Novgorod: Any Other Day

[Jaden Luka]

First Officer's log, Alliance Frigate Novgorod.

I'm still not used to that yet - first officer. Heck, it's been months now, and I still don't even know what it means. Kinda too late to ask at this point. I mean, first? How the heck am I first? First in command if you forget to count the Captain? Or am I just a first mate with a swankier name because there are mandatory uniform requirements? Stupid navy. Stupid traditions. Stupid job.

I guess the assignment itself isn't so bad. Don't get me wrong, I'll drop everything and hop back in a cockpit at a moment's notice if you give me half the chance; but there's not much for a fighter jock like me to do in this day and age. Patrols are about as exciting as they would be in a fighter, except your bunk and all your crap comes with you, you can get up and take a stroll without having to suffer hard vacuum, and you don't need to pee into a bag - though I have my suspicions that one or two of the crew might be into that sort of thing for weird alien kink reasons. Whatever floats their speeder, I guess.

I'm still not used to the whole scale thing. I've served on big starships and carriers, and I used to bum around the galaxy in a two-man Corellian freighter. The Novgorod sits weirdly in the middle. The Astral Queen used to feel like you were flying your house around the galaxy, but the Novgorod feels - and maneuvers - more like a whole apartment block. I keep bumping into neighbours in the corridors, and everyone knows me. I'm not used to that. On the Valiant and the Challenger, outside of your fellow pilots and the deck crew, no one really gave a crap who you were; just another body in a flight suit, no need to pay them any mind. Here though, it's at the point were so many people are wishing me a "Good morning, sir" that I'm tempted to get my response tattooed across my chest and get in the habit of walking to the bridge shirtless. There's so many names, too; so many faces. And it's not like back in the Rogues when all the pilots had a handy nickname, and I only had to pay attention to the few dozen pilots directly under me: the whole crew is my responsibility, and they all expect me to know their name.

I don't even know what day it is. Who the hell thought this assignment was a good idea?

I suppose one thing has changed, though: when I first came aboard, I hated the fact that the Novgorod was too damned big compared to what I was used to flying. Now I'm glad she's so damn small.


Commander Jaden T. Luka
Alliance Defense Forces

* * *

Jaden stifled a yawn as he stepped out of his cabin. He'd barely made it a few trudging steps into the corridor before the first crewman passed in the other direction, wishing him a pleasant morning. Jackass. What the hell kind of mentally deficient backwards-minding kriff-for-brains idiot could possibly feel upbeat and optimistic first thing in the morning? Barring waking up beside a beautiful woman - or better yet, between two - was perhaps the exception; but that would mean he'd just left behind a bed with attractive naked people in it, and that hardly seemed like something to be pleased about.

"Morning, Astro," he muttered back, the name not sounding right the instant it tumbled from his lips. "Aston? Asquith? Aster?" A string of other permutations of similar syllable sounds faded away into a mumbling grunt. At least his voice had started in the same place; he'd put in his due diligence. If they wanted a proper platitude from him, they'd have to put in leg work of their own and find their way to a compromise. Shorter names, people. Better yet, compress everything down into a single letter. That way he'd have the added bonus of a one-in-thirty-four chance of getting it right just by guessing. Those were pretty good odds, all things considered.

He'd have to pitch the idea at the next staff briefing.

The deck plates clunked a little under his feet, maintenance panels not quite seating properly into the seatings that were designed for them. Jaden guessed it was because of rushed repairs, or residual battle damage. From what he knew, the ship had gone through the wringer more than a few times before he'd come aboard. Sadly - from a certain point of view - the ship hadn't managed to see much of that kind of action since he'd been his XO. So sure, there were a few scuffles near the Tion Border, and the occasional pirate run-in, but Jaden was a Rogue; and when the crew bragged about the glory days before the Treaty, it sounded like they'd been on the bleeding edge when there was actually blood and edges to be had. Now, they had swapped the deadly swarms of TIE Fighters and marauding fleets of Star Destroyers for the occasional opportunistic smuggler who didn't want to pay the proper import taxes on his tava beans.

It was with those thoughts pressing a sag into his shoulder than Jaden stepped through the hatch and onto the Novgorod's bridge.

Within an instant, the familiar clicks and chirps of a Verpine voice found their way to his ears, the Lieutenant at the helm choosing not to engage his normal translation vocabulator, knowing full well that the Commander would understand his meaning.

A slight chuckle escaped from Jaden. "Shitty morning to you too, Twitch," he offered back to his wingman, striding tiredly up the few steps that separated him from the command chair. He'd barely even managed to position his backside on the cushion pads - a backside, he took a brief moment to note, was a little saggier and less pert than he was used to; staying in shape within the cramped quarters of the Novgorod was a balancing act he hadn't quite got the hang of yet - before a scowling figure turned away from whatever console he'd been busy-bodying over, and advanced on the XO.

[Regan Altink]

"About bloody time!" Tink exclaimed with all the exasperation he could muster.

