Valiant: That New Car Smell

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Alabama, Earth - 2257

Trees pockmarked the landscape as Érinthe Hetetlen stared out of the shuttle viewport, the ship soaring rapidly across the American south. Granted, there were protected forests and environmental plantations littered across the planet, but when you'd spent most of your life aboard starships or living in Earth's hyper-urbanised metropolises, it was easy to forget that the homeworld was actually capable of supporting natural habitats, if left to it's own devices.

Behind him - give or take a few course corrections - was Oklahoma, and specifically Broken Bow: home, at least as far as his birth records were concerned. A century ago, the township had been little more than a footnote in census records; but a crashed Klingon ship and an all-to-cliché encounter between it's pilot and a farmer with a plasma shotgun had been the seed that had now blossomed into a modestly sized example of modern city living.

In truth, Érin didn't remember much about his birthplace; nor about the mother who had so begrudgingly raised him for the first four years of his life, before packing him off to relatives and running off to the stars. The house where his data search had told him he'd lived didn't even exist any more. Story of my life, he'd mused. An old Earth proverb said that you don't know what you've got until it's gone; but as far as this stage of Érin's past was concerned he just plain didn't know, gone or not.

Quickly the scenery outside changes, spider web roadways fattening out into the routes required for the kind of industry he was heading towards. He shifted in his seat, peering through the open cockpit doorway and out of the viewscreen at the titanic feat of engineering that lay before. Nearly five hundred thousand tonnes of assorted alloys - or at least it would be, once the engineers had welded on all the hull plates and cross braces - the starship was one of the largest Starfleet had ever constructed, intended to be embody all the advancements in technology, engineering, and cooperation that the Federation had achieved in the first near-century of it's existence.

When Captain Mahipo had selected him for this assignment - First Officer of the vessel that construction would one day become - she had explained it to him thus: "It's not a ship they're building out there in Huntsville, Commander. What they're building is the future."

The spaceframe disappeared from view as the shuttle banked around towards the landing platform. In a matter of moments the reassuring thrum of the engines died, the pressure seal hissed as the airtight door eased it's way open, and all of a sudden the heat and sound rolled in at him. It wasn't just the trees that Érin found it easy to forget: while space was peaceful and silent, he'd forgotten how obnoxious and loud Earth could be.

Easing himself from his seat, Érin braved the harsh Alabama sun, squinting just enough to make out the security guard making a bee line straight for him. Sunglasses, he mused, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Need those.

He passed his orders and credentials into the guard's hands, only half paying attention to Starfleet's pathological over-caution. "Commander Erinthe Hetetlen, First Officer," the guard read aloud.

"Érinthe," the Commander half-heartedly corrected, stressing the accented first letter that transformed his name from feminine to Hungarian.

The guard didn't seem convinced. "I'd assume you'll want to see the Foreman," he supposed.

"Well assumed," Érin grunted back.

[Dale Goetz]

"Commander, they need you down at the loading bay to sign off on the plasma coils."

"WHAT?"

"Commander!"

A pair of hands grasped at a set of ankles sticking out from under a massive bit of superstructure at the heart of what would eventually be the USS Valiant's warp core. They pulled, and a very irate figure slid out from under the machinery on a utility sled. Snapping welding goggles off his face, he again repeated himself.

"What?! What, man!"

"Commander, it's Requisitions. They've got a load of plasma coils for delivery, and they're insisting on sign-off from senior staff. I already tried to tell them that -"

"Shit!"

Lt. Commander Dale 'Bear' Goetz was already on his feet, pausing only to wipe the perspiration from his forehead and snatch a water bottle from where it had been resting near a sprawling tool chest. Twenty-third century living was all well and good, but you still didn't escape the realities of summertime in northern Alabama, and whether you were tinkering on aircars or starships, you still needed to stay cool.

He walked alongside Ensign Akruz, the Andorian helper / punching bag he'd been working alongside for months on the dry docks. He liked Akruz, because they understood each other. Formality at a minimum and no bullshit. They were both results oriented.

"I've told them over and over."

"That's what I told them."

"We've got how many ju-comms here?"

"That's what I told them."

"Last I checked, all their pen hands worked just fine too!"

"That's what I told them too."

Arriving at a service elevator, Bear slapped the controls to carry him to ground level. Cooling off with another drink of water, he passed the bottle to the Andorian, who did the same.

