Valiant: Footsteps

[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?"