A Little Night Music - Part 1

USS Harken, NCC-1141:

Crewman Nola Brice’s knees ached as she crawled along, as did her right hand as she clutched the degausser, passing its beam over what felt like the ninth kilometre of Jefferies Tube today, while trying not to bang her head on the low ceiling. Again. Join Starfleet, they said. Explore strange new worlds, they said.

Oh, and probably develop prepatellar and palmar bursitis while you do it. A drone could do this, certainly more quickly and efficiently. But why waste a valuable drone when they had four new Baby Blues onboard in Ship’s Services, made to do every bit of drudge work imaginable?

From her wrist communicator, a voice with a Southern American accent echoed. “Kitchener to Brice: aren’t you done in there yet, Baby Blue?”

Nola stopped, set down her tools and twisted around to reach the controls, glad at least that she wasn’t claustrophobic… just not well-designed for moving through tunnels like a Horta. She answered the hail, wishing they would come up with a smaller, more convenient interpersonnel communications system for starships. “Almost, Chief. Just have this last cross section near the Science Labs.”

“Good,” came the reply, sounding annoyed that she wasn’t further behind and thus deserving of a chewing out. “When you’re done, I’ll need you to go down to the Quartermaster’s Office and get me a container of Subspace Wash.”

Nola took a breath, shaking her head. Typical. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Chief.”

There was a pause, and then, “Is that right? And you think disobeying orders is a good way to start your career, Baby Blue?”

She worked up some saliva in her mouth; the air in these Tubes always seemed dry, stale, compared with the rooms and corridors. “It’s not a question of disobeying orders, Chief. I can’t get you a bottle of Subspace Wash because that’s an old-fashioned term for the warp trail of residual subspace distortion left behind by a starship moving at warp speed. Perhaps you weren’t aware of that?”

There was another pause, and then Kitchener responded with a gruff, “Just hurry up down there, Crewman.”

“Yes, Chief. Crewman Brice out.” She lay there for a moment, twisting her neck in place to work the cramps out, almost feeling sorry for the man. Almost. New recruits were always subject to pranks upon boarding: being sent on Fool’s Errands for non-existent, absurd items, sometimes with obscene jokes hidden behind the names.

And with the Baby Blues (so-called because of the departmental colour for Ship’s Services, as displayed by the turtleneck undershirts beneath their burgundy uniform jackets), there was fresh meat for these displays of pettiness, and all the others who had boarded with her four weeks ago had been caught by them, at one time or another.

All but Nola. She was from a large Starfleet family, the latest to join the organisation, and her many relatives had all warned her about what to expect. And so far, she had managed to avoid being sent for Subspace Wash, Long Weights, Fizzbin cards... or the blush-provoking Draylaxian Cup Set. One would think she should have been commended for her vigilance.

But this ship had proven to be a place blind to rewards. Or excitement. She had eschewed her family’s advice and bypassed the Academy (for now) to enter as an enlisted crewmember, believing it would get her out there, where adventure awaited, that much sooner.

Well, it certainly got her out there – out here – four weeks now. But adventure proved as elusive as a Douwd. The Harken was a Stalwart-class vessel, looking like a smaller, less-armed and more unfinished version of the ubiquitous Mirandas, and with a crew of only forty, the ship having been designed for short-range scout and support duties.

Of which this one definitely focused on the latter: inspecting, repairing and maintaining subspace communications buoys and navigation markers along trade routes, relaying classified messages, and delivering Universal Translator upgrades to starbases and outposts. The most exciting incident so far had been a muster drill in the middle of the night, making Nola almost twist her ankle when she’d leapt out of her top bunk.

Hardly the stuff of song and story.

She knew she was barely eighteen, a Squab, her uniform as virgin as she was, and had no right to complain. But still, she did… at least, to those who couldn’t adversely affect her next performance report.