This was typical, this. Abso-bloody-lutely typical. Fix the ship, Regan. Get the hyperdrive working, Regan. Divert power to the shields, Regan. Coax a little more out of the engines, Regan. We're short staffed; command the bridge in the middle of the bloody night, Regan. It was ridiculous! Tink had no idea just how many hats Captain Quez and his cavalier rocket jock of an XO expected him to wear, but he already had a hat, and it was a nice hat; a comfy hat. It was the kind of hat that chief engineers got to wear while they were crawling around in the bowls of an engine room, and it was the kind of hat that they made him take off every time he had to put on his stupid uniform to sit on the stupid bridge.

He wasn't having it today, oh no. He had been staring at the chrono display on one of the auxiliary consoles, watching the minutes tick by. He'd watched the end of his ship come and go. That was three minutes ago. Three. On a ship this size, how was it possible to be three minutes late? There were athletes who could run the entire length of the ship in a matter of minutes. How did Commander Flight Jacket over there manage to get himself lost and delayed traversing a mere fraction of that length?

"All due respect," Tink uttered, folding his arms across his chest; though based on his tone, it didn't sound like he thought all that much respect was actually due, "But I don't have enough time in m' day tae stand around waitin' fer you tae waltz in whenever y' damn well feel like it. Ma schedule says tha' alpha shift is set aside fer sleepin', and I cannae be standin' here fer extra minutes waitin' on you tae have a nice wee little lie-in. And if you're tardiness means that I am nae well rested the next time the ship is under attack an' comin' apart at the seams -"

[Jaden Luka]

Jaden gently placed a hand on the Lieutenant Commander's shoulder, quietly imploring the agitated chief engineer to shhh. Regan Altink wasn't some unquantified mystery to him: before serving on the Novgorod he'd been the chief technician for Rogue Squadron - yet another of the surprisingly substantial collection of former Rogues that the ship seemed to have accrued, in fact. Anyone else might have interpreted Tink's attitude for genuine anger or annoyance, but Jaden knew better; this was just how Tink expressed himself, just how he vented whatever frustrations were rattling around in his head at the time. The more peaceful the situation, the longer between missions, the longer between opportunities for Tink to tinker with the guts of some spacecraft or other, the more sour his mood became, and the more vocally irritated he became over the smallest things.

Of course, agitated grumbling was also the way that Tink expressed that he was in a good mood, too. The difference was subtle, but you got used to it eventually. The engineer was a somewhat complex individual in that regard.

"The sonics in my 'fresher were on the fritz again, so I grabbed a tool kit and took care of it. Figured I'd save you the trouble of having to add something so trivial to your work roster, and avoid showing up on the bridge smelling like the ass end of a bantha. I'm sorry I didn't comm to give you a heads-up: it took a little longer than I had expected. Guess serving with so many talented mechanics over the years has thrown off my ability to estimate how long something will take."

[Regan Altink]

Oh, you bastard. You wind-stealing bastard. All that frustration charged and ready to go, and then wham! Perfectly reasonable explanation. A surprisingly nice one at that. All that momentum brought to a screeching halt. No opportunity to spew that frustration out of his system at a willing target who knew him well enough to think nothing of it. Jaden stupid bloody bastard Luka.

Sure, it could have been a like. If it were though, it was a damned convincing one. Luka had been griping about his soni-shower for days now, talking about it fritzing in and out while he was trying to use it. Honestly, Tink had pretty much forgot about it, else he'd have unleashed Murray upon the problem already. True, it could have just been an especially elaborate feat of in-advance excuse-making, but Luka wasn't the type. He was too damn eager to help; the kind of pilot who had insisted on learning how everything worked on his plane, not just out of curiosity but so that he'd be able to help out the ground crew in a crunch. And anyone else would have instantly chewed him out after a little outburst like that, but Jaden just sat there and took it. Damn him for doing that.

"Well then."

Tink sucked on his teeth a little, rocking slightly on his feet as he struggled for something else to say. He didn't have a brain like all of these pilot, tactical types. He couldn't turn on a cred and change direction. Pull some amazing miracle repair solution out of his arse at the eleventh hour? Absolutely. Look at a problem and contrive some gloriously complex work-around that would make the eyes of anyone he explained it to glaze over? Most definitely. Catch him out though, or call him out, and Regan's mind purged faster than a blasted-open airlock.

"You have the conn then, I suppose," he muttered, shuffling awkwardly.

[Jaden Luka]

"I have the conn," Jaden echoed, loud enough for everyone on the bridge to catch it.

Another of those stupid navy traditions, but he supposed this one at least made some amount of sense. On big ships especially, there was only one officer - the conning officer - allowed to give instructions to the helm, relaying any orders given to him by the Captain, XO, or anyone else. The idea was that in the heat of battle, when conduits were rupturing, and hull plates screaming and rattling from impact after impact, you were only listening for one clear voice among the cacophony. Of course, on a ship as small as the Novgorod, the person with the conn and the person sitting in The Chair were usually one and the same; I have the bridge and I have the conn became one and the same, more or less. That much was fine, and logical, and dandy, and such; but it was the phrase. The stupid phrase. The formality of it all. What was wrong with Okay people, listen to what Jaden says? Why so floofy with the words?