"I don't know how Starfleet keeps on schedule for anything. They'd go months overdue if they were building a bird house, dammit. We're all on the build. We all know what to do and where to be. Configuring the viability of the matter annihilator in the warp core? Go ahead and ask the chief. Initial for a package? Find the first warm body, man! Do they think I'm herding cats up here? Is there anybody on our staff that doesn't know what a plasma coil looks like?"

Ensign Akruz's antennae kinked in exasperation, and Bear realized he was preaching to the choir.

"Alright, fine. I'm not cussin' you down. You know."

"I know, sir. That's what I told them."

"All those career boys in San Franscisco gotta do things their own little way. Same little way every time."

"It's not just a San Francisco thing, sir. Until I met you, I figured that was a human thing."

Dale shot his subordinate a strange look.

"Whatcha tryin' to say, Akruz?"

Realizing they'd gotten to a familiar talking point, Akruz made a face as his antennae bobbed.

"I'm just saying you're the most Andorian human that I've ever met."

A weird silence fell over both of them. Akruz passed the water bottle back, and Dale reluctantly accepted it.

"Yeah. I'm gonna...take that as a compliment...I think."

That seemed to relieve Akruz, who exhaled a bit.

"Well that's what I meant."

The elevator at last halted at the ground, and the rough metal doors ground open.

"Just don't..."

"Don't...what?"

"I dunno. Usually we humans hug when we bond like this."

The remark seemed to perturb Akruz greatly, sending his antennae askew.

"Andorians do not hug."

Taking a ponderous sip of water, Bear again passed it off to his subordinate.

"Thank God for that."

They at last arrived at the loading platform, hitting full stride. Dale was already prepared to give the delivery man more than enough for his ear to handle.

"Alright now, this shit ain't chess, it's checkers. I done told y'all about th.."

Dale wasn't stupid. When he got to the deck and saw the number of pips on the man's uniform in front of him, he quickly realized he was barking up the wrong tree.

"Can I help you, sir?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

If you spent enough time aboard starships, you could spot a senior engineer at a glance. There was something in the way they moved: not arrogance, but there was certainly some degree of ownership in the way they prowled about. Most people laboured under the mistaken belief that a starship belonged to it's Captain, but starships were like race horses: the engineers were the owners and breeders; the Captain was just the jockey they allowed to ride it.

Érin searched his memory for a name to match the face. "Dale Goetz," he said, offering his hand in greeting. "I'm Commander Érinthe Hetetlen. Starfleet sent me, to -"

He turned his eyes upwards, a slight squint tugging at his features as a ray of Alabama sun lanced itself into his eyes. He fought it aside, and mustered a smile. "Since Captain Mahipo is busy commanding the Farragut," he explained, a hint of faint sarcasm tugging at his words, "Starfleet has sent me so they have someone to nag for progress reports, rather than pestering you directly."

[Dale Goetz]

"I'd appreciate that, sir. Double so if you can run the bureaucrats off my drydock. If you'll excuse me, I've got to sign for a shipment, because it's not like I have a warp core to fabricate up there."

The last few words dripped with disgust. Dale thought the better of it though, and waved off his latest bit of attitude. Taking a beeline for the Ensign standing ready by the hover pallettes, he quickly dispatched the paperwork, flagged down members of his own drydock crew to dispatch the cargo, and clapped a hand on Ensign Akruz's shoulder as he passed.

"Keep the gang on task. Looks like I have to play nice for a bit."

"We'll get those coils up, sir."

A nod to the Andorian, and Dale again returned to the Captain.

"Suppose you'll want a look at your ship, then? Or whatever guts we've got cobbled together so far. To be honest, this kind of penny ante routine Starfleet's foisting on us might be good for lawyers, but it's damn frustrating."

Commander Hetetlen and Chief Goetz both reached the utility lift, and the Chief slapped the controls to take them up to the main engineering superstructure. They rose through the massive scaffold, through the figurative skeleton of the ship they were creating. All around them, the sounds of welders and various tools created an impressive din.

"You've got me at a disadvantage. I guess that's what command does, though. Read dossiers and such."

Dale didn't have to read between the lines. He knew you didn't get fast tracked from freighters to starships without having one hell of a work record. Trouble was, he tended to butt heads over Starfleet procedure. The civilian spacefleets gave a sense of freedom that the military didn't.

"I'd like to have an understanding, sir. This ship is going to be the fastest ship in the fleet. Call it pride or reputation or whatever you want, but the day we settle for second place is the day I quit."

Dale looked at his superior officer carefully as the lift drew to a halt.