Like her bunkmate and friend T’Shak, an annoyingly skinny and attractive young Vulcan woman, with an equally annoyingly unflappable and mature approach to, well, everything. “Your dissatisfaction is unwarranted. You have expressed a desire to join Starfleet Academy in the future and become an officer. Your time onboard this vessel will help you accrue valuable practical experience that other Academy cadets will lack.”

Nola acknowledged T’Shak’s logic… but still questioned if she could last before she died of boredom-

She was kicked out of her reverie by a loud sound just ahead of her, and she looked up to see a side hatch being unbolted and removed. Light and cooler, fresher air poured in, before a head followed: an older Andorian male, his skin the same shade as her undershirt, with thinning snow-white hair and antennae that curled accusingly in her direction, his voice cold and sibilant. “You are spying!”

Nola blinked. “S-Sorry, what?”

The wrinkled face tightened. “We heard you. You are in here, spying!”

She swallowed. It was Dr Itath Thizheris, one of six civilians specialists in various communications-related fields onboard the Harken, doing Starfleet or private research in the area of the ship they liked to call the Radio Shack, as well as in their own private labs. The Ship’s Service team were often called upon to provide support to the Shack Pack, as the more-established crewmembers called them. They tended to keep to themselves, and were generally cordial, even friendly.

Generally. “No, Doctor, it’s Crewman Brice, remember? I helped you set up that thoron field generator in your lab.”

“Yes,” he replied slowly, nodding in recognition, but with his voice almost hissing now with menace. “And when you couldn’t steal my data in that manner, you thought to eavesdrop from in here!”

Her pulse quickened, and she could feel her normally pale Nordic face flush beneath her strawberry-blonde hair. “N-No, Sir! I’m not spying, I’m cleaning the Tubes! Under Chief Kitchener’s orders!” She held up the degausser. “See, Sir?”

“Liar! I’ll have you shot for this!”

“No you won’t,” denied a female voice from within Thizheris’ lab. “For too many reasons I care to explain.” And now the Andorian’s head was joined by a human’s: an older, gaunt face with fair hair greying in truculent commas here and there, a wide smile and compassionate eyes as she regarded Nola. “Sorry about him, young lady. He gets cranky whenever I prove him wrong about subspace harmonics.” Her voice dropped to a mock-confidential whisper. “He gets cranky a lot.”

“I am never wrong, Pinkskin,” Thizheris groused. “The facts get themselves wrong.”

Nola immediately felt some relief at the other woman’s presence. Dr Ruth Leavitt was one of the nicer, friendlier members of the Pack, who never treated Nola or the other Baby Blues as dogsbodies or idiots. “I’m sorry, Doctor! I didn’t realise I was disturbing you-”

The older woman smiled. “You weren’t. We only noticed when we turned up the sensitivity on our equipment, and picked up your tool and communicator.”

“Who are your paymasters?” Thizheris hissed. “Klingons, or Romulans?”

“Will you stop trying to intimidate the young girl, Itath?” Leavitt asked. “She’s only doing her job!”

“A spying job,” he muttered.

“One more word and I’m going to tie your antennae in knots.” Leavitt looked back at Nola. “How long do you think you’ll be in here?”

Nola glanced ahead, ran some calculations. “Another twenty minutes, maybe, Doctor? But I can come back and finish up at another time, the Chief won’t mind-”

Leavitt shook her head. “No, no, you work for a living, not like us, and Kitchener’s constipated enough as it is. We’ll get an early lunch.” She turned to glance at Thizheris. “Now apologise to the girl for trying to scare her.”

The Andorian looked up at Nola, sneering, “I am sorry for scaring you in the midst of your spywork.”

Leavitt blew a raspberry, but winked at Nola before drawing her head back into the lab and pulling Thizheris back in with her. “You’re as inept at manners as you are at subspace wavelength dynamics...” They closed the side hatch.

Nola slumped down in relief. If Thizheris had been alone, and reported her to the Captain, she might have been busted out of the Service entirely-

Her communicator chirped again, and Kitchener’s voice returned, now tinted with impatience. “Brice, stop dawdling down there! The corridors on Deck 5 need buffing, and then you’ll be cleaning out the waste residue in the recycler pipes!”