Jaden waited as Tink excused himself and disappeared from the bridge before he unleashed a sigh and slumped a little in the chair.

"If anyone else feels like yelling at me today," he muttered, "Make sure you bring me a mug of caf first. That's an order."

Without even a beat of hesitiation, Oolan Valx'ir shifted in his seat as if he was about to stand. Jaden rolled his eyes at the back of his wingman's head; more for the comedic benefit of the other officers, Oolan knew him well enough to know exactly how he'd react. "Sit your chitinous ass down, Twitch," he grunted, shaking his head and sighing again.

Leaning back as much as the chair would allow, he interlaced his fingers behind his head; immediately the feel of the head rest digging into his forearms made him rethink that idea, and he settled for resting his still-laced hands against his stomach instead. He'd offered to have the engineers tear out this stupid chair, and replace it with an infinitely more comfortable seat from a fighter cockpit. After all, those seats were designed to still be comfortable after several hours, but Captain Quez had declined. You get used to it, had been his not particularly helpful advice, albeit with a few sprinkles of strange pronunciation on some of the vowel sounds. Damned Cirrsseeto wouldn't even let him install a foot rest to make his bridge shifts a little more tolerable.

"Status report," he said at last, trying to push as many thoughts aside as he could. "What does the galaxy have in store for us today?"

[Muridaemus-musculus]

* * *

Muridaemus-musculus sniffled as the small digital chronometer hitched to his utility belt beeped softly, signaling the shift change for the duty officer on the bridge. He didn't need to know such things, and yet he made a point of keeping track, even if it was just to ensure that he addressed the right person if he ever found himself contacting the officer-in-command.

Among the many things that Murray made a point of knowing was the fact that the Novgorod staggered it's crew rotations in key positions. Rather than have the entire crew end their shift at the exact same moment - something sure to cause pandemonium in the cramped corridors, as well as leaving the ship uncomfortably vulnerable at certain points throughout the day - different roles switched out at different points, and officers at different stations remained on duty for different lengths off time. The mechanics who monitored the ship's systems and oversaw it's general operation were split into two groups with schedules that were completely out of phase: their shifts may have been the longest, but every half-shift, half the repair crew switched out, given the opportunity to rest and recharge. It meant that when a crisis situation hit, and emergency circumstances forced the mechanics to work beyond their standard hours, there was always a crew and a half rested enough to operate safely; something that had made all the difference for the Novgorod several times already.

Other roles though, like operating the helm of the weapons systems, required a level of concentration and alertness far beyond that of anywhere else. While granted, every officer should be well-rested enough to avoid falling asleep at their post, those roles demanded an officer whose reflexes were as sharp as they could possibly be. Typically then, a helmsman would have a shorter shift - but that was where it became complicated. Different species had different neural structures and brain chemistry, and so the atrophy on their concentration progressed at different rates. Lieutenant Valx'ir for example was a Verpine: a species evolved for focus and labour for long periods. His fatigue tolerances were far higher than a human counterpart would be, and so his shifts at the helm lasted at least 50% longer than his counterparts from other species. There were more variables to consider too, and other positions aboard the ship where such things had to be considered as well, and it was the responsibility of the executive officer to rationalise all of those criteria and ensure that the crew roster was efficiently distributed as possible. Frankly, Murray found it all fascinating, but as yet Commander Luka had not taken him up on his offers of assistance. A shame, to be sure, but with persistence Murray was determined to wear down his resolve eventually.

Murray was not one of those entangled in a web of scheduling complexity. In fact, his role aboard the ship was somewhat unique - to the degree that if anyone was asked, no one was ever entirely sure what his role actually was; not precisely, at least. In some ways, Murray was the yeoman: a role usually reserved for an enlisted member of the crew, who assisted the commanding and executive officers with various administrative and clerical aspects of their duties. Murray though was an Ensign, and his duties had oozed beyond the confines of such a simplistic role. Were this a ground or starfighter unit, he might have been designated as the quartermaster: the individual responsible for maintaining and restocking the unit's supplies, which often bled over into administrative roles as well; or as the adjutant, perhaps. Monitoring the cargo bay and assisting with supply requisitions was certainly part of what Murray did; aboard a starship though, the quartermaster was something else entirely, something drawn from some awkward piece of naval terminology that made no real sense to the born-on-a-junk-world Squib, but fascinated him none the less.

No, it was Commander Luka who had defined it best: This is Ensign Muridaemus-musculus. He's our Murray.

Murray completed his scampering, popping the hatch on the utility crawlspace and completing an acrobatic leap down onto the deck below. With a flourish, he whipped the vibrofoil from his belt, and used it to prod the hinged hatch closed above him with practiced ease. True, for a being his size, walking down the corridors would have been a far easier affair; but the crawlspaces were rather pleasantly scaled for him, and they offered a maze of shortcuts that allowed him to shave his travel times throughout the ship to a wonderfully efficient minimum. Also, using the crawlspaces allowed him to share the same cramped movement that his larger counterparts were subjected to when they used the corridors as normal: empathy was a vital tool for any officer with ambition, and sharing that aspect of the crew's experience felt line an important strand of commonality between them.