"I want room to do exactly that."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érin regarded the engineer with a contemplative frown. Making generalised criticisms about command officers wasn't exactly breaking new ground for the engineer: since pretty much the birth of Starfleet there'd been a mostly polite rivalry between the gold-shirted officers at the clean end of the ship who issued all the command and control instructions, and the red-shirted ones at the grubby end who made all of that happen. Some held the opinion that those in gold earned all the acclaim that those in red rightly deserved; and in truth, Érin didn't entirely disagree.

Engineers being averse to paperwork and unnecessary scrutiny was par for the course as well. But a dangerous line was drawing itself: one that Érin would have to walk but not cross. Goetz had a history on merchant ships, and civilian instances of severe engineering incidents dwarfed those of Starfleet, with good reason: all the resourcefulness and ingenuity that merchant engineers employed to make the best of limited funds and resources often came at the expense of safety precautions.

Érin chose his words carefully. "I'm a Navigator by trade, Mr Goetz; the prospect of squeezing every last decimal of Warp potential out of our engines appeals to me a great deal. However, my first responsibility is to the well-being of the crew. For as long as your efforts remain within the bounds of what is safe and reasonable, I will do my utmost to ensure that you are left to carry out your work unhindered: but I will not take a single step that could endanger the lives of anyone aboard. Yourself included."

He hesitated for a moment.

"That said, I know the chief engineer of the ship they're building in Iowa. Commander Olsen is an ass, and if you and your team manage to wipe the lopsided grin off that arrogant bastard's face, drinks will all be on me until none of you are able to stand."

[Dale Goetz]

Commander Hetetlen set his ground rules, and Dale had to admit, they were pretty fair ones. The gauntlet he threw down elicited a laugh.

"You're gonna dock your pay back a month when I win that wager. I made all of my bad life choices back home in Germany, including how to drink."

The Commander wasn't a stick-in-the-ass, and Dale was letting his guard down a bit.

"Let me show you something you'll like. Over here."

They headed to the catwalk just above the warp core chamber housing, climbing to a section of the reactor superstructure that was currently being neglected.

"When I got this post, I buried my face in the Constitution specs. She's a huge bird, everything's orders of magnitude larger than those cookie cutter UCS haulers we used on the Rigel-Antares corridor. But the vanilla specs for this thing are conservative to put it lightly. The heat sink governors are set low, and they dissipate the output pretty sloppy. Juggle half a dozen ship systems when you need them, and you want whatever juice you can get. Hell, that's how it was in the Merchants, and I'm pretty damn sure Starfleet wants it that way too."

Gesturing to the banks of heat sinks he mentioned, Chief Goetz punched up a schematic on the workstation overlooking the catwalk.

"See? These sinks can handle thirty percent more heat than the governors are preset for. Even if you hold it at capacity, you could bleed that off through the bussards the moment you need breathing room. They rate those sinks for how much use? Five years?"

Dale shook his head, making a face.

"That's just one. I doubt you want the technobabble, Commander, but I made a living in the Merchants squashing crap like this. I wouldn't even suggest it if I wasn't comfortable putting my ass on the line. Starfleet says build it like granny's skycar, but there's a sleeper under the hood if you get my drift."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

If Érin was honest, he only understood about half the words the engineer had uttered, and only a third of that made sense in the order presented. At the best of times, engineers weren't expected to be all that comprehensible to outsiders, but Goetz spread added metaphors and turns of phrase across his language like butter on toast.

"Use better; make go fast," he paraphrased in a muttered breath.

His hand scrubbed across a jaw that was less stubbled than he was used to. Out on deployment - particularly on the kind of ships where Érin had served - commanders were generally a bit more lax with regards to the uniform code. Back home though, and on fancier ships like the one being built here, regulations were more strictly enforced, which meant conforming to the all-or-nothing rules regarding facial hair. It had always struck Érin as a little naive to assume that officers could magically swing from one extreme to the other; but it was an old naval tradition, and while Starfleet was adamant about not being a military, they sure did love their old military traditions.

"If there's any extra equipment you need," he said finally, "Draw up a list. Or better yet, dictate a list and have someone else write it up for you. I went to the Academy with a guy whose sister works in requisitions, and, well -"

He cleared his throat, fighting back an involuntary smile.

"Lets just say she remembers me 'fondly'. I can't promise anything, but I'll get you what I can."

His arms fell into a comfortable fold across his chest.

