Valiant: Footsteps

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Starfleet Headquarters - 2258
Three Months Ago

Every time Érinthe Hetetlen had walked these halls before, he had felt a mix of excitement and awe. The more silver that had come to adorn his cuffs, the more subtle that feeling had become; but it had always remained, lurking in the background behind a wall of propriety and training.

Today however, it wasn't the two thick bands of silver around his wrists that kept the spring from his step and stopped his eyes from exploring the architecture of one of the most important buildings on Earth. It wasn't those stripes that weighed on his shoulders, making it harder than ever to maintain the proper military posture.

It was news that weighed heavily on him, and the pregnant mass of the sombre atmosphere that filled Starfleet's corridors. For five full days, the stories had played on every media network, non-stop. Vulcan destroyed. Earth attacked. Nine starships lost with all hands. The Diplomatic Corps did their best to calm public fury: a rogue extremist, they said; not an attack sanctioned by the Romulan government. That didn't exactly inspire confidence, what with the fleet-killing warship capable of boring a hole through a planet and all. Rumours suggested time travel; advanced technology from the future. Érin didn't quite buy it.

There was personal loss, too. In a few weeks, Captain Hindi Mahipo had been due to step down from her command of the Farragut, and become Érinthe's new commanding officer. For the last year or so he'd overseen the final stages of construction on what would have been her ship: the baby sister of the just-launched Enterprise. A few from now, once the Enterprise had cleared off on her maiden voyage, the NCC-1702 was due to blast off from her construction site in Alabama, and dock with Starbase 1 so the engineers could finish installing and switching on anything too dangerous to be done inside Earth's atmosphere.

That the splinters of Farragut debris orbiting the fractured remains of Vulcan were Mahipo's only memorial cast a shadow of doubt across everything. Presumably this summons was to provide some of the answers, and Érin was already bracing himself for the possibility of soon becoming a bearer of bad news. Word was that the Romulans had done a real number on the Enterprise; the Admirals would probably want to shunt staff from Huntsville to help with the repair efforts, and that was probably going to make Bear very cranky.

He slowed his pace as he entered the lobby outside the Office of the Admiralty. It was an odd term: their were in fact multiple offices, occupied by a variety of officers who weren't necessarily all admirals. Most accepted that it was one of the many pieces of terminology that Starfleet had co-opted from Earth's navies, but Érin had his suspicions that it was at least partly chosen as a way to confuse the Vulcans.

He set a course for the reception desk, offering a nod of greeting to the officer behind it. "Commander -" he began to introduce; they cut him off before he could get any further.

"They're waiting for you inside, sir," the receptionist explained, gesturing to the corridor on his left. "Straight down to the doors at the end."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Érinthe responded curtly, maintaining his pace as he adjusted course.

The corridor was relatively short, quickly disgorging him into a cavernous space, stark white pillars and zig-zag stairways climbing up two stories overhead, vast windows allowing daylight to stream into a room littered with chairs, meeting tables, and situation displays. Not only was it larger than he was prepared for; more people were present than he'd expected. His face-to-face mere formality meeting with an Admiral had suddenly tripled.

With as much poise and formality as he could muster, he approached the three flag officers, seated around the stark black briefing table. At it's head, an Admiral - the Admiral; the Commander-in-Chief; none other than Admiral Alexander Marcus - glanced up from the reports and dossiers in front of him just long enough to acknowledge Érinthe's arrival.

"Grab a chair, Commander," the Admiral instructed; wordlessly, Érinthe complied.

Marcus began to speak before the Commander was fully situated. "Allow me to introduce Admiral Trollinger from Starfleet Intelligence -" There was a slight pause. "- I believe you're already acquainted with Commodore Hudson."

At the mention of that name, reality deviated even further from expectations. His eyes settled on the flag officer opposite, effort the only thing keeping them from widening in surprise. The hair had fooled him; not cropped and practical as he remembered, but long and tied back away from her face, save for a few rebellious strands that refused to be restrained. Beyond that though, little had changed: same face, same tiny mustered smile, same expressive blue eyes that had been her undoing in so many staff poker games back on the Artemis when Érin was still a mere Lieutenant.

More nostalgia tugged at his mind as she flashed him ever so slightly more of that smile. "It's good to see you, Érin," she said; one of the few people to manage not to butcher his name without years of intensive coaching. Her expression twitched into a faint grimace. "Despite the circumstances."

The voice of Admiral Marcus interrupted; Érin was more than a little grateful for that.

"Do you know why you're here, son?"

The Commander shot a hesitant glance to Talia, but for once her expression gave nothing away.

"No sir," he said, slowly shaking his head. "I don't believe I do."

Admiral Marcus gave Érinthe's honesty an appreciative nod, shuffling with the papers in front of him as if searching for information; but the fact that his eyes barely strayed from their steely lock on the Commander suggested that he already knew exactly what the paperwork said.

"A little over a year ago, you were offered command of the USS Sagittarius, but you declined. Why was that, Commander?"

That was an unexpected question, and it took Érinthe a lot of effort to keep his expression under control. He remained silent, weighing the possible answers he could provide in search of the most appropriate.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Marcus nodded. "Of course."

Érinthe caught his tongue between his teeth, breathing slowly over it as he gathered his words. "With all due respect to the Isis and her crew, she's not a new ship. The Constitution-class is the future of Starfleet, and when Captain Mahipo approached me about becoming her first officer..."

He trailed off. "Frankly sir, I wanted to position myself to be part of the future, rather than risk becoming stuck in the past."

The Admiral breathed out a quick, nasal laugh. "Well put, Commander." His gruff features twisted into something that was almost a smile. "I'm not sure anyone would be all too happy about being thought of as a relic, mind."

Marcus glanced to the Admiral from Starfleet Intelligence. "Fill him in, Schiava."

Admiral Trollinger frowned and swallowed, gathering himself to speak. "The man who attacked Earth and destroyed Vulcan did more than just end lives, blow up ships, and destroy infrastructure. To use an old adage, he made us bleed: and with blood in the water, the sharks are circling."

He turned his gaze sidelong, glancing at the Commodore before he spoke again. "The Romulans are adamant that they had nothing to do with these attacks; even if that's true, our intelligence suggests that the Romulans may try and take advantage of Earth's weakened state to settle old scores. Even if they don't, no amount of Klingon honour is going to stop them trying to expand their borders in our direction. Beyond our borders there are countless rival star nations, many of whom we have yet to meet for ourselves. Every unexplored sector that surrounds us is a breeding ground for piracy; a hiding place for new dangers; an avenue of attack for old enemies."

He shook his head. "We don't just need to rebuild and recoup our losses: we need to get out there; we need to explore, to patrol, to shore up our boarders. Maybe bloody a few noses along the way just so everyone remembers that Starfleet means business."

The Commander chose his words carefully. "I thought Starfleet's mandate was supposed to be primarily scientific and humanitarian."

"It is," Admiral Marcus was quick to answer. "But every explorer runs into hostile natives and dangerous wildlife from time to time. We can't run and hide from everything: sometimes you've got to show the bear whose boss."

A glance in Hudson's direction suggested that she didn't necessarily agree with her two superiors, but now hardly seemed like the appropriate time to speak out about it. Besides, Admirals weren't in the business of soliciting opinions from their lessers: they were in the business of coming to decisions, turning them into orders, and expecting people to damn well do as they were instructed.

"I'm not entirely sure how this concerns me, sir," Érinthe admitted, turning his attention back to Admiral Marcus.

"Starships are redeploying across the Federation as we speak, trying to get everything we can muster out there, exploring and patrolling. We're throwing everything we can at getting the Enterprise back out there; but we need every other asset we can get our hands on as well, ASAP."

There was a pause. "That includes you and the 1702, Captain."

Captain.

The word lingered in his ears, brain floundering to process.

Captain?

Being offered command of an old bucket like the Sagittarius was one thing. A mission to patrol and survey on a ship as old and familiar as that one? All his years spent navigating as part of the same routine gave him the knowledge he needed to succeed. But a jewel of Starfleet, a Constitution-class, with all the prestige and attention that such a ship would garner? When it came to Captaincy, Érin was a comparative novice, and this was the deep end.

The more that Érinthe's mind convinced himself that he should explain that he still wasn't ready however, the more the Admiral's intense stare drove home the fact that he couldn't; shouldn't. He risked a glance at Talia; another flash of that smile was all the reassurance he needed; or at least, all he needed to bluff his way through the next couple of minutes.

He forced as much confidence as he could muster. "If we're going to rush her into service, my ship is going to need a name, sir."

Marcus searched the papers on his desk legitimately this time. "According to the latest internal memo I received, the Starfleet Naming Commission has proposed Endeavour. They feel it 'honours a lineage of Federation and Earth vessels, and conveys the spirit of exploration that this new wave of starships represents'."

Érin's features twitched; the Admiral's eagle eyes caught it. "You don't approve?"