Glancing down at the chrono again, he watched the time elapsed on the little counter dial that was ticking over in one corner. Seventy-three seconds had elapsed since he had heard the door hiss open, and he'd taken off like a shot. Something else that Murray had learned during his time on the Novgorod was that most species didn't appreciate having a tiny member of the crew scampering after them down the corridors trying to catch up, so Murray had conceived the perfect work-around: leap into the tunnels, race ahead, and then emerge calmly around the corner as if you'd crossed paths with them entirely by accident. True, it had earned him the strange reputation of being ever-present on the ship, and there was a strange rumour circulating that he was in fact one of a group of seven Squib nested in one of the inaccessible areas of the ship, which was how he managed to spring up all over the place without warning, but Murray didn't mind. Better to be seen as always there than to never be there when you need him.

Mentally he counted down the last three seconds, whiskers twitching in rhythm with the cycling numbers, before he stepped out around the corner, perfectly in step with his Felacatian target.

"Oh!" he uttered, in faux surprise. "Hello, Major. Murray was not expecting to see you this morning."

[Arvel Felcher]

Starch. Needs more starch.

Ensign Arvel Calrissian Felcher reached for the can of uniform cure-all, peering down at the collar of his jacket that lay on the ironing board. Like a sensei pruning a meditation tree, he carefully considered every minute action. His mind was pure focus, a steel trap of decisiveness. He would do what must be done! A short spritz of starch hissed from the nozzle, and with deftness of hand, Arvel had the iron seal the deed with a steamy kiss.

Overhead, music blared in his quarters. It was Famous Marches of Galactic Military History, Volume VII. At present was To The Walls of Seleucami, a rousing parade piece from the Ruusan Reformation era. He found that at precisely 0600 hours, it was brisk enough to put the proper pep in his step, and for a moment, Ensign Felcher imagined himself at the tip of the invincible spear. No, not that. At some distance away from the tip of the invincible spear, stately arrayed in the splendor of a Republic Field Marshall, guiding pieces across the board and leading wave after wave of heroic men to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Ah yes, the thrill of battle!

As the rousing swell of brass sounded the ascent of the Republic immortals over the ramparts, Ensign Felcher inspected his duty uniform. Alas, it lacked the same level of espirit de corps that an Imperial uniform could conjure forth. It was one of many things Arvel missed about his previous service at the Imperial Academy on Lothal. A truly shining future had been cut short that fateful day when Rebel soldiers stormed the citadel and ordered the Imperial faithful to lay down their arms. Showing the nature of his gallantry in the face of opposition, Arvel Felcher did what only the few and the proud could be called upon to do.

He bravely switched sides.

But a minor setback to a military career that was destined to nevertheless be shining and decorated! He'd show his new Alliance overlords how fortunate they were to have an officer of his peerless caliber. He'd show them his fierce determination to be able to quote the entirety of the Alliance naval code back to front, aha, including the footnotes! The Admiralty would be forced to recognize that of the millions in service, no one else had boots quite so polished, pleats quite so expertly creased, and a salute so exact and so beyond reproach that it would be a waste not to promote this man immediately. Lickety split up the ziggurat, charge forth for Alliance and glory!

Arvel at last liberated his jacket from the ironing board, easing it across his shoulders. It felt like donning a suit of armor made of card stock. The well-starched material defied conformity, keeping it's stately shape as he worked button by button, until at last the very image of Officer Material materialized before him in the mirror.

"Good moornin', Leftehhnant sehh!" he mimed an approximation to a common, ratty Nar Shaddaan brogue, as if to imitate his lessers. Squaring his shoulders back, he seemed to regard the reflection as the lesser who'd spoken to him, but also put on a stoic face of an officer.

"Good Morning, Ensign whoeveryouare. Another fine day in this man's navy, son. Set course for the second star on the right, and straight on 'till morning."

And with the flair of an artist, Arvel Felcher saluted himself.

[MARCUS]

"Status report," he said at last, trying to push as many thoughts aside as he could. "What does the galaxy have in store for us today?"

To Jaden's right, a rather organic-looking droid sat perched at the terminal colloquially known aboard Novgorod as the "spook box". It was E-WAR, the classified electromagnetic warfare and quantum irrationality algorithm system that allowed the marauder corvette the distinction as perhaps the toughest ship to track in the fleet. The droid operating the unit turned in it's seat, regarding the Commander with a single bright photoreceptor.

"Good morning, Luka Commander."

As no further designation had been set for the new executive officer, the MMU droid simply addressed him by default parameters.

"Cosmic radiation levels and stellar particulate currently read under nominal thresholds for effective countermeasure deployment. At current vector, we are aligned at the lagrangian point between the sixth and seventh planets of the Lorat system. We are at condition green."

[Jaden Luka]

Of course it was the droid that had answered. Of course it was. Why did he even bother addressing questions to the class any more, when Ensign Droidparts was always going to swoop in all efficient and responsive and answer?

