mess.

Raven Darkstar loomed to one side, his face clearly pissed off and MAD about something.

Lt. J.G. Charles 'Chuck' Copperpot lay sprawled at the Security Control Station. His throat slit from ear to ear and blood sprayed all over his copy of Plato's 'Dicoursea' Leo moaned and looked from one looming and silent Indian to the other.

Neither Log or Darkstar had anything to say. They flanked Leo like two enormous, gigantic bookends carved from granite.

'Suicide?' Leo vinally ventured.

Neither Indian said a word, they merely grabbed a Streely Elbow and hoisted the futily muttering little man to the line of Brig cells that marched down the hallway from the Security Central desk where Copperpot had been killed.

There, in Brig Cell Four, Lt j.g. Jody Benton had been waiting for transport to the USS Vancouver, after Bhrode had decided he didn't like the Security Officer and had transferred him.

The Lt. J.g. lay dead on the cell floor, behind the energy barrier. His throat also cut wide open.

"Ever seen a suicide of a prisoner in a weapons free Brig Cell, with no record of the gate being dropped and the sole person watching also committing suicide at the same time?" Log asked Raven over Leo's head.

"nope." Raven said.

"Serial Suicides!" Leo muttered, kicking his feet almost a meter above the deck.

"You have any spare jockstraps? I'm all out." Raven asked a moment later, when the Red Alert Sirens cut the surreal scene short.

"Another two dead bodies reported on Deck Twelve!" snapped an Ensign to Raven, as she stared in horror at the blood smeared Security Console, the blood looking black under the Emergency Lights.

=/=


"Sans Patience"

(AKA "I'm still here, sorry I haven't been writing, please don't kill my character off, and damn I would kill for a grilled cheese sandwich right now")

by Ensign Ella Grey

Ella Grey was a patient person. Sort of.

Afterall, she had spent all those years in the spotlight, under the scrutiny of her parents, in the company of her miserable ex-fiancee, pretending to enjoy the gossip of her so-called society friends, and even through Starfleet Academy, with its tedious morals and do-gooder philosophy.

Ella had made it through and had not gone completly mad-raving bonkers.

This was patience, she thought.

But right now, as she fiddled with the figures on her PADD, tired and irritated that she couldn't quite remember what the fgiures were for (only that they weren't adding up) she could admit that she had probably lost all of that cherished patience. She'd probably lost it hours ago, she decided, even before she had attemted to turn her legs into black and blue swiss cheese by bumping into everything not in sight.

It was not difficult to express irritation or anger, Ella thought. One could sigh, frown, grind their teeth, pull their hair, throw things about, or bark at everyone around them. If anyone in Engineering were really looking, they would have seen the quick temper in her eyes or the way she stabbed the keys on her computer PADD. But otherwise she kept her face calm and her lips from compressing thinly. She made her foot stand still and her eyes from glaring at others.

You never knew who's help you might need later on and and you didn't make many friends by "Brhoding" your way through life. The Captain chose to be feared. Ella, while rolling her eyes at herself, chose to be adored.

Still, the figures on the PADD were coming out came wrong again and it was all she could do not to start shrieking. Instead, she set the PADD calmly aside and signaled to another ensign that she would be taking a short break.

Ella got up from her station and quietly walked out into the hall, looked both ways, and then began cursing with her hands, selectively picking through a very long list that she had picked up over the years and keeping watch for anyone coming.

Five minutes later, and feeling much better, Ella kicked the wall for good measure and then pasted a smile back on her face before returning back inside.


"The Pianoman Droppeth...Part Deux!"

Starring Lt. Raven Darkstar, that great big Indian temporarily in charge of the Security Department.


Also included are Major Laughing Horse Log, brother to Raven Darkstar and general Marine bad ass....Leo Streely, the man, the myth, the legend himself -- tackling one of his most volatile and dangerous assignments to date.....and one very narrow hallway.

Previously: After finally getting underway, the USS Galaxy finds thier maiden voyage beset by not only untimely power outages and various computer glitches, but also a sinister serial killer prowling the hallways of the 'ship of the line' leaving a trail of victims behind. Adding to the tension are having a Klingon princess and the members of her entourage onboard. Having just found a slain Security agent in his own Brig, Lt. Darkstar received a call reporting 2 more bodies.

Here we go...

Location: The hallways of the USS Galaxy, Deck 12

Ensign Bo Snerdly was having a bad day.

The skittish medical ensign had overslept this morning and as a result had been more than an hour late for his shift. When he arrived in sickbay, Dr. O'Connell had let the good Dr. Malgan deal with him after he had literally begged her not to report the incident to Brhode citing that being transferred to Breen would be hazardous to his health due to his extreme fear of snow.