"Well sir, it's just -"

He hesitated; searched for better words. "With everything that has happened, with what the destruction of Vulcan represents to the Federation and it's citizens... we don't need Starfleet's mission to be an 'endeavour' right now. Like the Admiral said, this isn't about scientific curiosity: this is about keeping people safe."

"What would you suggest then, son?"

Érinthe frowned at the briefing table. "I wrote my dissertation on the SS Valiant, an Earth ship that was lost almost a century ago. It was one of the first times humanity attempted to explore deep space; and probably the last time we tried to do it without the Vulcans holding our hands. The name embodied more than just the spirit of exploration: it was the spirit of humanity, the spirit of people; the spirit of bravery in the face of danger and the unknown. With the fear the public must be feeling after these attacks, they don't need Starfleet to embark on an endeavour: they need us to do something valiant."

Admiral Marcus remained silent, visibly chewing over Érinthe's words. "USS Valiant," he said aloud at last. "I think I can sell that to the Naming Commission."

A quick glance was thrown to the Admiral and the Commodore. "I think that concludes our business," he stated, though his voice phrased it as an almost question. "Thank you for your time, Captain -"

A smile almost formed on Marcus' face. "And congratulations on your new command."

[Talia Hudson]

"Captain."

Érinthe didn't react to the sound of his new rank; hardly suprising, since he'd only been aware of it for all of ninety seconds or so. Still, his apparent overwhelmed state had reduced his walking speed dramatically, and that was enough to allow Commodore Hudson's swift but measured strides to close the distance.

"Captain," she tried again, her voice a little more earnest this time. "Wait a moment."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érinthe heard, finally, and turned; though part of him wished he hadn't. A new rank, a new job, and a new swathe of responsibilities was already providing him with enough to think about without reminissions of the past.

Still, when a Commodore asked you to wait in a corridor, you damn well waited.

Érinthe even mustered a smile.

"Something else, Commodore?" he asked as politely as he could, not entirely sure what tone he should take.

[Talia Hudson]

Talia wasn't sure what reaction she should have expected, but it surprised her to see Érin acting so professionally. Ten years was a long time, and clearly that time and the experiences therein changed him as much as it had changed her; even so, it was hard to imagine that this man - this Captain - was the same card shark rookie navigator she'd known a decade ago.

Or maybe he hasn't changed, she mused. I never could tell when he was bluffing.

"Admiral Marcus has asked that I make finding a crew for the 17-" She cut herself off. "- my apologies, for the Valiant a top priority. I realise that your ship and the Enterprise weren't due to make your final officer selections until the end of the current academic year, but with so many of the graduating class either lost at Vulcan or incorporated into the Enterprise crew, it may be necessary to look further afield, particularly for your senior staff."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érin quirked an eyebrow. 'Further afield' sounded suspiciously like Commodore talk for 'scraping the bottom of the barrel'.

That said, it wasn't like there was much of an alternative. Starfleet was an explorer's navy, not a warrior's one: and while some systems did rely on Starfleet for defense and protection, other cultures like the Andorians still clung to their sovereign militaries. As a result, Starfleet itself was still relatively small: scattered starships full of idealistic astronauts who dreamed of walking amongst the stars, not being soldiers in space.

Unfortunately, the galaxy was far too hostile to allow that idealism to survive indefinitely. With the way things were changing, it was only a matter of time before Starfleet had to grudgingly admit that it really was a military, and start acting accordingly.

"Knowing you," Érin inferred, "You've probably got a few suggestions."

[Talia Hudson]

A hint of mild embarrassment flickered across Talia's features. "I may have."

A hint of a wry smile worked it's way into her expression. "Knowing you, you'll probably end up ignoring most of them," she pointed out. "You always did prefer to plot your own course."

She allowed a silence to fall; not a particularly comfortable one, either. There were few instances where standing in them middle of a corridor was not awkward: this was not one of them. A question started to form on her lips, but she stopped it, reconsidering the words.

"Is this -" she tried, not particularly fond of this phrasing either. "Is this going to be a problem, you serving under me?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Would it be? Érin wondered.

It was a question that deserved genuine scrutiny, and yet now was hardly the time to dwell on it. It didn't matter what Talia Hudson had been ten years ago: right now she was the Commodore, and the only appropriate answer was 'Yes, ma'am.'

Of course, appropriate answers weren't always Érin's forte.

"Not at all, ma'am," he curtly replied, a quick glance in the direction of the exit as if he was about to consider the conversation over and return to his ship.

He hesitated however, fighting hard to keep his expression under control, but it faltered ever so slightly. "After all: I've been under you before," he added. "And if memory serves -"

There was a flicker of a smile.

"- it worked out quite well for the both of us at the time."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Huntsville, Alabama

All pretence of ceremony and uniform had long since by Érinthe at the construction yards. Besides, he mused as he stepped out of the shuttle into the now familiar warmth of the deep south air, My uniform is out of date anyway.

He scratched casually at his chest through the breathable fabric of the black undershirt that was all his upper half wore - the short sleeved variant of course, as was appropriate for the climate - and meandered his way from the landing platform towards the spot that he new was the best place to observe the 1702 undisturbed.

The Valiant, he corrected as he stared up at her, now close enough to completion that, but for a few glowing sections of engine and infrastructure that would not illuminate until they were safely outside of the atmosphere, she looked exactly as she would when she was amongst the stars. Érinthe had spent many hours here, in between his other responsibilities, envisioning what it would be like to sail through space aboard the cutting edge of Federation technology. Of course, those fantasies had always seen him sitting in front and right of the Captain's chair, converting command instructions into a navigable course for the helm. Now, he was forced to reimagine that future, with his shoulders being the ones where the burden of decision rested.

He frowned and looked away, not sure that he was ready. Not sure that he'd earned it. He was stepping into dead man's boots, falling upward thanks to circumstances beyond his control, rather than due to his own successes. Starfleet Command spoke as if they had every confidence in him; but was that really the case, or - like his crew selection - were they being forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel as well?

Time will tell, he mused with a sigh, reaching for the pouch on his belt that held his communicator.

"Bear," he said as he flipped it open, presets in the voice recognition hailing the corresponding device faster than an eyeblink. "It's Érin. I'm back from Starfleet Command, and -"

He trailed off. "We need to talk. I'll be at my picnic spot - get here when you can."

[Dale Goetz]

Érin had been something of a luck totem ever since he'd touched down at Huntsville. Every single requisition's officer who'd had lead in their boots and sand in their crotch suddenly stopped lollygagging and delaying their supply orders. Bear used to have to beg, cajole, and cuss to get his projects seen to. Once Érin arrived, the clouds parted, and down came the manna. Bear didn't ask how the Commander greased the skids. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he knew was that he was thankful to have someone up the chain who actually had his back. This was probably the first time in the history of Starfleet that a ship was scheduled to go 'down the slip' on time. As much pride as Bear had, he could only claim half stake in that success. So when Érin came calling, he made sure to be at Suge's on time.

"Remember what it was like on Christmas Eve as a kid?"

Dale sipped his Cardassian tea across from his commanding officer in the dingy corner booth.

"I've been looking at that circled stardate for a shade over a year now. Can't believe it's almost here."

The Chief kept the small talk positive. They both knew about the stormclouds pushing things along. No sense in disturbing the dead.

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

The circled stardate Bear was referring to was the launch date: the day universally agreed upon by the construction crews, Starfleet, air traffic control, local law enforcement, the meteorological service, and anyone else who might have a vested interest, for when the 1702 was supposed to fire up her ascent thrusters and blast her way from the ground to orbit. Their were back-up windows of course: contingencies set in place for when logistical ineptitude had been presumed to cause delays; but that wasn't a target, no matter how much of Starfleet expected them to be late.

Or course, now Starfleet expected them to be early. One of the stack of reports that had been thrust into Érin's hands as he boarded the shuttle had proposed seven new launch windows between there and here; and frankly, they wanted the Valiant in the air badly enough that if the ship was ready without a window, they'd make one.

Érin didn't doubt that the ship would be ready as advertised. The way Bear had been working, he had his suspicions that he'd shaved off a few days already: ostensibly to give them some breathing room for last minute upsets, but Érin knew the engineer well enough to know that sticking two fingers up at the pessimists in San Francisco was a big part of it too. He was also confident that with the motivation, resources, and manpower, Bear could sideline enough tasks and arrange for enough overtime to get her up early.

The question was, how early?

"They made me Captain," Érin blurted out.

The fact had been rattling around in his head since they'd sat down, and he'd been searching for a way to sneak it subtly into the conversation; but then again, this was Bear. Subtlety was not his language.

[Dale Goetz]

Bear eased his glass of tea down with an appropriate degree of gravitas and care.

"Christ." he whispered.

What else could you say? He'd never met Captain Mahipo in person, just in the usual monthly progress report video conferences. She seemed like a capable enough officer, and Érin didn't have an ill word about her, but she was barely more than an unknown quantity to the Chief outside of those scant meetings.

What was he thinking? Was he glad Érin was figuratively stepping over her corpse to run the big show? No way. What kind of thought was that? But there was something more than just base selfishness that felt confidence in Érin ultimately sitting in the Big Chair.

