BackLog | "Frontiers" | FAdm T'Evora
Posted on 241512.12 @ 7:22am by Fleet Admiral T'Evora
Coil of Darkness
Location: Starbase 577 “Frontenac”
Les petits ruisseaux font les grandes rivières.
[Starbase 577 “Frontenac”, just outside the Kavrot sector]
“So what you’re saying, Ma’am, is that the … dog ate your rank pips?”
“Indeed.” The stately Vulcan woman cast a mildly reproachful look at the canine in question, causing it to plop onto its rear and adopt an ‘I am adorable and have no idea what you’re talking about’ expression.
“That’s … well, if you’ll pardon the expression Ma’am, … fascinating.”
“Hardly, I should say. Belaar is rather indiscriminate in his approach as to what constitutes a balanced diet.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll have a new set replicated here in a moment, Admiral. I’m sure they’ll have that little problem fixed in…”
“That hardly seems necessary, Lieutenant. The pips will reemerge in due time. Until then, the set already on my uniform will do.”
Vulcans. Parker resisted the urge to rub his temples and focused on the PADD in his hand. The Trevix was due in 4 hours, engineering still hadn’t tracked down the problem with the replicators, there were five ambassadors on his tail wanting either booze, a dinner with the newly minted Rear Admiral, or a ride to some place – any place – else, and now this.
It was going to be one of those days.
Starbases serve a lot of purposes. Ship repair, resupplying, stopping point, R&R. Sometimes they observe and control the space around them, or are home to ships that do, sometimes they are mere signposts in the vast emptiness of space.
Set in high orbit of a rather lovely looking, if cold, class L planet “Frontenac” was a far cry from the bustling centers of commerce and fleet activities other starbases closer to home could boast of being. On the other hand, being out this far on the fringes of explored space and a veritable gateway to the Canis Major region had its very own challenges, opportunities, and – so Lieutenant Parker felt – distinctive drawbacks.
One of them being a Vulcan. A Vulcan with a pack of Corgis and a husband who completely failed to understand that space was not his personal playground. No, one could hardly blame a renowned astrophysicist for wanting a closer peek at a micro-wormhole, yes, fine, even if said wormhole was in the vicinity of a region with odd subspace shearing effects (which of course were subsequently dubbed “fascinating” as well), and, yes, alright, the shuttle wasn’t completely scrap-metal when it came back … but weren’t Vulcans supposed to have more sense than poking their aquiline noses into *every* blasted anomaly? Up close and personal?
Now the Admiral with Commodore’s pips was walking off to do whatever it was Vulcans do when replicators spit out female undergarments instead of Jestral tea. In this case it apparently involved examining something red and lacy and … oh, dear.
“I’ll see that this is removed immediately, Admiral.”
“It would be advisable to inform engineering that the computer still has not yet correctly processed my measurements, Lieutenant.”
“It… yes, Ma’am.”
He was *not* going to ask. He…
“Also, I believe the problem to be in the subprocessor matrix. Logically, a request for a beverage should not be shunted to the patterns for intimate garments, however … enter.” The latter was spoken towards the doors which promptly swished open to reveal the second pointy ear on Parker’s ‘top ten things to cause a migraine’ list. Funny, he hadn’t even heard the door chime. Must have been the hum of the replicator that still cheerfully materialized … yegawds…
“My wife.” The tall, lean male with steel grey hair held out his paired fingers, quirking a curious brow at the red lace dangling from his bondmate’s hand as she returned the gesture “The ambassadors have requested that the transfer of their cargo from the Trevix be given priority. Also, I do not believe this to be your size.”
“Indeed it is not. Lieutenant Parker, if you’d kindly inform the diplomatic delegation that they may take possession of their shipment of Saurian brandy once Chief Prinnhz has cleared it.” In a swift, almost absentminded move the Admiral saved some other frilly and altogether unhealthy looking piece of cloth from an inquisitive Corgi’s attention “If that is all …?”
“How did you know… yes Ma’am. I mean, no Ma’am. I have that weather report you wanted.” An eloquent brow told Parker he was about two seconds from another lecture about comparing ion displacements in space with atmospheric conditions of Minshara-class planets and he hastily held out the PADD in question “Oh, and the Skr’kr confederacy has declared they’ll settle for an annual tribute. Instead of conquering the Federation, Ma’am.”
“If you say so, Ma’am.”
Truth be told, the Skr’kr were a headache Parker gladly left to the flock of diplomats. Still, they’d gone from all out shooting their antique lasers at the Starfleet science ship that had first detected their warp trails to almost amicable threats. Out here, that probably counted as progress. Never you mind that said science vessel could have scrapped the Skr’kr fleet and been home in time for tea.
“Very well, Lieutenant. I shall join ambassador Trajsgrendkrtn shortly. My husband?” ever practical, said Vulcan had busied himself neatly folding the flood of lace and silks still pouring from the replicator and Parker could have sworn the perfectly tranquil face nonetheless radiated something … almost like amusement. Almost.
“I shall attend of course. The ambassador has generously promised a copy of their sensor logs from their close pass of the Gum Nebula. It should be most illuminating.”
With a brief nod towards the Lieutenant, both Vulcans walked out the door, followed by a cheerful Corgi in search of new items to add to his diet; leaving Parker with a replicator that had discovered the subcategory ‘garter belts’ in its memory banks.