Malgan had assigned him the shittiest duty in the Medical department.

Quite literally.

The better part of his morning had been spent cataloging stool samples. His lunch hour was a disaster after being sat upon by a wide bottomed Klingon who had not noticed the little man was flailing underneath his posterior.

He currently found himself lugging a large tray of urine samples to the Science labs. He couldn't think of any reason Lt. McAllen and company would want to splash about in the waste, but he had learned that if he was to remain on this ship, sometimes he should just remain silent in the face of the truly bizarre.

So he tried to make the best of it, whistling an ancient Britney Spears song which oddly enough had been recently turned into a popular Bolian rock opera, as he rounded the corner and ran straight into the outstretched palm of Major Laughing Horse Log.

The large Indian swept the tiny male out of his path with a fluid, effortless motion -- sending him crashing into the wall -- shattering the urine vials and dousing him with their contents as he crouched on the floor shaking his head trying to regain his bearings.

Snerdly glanced up to get the number of the truck that had just run him down, and shook his head in amazement. "Must have hit my head...I'm seeing double.." he muttered as a little man leaned down and sniffed him.

"Oh man..wha..what is that? Is that piss?!?! Did you piss your self?" Leo asked with a chuckle as he raced down the hallway to catch up with the twin Indians currently thundering down the hallway like a herd of buffalo.

"Not now, Leo." Raven Darkstar rumbled in a deep voice, his eyes never once moving from where they were focused ahead of him.

"Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok, but listen! The little schmuck pissed himself! That was great! You two scared the piss out of him!" Leo said trying in vain to slip between the two walls of muscle.

"Is this the man you make your brother now, Raven Dark Star? Oh wait, you bastardize your name now out of shame, Lt. Darkstar?" Major Log spat, he too never taking his eyes off the hallway.

"Not now, Log." Darkstar said, more of a warning than a request.

Leo again fought to squeeze past the twin giants.

"Hey Raven, you let me past you and I'll slap the taste right outta this wanna be Tonto's mouth. No offense there, partner."

The former bartender was once again lost behind the dual behemoths, as the burly Marine pressed the issue.

"I think now is the time, unless you want to run like you always do, little brother." Log said as Raven locked his thick arms around his brother and hurled him into the bulkhead with an audible thud.

"Do...not...call...me..brother." Darkstar uttered through clenched teeth. Major Log brought up his own hands and shoved Darkstar backward.

Leo, fearing he was watching the beginning of a World War between two super powers, quickly tried to diffuse the situation in the most diplomatic way he could. "Ok, Ok, Ok. As much as I would like to sit and laugh as ol Doc Vlad removed Raven's boot from your ass, I do have to remind you that there are two dead bodies waiting for us, OK? So if you and this second rate carbon copy of you would be so kind as to follow me, we have work to do, OK?" he said as he marched foreword, hoping with all his little heart that when Log attacked him, Raven would stop him before he did too much damage to Leo's anatomy.

The two men just stared at each other, chests heaving as they took stock of the others capabilities.

After a few long moments, they both turned wordlessly and marched in Leo's direction.

*** A few moments later...***

"Great job of keeping things secure. You impress me about as much as the other guy in charge." Log said as the three men glanced down at the corpse laid out before them.

The female was lain backwards across a small couch. In life she had been very pretty. Leo had even remembered hitting upon her in the space dock before the ship set sail. Now her dark tan skin was pale. The couch drenched in her blood from the gash that ran from her abdomen to her breasts. Before her, her boyfriend was positioned on his knees, his arms outstretched and his throat split with a jagged slash so deep that his spine could be seen.

Both men looked at Leo.

"Suicide?" he asked with a shrug.


OOC: Set between turning the lights back on and the red alert.

~Hello, Neighbor~
Lt. Cutter Kara'nin
Lt. Curtis Geluf

Cutter watched the stars streak past his window. Streak from blue into red, a warp speed Doppler effect. He was killing time before he had to leave and report for duty in the Science department. They would be launching a probe to 13 Mensa today near the end of alpha shift. The system had never been scanned in any detail, only enough to prove there was a star there. 13 Mensa was a K1 star, about half as bright as Earth's sun, and perfectly capable of supporting planets and life. Although it would most likely contain the standard set of small terrestrial planets near the sun and larger gas giants further out, none supporting intelligent life, the scan still excited Cutter and most of his subordinates. That undying hope that something new and never before seen would be discovered filled their souls.

