Star Trek: Voyager--the rewrite (updated 25 October)
Moderator: LadyTevar
Incredible how a few subtle changes in conversation can make the characters seem more human. In a real-life situation you WOULD have people screaming at eachother, swearing, and acting, well, human. That was one thing that bothered my about voyager is that the entire crew seemed to have been neutered (except B'Elana, who had balls enough for everyone but no common sense) and any time something went wrong they were spouting phrases akin to "fiddle dee dee, life-support has failed" or "Dag nab it! A 6th borg cube has just dropped out of warp." It seems like they could've learned a lot from Joss Whedon about how to show believable reactions in characters.
PRFYNAFBTFCPCaptain of the MFS Frigate of Pizazz +2 vs. Douchebags - Est vicis pro nonnullus suscito vir
"Are you an idiot? What demand do you think there is for aircraft carriers that aren't government?" - Captain Chewbacca
"I keep my eighteen wives in wonderfully appointed villas by bringing the underwear of god to the heathens. They will come to know God through well protected goodies." - Gandalf
"There is no such thing as being too righteous to understand." - Darth Wong
While I certainly approve of the notable improvement over Voyager's normal fare, is it just me, or did Mohommad switch gender's at one point?
They had to drop out of warp at the edge of the Badlands, not even Mohommad daring to run through the dangerous patch of disturbed space faster than light until he got his bearings.
"Hey, gang, we're all part of the spleen!"
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Themightytom
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looks like:Eris wrote:While I certainly approve of the notable improvement over Voyager's normal fare, is it just me, or did Mohommad switch gender's at one point?
They had to drop out of warp at the edge of the Badlands, not even Mohommad daring to run through the dangerous patch of disturbed space faster than light until he got his bearings.
A'shadieeyah sounded (for some reason) like a woman's name it me, and then she made a reference to "eating her scarf", which seemed like a woman's garmentA'shadieeyah Mohommad, Chakotay's crackerjack pilot, was doing her best, trying to dodge the Galor-class cruiser's weapons fire. Mohommad had gotten them out of more than her share of impossible jams, but this time the Cardies were hanging tight.
PRFYNAFBTFCPCaptain of the MFS Frigate of Pizazz +2 vs. Douchebags - Est vicis pro nonnullus suscito vir
"Are you an idiot? What demand do you think there is for aircraft carriers that aren't government?" - Captain Chewbacca
"I keep my eighteen wives in wonderfully appointed villas by bringing the underwear of god to the heathens. They will come to know God through well protected goodies." - Gandalf
"There is no such thing as being too righteous to understand." - Darth Wong
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RedImperator
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Mohommad changed gender in one paragraph because I screwed up, and then I didn't proofread carefully enough to catch it. A'shadieeyah is indeed a woman's name, and she wears a hajib. I've edited the paragraph so it reads correctly.
X-Ray Blues
No offense was intended. Don't let our nitpicks overshadow the fact that this is an awesome fanfic.RedImperator wrote:Mohommad changed gender in one paragraph because I screwed up, and then I didn't proofread carefully enough to catch it. A'shadieeyah is indeed a woman's name, and she wears a hajib. I've edited the paragraph so it reads correctly.
PRFYNAFBTFCPCaptain of the MFS Frigate of Pizazz +2 vs. Douchebags - Est vicis pro nonnullus suscito vir
"Are you an idiot? What demand do you think there is for aircraft carriers that aren't government?" - Captain Chewbacca
"I keep my eighteen wives in wonderfully appointed villas by bringing the underwear of god to the heathens. They will come to know God through well protected goodies." - Gandalf
"There is no such thing as being too righteous to understand." - Darth Wong
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Battlehymn Republic
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While this can of worms is open, I'd just like to pose this open question to the future: is the inclusion of a woman with a Muslim name and a hijab a sign that human religion may actually exist in your version of Star Trek, and/or this may be one of those interesting occurrences of formerly religious customs passing down through the centuries and mutating into a merely cultural item? Either way, that alone suddenly makes your version of ST far less white-bread and monotonous than what we've seen before.
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RedImperator
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New Senegal Penal Colony
Tom Paris was digging a hole when two guards came to him and told him he had a visitor. In his early days on New Senegal, he would have had a remark for them; "I told your mother I'm not interested in any more conjugal visits" perhaps. There was a series of mile-long, zigzagging ditches through the desert north of camp, each one dug by him and a few other insubordinate prisoners, reminders of the price of a smart mouth here. Mostly these days, he didn't say anything to the guards besides "yes sir" and "no sir".
They escorted Paris across a kilometer of scrub desert to a plain white concrete bunker on the outskirts of a cluster of other concrete buildings, the administration center for the camp. Inside, the bunker was dim, so he couldn't see right away who was waiting for him inside. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, a short, trim woman in a Starfleet uniform materialized out of the gloom. It was red, in the newest cut, with four rank pips: a starship captain. Behind her were two other Starfleet types. Spooks, he guessed. Starfleet Intelligence.