"Oh, and feel free to get your staff to divert all the supply paperwork to me. I'm sure I'll be able to find time to sign for it. You know, when I'm not reading dossiers and such."

[Dale Goetz]

"Already have the list drawn up and ready."

Goetz leaned up against the railing, crossing his arms with a nod.

"Had it for a month, really. Just been waiting for a like mind with a good pair of ass-kicking boots on. Actually, tell you what. We're in a holding pattern until those coils go online, and that's pretty pedestrian stuff. Care to clock out for lunch? They dropped you down in the middle of Alabama heat and mosquitoes, least I can do to make up for it is to introduce you to the food. There's an old meat and three across the street called Suge's. Probably feeds more Starfleet officers than the drydock mess. We go now, and beat the rush. They'll line 'em up around the block if we wait."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Food. Now there was an offer he wasn't particularly inclined to refuse.

"It's been three months since I last had a meal that didn't start off in a cargo container," he admitted, the involuntarily remembered aftertaste of Starfleet cuisine tugging at the back of his mouth.

Mention of the heat prickled at the skin on Érin's upper arms, still cocooned between three layers of Starfleet uniform. In the slightly chilled air of a starship or spacedock, or in the more moderate climbs where Starfleet typically located it's major facilities, such things were a blessing. Construction yards such as this however were often either in the very hot or very cold parts of the world - parts where no one was stupid enough to want to live, presumably.

He tugged at the zip, shrugged off the jacket, and tossed it casually over his shoulder, exposing the bright gold uniform that would no doubt become a magnet for every insect and molecule of grime within a four mile radius by the time the day was up. He'd worry about that later.

"Lead on, Mr Goetz," he said, with a gesture towards the exit. "I leave my dietary well-being in your hopefully capable hands."

[Dale Goetz]

"Careful what you wish for, sir."

The Chief headed to the ladder, paused, and pulled his communicator out, flipping it open.

"Goetz to Akruz."

"Akruz here, sir."

"You have shift command. I'm taking Commander Hetetlen to lunch. Be back in an hour."

"Suge's?"

The Chief paused midway on the ladder, a wrinkle of suspicion on his face.

"Where else?"

"Certainly not the mess. Permission to, er...shirk duty?"

A grin spread under Dale's moustache.

"You'd better have a damn good reason, Ensign."

A moment of silence passed before the comm crackled again.

"Ensign Hosseini has been bugging me for a week to oversee the plasma coil job. She's very interested in, uh, plasma coils."

Bullshit, but creative bullshit.

"Then you'd better explain to Ensign Hosseini how interested she actually is. Five minutes and we're not waiting a second more. Goetz out."

Flipping his communicator closed, Dale looked back up the ladder at Hetetlen, who had about the expression on his face that the engineer expected.

"We know how to play politics down in the trenches too, sir. Oh, and sir? Call me Bear."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érin hesitated at the top of the ladder, eyebrows climbing as he peered down at the engineer. It quickly morphed into a frown; he grabbed the collar of the jacket between his teeth and descended the rungs with practised swiftness.

His quizzical expression turned on the Chief full force as he stowed the jacket in a more convenient location.

"Bear?" he echoed. "There a story to go along with that?"

[Dale Goetz]

The Chief's face went a bit inscrutable as he reached the bottom of the ladder, still looking upwards.

"There is, but mainly just because that's what folks call me."

Folks who weren't complete procedural tribble-brains. And the Commander had at least earned the familiar. The rest was more or less a trade secret.

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Hetetlen contemplated that for a moment, before eventually letting his expression fall away into a shrug. He'd met people with weirder nicknames in his time. Hell, his regular name was weird enough on it's own; there was no way he was in a position to judge.

He fell into step beside Bear as they moved off again.

"Érin," he added after a few paces. If they were going to be working as closely together as they'd need to get this ship finished, there was no point standing on ceremony. "Érin," he stressed, "Not Erin."

A grimace formed on his features.

"I went to an English public school; it's a subtle difference, but a damned important one."

[Dale Goetz]

"I grew up with umlauts. I can appreciate the difference. Glad to meet you, Érin."

Still couldn't place the origin on the name, but when you had to choose from somewhere Probably Europe and pronouncing a Caitian name without sounding like you had phlegm, he'd always go with Probably Europe.

"Now, we'd better hop to. I'd rather not be in line behind Akruz, because Andorians sure can eat."