"That's a...helluva thing, Érin."

Congratulations seemed a hollow thing to say.

"Don't know what it's worth, but from where I'll be standing down in engineering, I'll be glad to know you're in that chair. We've got a sports car, you know how to go fast."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"That is assuming," the Captain said with a wince, "We can get the ship out of dock when Starfleet wants us to."

He let out a sigh.

"Starfleet is limping, and they want another Constitution out there ASAP, to use as a crutch and to help convince the public that we're not totally vulnerable. I hear where they're coming from, but honestly?" He shook his head. "I'm not sure rushing us out the door is the way to do it."

He slumped back in his chair, abandoning the Cardassian tea and allowing the stack of waffles that the staff now habitually prepared in readiness for his regular arrival to slowly settle and digest.

"Starfleet gave me a checklist of tasks that we can safely ignore."

He frowned. "I tossed it. I don't give a damn what Starfleet thinks we can do without: I'm not taking my ship -" It felt weird but good to call her that. "- unless she's got your stamp of approval that she's fit and ready. So what corners can we cut? What non-essentials can we leave boxed up, and work on once we're underway?"

He scratched at what felt like a tension headache forming between his eyebrows. "Starfleet'd be happy with us shaving a couple of weeks off the launch window, but they want us to trim months off the fitting and shakedown once we're in orbit. Can we do it, Chief?"

[Dale Goetz]

There was a gleam in the Chief's eye. The gauntlet was thrown down.

"She'll fly. That I can damn well guarantee. There's ugly patches, sure, but that only figures into it if we're up against an Admiral with a pair of white gloves on and his head up his ass. There's no gravity in the Jeffries tubes, but I figure why crawl when you can float in those rat holes.

One thing I'd feel a lot more comfortable with is a redundant coolant grid. That'll do a lot to salve any growing pains we get up there, and it doesn't take much to install. The last update I got on that was installation at a Starbase-to-be-named-later. Even if we just get the crates on the ship when we lift off, it'd do a world of good."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Hell, Érin mused as the chief spoke, Don't bother with the grav plates in my quarters either: that'll make life much more fun.

If he was honest, he wasn't particularly sure what a redundant coolant grid was, or why starships and facilities operating in the notable coldness of space needed to dedicate so much facility and redundancy to temperature control. Sure, he understood the physics of how the matter-antimatter annihilation at the heart of a warp reactor generated more energy in the form of heat than it did in electrical or photonic power, and that if the reaction wasn't maintained at a stable temperature there was the slim possibility that it might erupt and consume the ship inside a miniature sun. Even so, every time Bear talked about trying to coax a little more out of the engines, he never seemed to be worried about generating enough power: it was always about the reactors overheating when he did.

Érin had always hated warp theory at the Academy: they took the beautiful, intuitive nature of cosmology and theoretical physics and shrouded it in enough mathematical formulae to make your eyes bleed.

"I know a woman at Starfleet Operations," Érin responded, a small smile tugging at his lips as his thoughts wandered back to the Commodore. "I'll talk to her and see what I can arrange."

[Dale Goetz]

Something in the way that he said I know a woman and the upturn at the corners of his mouth betrayed a little bit more to Bear. This wasn't his first favor to call in with his Commander-now-Captain. Usually Érin's response to that was a terse It'll get done, in the sense that Bear didn't have to and probably didn't want to know the how in the process.

"Sounds like a good woman to know, then."

A knowing half smile as the Chief pushed aside a neglected half-eaten slice of red velvet cake.

"Something else, Érin. Kinda nagging in my gut. This whole Narada business. I don't hear much out of San Fran, some of that by choice, but I hear enough to make it sound like some folks believe in the boogieman."

The way the Chief was chewing on his words, he was probably going to serve up something either profound or hair-brained.

"Been looking at things. Deflector specs mainly. Things I guess that ain't been looked at by fleet. I think I may be onto something that'll keep our goose from getting cooked."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

We're not a warship.

That's what Érin wanted to say. He wanted to remind his chief engineer that even in these troubled times, even in the face of giant, devastating warships and planet-destroying mad-men, they should never loose sight of the ideal on which Starfleet was founded: the reason it existed. They weren't here to conquer the galaxy: they were here to explore it like the Earth sailors of old, who relied on their wits and courage far more than their cannons.

He wanted to say that. But all the sentimentality in the world wasn't enough to lure him into total stupidity.

"Make it a priority," he instructed. "And see if we can't find a way to transition between warp and shields more quickly. Those ships at Vulcan weren't lost because their engines weren't fast enough or their shields weren't strong enough; they were lost because the Narada obliterated them in the few moments it took to shunt power from the engines to the deflector grid."

He reached for his Cardassian tea.

"I don't want us getting caught with our pants round our ankles every time we drop out of warp."

[Dale Goetz]

The Chief nodded.

"I've got a few theories on that. If I'm wrong, I might burn something. Gonna have to get back to you, but that's where you'll find out why I like redundant coolant systems."

Bear held his hands up defensively.

"It's still scientific method, Cap. Besides, it doesn't feel like actual work's being done unless you let the smoke out of something every now and then."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érin grunted out a laugh.

Despite the fact that most Starfleet engineers were almost universally amongst the most intelligent people in the Federation, capable of making scientific and technological breakthroughs without breaking a sweat and while the the science officers were busy staring at pretty stars and planets through their instruments, they somehow had managed to earn a reputation as sledgehammer mechanics who specialised in boot heel recalibrations on sensitive equipment; and most engineers were content to indulge that stereotype at every opportunity.

"You break her, you buy her."

[Dale Goetz]

"Bah."

The Chief waved a hand dismissively. Then, a thought crossed his mind.

"Oh, that reminds me. Talking about coolant systems. Figured your prodigal return just shy of that big day meant something big, so I brought a little something from my other home.

They weren't on Starfleet grounds and were off duty, plus the folks at Suge's tended to look the other way at any rate if there were a few off-menu items brought in. As long as nobody raised a real fuss, it was the unwritten rule.

Dale pulled out a bottle from his engineer's satchel. It had no label on it, was full of a clear liquid, and was stoppered by a swing cap.

"Family label, yeah I know, there's no label on it, but it's a little Christmas tradition for the Goetz clan in Duesseldorf. Apfelschnaps."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"Your family makes schnaps?" Érin asked, eyebrow quirking.

But then, of course it did. His engineer was many things, but it was easy to forget that despite all of the engineering proficiency and mechanical know-how, Bear was a hybrid between rednecks and Germans. Now that he thought about it, it was something of a surprise that the chief's end of the ship wasn't just a brewery disguised as an engine room.

"Is it good?" he asked; perhaps a rude question in normal company, but he knew Bear well enough to know that the Chief appreciated speaking plain. "Or should I be requisitioning a few crates of this to help scrub out the plasma ducts?"

[Dale Goetz]

"Tastes like conduit scrub, but the apple smooths that all real good."

The waitress passed by upon seeing the bottle, wordlessly depositing a pair of small, pre-cleaned mason jam jars, just the right size for this sort of off-menu offering. Bear went to work filling them about halfway.

"Been a Goetz tradition back to the old American rocket days. You don't blast off without the schnaps. I don't believe in luck, but I figure you give shit like that the benefit of the doubt."

Glasses filled, he slid one Érin's way, and held his own up for emphasis.

"Prost, mein Capitan!"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"Prost," the Captain agreed, raising his own glass.

"To the Valiant," he added. "God bless her, and all who sail in her."

* * *

Apartment Complex 221B
Alameda, California

When most people thought of Starfleet, they thought of starships and space explorers. Occasionally they might think of the Academy as one of Earth's premiere seats of higher learning, or they might think of the role that Starfleet Medical played in providing free and cutting edge healthcare to everyone and anyone who needed it.

People seldom thought of Starfleet in terms of real estate; and yet the organisation has one of Earth's largest property owners. Business and commercial properties were littered in areas around Starfleet's major facilities: ancillary office buildings; conference centres; libraries; records offices; training spaces to cater for new personnel. They owned bars, restaurants, and grocery stores that catered predominantly to Starfleet officers. They owned comfortable apartment buildings for officers temporarily ashore, letting them live like people instead of boxing them up at the local barracks.

It was one of those latter buildings that Érin stared up at now, the antigrav engine of his hovercruiser descending into a gently deepening hum as it powered down. A hand ran through the slightly sweat-dampened hair that his helmet had inflicted; he spared half a thought to squinting into a wing mirror to neaten himself up, but decided against it.

From what he'd read in her medical file, the Lieutenant probably looked considerably worse.

He exchanged a quick nod with the security guard in the building's lobby as he entered, swiping his Starfleet ID at the sensor pad to unlock the transparent aluminium doors. The screen flashed up his name and rank; Still getting used to that, he mused.