"Good morning, Mr. Paris," she said. Her accent was French. "My name is Captain Nicole Bujold, of the Federation starship Voyager."
"Hi," he said.
"Please," she said, "sit down." She waved her hand at a hard metal chair on one side of a steel desk. He did so. She sat across from him. The two spooks, he noticed, did not.
"What's this all about, captain?" said Paris.
"Ten days ago, a Maquis raider named Val Jean disappeared in the Badlands."
Paris's eyes widened. A second later, he realized that had been a mistake. Never show Starfleet you know anything about anything. He sighed internally. Mistakes had marked his entire tenure as a freedom fighter, which is why he was digging holes on New Senegal.
"I take it you know the name."
"I've heard it," said Paris.
"You picked it, from what I understand." Bujold smiled at him. There wasn't any mirth in it. "Let's cut to the chase here, shall we? Val Jean disappeared in the Badlands. There was a Starfleet Intelligence agent on board. I have been tasked with recovering him and arresting the crew of the ship."
"If they disappeared in the Badlands, they were probably destroyed."
"Perhaps," said Bujold. "That is what the Cardassians are claiming. But there are enough holes in their story to make us believe they aren't telling the whole truth."
"What do you want from me?" said Paris.
"You have navigated the Badlands," said Bujold. "You, frankly, mapped much of it. There are even features named after you--"
"Paris's gap, Paris's ridge, Paris's flare, the Paris highway, and Paris's asshole," said Paris. "Somebody else named the last one."
"Yes," said Bujold. "You know the Badlands. I need to navigate them to complete my mission. I want you to be my guide."
"Forget it," said Paris.
"You would be rescuing the Maquis, Mr. Paris."
"Arrest and rescue aren't the same thing. At any rate, they don't need rescuing. Either they were destroyed, or they slipped past the Cardassians and the Cardies are too embarassed to admit it."
"We have not heard from our operative since Val Jean disappeared."
"Maybe they caught him," said Paris.
"Maybe," said Bujold. "In which case, I am rescuing him, and you would be assisting."
"I'm not selling out the Maquis," said Paris. "If I lead you through the Badlands, you'll be recording every kilometer of the flight. You'll learn more about it from me in a day than you could have learned on your own in a year--and so will the Cardassians, as soon as you turn over your charts to them."
"It is curious you speak of 'selling out', since I do not recall yet offering you a price. It is doubly curious, because if I remember correctly, you were 'sold out' yourself by none other than Chakotay."
Paris ground his knuckled into the hard steel tabletop. A part of him admired Bujold for doing her homework. The incident between him and Chakotay hadn't gone exactly like that, but it was close enough to count as betrayal, and Bujold knew and was poking at the wound.
"Other than ruining Chakotay's day, what are you offering me for helping you?"
"A reduced overall sentence and an immediate parole at the conclusion of the mission."
"Parole to where? Earth?"
"Close. Betazed."
Paris grimaced. "Won't even have to bother with a parole officer, will you?"
"You will be paired with a transition counselor to ease your passage back into civilian life."
"And a Betazoid handler to keep an eye on what I'm thinking."
"I promise you, nobody will make you dig any holes for what you think. As long as you don't break any laws, nobody will bother you. And once your sentence is up, you will be a free man."
Paris didn't respond.
Bujold leaned in. "We're interested in two things, Mr. Paris: rescuing our agent and capturing Chakotay. The rest of the crew, your old friends, they'll get token sentences. And if they are in trouble, you'll be saving their lives." She paused. "Or, you can rot here until the proper authorities declare you rehabilitated. The average time for that for hardened terrorists is, I believe, forty-six years. That's a lot of holes."
"What if you don't find them?"
"The only thing I am asking of you is to make a good-faith effort to help us. If Val Jean cannot be found despite your best efforts, then so be it." The two Starfleet Intelligence officers gave Bujold alarmed looks, but she ignored them. "Mr. Paris," said Bujold, "Be honest with yourself. Did you join the Maquis out of a genuine, if misguided, sense of justice and empathy for the oppressed, or because you wanted to piss off your father and meet girls? Well, you succeded in one--your father is still very angry--and as for the other, you'll have far better luck on Betazed than you will here. Chakotay stole Val Jean from you and dumped you in Starfleet's lap. Why are you still protecting him?"
"You're the most cynical Starfleet officer I've ever met," said Paris.
"I'm not the cynic, Mr. Paris. You are. Which is why you'll accept our offer."
Tom Paris was digging a hole when two guards came to him and told him he had a visitor. In his early days on New Senegal, he would have had a remark for them; "I told your mother I'm not interested in any more conjugal visits" perhaps. There was a series of mile-long, zigzagging ditches through the desert north of camp, each one dug by him and a few other insubordinate prisoners, reminders of the price of a smart mouth here. Mostly these days, he didn't say anything to the guards besides "yes sir" and "no sir".