A few minutes later


Contrasting the modern aesthetics of the Starfleet facility and drydocks next to it, Suge's restaurant was a shabby little building sandwiched between two more contemporary structures at the outskirts of Huntsville. It was a place that smelled faintly of woodsmoke inside, and whose dated walls were filled with bric-a-brac from the 20th and 21st centuries. A dilapidated PA system piped in background music - in this case a band of Tellarites playing Shoals-style blues music.

"Welcome to Suge's, what can I get y'all to drink?"

A drawly waitress furnished a holographic menu for each of the three officers who settled into the booth. This was all a formality for veterans, and both Bear and Akruz knew what they wanted long before they arrived.

"Cardassian sweet tea." was uttered in unison.

"And you, sugar?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érin's eyes skimmed the menu provided, a faint undercurrent of panic tugging at the back of his mind. As a navigator, and a command officer, he was known for his quick and decisive thinking. When it came to selecting items from unfamiliar menus however, those skills froze up on him. Even familiar menus proved problematic, and despite repeated attempts to add a little variety into his diet and select something new, he inevitably wound up ordering the exact same thing.

When in Rome, he mused, abandoning the menu and lacing his fingers together on the table.

"I'll have the same," he replied, offering the waitress a hint of the charming smile he reserved specifically for people he was about to trust with his food. The intensity notched up ever so slightly. "Any good command officer knows when to defer to the expert local knowledge of his away team."

[Dale Goetz]

The waitress, sufficiently charmed by Érin's smile, got a bit of color to her cheeks as her smile widened.

"Alright then. Three Cardy teas, and y'all know what you wanna eat yet?"

Akruz almost looked like he was ready to eat the menu if she didn't ask.

"Catfish, grits, greens, and Romulan viinerine. Oh! Chicken-fried redbat!"

The waitress was a veteran, and accustomed to customers who wanted to improvise.

"The redbat's extra, hon."

"I know, that's okay. I'm starving."

Her eyes passed to Bear.

"What he said, but okra instead of greens, and no redbat."

A few quick jots on her computer pad, and she turned to Érin again. With first timers, she was a little more accomodating.

"It's all fixed price for a main and three sides. Save room for pie, too."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érin wasn't entirely sure what a Romulan viinerine was supposed to be. Presented with the word out of context, he might have assumed it was some sort of vineyard soldier, or perhaps an alcoholic skunk bear; neither of which sounded particularly appetising.

Redbat on the other hand was something he was all too familiar with; he still vividly recalled a field trip to Andoria as a cadet, and the bat-infested ice canyon he'd been forced to abseil into when one of his idiot classmates had taken a tumble and broken his leg. If it contributed to the depopulation of those wretched, screeching pests, he'd quite happily help bring about their extinction one meal at a time.

"Don't worry about space in here," he assured, with a gentle pat on his stomach. "I've spent the last three months on border patrol living off boxed food. I'd eat a Klingon, if it was prepared with fresh ingredients in a proper kitchen."

He hesitated for a moment longer. "I'll take a redbat too, and something made of cow if you've got it. Greens, corn... and any chance you've got some swede or sweet potato kicking about? I've got a real weakness for any kind of mash that isn't white."

[Dale Goetz]

"Chicken-fried steak, or brisket?"

At the risk of ordering two plates of a chicken-fried anything, Bear stepped in to put an end to it.

"He'll get the brisket with that. And the candied yams."

With that, the waitress went to work, returning quickly with tall tumblers filled to the brim with a mix of brown tea and crushed ice. The key here was to drink until your forehead started to ache, which would usually get the first third of the glass down. It would also halt the runaway desire your body had to leak perspiration in the heat. Besides, refills were free.

"Yeah, that's the part that worries me about space. It's not the radiation leaks, the surprise Klingon attacks, or the possibility of slipping on the equivalent of a banana peel in the space time continuum. It's a year's mission on N-series rations. We'd better seek out new life and new civilizations often, and hope they believe in home cooking."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érinthe let out a chuckle.

"The secret is to optimise your confectionery. Fill as much of your cargo allocation with luxury foodstuffs that pack small and last long."

A wistful smile crept onto his features. "You'd be amazed how many N7 ration packs you can muscle your way through if you can escape back to your quarters and take the edge off with a jammy dodger or two at the end of the day."

[Dale Goetz]

"Jammy dodge what, now? That a food?"

Even if some of that was lost in translation, he got the premise.