Nola counted to Five before replying, having learned how necessary it was. “Aye, Chief. Brice out.” She grunted as she closed the channel. Getting kicked off this ship might not be the worst thing in the Universe.

*

Second Officer Lt Katheer al-Rad was in charge of the four-person Ship’s Services Team, and held the weekly meetings to hand out the duties and discuss any issues that might have arisen. And though he held a senior position onboard, the young man from Basenji was not much older than the new recruits, and he put them at ease as best he can, as he sat at the head of the conference room table. “Crewman T’Shak, you are assigned to Lt Wixtar in Security, supplementing his team. Expect long hours of phaser and tricorder diagnostics… and getting flung over his shoulder repeatedly in the Gym. I hope you remember your Unarmed Combat training?”

The Vulcan, sitting opposite Nola, nodded. “I am fully prepared, Lieutenant.”

Al-Rad grunted. “I hope you’re fully prepared for many pictures and anecdotes about Wixtar’s newborn son. Crewman Granch, Chief Kitchener needs someone to run full diagnostic checks on both shuttlepods. I expect such a solitary duty will spare the rest of us from having to smell your pelt.”

Seated beside T’Shak, Gilgoss bav Granch, a chubby Tellarite male with finely-combed fur and beady black eyes, clacked his hooves with amusement at the display of the style of Banter his people preferred. “Thank you, Lieutenant! I am certain to easily exceed the low standards of you poor furless humans!”

Al-Rad nodded, unoffended. “Good to hear. Crewman Sebastiere, we are scheduled to reach the Beta Omicron Relay Station later today; you will join the maintenance teams in beaming over to run inspections, carrying the tool and spare part kits, accessing the station records to upload to the ship, and so on.”

On Nola’s right, Claude Sebastiere, a French-Canadian man with jet-black hair and eyes that were far too handsome for his own good, smiled and nodded back. “A pleasure, Lieutenant.”

Under the table, his hand moved over Nola’s, his fingertips playfully stroking the back of her hand, sending shivers up her spine. They had been like this since before they all shipped out for their first assignment: the verbal dances, the flirtatious touching. She really should have nipped it in the bud and stopped it, in order to focus on her work. And she would stop it, she promised herself.

Soon.

“Crewman Brice,” al-Rad concluded, looking in her direction. “You will be performing Captain’s Yeoman duties.”

Nola drew her hand up into view, her heart quickening. “Captain’s Yeoman, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Crewman. You have a problem with that?”

“No! I mean, no, Sir.” She glanced around. T’Shak raised an eyebrow, Sebastiere flushed a little, but Granch openly chortled, while al-Rad pretended not to notice their reactions.

She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Since boarding the Harken, Nola and the other new recruits had encountered Captain Mistry… or Captain Mystery, as some were wont to call her. For a crew as small as theirs, their Commanding Officer was the least visible, seemingly spending most of her time on the Bridge, or in the Radio Shack, and usually on Beta or Gamma Duty Shift, the ones usually manned by junior officers (not that, logically, one shift was necessarily more likely to experience the unexpected than any other).

Dad had warned her that Captains tried to keep some distance between themselves and their crews. But Audea Mistry seemed to take this to the Nth degree, and Nola couldn’t help but believe that this was due to the woman’s unusual career: a Terran, born in England, graduated in the Top Five Percent of the Class of 2293 at the Academy. But unlike those Captains who rose up through Engineering or Security or even the Sciences, Mistry rose through Communications, specialising in Exolinguistics and, believe it or not, Music.

Nola had examined Mistry’s record, and couldn’t find much if anything of note; such an undistinguished career track should have, at best, led to a senior position at some outpost or relay station, or a teaching position, or some research work. Not command of a starship… even one with a track record as boring as this.

“Fine,” al-Rad concluded. “If there are any questions, you know how to reach me. Dismissed… all but you, Crewman Brice.”