After the speed his 'cruiser had achieved along Alameda's streets, the elevator felt painfully slow. He shuffled uncomfortably inside the general service jacket that the Starfleet Stores had issued along with the rest of his freshly machine-knit uniform. It was certainly nice that Starfleet had seen fit to replace his entire uniform wardrobe with new items to reflect his new rank, but he questioned the logic of replacing the parts that didn't carry any indication of rank. He'd just worn the old jacket down to the point where it was comfortable; the unsoftened collar of this new one constricted gently around his neck despite his efforts to slacken it off.

The elevator came to a silent halt, the doors parting with a faint hiss as they opened up onto the floor he'd selected. He halted for a moment at the small console screen a few paces into the corridor; pulled up the list of current residents, and scrolled for the name he was searching for. A quick tap on the touchpad later, and three doors down on the left a small display lit up with the occupant's name.

He approached; settled his finger on the door chime, and waited for signs of life from within. The door slid aside, and Érinthe had to fight back a smile.

"Ari McKenna," he said, as formally as he could muster. "You look like crap."

[Ari McKenna]

It wasn't much of a view, she mused, but at least she could see some greenery amidst the buildings of the apartment complex. Not the sterile blank walls of her tiny isolation room in Starfleet Medical.

Fingers absently tucked a loose lock of raven hair behind an ear, before picking up the nearby mug of tea. A sigh followed the sip, leaving a bit of condensation on the window as she turned and shuffled away from it. Tired though she was, her mind was clicking along at several kilometers a minute.

With her post on the Enterprise ceded to another at the onset of her bout with lungworm, there was nothing else she was allowed to do but think. About finally feeling human again. About when and if she'd receive another posting.

Shaking her head, her mussed hair fluttered around her shoulders and down her back. There was a hairbrush sitting forgotten on the tiny table near the couch, alongside a pile of pins that normally kept her hair in a tidy bun. Pajamas and tribble slippers, however, didn't demand neatly brushed hair.

The soft chime of her door sounded. Ari blinked at it, standing perfectly still for several moments until she set her tea down and shuffled forward to answer it. With any luck, she mused, it was security delivering the package she'd been waiting for.

"Ari McKenna...you look like crap."

"I assure you, Érinthe, this is an improvement." Ari crooked a smile as she shuffled aside to let him in. At least her tiny apartment was in perfect order, save for her cup of tea beside a sprawling pile of magazines and tech manuals.

"Cup of tea?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"Earl grey, if you've got it," Érinthe replied, stepping forward far enough to clear the proximity sensors and let the door slide closed behind him.

It was a little odd to see McKenna like this, truth be told. They'd served together on the Isis for years, and Érinthe had seen her in some pretty compromising situations, but there was a big difference between pass-out drunk and this. On duty or not, they'd always been Starfleet Officers; no amount of alcohol was enough to take down anyone's shields and get them acting the way they would if they were at "home".

As McKenna disappeared towards the apartment's kitchenette, Érinthe cast his gaze around the living space that Starfleet had allocated. His eyes settled on one of the scattered tech manuals in particular: specifications for the Constitution-class starship. Something clenched in his gut.

"I'm sorry you missed out on Enterprise," he offered; it was a hollow sentiment, he knew, but it was the best he had. After the mission to Vulcan, newly-appointed Captain James Kirk had begun to confirm his various crew appointments and selections for when the Enterprise would relaunch. Not surprisingly, he'd chosen to retain the Helmsman who'd served with distinction during that mission rather than McKenna who, who should have been aboard but for the intervention of a particularly virulent and unpleasant parasitic infection to the lungs.

"Admiral Pike asked me to give you his regards as well," he added, as an afterthought.

[Ari McKenna]

"Of course." she replied, offering him a seat by inclining her head as she turned, slippers making tiny sounds against the floor.

It took only a few moments to prepare the tea, given the amenities the tiny kitchenette managed to pack into its miniscule footprint. Ari added a bit of sugar and cream, hoping she'd remembered the proper proportions that Érinthe preferred to take his tea with.

Fingers paused as he spoke up once more, leaving the cup on the counter as she absently smoothed her hair back from her face. She was sorry too, she mused bitterly, trying not distract herself with melancholy thoughts again. There had been quite enough of that already the last two weeks, and Ari would allow herself no more.

"So am I." she added simply, handing over the cup of tea before reclaiming her own for a sip of the potent brew. A small, polite smile hovered around her lips, blossoming only as he continued.

"Admiral Pike? Well, that's a lovely bit of happy news to come out of the last few weeks then. Ari lofted a brow, her expression slowly melting toward neutral as a thought tried germinating at the back of her mind. "Is it too much to assume you didn't come all this way just to bring me tidings of the good Admiral?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"Maybe I'm just here to make fun of an old friend," Érin quipped as he chose his chair carefully.

Ever since he'd set foot in the room, he'd been paying careful attention to his surroundings. It was a subconscious, neurotic compulsion that kept him constantly aware of all the ways into and out of the room he was in, and urged him to sit or sleep with his back to a defensible wall whenever possible. Ordinarily it was only a minor inconvenience, motivating him to sit towards the backs of classrooms and in the corners of restaurants. However, it had become something of an obstacle during his early days in Starfleet: a bridge officer who was constantly worried about what was going on behind him wasn't doing his job as well as it could be. It had been something difficult to overcome, but with a little effort and some Vulcan coaching he'd managed to get a handle on it while he was on duty. The rest of the time? Not so much.

The compulsion urged him to choose a perch on the sofa, but a crumpled and discarded blanket - a blanket with sleeves, from the look of it - and the slightly askew cushions beneath it suggested that maybe sitting on the plague couch wasn't such a good idea. Instead he picked the armchair with it's back to the window; not as defensible as he'd like, but the odds of someone getting hold of an armed jumpship and shooting at him through a twenty-something story window were pretty slim, so he was probably safe.

The chair proved to be a little deeper than he'd expected, and his attempts to sit in it like a normal person quickly devolved into a more slumping and casual posture than he'd intended. Not that it mattered: it wasn't like he stood a chance of fooling McKenna into thinking he was a responsible and respectable officer anyway.

A sombre frown settled into place on his brow.

"My Captain -" He cut himself off, gaze alternating between McKenna and the coffee table, "- Captain Mahipo, the woman who was supposed to be commanding my ship, she, uh -"

A breathy note of laughter escaped his lungs. "She was supposed to transfer off the Farragut a couple of weeks from now, in time for the fit and shakedown stages of constructing the 1702. Unfortunately, she was still commanding the Farragut when they sent the fleet to Vulcan."

Further explanation wasn't needed: even in a sick bed at Starfleet Medical, every Federation citizen from here to Berengaria knew the hope-destroying details of what one lone ship had done to Starfleet, and to the Vulcan homeworld. Even so, there was more that Érinthe needed to say, and all of his orbiting around the point hadn't built up as much slingshot momentum as he'd been hoping.

His fingers hitched up the grey sleeve of his coveralls, just enough to flash the triple-striped cuff of the gold uniform underneath. "They gave her to me," he explained. "Dead man's boots, and all that. Dead woman's boots."

[Ari McKenna]

The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips for a brief moment, before fleeing in favor of the neutrality she'd imposed.

It really would be too much to hope that he was just here on a social visit, to lambaste her in all of his good-natured glory. She wondered how many different ways he could allude to her illness and make it sound as if she were a wolfhound with a case of heartworm. Knowing Érinthe as well as she did, Ari had no doubt he'd be quite creative.

She curled up in her still-warm spot on the couch, snuggling back into her fluffy robe but leaving herself free to rise if needed. As informal as this was, he did still outrank her...and if he rose, so would she in turn.

Pale eyes closed briefly as she savored a sip of hot honeyed tea. They opened a moment later, in time to catch his gaze before it slid down to the coffee table, remaining silent as he spoke. She stared, remaining perfectly still, as if hiding behind the whorls of steam rising from the mug. It had been the only thing talked about at Starfleet Medical while she was in isolation; the bitterest news to receive in the midst of her treatments.

So many people lost...so many innocent people lost. Ari breathed deeply and blinked slowly to regain her composure, Érinthe's voice continuing after a brief pause.

"In ainm Dé..." she murmured, surprise registering on her features as she reflexively got to her feet. A Captain. Érinthe. A. Captain...repetition at least helped the idea sink in as much as the visual of his striped cuffs.

"...she was a hell of a woman. You have some impressive boots to fill." Ari said after a moment, a smile finally brightening her features.

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"With all this talk of boots, it feels like there should be a joke in here somewhere," he muttered with a nervous laugh, gaze lingering on the rank stripes for a moment longer before he tugged his sleeves back into a more comfortable arrangement.

There was still more, and the long and lingering pause before he spoke again forbade of that. His vision brushed across his untouched tea; it was rare that he remembered to actually consume the beverage while it was still at it's intended temperature, and right now didn't feel like the sort of time to be making an exception. Besides, Bear had been forcing him to consume sweet tea at every opportunity and, though he would never admit it openly, he'd actually begun to acquire a taste for the stuff in spite of his raised-in-England mentalities about the sovereignty of hot tea.