Jaden was still a little wary of the droid. While he'd been doing his utmost to acquaint himself with the rest of the crew since coming aboard, he'd kept his distance from MARCUS a little. Thus far their interactions were limited to a professional setting, and while he was certainly impressed with the formidable capabilities of the droid - not just his performance on the bridge, but also from what he'd read in the play-by-play mission reports that Commander Glayde had left behind for him to browse; the non-redacted ones, at least - he just didn't quite know what to make of the guy. His chassis looked organic somehow, and yet it didn't resemble any organism that Jaden had ever encountered. The whole single eye thing was weird, and there wasn't anything else about the droid's head-piece that resembled any sort of face, and yet somehow it managed to twitch little parts of itself and seem almost expressive somehow. It made no sense. It was almost like it was too alive, creepy in the way that not-quite-perfect Human Replicant droids were creepy, or those weird wax models they put in all the museums on Coruscant. With an astro-droid it as somehow easier to forget that it wasn't alive; you wound up talking to them as pets. MARCUS though? Jaden just didn't know what the droid's deal was beyond what the reports had told him, and it wasn't as if he could invite him into his cabin for a coffee and a chat like he'd been trying to do with everyone else.

Or maybe he could. Maybe one of those weird pipe things could ingest liquids. Hell if he knew.

"How's our ally situation?" he asked, shifting to address the droid directly this time. "What's the range and disposition of the other Alliance ships in the Sector?"

[MARCUS]

Without turning toward the console, MARCUS processed the Commander's query, his photoreceptor adjusting it's focus by a minute margin.

There are seventeen registered Alliance Navy Starships within our current sector grid. The nearest ship is the ANS Gallant, designation Nebulon B frigate. Distance 1.47 parsecs. The ANS Drev'starn, designation MC-40a cruiser. Distance 3.04 parsecs. The CKR Andaataari, designation Korri galleon. Distance 6.9 parsecs. The ANS Concordia, designation Imperator I destroyer. Distance 10.33 parsecs. The...

[Jaden Luka]

"So close, and lots," Jaden interrupted, before MARCUS could regale him with any more specifics.

See, this was the problem with droids. You ask a human that question, and you get a considered answer. They hear you say range and disposition, and what they understand is, on a scale of 1-10, how screwed are we if things go bad? The vague it up for you. They understand that you don't actually have time to sit there and listen to parsec ranges to two decimal places and the names and classes of everything. A Star Destroyer, a few cruisers and frigates, and some Cizerack whatever-they-were-called ships. Someone organic, someone with a brain for nuance, they'd grasp that kind of thing.

Not droids though. Droids you had to handle; you had to learn a whole new language of questioning, what to ask to ensure that you got the answer you actually wanted. Astromech droids were easy: aside from the actual navigation side of things, which was pretty straight-forward and business-like anyway, you could just talk to those guys like puppies or toddlers, and everything worked out fine. Jaden figured that little buddy probably wasn't the right sort of address to go with on the bridge of a warship though, and that really jacked up his tone and mindset for how to deal with this MARCUS guy. Did he need to be super-specific with his words? Did he need to stipulate just how much detail he expected each question to yield? Did he need to sit down with the damn droid and calibrate some parameters or something, for future reference?

Jaden let out a small sigh. So much for his avoidance strategy.

"Are you one of those droids who pretends to drink caf so that organics don't feel wigged out around you, MARCUS?"

[MARCUS]

As this was not a rote query for specific data, but a question that required advanced heuristics, the MMU paused before reply, a chattering of hardware barely audible within his frame noting a fevered accessing of data that would be necessary to fulfill the Commander's question. It lasted perhaps a second, but the pause almost personified itself as thoughtful consideration.

"This chassis lacks the requisite induction port necessary to facility the mimicry of organic consumption. Observation. As behavioral routines of inorganic interfaces approach congruent organic normative behavior, a degradation in positive attribution has been observed."

[Jaden Luka]

Jaden understood the part that was the no, but after that his comprehension started to get a little fuzzy. A degradation in positive attribution, what the hell was that? Droids that acted too much like humans were crappy at their jobs? Or, droids that seemed too much like humans weren't liked as much because they were creepy? Jaden wasn't really sure, and didn't really have the time to drag out a dictionary and start deciphering. Hopefully it'd end up like astromechs, where when you spent enough time around them you started learning to understand the gist of what they were saying, even if you didn't get the specific words.

Either way though, MARCUS wasn't exactly making it easy to casually lure him into a social interaction where the Commander could get to understand him better.

"Do you at least have some hobbies?" Jaden pressed. He faltered, trying to think of a way to clunkify his language into droid terms. "Some sort of ancillary functionality beyond the requirements of your primary shipboard mission role?"

[MARCUS]

The nature of Commander Luka's queries seemed to be deviating from those of primary and tertiary objective inquiries. A subroutine enabled in MARCUS's droid chassis, and the bipedal module seemed to change it's posture slightly, bringing it's hands together in its lap in an approximation of casual body language. A cooling fan within the frame began to whir, almost like a sigh.