However, the scan may not ever take place. The so-called 'Quick Virus' had not been vanquished by the power-outage and computer reboot, rather it had only been dissected and scattered to various sections and systems. Stellar Cartography, for instance, was still refusing access to the scientists off and on. Stellar Cartography was in charge of creating and correcting maps and would therefore normally receive the data sent by the probe, but due to the computer problems, Astrometrics was taking over this time. This required some minor reprogramming of the Astrometrics computers, and that's what Cutter and his crew would be doing until the probe launch.

Suddenly, a chime went off, an alarm signaling that it was time to leave and report to the Physics/Astronomy Department. Cutter tugged on his tunic, before turning and leaving his quarters.

Curtis was not happy.

Not only had rebooting the computer not gotten rid of the Quick-Bug, but now it had been turned into a randomly accessed virus, jumping from system to system at random. He was still safe from the bug, his jury-rigging of the transporter had worked well. But doing something like that ship-wide just wasn't practical; nor possible at this point.

Kiora had left for her shift a little early and Curtis noticed that he was running a little late. Grabbing his PADD, he headed for the door of his quarters.

Cutter had not yet met any of his neighbors. The closest lived three feet away, in a mirror image set of quarters that set directly up against Cutter's. He was directly in front of those quarters, only three feet away from the beginning of his journey to the A/P Department, when a man in a yellow uniform darted out and collided into Cutter, knocking him across the floor.

Cutter looked up from the ground. He had fallen face down across the corridor, the yellow-suit and fallen backward back into his quarters, but was quick to get back onto his feet. He stepped forward and held his hand out to Cutter.

"Sorry about that! Let me help you up." came the yellow-suit, holding out his arm.

Cutter reached out, grabbed the man's forearm, and pulled himself up. "Thank you," he said, looking the yellow-suit in the face. It seemed familiar, but Cutter couldn't place it.

Curtis recognized him instantly.

"Cutter! Imagine seeing you here, and right across the way from my own quarters." then, adding, "Oh! I'm sorry, you may not remember me. We were on the original Galaxy together. I don't suppose you would remember when I met you? You were singing with that wonderful sound of yours and I'm afraid I was a bit of a pest trying to ask you about it."

"Huh?" was all Cutter could spit out at the excited man.

"Not surprised you don't remember, I was quite a pest then. You were singing with that wonderful birdsong of yours and I happened to hear it. So I asked you about it." replied Curtis.

"Oh. No, I don't remember," Cutter said, as the yellow-suit shook his hand. "Who are you again?"

"Lieutenant Curtis Geluf, but you can just call me Curt. I'm down in Engineering. Are you still the Science department?" Curtis asked.

Cutter nodded, jerking his hand out of Curtis's, "Sem, I'm still in the sciences." Then, after a moment's thought, "You're an engineer? When are the computer problems supposed to be fixed?"

"Oh dear, it's hitting your department too?" asked Curtis with a sour expression on his face.

"It keeps spontaneously locking us out of the Stellar Cartography systems," the Fruna'lin said, slightly irritated.

"Wonderful. I really should kill Dr. Quick, but that might get me a court-martial, or possibly a medal of honor. Best not to take the chance. I'll add you to the list of things to fix. Promise I'll get to it soon." said Curtis.

"Uh, well, I should be going," Cutter said, gesturing down the hall to the unseen turbolift.

"Oh, I'm headed that way as well." said the Kerelian.

Cutter began to walk forward down the hall, with Curtis tailing him closely. He realized that the engineer would continue to try to make small talk, so instead of listening to mindless dribble, Cutter thought he should ask about something relevant. "What exactly are you doing to fix the computers?"

"Well, we're discussing a few options. Obviously the power shutoff didn't work. There is a possibility of a transporter-based solution, but its sketchy at best..."

Curtis paused in his explanation as the two men entered the turbolift. "Engineering," he called out.

"Deck 9," Cutter said, before Curtis continued.

"So at the moment were just trying to contain the problem, at least on my end of things. The Chief probably has ideas of her own and I expect I'll be hearing from her soon." Curtis concluded.

"Ah," was all Cutter was able to say before the turbolift doors opened to his deck. The distraction caused him to forget what he was going to say, so instead, he made some parting gesture, "Farewell. I hope you get the problem fixed."

Curtis smiled and waved as his neighbor walked off, "Thanks, hopefully we'll have it done soon."


"Return of the Prodigal Helmsman"

Lt. Jeremy Savoie
Asst. Chief Helmsman

with 'guest' appearances by everyone's favorite Captain (boo! hiss!) and the ever-so-talented, incredibly gifted, unbelievably handsome, indescribably charming, unfailingly dedicated Lt. Brian 'What-his-name' (hooray!, <swoon>).