She was halfway to her feet when she froze, descending again, glancing at the others as they left, sparing her looks of varying levels of sympathy on their departure. Alone with him now, she swallowed and forced her hands to fold together for mutual support on the tabletop. “Lieutenant, is there something wrong?”

The junior officer, with skin the colour of cinnamon and a short, neatly-trimmed beard, set aside the PADD in his hand. “Yes, Crewman; I don’t appreciate receiving messages from the relatives of new recruits asking if I can make things more interesting for them.”

Nola blinked, not quite sure she’d heard correctly. “Excuse me, Sir?”

He picked up the PADD again. “I understand it, really. You’re young, you’ve been sent out into deep space on your first assignment, and your family wants to watch out for you. But it’s usually because they fear for your safety, not because you’ve been complaining to them about being bored.”

She felt herself flush Nova. “Sir, I- I don’t know-”

He handed over the PADD, “Your father is Lt Cmdr Neil Brice, based at Utopia Planitia, yes? And there’s a Lt Marta Brice on the Merrimac, and a Commander Owen Brice at Starbase 14, and a few others. All have sent messages addressed to your immediate superior: me.” He paused. “Most were subtle, singing your praises and hoping we were putting you to good use. Others, like the Lieutenant on the Olympia, made me feel like I was cornered in the school playground being bullied.”

Nola scanned the list of messages, noting the names, dates, and brief summaries of each, Dad and all the aunts and uncles and cousins she had written, asking them for advice on her current situation… but never asking any of them to actually intervene. Oh God. Oh dear God, they didn’t… She looked up again, fairly certain neutronium would melt if it touched her skin right now. “Lieutenant, I swear to you on my life, I never asked them to contact you, to do anything! I never would! They just- they all want to watch out for me, ever since my Mom died on the Korolev! They just- I wasn’t complaining, really! That’s all, I promise!”

Al-Rad regarded her… and then took back his PADD, relaxing his expression. “I believe you, Crewman; I just needed to see your reaction to this. I’m sure they had the best of intentions… and I remember being ready to die from boredom during my first assignment in Starfleet Supply and Logistics, and my mother threatening to contact Commodore Stocker about her little boy not realising his full potential.” He chuckled and rolled his eyes at that.

Nola let out a sound of relief, so grateful for his understanding response. “Thank you, Lieutenant! And I promise you, I’ll write to them and make sure they never contact you again!”

“I’d appreciate that. Now, onto your current assignment. You will be working directly with Captain Mistry, performing many administrative and other support tasks. It’s a valuable opportunity to see first-hand the duties of a Commanding Officer and the senior officers, one that will assist you in your quest to become one… which I am assuming you are, given your relatives’ responses?” he asked, offering a sly smile again.

“Uh, yes, Sir. That is, if I’m not thrown in the stockade for killing one or two of them first.”

Now he laughed softly. “You have a sense of humour; that always helps as a support mechanism, whether you’re coping with the stresses of life, or the mundanities of it.” He called up another screen on his PADD and handed it back to her. “Your duties will potentially expose you to Level 10 Classified Data, requiring an upgrade to the standard Non-Disclosure Agreements for you.”

She accepted it again, signing in the appropriate areas, and passing it back... just as they felt the ship change course sharply, before accelerating faster than they were before, the whine of the engines running through every part of the ship.

Nola had watched it, of course; space travel, especially when one was out-racing light itself, was still relatively new to her. But that was unusual enough in itself for her to take notice. “Has something happened, Sir?”

“I don’t know,” he responded. “But if we need to know, we’ll find out in due course. You’ll be on the Graveyard Shift with the Captain tonight, so I suggest you go to your quarters and get some sleep.” He frowned, before continuing with, “This won’t mean much to someone who only left Enlisted Training School a month ago, but Captain Mistry isn’t like other Commanding Officers. But if you’re here to learn as much as serve, then you can still learn from her. Just watch and listen. Especially listen.”

Nola swallowed. “Aye, Sir.”

Part 2