"But yeah, that's how we did it in the Merchants, but we were even more cutthroat. Hauling goods and trade between colonies. You load a palette into the cargo bay, and say you lose a box. These things happen. That's tax, man. Nothing serious, mind you. Some greenhorn lifted a bottle of whisky and got the riot act put on him, but you could live pretty good if you were smart. Most of the spacers would lose their rolls at casinos or to girls the moment we hit port, so they weren't exactly planning for the future."

The waitress finally arrived with a whole tray lined with dishes. Setting them on the table in quick order, she finished up by topping off everyone's tea. Akruz already dove into his catfish, parcelling the fried filets with a fork, spearing viinerine, and marching it into his mouth in a conveyor-like motion familiar to anyone who'd done military service. Dale too tucked in, but made an effort to save space for conversation.

"So, what kind of action have you seen? I keep hearing about staring matches across the Klingon neutral zone."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érinthe didn't stand on ceremony either: he was sure that the local cuisine tasted damned nice, but learned habits shovelled it into his mouth with the barely touching the sides finesse of a seasoned spacer. He spoke mostly between, though occasionally around mouthfuls as he demolished his meal.

"My last tour was out by K-Space," he admitted. "The Isis did a deep space run out on the frontier past the Delta Outposts. We poked around for the Gorn border; wound up in a few scuffles with the locals; helped set up an observation outpost on -"

He hesitated, food-laden fork hovering the air as he searched his memory.

"- Cestus III, I think it was. Nice enough place I guess; little desolate, mind. Kinda reminded me of a trip I took to the Alamo as a kid. "

He swallowed a mouthful of redbat which, as it turned out, was a lot more interesting to consume than you might have expected. Most people seemed to labour under the illusion that no matter what planet you were on, meat was meat and everything pretty much tasted like chicken: but apparently if you were a small, airborne, not-actually-a-rodent from a barely hospitable ice moon, the way your muscle structures and fat deposits arranged themselves made for a surprisingly enjoyable palette experience.

"Did a patrol tour out on the Rommie border before that. Whole lot of mind-numbing staring at nothing that was, paranoid that every scanner glitch and sensor ghost was a cloaked ship waiting to pop you in the thrust exhaust any time your shields weren't up. Being on edge like that is no way to spend time: had to keep pulling us in for R&R every few months so we didn't all go bat-crazy and murder each other."

He took his eyes off his plate for a moment to shoot a questioning look at Bear. "You ever get yourself anywhere interesting with the merchants? I here you guys get to visit the planets where Starfleet types aren't necessarily welcome."

[Dale Goetz]

"That's true. I've been all through the Orion Syndicate, a few stops in Kzinti Space. Nimbus system...that's a dive, that place."

Bear paused to carefully dole out some hot sauce onto his okra fritters, then speared one with a fork.

"Opens doors, not having the Federation advertized wherever you go. Even get to move interesting stuff when you're outside Federation proper. Can't sell Romulan Ale on Antares, but you can definitely do that on Nimbus. Still, you go into deep space without Federation protection in some places, and on ships that may or may not be armed at all. It can get pretty hair-raising. More than a few times we got buzzed by Klingon warbirds, and that was never fun. Usually just wanting protection money so we could move through their space."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érin teased out a bat bone, stripping down the scrawny drumstick with his teeth.

"I guess we should count ourselves lucky," he grunted, suddenly wondering of a hands-on approach to such a greasy food morsel was a good idea after all. "At least the aliens with the cloaking technology are the xenophobic, isolationist ones."

His eyes casually began to sweep the surroundings for napkins. He retrieved one, swirling it around his hands before bundling the depleted bone inside it and dumping it unceremoniously on the side of his mostly empty plate.

"Can you imagine how much worse it'd be if someone aggressive like the Klingons or the Nausicaans got their hands on tech like that?"

He slumped back into the unexpectedly comfy chair. "Good job the Romulans hate pretty much everyone else as much as they hate us, eh?"

[Dale Goetz]

"We did a couple of trips out to the Rom zone. I'd rather deal with the Klingon warbirds. Parsecs in every direction out that way is just dead quiet space, and you know it ain't exactly that quiet."

Bear flaked some catfish into his grits, forked viinerine into that, and made a little hash before that too got the hot sauce treatment.

"That's a big reason I swallowed my pride and came back to Starfleet. I hated just waiting. Someone rears their ugly head, you get to fighting or your run away. Fight or flight and all. Guess I like the view of space from a starship a little bit more."

"You're just addicted to speed."

Akruz finally piped up after a burp, and returned to his lunch.

"Well, that too. You can push a lot of warp behind honest-to-god nacelles."