My combined network manages a hierarchy of three hundred fifty one tasks at the tertiary priority or below. Three hundred forty eight sub-tertiary routines fall under the jurisdiction of Alliance Naval Command. Two routines are access restricted by Captain Quez. The remaining routine pertains to the observation of courtship and mating rituals, initiated by Onashi, Serasai.

MARCUS's visual receptor narrowed it's focus as the chassis canted it's head. It seemed that Commander Luka was interested less in the data at his disposal, and more in terms of beginning some manner of productive engagement.

Do you wish to create a hobby subroutine?

[Jaden Luka]

So subtlety; not something that MARCUS was programmed with either. It was like trying to flirt with someone, and having them blurt out I would love to have the sex with you. Kind of a mood-killer, as Jaden had discovered.

His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. "One of my core directives as executive officer is to facilitate -" A brief hesitation passed as he fumbled around for suitably robotic words. "- efficient and expedient command and crew integration. One of the most effective ways of achieving that with organic crew members is to attempt to achieve... positive social interactions in non-official surroundings. Mutual interests. Consumption of foodstuffs at corresponding space-time locations. Sharing caf."

But not tea, Jaden's mind nudged, recalling the advice that T'yeellaa Meorrrei had given him.

"Unfortunately, I am not familiar enough with your operational parameters to conceive a way to bring about that kind of efficiency increase in our instance. I understand my predecessor managed to establish an improved working relationship with you via mutual mission deployments in the field but -"

There was a small sigh.

"Listen, buddy, I'm just trying to get to know you better, same as I have done with the rest of the crew. So, is it... acceptable to your operational protocols for you to swing by my quarters at, say, eighteen-hundred, so you can sit there and watch while I drink caf?"

[MARCUS]

A lot of processing power ran in the background for a second or two as each module of MARCUS's network communicated at hundreds of terrabytes per second. Under the hood, the network picked apart every word Jaden said, and the likely underlying meaning. With a relatively ponderous pause, Jaden may well have been expecting another excessively monotonous monologue. Instead, he simply got

"This is acceptable."

MARCUS made a timestamp, and began to access thousands of data files to construct an acceptable social algorithm.

[Regan Altink]

* * *

No, no, no, that was a terrible plan. There were far too many sensors in place, far too many safeguards. The ship was designed to preserve it's internal atmosphere at all costs. If you murdered an annoying underling and tried to jettison their corpse into space, people would notice. There'd be an alert when the airlock was triggered. A little thing would start blinking on the environmental controls panel. Once they realised someone was missing, they'd start checking logs, and that was messy, and frustrating, and they'd order Tink to investigate his own murderings, and ugh. You couldn't load them into the missile launchers either: satisfying as it was to imagine some annoying bastard squelching against the hull of a Star Destroyer at high velocity, the Alliance unfortunately didn't shoot at stuff often enough for that plan to pay off.

So disintegration, then. That was the cleanest way. Such weapons had been outlawed by the Empire - turned out there were things they had no stomach for after all - and the Alliance didn't really like using them either, but that didn't mean you couldn't get your paws on them if you knew the right palms to grease. Tenloss Syndicate made the DX-2, that was probably his best bet, but that might take too long. People might speak to him and infuriate him more before he received it, and it wasn't like there was an Alliance Postal Service that would ship parcels directly out to the Novgorod.

Why wasn't there an Alliance Postal Service, his tired and distracted mind mused as he trudged down the short corridor to his cabin. It made perfect -

Felcher.

Tink stood in the doorway of his quarters, his usual scowl adjusting itself into a glower. Forget all the mechanics, forget the technicians, forget the stupid system operators and analysts who wanted 0.003% more efficiency from their 'fresher flushes because they were wasting too much time waiting for their arse-leavings to disappear down the plumbing. If there was anyone who was going to be first on his disintegration list, it would be the insufferable human being that the Novgorod's confined quarters forced him to bunk with.

"Choose y' words carefully, Felcher," he grunted, shoulders bunched, arms locked by his sides in anger-tension as he crossed the room and clambered his unceremonious way into the top bunk. "I'm feelin' a wee bit homicidal."

[Arvel Felcher]

Ensign Felcher paused in the midst of meticulously polishing the buttons on his jacket. Without turning his head to regard his troglodyte roommate he audibly sniffed the air. Once, then twice.

"Hmm...I thought I smelled the chippy! So what's on today's menu of engineering malfeasance, mm? Bearing assemblies in a marinadé of day-old grease and fish drips?"

Thirty-eight...thirty-nine...aha...forty polishing strokes. The brass button gleamed as if weren't semi-precious at all, but something more regal. Felcher held it up for inspection, allowing the light to play in cascade across it's embellished face.

"If you smelled any more of a heart attack, we'd have to dip the antimatter in antibatter to keep the reactor working."

[Regan Altink]

"Ensign Felcher."