[OOC: Takes place immediately after 'What Bhrode Did' but immediately before the red alert is sounded.]

For a few moments, Jeremy could swear he was hearing dogs barking. Or were the warp engines overstressing? Couldn't be. Dogs don't use words and warp engines don't address senior officers by name.

Could only mean one thing . . . .

"Someone clean that mess up and get it of my Bridge."

Jeremy heard Bhrode's words as if he had cotton stuffed in his ears, but he knew they were in reference to him because no sooner had the command been uttered, he felt two pairs of hands carrying him into the turbolift.

"Mmff . . . lemme go," he managed hoarsely, beginning to struggle a little.

"Take it easy, Lieutenant," one of the pairs of hands firmly chided.

The pain in his shoulder still beyond description, Jeremy started kicking his legs. "Get off me!" he managed with a little more strength.

The med goons let the lower half of Jeremy's body drop back to the floor but still held his arms and back. "You need to go to sickbay, Lieutenant," the other argued, as the first instructed the turbolift on where to go.

"Computer . . . halt turbolift," Jeremy ordered, pulling himself away from one of his 'attendants'. "I'm -not- going to sickbay," he argued back, gritting his teeth in defiance and pain. "Return to bridge," he demanded.

The lift complied, and the doors opened onto the bridge again in seconds.

Pulling himself free from the other med goon, Jeremy half staggered, half marched back onto the bridge. A few eyes turned his way. "What're you looking at?" he snarled at an ensign near the aft science station.

He was in immense pain, to be sure, but nothing his body felt even came close to the bruising his ego took at hearing Bhrode's reference to him as a 'mess'. He may have -looked- like a mess, one arm slung in his knotted uniform shirt, the rest of him bruised and sweaty, but he was still the finest damn helmsman on this ship, including that snot Hawksley. Jeremy Savoie wasn't about to be carried off the bridge of - any- ship.

Like a character out of an old-time Western, he made his way to Bhrode's throne.

"Lieutenant Jeremy Savoie, reporting for duty, sir," he said with all the strength and stability he could muster.

Bhrode's cool, steely eyes raked Savoie from head to toe.

"You look like sixteen Klingon midgets in loincloths beat your ass. You remind me of. . . " Bhrode finally sniffed.

"I'm -fine-, sir," he interrupted, returning Bhrode's glare with a steely look of his own. He was determined to be back at the helm. Bhrode himself would have to drag him off this bridge.

Bhrode frowned and tugged his tunic lower. He didn't say a word,and his blocky face gave no clue to whatever he was thinking.

"You learn your lesson about fartassing around, having picnics and playing grabass on little sailboats instead of doing your job? The next time you're somewhere you're not supposed to be, you just might get your ass killed." Bhrode finally barked.

"-Yes- sir," Jeremy replied, his teeth again gritted only partly out of pain.

At Savoie's reply, Bhrode smirked.

"There's a lavatory right here. Clean yourself up. At the commencement of Beta shift, you WILL report to Sickbay and get that arm looked at.

Releive Lieutenant Brian Whatever at the helm when you look like a real officer." Bhrode observed, glancing at a PAdd profferred by another Yeoman and dismissing Jeremy without a seeming thought.

After a few minutes, Jeremy returned from the lavatory, cleaned up, his arm hanging in a freshly-replicated cloth sling and his uniform shirt back on.

He walked determinedly to his post.

"You can go," he said flatly to the dashing young officer currently occupying the seat.

"Sir? . . ." came the slightly confused reply.

"-Move-," Jeremy insisted darkly under his breath, not wanting to create another scene for Bhrode to rail at.

Quietly, the newly-named lieutenant rose from his post and slipped back into oblivion, his moment of glory past.

And Jeremy Savoie reclaimed his rightful place at the helm of the flagship of the fleet.


"The Pianoman Droppeth..Pt III"

MGSM 'Betty" Goldstein Starfleet Marine Corps

Major Laughing Horse Log, SF-Marine Corps

Special Investigative Security Deputy Investigator Leo Streeley

and Ms.Erin Freel (APC) Ten Forward Manager and Hottie Hostess

Ten Forward Lounge, USS Galaxy

"Your ridiculous title gets longer every moment" the Huge Indian in the Green Grey and Black Uniform snapped at Leo Streeley.

"What? Who? Me? What?" Leo puttered, eyes still locked on the carved wood doors that an Engineer was in the act of replacing.