A frown furrowed his brow again. "Captain Mahipo wasn't the only person aboard the Farragut." That was a painfully obvious statement; a couple of hundred people had died aboard the Farragut, and just as many on the other ships at what the press was generously starting to call the Battle of Vulcan. He winced a little at the accidentally insensitive turn of phrase, and flicked his gaze to McKenna directly. "The officer who was supposed to be helmsman on the 1702 was aboard as well. And with me sitting in the back seat instead of riding shotgun -"

He exaggerated out a laboured sigh, reaching into his jacket to pull out a tablet display device. A few quick touchscreen inputs, and the display converted to a very important and boring looking document, branded with the Federation and Office of the Admiralty seals.

"Ari McKenna," he announced, flipping the PADD deftly in his fingers to pass it towards her, and injecting the kind of formal tone that he presumed was befitting of a Captain, "By order of Starfleet Command, I, Captain Érinthe Hetetlen, am hereby authorised and required to promote Ari McKenna to the rank of Lieutenant Commander."

A faint flicker of an involuntary smile tugged at the corner of Érin's mouth. "Commander, you are instructed to report to the USS Valiant NCC-1702 at your earliest convenience to begin your duties as helmsman."

He wrinkled his nose. "And put some damn clothes on. There's something we need to go and do."

[Ari McKenna]

She kept her silence as he paused, waiting for him to continue. Her mind wandered off on her as the pause lengthened between them, flitting between missing out on the Enterprise and her hope for another assignment as plum as the one plucked away by her illness.

Ari took a long lingering sip of her tea and sighed faintly as it warmed her, absently wondering if she should sit down again.

But Érinthe spoke up once more before she could form any more of a thought, her pale gaze catching his. She blinked, her gaze gaining a bit of intensity as he pulled a PADD out of his jacket, the slender gray tablet catching the light and glittering brightly.

Ari belatedly realized that she looked like a landed fish gasping for air the way her mouth hung open and produced no sound. Shaking her head in an attempt to find some measure of clarity, her tea settled on the coffee table with a thud while her fingers reached for the outstretched tablet.

Good thing she'd not sat down...she wasn't sure she'd be able to stand again right at that moment. Ari closed her mouth and eventually, mercifully, her brain decided it wanted to play along again. A smile found its way to her lips as her eyes scanned the document on the screen, fingers flicking over it to enter her formal acceptance and signature in the appropriate spaces.

"Just what is wrong with tribble slippers and pajamas, Captain? Where on earth are we going?" Ari said with an amused glance, handing the PADD back to him. She picked up her hairbrush and hairpins and sauntered off into her bedroom to comply in spite of her retort, the last several moments still settling into solid awareness.

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"What isn't wrong with tribble slippers?" Érin called back, giving up on his attempts at a passably smart posture now that Ari was out of sight, and allowing himself to sink a little further in the absorbent seat.

"First thing we're doing," he answered, head slumping back on the cushion and his eyes closing for a brief minute or two of rest. "Is going to Requisitions so we can get you sorted out with a uniform that has the right number of stripes on."

The vertebrae between his shoulder blades let out a satisfying crunch as he flexed, settling in for what would probably be a long wait, knowing how long it usually took Kenna to get anything done.

"After that, we're going shopping."

A shuffle of tribbled feet forced Érin's eyes open; his gaze snapped to the expectant head peeking back through the bedroom doorway with a hint of a scowl.

"Not that kind of shopping," he grunted. Érin wasn't sure if the look she responded with before disappearing back into the bedroom was angry or just disappointed. He shook his head and sighed.

"I don't have long enough arms to reach the Nav controls from the Captain's chair, which means we need to go shopping for a new Navigator. And, well..."

A grimace flashed across his features.

"Lets just say that since most of the Nav Cadets from this year's graduating class were assigned to ships they sent to Vulcan, our remaining options are all from pretty deep down in the barrel."

[Jorann Lokar]

The Rigel Lounge
Downtown San Francisco

The Alien Quarter was one of San Francisco’s dirty little secrets, a sociological quirk that baffled city planners and politicians alike. Every city on earth with a major spaceport had at least one: Houston, London, Johannesburg, Rio, Beijing. But an alien ghetto just miles from Starfleet Headquarters, the capital of earth’s interplanetary friendship brigade, somehow seemed like a slap in the face for the Federation’s principles of inclusivity and tolerance. After a while, you lost count of how many bleeding-heart social activists you’d heard pounding podiums on the newsfeeds insisting that the very existence of these places was proof that humanity had not done enough to eliminate prejudice and species segregation on the little paradise planet they called earth.

People like that didn’t get it. Didn’t get that most of the species who washed up into the old, cheap parts of town had been living off the margins of the galaxy for centuries before humans took the galactic stage. That those same races occupied similar enclaves on a hundred worlds, including each other’s. Tellarite, Rigelian, Nausicaan, Miradorn, Orion. In less civilized parts of the quadrant, they holed up together for mutual protection. Here they did it out of habit, out of suspicion and stubborn pride, like a lump of dross that refused to dissolve into the melting pot.

The Rigel Lounge represented the lowest common denominator of all the extraterrestrials that called San Francisco home away from home. The bar and the mezzanine were cloyingly dark under the strategically placed neon lights, and the floor curled with brown smoke that wasn’t tobacco but certainly was addictive to somebody. Waitresses delivered drinks brewed in bathroom laboratories elsewhere in the building; one man’s nightcap was another man’s gastric volcano, and generally it was up to the customer to know the difference. The air overhead throbbed with something primal and chromatic that wasn’t quite music in an earthly sense, while on the stage against the far wall a lithe Caitian female twisted and pranced sensuously to the sternum-shaking rhythm, her spotted skin turned a kaleidoscope of shades under the sweeping lights.

It was the perfect place to be if you needed a momentary escape from the human race. Not that humans were unwelcome – they were scattered in the crowd, some of them townies looking for a thrill, some of them old space pilots who had seen dozens of dives like this one on the fringes of Federation space and missed the heady atmosphere. It was lewd, it was rowdy, and in many ways it was borderline illegal, but for Jorann Lokar, it was a much needed breath of not-so-fresh air.

The Orion lounged in one of the low-backed chairs arranged along the edge of the stage, nursing a thin flute of something that fizzed and fumed like a secondary school science project. With his charcoal eyes fixed on the feline spectacle before him, he raised the flute to his mouth, tapped the side of the glass with his finger, and inhaled deeply as a half-inch of fluid boiled into vapor. Jorann closed his eyes and sighed in rhapsody.

He wasn’t in uniform, of course. That would be like coming to a wedding dressed for a funeral. And considering he was still on probation pending a hearing for striking a superior officer, it would also attract the wrong sort of attention.

The Orion cadet opened his eyes and set about attracting the right sort. The next time the Caitian dancer spun his way, he made sure she saw the flexible slip of latinum glittering between his thumb and forefinger. Without breaking rhythm, the felinoid woman came stalking toward his seat for a mutually better view.

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Perhaps visiting Requisitions first was a mistake. They probably should have swung by the Armoury instead.

Érin glanced briefly at his attire. The reinforced grey fabric of the jumpsuit did a lot to disguise the poster paint primary colours of the duty shirts beneath, but as the garish décor attested, it wasn't the colours that were the problem: it was what they represented. Public perception of Starfleet was precarious: while Starfleet Operations strove to hold true to the ideals of peaceful exploration and discovery that the Federation Starfleet had been founded upon, it's increasing involvement in matters like law enforcement and foreign affairs led many to believe that the Federation had betrayed it's utopian ideals and was cultivating an interspecies interstellar military, in violation of everything it supposedly stood for.

A long and low belch from a Nausicaan filtered through the ambience, much to the amusements of the brethren who shared his table.

On the other hand, Érin mused, Some people just don't like customs patrols.

In his experience, Two Starfleet Officer's walk into a bar could only end one of two ways: either as a terrible joke, or a tragic news story. Érin had no desire to become either, but the odds were stacked against them.

For a moment, he spared a thought for Kenna, and wondered what the smoke-choked atmosphere in here must be doing to her worm-addled lungs. To her credit she didn't even flinch; instead she looked far more formidable and determined than Érin felt. He considered saying something, offering her an embarrassment free out; but he knew she'd just punt it back at him, or remind him of all the times in the past where she'd saved his ass - or so she alleged - like the perfectly innocent misunderstanding between him and a shipmate's Tellarite mother that he may or may not have accidentally insulted and been nearly beaten senseless by.

"Stay close," was all he said, focussing his attention on searching the mosaic of races for the particular non-human they had come seeking. They'd been sent here on a hunch, pointed in this direction by the last potential candidate they'd met with. Under other circumstances, Érinthe might have guessed that they'd become the victim of some cruel campus prank, but the young Cadet had practically tripped over himself with nerves as soon as Érin had introduced himself as a Captain and mentioned the Valiant; he doubted that Ensign Renard could have pulled off a convincing deception even if he'd wanted to.