Through the waves of tired, Tink forced himself to stress his bunkmate's vastly subordinate rank. His eyes were closed, a finger and thumb gripping at the bridge of his nose. Slowly he counted his way towards ten, though the soothing effect was somewhat diminished by the imaginary fist to Felcher's face that punctuated each numeral. When the Captain and the First Officer had asked if the senior staff would be willing to bunk up with other members of the crew, Tink had gone along with it, without complaint. Granted, it wasn't his preference, but Luka was bunking up with that Verpine wingman of his, the Captain was bunking - and bunking - with Lyanie, it was only fair, right? One of those responsibilities that came along with being a Lieutenant Commander on such a small ship that you just sucked up and got on with.

But this? Felcher? This was some kind of sick torment, some twisted hell crafted for his own eternal suffering. Lets put the Chief Engineer and the Loadmaster together, they'd said. That will be logical, they'd said. It'll help them build a better working relationship, they'd said.

The only thing working better because of it was the ship, because of all the bloody overtime Tink had been putting in to avoid being here.

"I understand tha' when y' climbed out a' yer mother's wee little snatch like a demon from the pits a' hell, y' were struck by an internal plumbin' snafu that causes ye t' spew shyte from both ends of y' body. F' that disability, y' have my ongoin' sympathy. But. if ye donnae find a way t' seal up the asshole in the middle of yer face in the next five seconds so that I can get tae sleep, I am gonnae grab two large and pointy somethin's, and plug up both a' yer breaches at once, understand?"

[Arvel Felcher]

The Stewjon dialect of basic was one in which the words were less important. What were at one point actual words had been barrel aged in peat, and the fermented leavings were an invective-laced brogue with notes of hard, aborted consonants. Protocol droids would be useless in handling the syntax, so instead a more human touch needed to guess the meaning. It meant divining through the volume of slurred screech and the relative humidity of the hot air issued forth from the speaker's mouth. Luckily Ensign Felcher didn't need glasses, otherwise they would now be well and truly fogged.

In any case, Felcher had exhausted the somewhat-elastic leash of subordinate candor for the night, and a tactical withdrawal was in order.

"Ah, of course sir. May the angels of Iego speed thee to thy rest!"

Full of nocturnal emissions eerily reminiscent of a sulfuric rendition of Dodonna Boy thought Felcher with a downturned expression of disgust.

"I am to assume that all of the inert gas injectors on the tibanna reclaimers have been properly fitted with the regulation injector nipple covers then?"

[Regan Altink]

"Ask me about ma nipple covers again, Ensign," Tink grumbled, "An' y' might find y'self with a sexual harassment violation in your personnel file."

Part of him wanted to leave it at that; wanted to see if the threat of punitive administrative action would hold any more sway over the infuriating waste of oxygen and hydrocarbons, but he couldn't. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the smug expression that was undoubtedly on Felcher's face - wasn't a hard prediction really. Tink's face wore a scowl as it's neutral expression; for Felcher, it was somewhere between smug and asshole.

He sighed, trying to find a way of comfortably resting his hands so that he could continue to lie on his back.

"I have nae been down in engineerin' for the last several hours, Felcher. I've been on bridge command since last night, an' I really need tae sleep. If y' are so concerned about what did or didnae get done last shift, I suggest y' go talk tae whoever's down there now. This time a' the shift rotation, y' probably need t' go piss off the Cap'n wife."

[Arvel Felcher]

Ah, he'd given him a one degree of separation line to Captain Quez's oversized ear. Up up the Ziggurat! It didn't take much for Arvel to imagine his smart recommendations to Lieutenant Quez impressing her so much that she mentioned his name at dinner to the good Captain, citing in glowing terms his expert recommendation of the dispensation of inventory materiale towards the effective operation of the ship. A day later, the Captain taking him aside, a heart to heart chat, a Leftenant's commission.

Arvel's smug expression grew three sizes that day.

"Understood, Leftenant Commander. I shall redirect said query to Leftenant Quez."

Boot-heels clicked together as his shoulders squared, and Ensign Felcher served the smartest salute in six sectors to Regan for a nightcap.

"Enjoy your rest."

And with that, he was off on a mission. Felcher departed his quarters with haste, heading for Engineering.

[Mara Tallen]

* * * * *

She cast a gentle, apologetic smile down to Murray as they strode through the corridors side by side. The Felacatian hybrid shortened her stride in a conscious effort to keep pace with the finely-furred Ensign, whilst her attention was diverted by a call from one of the soldiers under her command. Mara had chosen them carefully, endeavoring to avoid as much interpersonal strife as possible, while still filling the Novgorod's roster with capable SpecForce soldiers.

They were a diverse group, both in species and gender, something she'd insisted upon. The ship itself boasted a diverse crew as it was, and she felt it would only help matters to have her soldiers be the same. So far, so good, the Major mused, a purr rolling through her words as she responded to the query on her comm. Soon enough, the minor matter was settled, and the comm returned to stand-by as her amber gaze returned once more to her companion.

"Sorrrry about that, Murrrray. What werrrre you saying about the brrridge? I lost trrrack of ourrr converrrrsation in the last few minutes." Mara purred brightly, canting her head towards the Squib as she gave him her full attention. She wondered, absently, if Murray ever felt uncomfortable around her, given her predatory feline nature, and resolved to ask him about at a more opportune moment.