"Yes. Weren't you a 'Special Security Deputy Investigator' twenty minutes ago? What exactly IS your title?" pressed Betty.

"Big Hoss...all the girls...call....me....." Leo muttered, eyes still on the work, "HEY! Don't BANG on those asses!" he suddenly screeched, causing every customer present to jump, some spilling their drinks. A slim and pretty redhead hustled out from behind the bar, forcing her way torwards the unlikely trio by the door.

"Huh?" asked the pimply faced Engineer, who was caught in the act of using a Proton Maser Mallet to reinstall the carved doorpanels of satyrs chasing nymphs (and doing some interesting things when they were caught!).

"You can't just grab an panel full of ass and BANG on it! Stick something into it to just NAIL it right there! You have to SCREW those asses! Gently ease a big old long screw right into the...what? WHAT? Whatchoo lookin' at?" Leo demanded of the crowd of people who were staring at him.

"Keep going." dared Betty, looking rather flushed.

"Say another word and die." promised Major Log. Leo craned his head to see up that high, and the vision of the HUGE Indian's face caused Leo to clap both hands over his mouth.

"I dunno about all that sir! I came here from the Miranda! All I ever had to do there was go to some counselor's office and hang some Wooden Monkey Pe.." the kid began.

"WOODEN MONKEY PENISES? USS MIRANDA! I knew it! He's a spy! That sicko counselor guy is after my beautiful doors!" screeched Leo, throwing himself bodily (okay, falling two feet in a low altitude and flabby attempt to throw a flabby body) between the Engineer and the doors.

"Umm.. right.. the glue should hold them...anyways" the Kid said, edging for the door. Leo lay on the floor, waving his arms.

"What the HELL is going on here?" Erin demanded, hands on her hips.

"I have it all under control" said Leo from the floor.

"I'm very happy for you! Now who ARE you?" she demanded.

"Marines" was all Betty said.

"Security!" screeched Leo from the floor.

"He's not a Marine. He is Security." added Betty with a deadpan face, indicating Leo whose tunic had ridden up and whose pants had lowered, exposing a large and gaping...err... 'crack.' Hairy too Major Log loomed forwards, his sheer mass causing Erin to back up, step by step. His huge shadow fell across her, blotting out most light in it's vicinity, like a mountain deciding to take a stroll in front of the sun. Without a word, he help out a PADD. On it, were the holographic liklinesses of five crewmembers.

"Ma'm.. can you identify any of these people?" Betty asked, following in Log's wake.

Erin brushed a curl of her scarlet hair back and stood her ground.

"Maybe." she said.

"Okay okay okay..I got it..." Leo waddled over, waving a wallet. A brief flash of some kind of badge was visible in the wallet. Something fell out of the wallet.

Major Log growled deep in his chest. Several people caught the edge of it and inched away, hoping the blood didn't splash on them. Erin wavered, but stood firm.

"Which ones?" asked Betty, stooping to pick up the small plastic square Leo had dropped.

"Yeah! Which ones? err.. which ones what?" Leo demanded.

Erin pointed to the PADD. "That young guy came in here a lot, usually wiht friends. And the cowboy..Jerry or Jody or soemthing. He came in here. And the couple, they came in most nights for dinner. And that last guy, wasn't here long, but usually was reading in that corner."

Erin indicated a banquette near the portholes with a wave.

"THAT corner?" leo screeched. "I could get three Tac Weenies and Sanchez in THAT corner! And you put some guy. READING!" Leo guffawed his scorn.

"Think hard, you ever seen any of them together?" Betty urged.

"I'd like to see the dame together with me.." Leo muttered.

"Just the couple." Erin said, wrinkling her nose in a cute way.

It didn't work with Log. He leaned his scary self into her cute wrinkled nosed space.

"You sure?" Log demanded in that voice like a hundred tons of gravel going down some rusty and dark metal tube.

Erin gulped (in a cute way ,natch!) "Yes..." she all but whispered.

Log held her with his hard, black obsidian eyes. Then he loomed back to an upright looming position. With a curt nod of his head, he indicated for Betty to follow him. People got out of his way fast, a line for the door opening up like it was magic.

"We'll be back." Betty promised.

"Yeah!" replied Leo, scurrying after them.

"Hey! what's this all about?" Erin demanded.

'Suicides!" Leo retorted over his shoulder, pausing only to admire the carved doors and leer at his favourite Nymph. If you looked closely, it looked like Electra Reece, being chased by...

"Is this a condom?" Erin demanded , looking at the small square of Plastic Leo had dropped and Betty had handed to Erin by mistake.

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