They escorted Paris across a kilometer of scrub desert to a plain white concrete bunker on the outskirts of a cluster of other concrete buildings, the administration center for the camp. Inside, the bunker was dim, so he couldn't see right away who was waiting for him inside. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, a short, trim woman in a Starfleet uniform materialized out of the gloom. It was red, in the newest cut, with four rank pips: a starship captain. Behind her were two other Starfleet types. Spooks, he guessed. Starfleet Intelligence.
"Good morning, Mr. Paris," she said. Her accent was French. "My name is Captain Nicole Bujold, of the Federation starship Voyager."
"Hi," he said.
"Please," she said, "sit down." She waved her hand at a hard metal chair on one side of a steel desk. He did so. She sat across from him. The two spooks, he noticed, did not.
"What's this all about, captain?" said Paris.
"Ten days ago, a Maquis raider named Val Jean disappeared in the Badlands."
Paris's eyes widened. A second later, he realized that had been a mistake. Never show Starfleet you know anything about anything. He sighed internally. Mistakes had marked his entire tenure as a freedom fighter, which is why he was digging holes on New Senegal.
"I take it you know the name."
"I've heard it," said Paris.
"You picked it, from what I understand." Bujold smiled at him. There wasn't any mirth in it. "Let's cut to the chase here, shall we? Val Jean disappeared in the Badlands. There was a Starfleet Intelligence agent on board. I have been tasked with recovering him and arresting the crew of the ship."
"If they disappeared in the Badlands, they were probably destroyed."
"Perhaps," said Bujold. "That is what the Cardassians are claiming. But there are enough holes in their story to make us believe they aren't telling the whole truth."
"What do you want from me?" said Paris.
"You have navigated the Badlands," said Bujold. "You, frankly, mapped much of it. There are even features named after you--"
"Paris's gap, Paris's ridge, Paris's flare, the Paris highway, and Paris's asshole," said Paris. "Somebody else named the last one."
"Yes," said Bujold. "You know the Badlands. I need to navigate them to complete my mission. I want you to be my guide."
"Forget it," said Paris.
"You would be rescuing the Maquis, Mr. Paris."
"Arrest and rescue aren't the same thing. At any rate, they don't need rescuing. Either they were destroyed, or they slipped past the Cardassians and the Cardies are too embarassed to admit it."
"We have not heard from our operative since Val Jean disappeared."
"Maybe they caught him," said Paris.
"Maybe," said Bujold. "In which case, I am rescuing him, and you would be assisting."
"I'm not selling out the Maquis," said Paris. "If I lead you through the Badlands, you'll be recording every kilometer of the flight. You'll learn more about it from me in a day than you could have learned on your own in a year--and so will the Cardassians, as soon as you turn over your charts to them."
"It is curious you speak of 'selling out', since I do not recall yet offering you a price. It is doubly curious, because if I remember correctly, you were 'sold out' yourself by none other than Chakotay."
Paris ground his knuckled into the hard steel tabletop. A part of him admired Bujold for doing her homework. The incident between him and Chakotay hadn't gone exactly like that, but it was close enough to count as betrayal, and Bujold knew and was poking at the wound.
"Other than ruining Chakotay's day, what are you offering me for helping you?"
"A reduced overall sentence and an immediate parole at the conclusion of the mission."
"Parole to where? Earth?"
"Close. Betazed."
Paris grimaced. "Won't even have to bother with a parole officer, will you?"
"You will be paired with a transition counselor to ease your passage back into civilian life."
"And a Betazoid handler to keep an eye on what I'm thinking."
"I promise you, nobody will make you dig any holes for what you think. As long as you don't break any laws, nobody will bother you. And once your sentence is up, you will be a free man."
Paris didn't respond.
Bujold leaned in. "We're interested in two things, Mr. Paris: rescuing our agent and capturing Chakotay. The rest of the crew, your old friends, they'll get token sentences. And if they are in trouble, you'll be saving their lives." She paused. "Or, you can rot here until the proper authorities declare you rehabilitated. The average time for that for hardened terrorists is, I believe, forty-six years. That's a lot of holes."
"What if you don't find them?"
"The only thing I am asking of you is to make a good-faith effort to help us. If Val Jean cannot be found despite your best efforts, then so be it." The two Starfleet Intelligence officers gave Bujold alarmed looks, but she ignored them. "Mr. Paris," said Bujold, "Be honest with yourself. Did you join the Maquis out of a genuine, if misguided, sense of justice and empathy for the oppressed, or because you wanted to piss off your father and meet girls? Well, you succeded in one--your father is still very angry--and as for the other, you'll have far better luck on Betazed than you will here. Chakotay stole Val Jean from you and dumped you in Starfleet's lap. Why are you still protecting him?"