No, this was the best lead they had: that Cadet Lokar had switched off his comms and wandered off campus to hang out in a seedy xeno bar. It occurred to Érin that not answering a Starfleet comm device was in direct violation of regulations; but when you considered the fact that Lokar was already on academic suspension for violating a different set of regulations, it became something of a moot point.

If quizzed, Érin would insist that his eyes succeeded in finding Jorann after following a comprehensive grid search pattern, but in truth his proximity to the half-naked Caitian probably had more to do with it.

"Over there," he told McKenna, with a nod in the right direction. "By the stripper."

An eyebrow quirked over Ari's ice blue eyes as they tossed a scathing sidelong glance in his direction. Érin's expression twisted as his mind and mouth prepared some sort of defensive comeback, but Ari said nothing: just maintained her unrelenting gaze.

Érin scrunched his features into a scowl. "Less judgement, more respect," he grunted, shoulders slumping as he set off on a weaving course through the scattered chairs and tables. "I'm the Captain, damn it."

His expression morphed into regret a second later when a bulky green hand attached to a bulky green forearm clapped down on his shoulder and clamped on hard.

"Captain, eh?"

With his captor providing a little too much physical encouragement, Érinthe turned to face the towering viridian brute who'd restrained him: a muscle-bound Orion whose abundance of snarls and scars suggested smuggler, or worse. A sneer curled his lips as he peered down on at the Captain. "Well, ain't you fancy, Mr Starfleet?"

Érin held the smuggler's gaze without flinching. "I like to think so," his mouth replied before his brain could do anything about it; he scrabbled around for a follow-up, and mused over the unfortunate fact that he seemed far better at getting into fights than getting out of them. "I don't want any trouble," he added, "And I'm sure you don't either, so I suggest you get back to your drinking and let me get on with my business."

"Trouble?" A deep chuckle escaped from the Orion. "Ain't that cute: the Captain thinks he's trouble." A motley assortment of races that Érin presumed was the Orion's crew chuckled along with him, though with a little less enthusiasm and a little more Shut the hell up so we can stab him. The mirth faded from the Orion's face. "How you gonna be trouble, Captain? You ain't even armed."

Érin's expression didn't falter. "No," he admitted. His eyes flickered momentarily in McKenna's direction, gesturing towards the phaser pistol that his wingman was casually aiming square at the Orion's groin. "But she is."

The smuggler's intense gaze held for a few moments longer before it fractured, a resonant belly laugh erupting from him. An amused grin consumed his face; his hand clapped against the side of Érin's head in what was probably supposed to be a friendly gesture, but that ran a real risk of separating it from the rest of his body. "I guess it's not just us Orions were the women are the ones with the power, eh?" he chuckled.

The Orion stepped back enough to restore Érin's personal space, and threw McKenna a sly wink before stomping off in the direction of the bar as if absolutely nothing had happened. Érin and McKenna exchanged glances and shrugs, but the Captain had no desire to stand around and talk about it. Besides, McKenna was bound to bring up the fact that she'd saved him 'yet again' later on, repeatedly, until the end of time. Érin's shoulders slumped further as he trudged off towards the stage.

It wasn't easy to make out much in the dive's dim light, but Jorann Lokar wasn't exactly making himself hard to see: there he was, centre stage, reclining back in his chair and coaxing the Caitian dancer towards him with the promise of latinum as if he were luring the felinoid in with a dangled piece of string. She was too fixated on her payment, and he on depositing said payment between the stripper's ample cleavage.

Érin mustered a sigh, tossing a few strips of his own latinum onto the stage before dumping himself into the next chair over from the Cadet. "Use it to by pockets," he suggested, having successfully caught the dancer's attention. He gestured towards his chest, expression twisting into one of disapproval. "They're not a great place to be storing your cash."

He wasn't entirely sure if the Caitian's response constituted a hiss, but his cat-biased imagination chose to consider it as such as he watched her slink away across the stage towards other potential sources of payment. With a look of mild satisfaction he turned his attention to the Cadet beside him, waiting for a moment as Ari settled herself in a flanking position on the Orion's far side.

"Cadet Jorann Lokar, I presume."

[Jorann Lokar]

His bawdy surroundings had resurrected a lot of old habits and thought patterns, so much so that, even after four years of academy drilling, his first instinct was to say something like, "Depends on who's asking." Fortunately his higher brain functions kicked in and reminded him that mouthing off to the uniformed goons didn't work so well when you were one of the uniformed goons.

Jorann jerked upright in his seat, noting with some dismay that the agitation caused another fingers-breadth of his drink to boil off. With all the care that decorum allowed, he set his glass on the edge of the stage and sized up his new company. With silver stripes to the left and right of him, he couldn't help but feel hemmed in, as if he was about to be ushered out the back door ans into an unmarked shuttlecraft. He was out of uniform, but he wasn't exactly decked in Orion silks, either - with muted brown slacks, black V-neck shirt, and a weathered jacket, he was dressed primarily to blend in.

"Yes, sir," he replied in a guarded tone, and his eyes ticked over to include the raven-haired human female. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érinthe slackened the zip on his jumpsuit again, and delved into the inside pocket to retrieve his tablet. Whoever had designed the uniform deserved bonus points for the genius idea of ensuring it's inside pockets were exactly the right dimensions to comfortably fit a PADD.

"Captain Hetetlen," he lazily introduced, attention focused on scrolling through his documents folder. He hesitated for a moment to gesture vaguely in Ari's direction. "My friend here is Commander McKenna."

A glimmer of recognition flickered across his features as he found the file he was looking for. A few clicks and drags later, and Jorann's personnel file expanded to fill his screen. The file photo looked to be a few years out of date: Jorann seemed younger, his hair a little longer and scruffier, and the plume of rusty facial fluff was missing from his chin. There was an air about him though, an attitude of disrespect and delinquency, that Érin had seen on the faces of enough young men and women to know that the youthful rebellion it represented transcended the trivialities of race and species. From the look of things, that side of Lieutenant Lokar hadn't changed much.

"According to your record," Érinthe began, paraphrasing the document as he skimmed and absorbed information, "Before Starfleet you worked on trade ships for the family business. I'm not an expert on Orion society, but I was under the impression that families and loyalty were fairly important concepts to your species: and yet here you are a few years later, one of the first male Orions to ever serve in Starfleet, about as far away from all that as you can get." He hesitated for a moment, eyes glancing at his surroundings. "Present location excepted, of course."

Érin set the tablet aside, and focused his attention directly on the young Orion. "You don't strike me as the type of person who is trying to usher in a new era of interspecies cooperation; particularly when that cooperation involves respecting your superiors." His eyes narrowed. "So tell me, Mr Lokar: why exactly are you here?"

[Jorann Lokar]

Jorann stiffened somewhat in his seat while he tried to decide what exactly was going on here. Was this part of the probation process? He didn't put it past Starfleet to send him for some sort of mandatory counseling, but he always figured it would be in a quiet office with a couch and a desktop water feature, not front row at a strip joint.

"You want to know why I joined Starfleet?" he said, just to make sure they were all in the same star system. The leggy Caitian strutted for the backstage doors with a parting wave to her disappointed admirers. Now Jorann didn't have much excuse for being distracted.

"You want the long story or the short one?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"I want the honest one," Érin threw back.

His eyes scanned Jorann's features, trying to get a read on the Cadet's mindset. He was on the spot, and that's exactly what Érin wanted. No matter how honest a man was, if you gave him long enough to think about his answer it would change it, taint it with subjectivity, careful word choices, tweaks to tailor it towards what they thought you wanted to hear, rather than what they deep down wanted to say.

"What I want to know," he continued with a hint of a sigh, "Is whether you're worth another chance, or if Starfleet is better off without you."

[Jorann Lokar]

Ah. So that was it. He'd always suspected this conversation would come at some point, that some paper-pusher would see his name on the cadet rolls, pull up his discipline report, and say, Do we really need another Orion in Starfleet? If they were going to can him for a little fistfight, he'd have preferred that they did it sooner rather than letting him march to their fife for four years before showing him the door. This captain was clever, though. If Jorann had been ordered to report to the Dean's office, he'd have had the whole walk to the Quad to drum up some bullshit starry-eyed remorse and plead for his commission. Here, immersed in his natural element, having inhaled half of a Tzartak apertif, he felt stoic and disillusioned. To hells with pretense.

"Well, sir, to be honest? Coming to the Academy wasn't my idea in the first place. My dad thought having a son in Starfleet would boost his position among the clans back home. Being the loyal son that I am, I obeyed."

He reached for his glass and took another sniff of the vapors. "Don't get me wrong. The whole exploration of deep space thing, new life and new civilizations? That's all I've ever wanted to do. I just always saw myself doing it on my own terms. Small ship, a crew like a family, adventure and profit all around. But then, Starfleet's kind of putting the Orion privateer out of business these days."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Érinthe let out a grunt of mild disbelief. While of course, any race that had spread out across the stars the way the Orions had was bound to have some sort of cultural motivation towards exploration, the idea that exploration for curiosity was an Orion trait struck him as somewhat jarring from every Orion he had ever known. Usually, an Orion's interest in new life and cultures was what resources they might be able to steal from them.