There had been too many friendships and working relationships ruined by the inherent tendencies of her dual nature to leave such things to chance ever again.

[Muridaemus-musculus]

If there was one thing that Murray knew he possessed in spades, it was patience. He wasn't entirely sure what was in spades about it, but that seemed to be the sort of thing that the kind of officers he aspired to emulate said when they had a lot of something, so yes. In spades. Something to do with digging, perhaps. For a creature predisposed to burrowing such as himself, perhaps pawfuls of patience was closer to the mark?

That was irrelevant, of course. Murray had patience, and plenty of it; and thank goodness for that. At the best of times, Murray's duties often required a tough hide and sturdy pelt to stave off the potential tedium and frustration, but with Major Tallen, even more was required for two very important reasons. One was the notorious temper that the Major was said to have; not something Murray had ever experienced first hand, and that was an arrangement he wanted to preserve. The second thing was worse, though: Mara Tallen was part Felacatian; and Murray looked alarmingly similar to an appetising snack.

True, the Captain was a Cizerack, and his predatory traits were even more abundantly visible than Tallen's relatively human appearance. And true, the Squib had been born and raised on a junk world, where he was more likely to be shot by a human or stabbed by a Rodian than eaten by some sort of large, predatory animal; but the instinct was there, woven into his DNA, and somehow Major Tallen being a hidden predator - one camouflaged and concealed to the point where you almost but didn't quite forget - made him even more nervous.

That was why Murray tapped into his infinite patience, and politely recapped the conversation that the Major apparently hadn't been paying attention to.

"We were discussing our crew situation, Major Tallen, sir. So much to do, and so few to do it. Long hours. Much stress. We did as we must to fight the Empire, but times are different now. Make the problem go away, Murray, Commander Luka says. So Murray speaks to the officers. Asks if the soldiers, and the pilots, and the mechanics can help with other places. Repairs. Bridge stations. Shuttle pilots. Anything."

[Mara Tallen]

A visible wince marred her features for a moment, dimming the warmth in her amber gaze. It was not in response to his words, but rather the seemingly callous manner in which she’d treated their conversation up until that moment. It hadn’t been intentional, nor did Murray call attention to her gaff. He did as he was wont to do, and politely reminded her of what had slipped past her mind.

Mara made a mental note to be more attentive and gave the finely furred Ensign her complete attention. Head canted to the side as she pondered the conversation his words highlighted, giving proper contemplation to the matter for a few silent moments.

“I think it’s an excellent idea, to be honest. I’m surrre there are places everyone can lend a hand. I know several of my soldierrrs have mechanical skills and some rrrepairrr experrrience, among otherrr talents. Under prrroperrr superrrvision they could easily help out wherrreverrr needed.” Mara replied warmly, plucking a datapad from her belt and waiting a moment as the screen flickered to life.

The stylus flicked across the screen as she made some quick notes and sent a copy of her roster file to Murray. More than a simple list of those under her command aboard the Novgorod, which was available in the ship's databanks, it was more personalized and gave details about each of them the Squib might find useful in completing his assigned task.

“At yourrr convenience, we can rrreview wherrre best to utilize everrryone. As forrr brrridge stations, I can cerrrtainly take a rrrotation myself if that would help.”

[Muridaemus-musculus]

Murray's eyes brightened. Of all the senior officers he had spoken to - aside from Commander Luka, of course; this had been his idea after all - Major Tallen was by far the most cooperative, and least violent and irritable. Though the Major sending him a copy of her personnel files was unnecessary - Murray had of course already been through every individual on the ship, and had graphed out the optimum personnel deployments; it was just a matter of convincing everyone's supervisors that Murray's analysis was indeed correct - the effort was most appreciated, and Murray felt the slightest bit bad about his wariness around the feline officer.

"Murray is most grateful for your cooperation, Miss-Major Tallen," the Squib enthused, making sure that his positive response was as apparent as possible. Born of a race accustomed to communicating through subtle twitches of whiskers, ears, noses, and other parts of their anatomy, Murray had invested considerable effort into learning the body language of the various alien species he served with. Partly it was out of courtesy, and partly it was to expedite his duties; but it also helped serve a self-preservation purpose, making it easier for him to ascertain when certain predatory members of the crew might be looking at him in a manner that suggested hunger. The reverse was not quite as true however; humans and near-humans especially were not nearly as accustomed to reading such subtle forms of communication, and so Murray made a deliberate effort to make his emotional state as plain to them as it could be.

He made a show of reading over the information the Major had sent, attempting to avoid any accidental semblance of being impolite. After a sufficient amount of silent time had elapsed - roughly eleven seconds by his estimate - he cocked his head to the side in a manner that he had learned near-humans regarded as thoughtful, and adjusted his tone of voice to match.

"Given your skill set, Miss-Major, Murray is wondering if the weapons control station on the bridge would be logical. Murray knows that the Miss-Major is quite competent at using large weapons, but is wondering if you are having had training on such systems previously. Has Miss-Major Tallen been trained on mechanised armour or mechanised infantry weapons systems?"