"And so what happens to you when you're drummed out of Starfleet, and return to your father in disgrace?" His nose wrinkled. "I can't imagine that would go over particularly well."

[Jorann Lokar]

Jorann laughed. "Thousand gods! Captain, you just made the understatement of the century. Family loyalty has its limits. If I screw this up, I don't have a home to go back to."

His aperitif was just wisps in the bottom of the glass now. Silently, he watched as they simply steamed away into the lounge's thick, smoky atmosphere.

"I don't often ask this, but in the interest of protocol: permission to speak freely, sir?"

The captain didn't miss a beat. "That's what we're here for, cadet."

Interesting. Apparently there was one CO in Starfleet who didn't want him pulling his punches. Jorann looked Érin dead in the eye and said, "Starfleet needs people like me."

The Orion set his glass on the edge of the stage and settled back, reveling in the audacity of it all.

"You want to connect with other cultures. You want to prove to them that, unlike the Klingons and the Romulans, you offer more than you take. You have your diplomats, you have xenolinguists, but what you don't have is... us."

He waved a hand to encompass the whole dingy, smoky cacophony that surrounded them. "This is our Federation of Planets, Captain. It's not pretty, and it's not always civilized, but it's been around long before Zephram Cochrane broke the warp barrier. If you want in, you need insiders. I won't pretend to be Grade-A Starfleet officer material, but there isn't a cadet in the Academy who knows his way around like I do."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

"You are labouring," Érinthe countered, "Under a misconception of what the Federation stands for."

His frown deepened as he scratched at an eyebrow, sweat from the think and cloying air beginning to pepper his brow. "You compare us to the Klingons and Romulans, but the Federation is not a 'star empire'. The Federation is a coalition born out of mutual respect and common purpose. Travel to the homeworld of any of it's members, and you will find it's culture sovereign and intact. They may have embraced new concepts and new technologies from their friends and allies, but that was a choice that those societies freely made of their own accord."

You say we need insiders," he continued, shaking his head, "But we do not. We have no desire to conquer or subsume the stars: just to coexist with them peacefully. We do not need insiders because we have no insidious desire: we extend our overtures of peace, but if Orions, Yridians, Nausicaans, Kreetassans, or anyone else wants to tell us to take our overtures and shove them somewhere anatomically uncomfortable?"

The Captain shrugged.

"We don't need someone to help Starfleet find it's way around regions where we are inherently unwelcome. If we did, I imagine there'd be an agent from Starfleet Intelligence sitting here talking to you, rather than the Captain of a starship."

[Jorann Lokar]

Jorann merely deadpanned as Érinthe rehearsed the lines that everyone who encountered the Federation heard at some point, but that no one with green skin, skull ridges, or tusks really quite believed. No, Starfleet wasn't a conquering force, but it sure as a hell was an expansionist one. The Orions knew as well as anyone the power you held when your neighbors grew dependent on your generosity. If there was one thing they'd learned to distrust, it was charity.

He was strongly considering flagging down the waitstaff to order another drink when the other shoe dropped. Captain of a starship. Since when did starship captains drop by to give disgruntled cadets their exit interview? The answer, of course, was that they didn't. The stars suddenly realigned in Jorann's personal constellation of priorities.

"A starship," he repeated, and he glanced over toward the commander on his other side. A member of the command staff, no doubt, possibly even the XO. Part of him wanted to ask which starship, but at this point, it really didn't matter. "And could this starship possibly use a navigator with ten years of experience?"

[Ari McKenna]

"We already have one of those."

Ari replied, her soft brogue flavoring the words in a subtle manner. She'd been away from her home country too long to still have her accent in all of its glory, but the stars knew it tended to come back in certain...moments.

A slender brow arched as she shifted in her seat, resting her chin in one hand as she regarded Jorann carefully. She remained silent and stared at him for several moments longer than she probably should have, but Érinthe's idea...however half-brained she considered it privately...demanded some manner of careful thought.

"But, as he'll be occupying the Captain's seat this go-round, we do need a substitute." Pale eyes swept over to Érinthe briefly, communicating volumes in one glance before returning to the smug Orion.

With startling frankness, Ari continued, fingers reaching over to flick the glass Jorann still held, disappointed in the lack of a proper bell tone a real glass would have produced. "And I need a navigator I can trust to sit to my right."

[Jorann Lokar]

Some cadets would probably be intimidated to learn that their prospective captain used to fill their prospective boots - it was never pretty when grizzled experience clashed with the latest textbook innovations, and Jorann knew from his own simulated command experience how hard it was to resist a little backseat driving. But that didn't worry him as much as that pesky little t-word.

"Trust, huh?" he said, and he laughed silently to himself. "Well, let's see. I'm guessing you wouldn't consider me unless you thought I had the skills you need, so that's sorted. And I'm sure you've already collected a sterling array of character references. So the main trust issue would be what happened three months ago?"

He sobered then, remembering his fist flying across Commander Finnegan's jaw in the simulator room after his navigation practical. The simulation had ended in disaster when the U.S.S. Melbourne plowed into a planet that decided to jump halfway around its orbital path in a split second. The palpable unfairness had already had Jorann boiling when Finnegan made a few snide remarks that his professional pride simply couldn't endure. Of course, it came out later that the whole simulator complex had been ravaged by a computer virus, one engineered by Jim Kirk to prove a point about the Kobayashi Maru scenario. Finnegan probably would let the whole thing go if the dean of command hadn't walked in at just the wrong moment.

"Would it be enough if I promised it won't happen again?"

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Cocky son of a bitch, wasn't he?

The back of Érinthe's mind urged him to bust out some sort of put-down to silence the Cadet, and knock him back into his place; but while the Commander Hetetlen of a few months ago would have been all too comfortable doing that, the Captain Hetetlen of today knew he needed to take a different approach.

"That's a currency I don't know the value of," he countered. "I don't know you. I don't know what your promises are worth."

His face folded into another frown. "Why did you do it, Cadet?"

The question was too vague to be left without clarification. From what Érinthe remembered, Finnegan had never been a particularly likeable individual. In fact, Érin was pretty sure he remembered quite a few times when he'd had the urge to right hook the arrogant smartass round the jaw. Urges and actions were separated by a line, and how broad and defined that line was made an important difference. Starship navigators needed to make split-second decisions, interpreting the orders of their Captain into a practical strategy and execution. It was all to easy for a Captain to order them to take out their weapons systems or disable their engines, but it was the navigator who had to translate that into a navigable course to relay to the helm, and into targeting solutions that could be brought to bear. And when it came to the man sitting behind the buttons that controlled the ship's photon torpedo payload, you wanted someone who could exercise restraint when the situation demanded it; someone who could think fast and think right, not just someone who could act fast without any real thought at all.

"What is your trigger? What button did Finnegan push? Is it that you just don't like the guy, and that you were looking for an excuse? Are you a sensitive, delicate little flower and he stepped on a raw nerve? Or is the fuse on your temper just that disappointingly short?"

[Jorann Lokar]

Yeah, Jorann was really itching for another drink right about now. Maybe a stout Andorian ale - not the periwinkle stuff, something legitimately blue and heady. He'd even order a round for Ari and Érinthe if he thought they'd let him.

"Humility isn't a value in Orion culture, captain," he said. "Every man or woman is expected to know exactly what he or she is worth, and it doesn't pay to be shy about it. So when I say I'm a good navigator, it's a frank and honest appraisal. I don't deal in inferior products."

He leaned back into his seat and glanced toward the backstage door to the green room. With his luck lately, the next girl out would probably be a Tellarite.

"Commander Finnegan threatened to destroy my professional reputation over a simulator glitch. At the time, I thought he caused the glitch himself. Of course, we both learned that afternoon it was thanks to Captain Kirk's tantrum in the Kobayashi Maru simulation. But by then the damage was done. So, yes, I accept that it was stupid, it was irrational, and I may just have done Finnegan's dirty work for him. Which is why you can trust that I won't let it happen again."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

Jorann's answer hadn't exactly been the galaxy's most reassuring. Humility might not be part of his culture, but apparently taking responsibility wasn't a huge part of it either. It was one thing to objectively assess and acknowledge your mistakes: but it was self-centred acceptance, understanding where you went wrong so that you didn't do it again. That kind of attitude was all fine and dandy if you were running an experiment in a lab, but you couldn't live your life that way; unless you were an Orion or a Vulcan, apparently. The idea of putting the safety of a ship and crew in the hands of someone who could so casually parcel out blame and shrug off the consequences as if they were someone else's problem and not really worth worrying about --

"I don't give a damn that you think you're a good navigator," Érin countered; not aggressively, but with what he hoped was enough of a stern edge to get the message through the Cadet's viridian skull. "I've spoken to half a dozen good navigators already to day. What I need is good officers, people with good judgement who won't impulsively swing first and worry about the consequences later. An impulsive wrong choice on the bridge and you really will be responsible for slamming a starship into a planet."

Érin's attention shifted to McKenna. While on paper this was his call, in practice it shouldn't be. A Captain could have every confidence in a navigator's ability to translate his orders into numbers and coordinates, but it was the helmsman with their hand on the controls who needed to have total faith in the data the navigator provided. Every glimmer of doubt in the helmsman's mind, every moment of hesitation wondering whether or not the numbers were right or the plan was stupid could wildly change the outcome. The helmsman's steady hands might be what kept them on course while navigating a treacherous gravitational rip-tide, but it was all for naught if the only one with any confidence in that course was the person who plotted it.

The Captain's brow twitched into a questioning frown; Érin didn't need to speak to get the message across.

Are things really so desperate that this is the best we can find?

[Ari McKenna]

There were moments when thought didn't help; when you had to just listen to your gut about the matter at hand. This was one of them, Ari mused, her features smooth and expressionless. Frosted gazed swept across to meet Érin's as it landed on her, and held it there for several moments. She knew well what that quirk of his brow meant, that question that lingered in his gaze.

It was his right to make the decision on his own, but the fact that he deferred enough to take her opinion into consideration made him rise several notches in her estimation. Only a Captain who had been a navigator could understand the trust that had to exist between a navigator and a helmsman. That trust had to be implicit and unquestionable.

Was Jorann worthy of her trust?

Ari remained silent as she gave the matter all due consideration, holding the negative opinion her gut had leaped to in reserve. One thing she did have to admit was that the cadet had a solid point about Finnegan. The man was a pompous, self-centered ass of the highest order who no doubt had deserved the punch Jorann had thrown at him. Hell, even she'd hit the man once, but the circumstances were radically different.

With a soft, regretful sigh, she gently shook her head at Érin. He might be the most qualified and prove to be trustworthy in the long-run, but right now, Ari had too many doubts lingering in her mind. She knew better than to go against her instincts, and sincerely hoped that the Orion would understand.

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

There wasn't really anything more to be said; certainly nothing more that could be said in front of the Cadet, and certainly nothing that couldn't wait until they weren't in danger of being stabbed by unruly offworlders at a moment's notice.

Érin offered Ari a brief nod in reply, and the two rose in unison, though what Érin hoped was the weight of responsibility and not the stiffness of old age made his attempt a little less graceful than McKenna's. "We'll be in touch, Cadet," was the best he could muster, once again casting his gaze around the interior of the seedy establishment.

He mustered one last frown. "Might make life easier if you try and be a little less -" He sniffed. "- 'off the grid' for a few days."

[Jorann Lokar]

If he was honest, Jorann hadn't expected anything more from Starfleet than a "Don't call us, we'll call you." For better or for worse, his sail was set, and now he was subject to winds he couldn't control. All he could do was ride things out and hope he found a harbor. Still, if Hetetlen wanted him "on the grid," there was at least a glimmer of hope.

A tumble of primal-sounding drums from the overhead speakers brought a murmur of delight from the other patrons gathered around the stage, and a shapely, scale-covered leg teased its way out of the backstage door as customers leaned in their chairs trying to glimpse its owner. Jorann simply plunked his glass onto the edge of the stage and forced a smile.

"I was just leaving, sir. I've seen this one before."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

SF Apartment Complex
Sausalito

The corridor that the turbolift disgorged Érin into was somewhat less welcoming than the one that had led to McKenna's apartment, but it was also far less permanent. With modern technology, it was theoretically possible for Starfleet to use a matter transporter to return him instantly to his familiar bed back in Huntsville, and retrieve him from it effortlessly the following morning; but while such things might technically be perks available to him now his sleeves carried an extra stripe, it seemed like far too much effort for all involved, particularly since he had plans and meetings scheduled in San Francisco for at least the next few days.

So, he'd put in a request with Starfleet to be assigned temporary accommodations for the duration, and here he was, in an off-campus apartment usually reserved for fourth year cadets and pre-qualified students. It was modest, cramped, and the only window showed a breathtaking panorama of the wall of the next building over; but it had a bed, somewhere to sit, a work station, and an actual shower pumping actual water, and that was all he really needed.

With a grunt Érin rolled his shoulders, stretching out the muscles that had begun to bunch from spending so long hunched over his hovercruiser in traffic. It seemed strange to own an anti-grav motorcycle that could technically skim over the tops of traffic with ease; but United Earth had passed traffic laws that restricted such things, and meant a whole bunch of flight plans and trajectory logging hassle that was far more stressful than a few extra minutes of patience.

His thumb lingered on the keypad as he reached his door, scans recognising his print before prompting him for the pass code. A satisfying clunk emerged from the dead bolts holding the sliding door shut; he cast a vague glance in the keypad's direction to properly aim at the open command, but hesitated as his eyes settled on the information displayed there.

As with just about everything these days, the door control welcomed him by name; but it also flagged the time of his last visit. Perhaps it was a glitch, because there was absolutely no way that Érin could have been both here and stuck in traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge fifteen minutes ago.

With a wince he wished he had the paranoia necessary to carry a phaser with him at all times; not for the first time, he made a mental note to rectify that as he hunched, ready to pounce into action or dive for cover if needed, and triggered the door release.

[Charlie Kay]

As a general rule, it wasn't Charlie's MO to break into people's flats, raid their stock of goodies that they always kept in the left most cupboard in the tiny kitchenette that really shouldn't have passed for anything but a shitty little closet. There was no room, even, for a table. Still, that didn't mean Charlie tended to go around and do illegal things like this. After all, she knew, by face at least, everyone who came and went in these buildings. Important and unimportant personal, students, professors, ambassadors, whatever. It was (sort of) her job to keep track of that sort of thing. Which meant she was privy to a lot of incredibly sensitive information.

That being said, occasionally Charlie used her status as a bit of a way to see things she wouldn't have had access to in any other situations. Like this, for instance, when her best fucking friend was in San Fran, and didn't even bother to call her up and ask how she was. She hadn't heard from him in ages, and then suddenly he checks into one of the basic suites.

It wasn't very nice of him, and that was what she had told her when she'd taken the codes to his suite, and gone inside, tossing her bag down on the sofa in front of the telly, and going immediately to his cupboards to see what he'd bought himself to tide himself over. She found the usual, and pulled out several packages to take with her to the sofa, while she clicked on the news. Nothing interesting, but it lit up the otherwise dark sitting room, and she sat down on the sofa, propping her feet onto the coffee table.

That was where she was sat, aggressively eating all his supplies, when the door whooshed open, and she turned to see him crouched like a dumbass in front of the door. Like he honestly expected someone would have been able to enter his suite with her on security detail. Honestly, it was like he didn't care about her at all.

Shifting forward, Charlie tightened her ponytail, and lifted her eyebrows expectantly.

"Hey," she said flatly. "Nice to see you too." She stood and crossed her arms. "Woulda been better with a, 'hi, Charlotte, called to see how you were. Haven't seen ya in awhile! Why don't we hang out, have a beer, watch shit telly, and get pissed like old times.' But you know, I'll take what I can get."

[Érinthe Hetetlen]

if you'd told Érin before now that the most simultaneously hilarious and terrifying thing he'd ever witness was little Lottie Kay glaring menacingly at him while angrily eating her way through an entire pack of jammy dodgers, he'd probably have looked at you as if you were crazy. However, if you'd told Érin that, in this current instant he'd have felt the powerful need to apologise because you were right all along.

It took an unfathomable amount of self control to stop a smile from forming on his face. He'd known Charlotte since before she was tall enough to steal snacks from the kitchen cupboards without a piggyback, and yet in all that time she never ceased to find ways to surprise him, usually by acting exactly the way he expected her to act.

A flicker of something clamped down in his chest though, at the realisation that the anger in her eyes wasn't fake: he was in genuine trouble over this, and no one in their right mind wanted to be in Charlie's bad books. He'd witnessed the ramifications of that when he'd shown up to give Tommy Harewood the over-protective surrogate brother routine, and had discovered that Charlie had got to him - and his broken nose - first. And if it came down to a fight, well... suffice it to say that Érin hadn't won one of those against her since a twelve-year-old Charlie had perfected a strategic first strike against his testicles.

"Hi, Charlotte," he echoed, arms folding across his chest as he fixed her with the look, perfected during the years spent as the only teenager in his neighbourhood stupid enough to agree to babysit her more than once. "I checked in with your supervisor, and was planning to wait until your shift was over to call and see how you were."

He shrugged. "Why don't we hang out, have a few beers, go to the pizza joint down town where I have a table booked for us at nine-thirty, eat way too much greasy, cheesy food, and then find somewhere with a TV to collapse into a heap and marathon the Captain Proton box set that was -"

He hesitated, glancing at the torn-open snack food packets that Charlie had strewn about the place.

"- in my suitcase, along with the jaffa cakes and the toffee popcorn that you apparently didn't manage to find yet." A disapproving frown tugged at his brow. "You work security, and yet you didn't think to search my suitcase for contraband?"