"You're the most cynical Starfleet officer I've ever met," said Paris.
"I'm not the cynic, Mr. Paris. You are. Which is why you'll accept our offer."
X-Ray Blues
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Crazedwraith
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CaptainChewbacca
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Very good stuff. So, I take it Paris was more involved in the Maquis in your version. IIRC, in Voyager he was captured on his very first mission for the Maquis.
Stuart: The only problem is, I'm losing track of which universe I'm in.
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
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The Duchess of Zeon
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Not on the command deck of a man'o'war from a disciplined military. That's what they train military people not to do--get excited. The most you'd hear is from the junior personnel, raising their voices in consternation or excitement, unless something really incredible happened. A Borg Cube arriving might warrant some muttered comments as well, I suppose. Below decks, however, working on repairs to battle damage or things like that, the profanity would flow hot, fast, and heavy. But there is a damned good reason that people are disciplined not to act like that in CiC, because you need clear, concise information to make life-saving decisions. Of course the Maquis are not a regular military force, so with them it's extremely realistic.Kodiak wrote:Incredible how a few subtle changes in conversation can make the characters seem more human. In a real-life situation you WOULD have people screaming at eachother, swearing, and acting, well, human. That was one thing that bothered my about voyager is that the entire crew seemed to have been neutered (except B'Elana, who had balls enough for everyone but no common sense) and any time something went wrong they were spouting phrases akin to "fiddle dee dee, life-support has failed" or "Dag nab it! A 6th borg cube has just dropped out of warp." It seems like they could've learned a lot from Joss Whedon about how to show believable reactions in characters.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
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Burak Gazan
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Excellent stuff 
Chuckles stole his ship? Hmm can't wait to see this reunion
Bravo, this is looking very cool
Chuckles stole his ship? Hmm can't wait to see this reunion
Bravo, this is looking very cool
"Of course, what would really happen is that in Game 7, with the Red Sox winning 20-0 in the 9th inning, with two outs and two strikes on the last Cubs batter, a previously unseen meteor would strike the earth, instantly and forever wiping out all life on the planet, and forever denying the Red Sox a World Series victory..."
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RedImperator
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Deep Space Nine
Ensign Harry Kim stood by one of the Promenade's huge windows, watching Voyager's final approach. His heart raced when he first read the name and registry number--his ship, his first assignment. His hand drifted up and brushed the single rank pip on his collar, and then down to his communicator badge.
He watched the ship until it passed out of view, docking high overhead. Then he wandered back onto the Promenade. He still had three hours before he had to board Voyager--a ludicrously fast turnaround for a starship making the trip from final evaluations at Utopia Planitia to Deep Space Nine, but still a long time for him to stare out the window in dreamy excitement, watching starships pass through the Bajoran Wormhole (maybe we'll be sent on a mission to the Gamma Quadrant, he thought, thrilling at the notion of traveling all the way to the other side of the galaxy).
The Promenade was crowded with people moving in all directions, but there were a few discrete streams, and one of them was flowing into Quark's Bar. The place was crowded with Starfleet, many of them waiting, like Harry, to board Voyager. He felt like he should be mingling in the crowd and making friends, but his shyness presented an insurmountable wall. He found a seat at the bar instead.
The Ferengi bartender (Quark, presumably) had no problems with shyness and seemed to sense Harry was looking for someone to talk to. Or maybe just that Harry wanted a drink.
"Good afternoon, friend," said the Ferengi. He struck a classic bartender's pose, leaning on the bar with one elbow while polishing a glass, which was a neat trick because he was barely taller than the bar (Harry peeked over and saw the floor on the other side was raised). "What can I get for you today?"
Harry glanced at the blizzard of different liquids in bottles behind Quark. His brain promptly locked up. "I'll have...a rootbeer," he finally said.
"A rootbeer? A rootbeer?! My good sir, where are you from?"
"Uh, Earth?"
"Earth! And have you ever left Earth before?"
"Well, we took a family vacation to Mars once."
Quark gave Harry a look of pitying astonishment, like Harry had just admitted he was a virgin or had never eaten chocolate. "Do you mean to tell me that this is your very first time outside your home solar system, and you've come to this magnificent bar--" he gestured at the air around them "--with beverages to delight your senses and expand your horizons from across the galaxy, and what you want is a root beer?"
"Well, I--"
"Never mind. Starfleet has obviously already beaten the adventure out of you. Rom, one root beer!"
"Now wait. What else do you have?"
"That you'd like? Oh, tap water, tap water with ice, tap water with bubbles, that kind of thing."
"I'm serious. What else do you have?"
"Are you sure you don't want a root beer? It's safe and bor--I mean, predictable."
"I'm serious. I'm sure I don't want the root beer."
"Well, okay then. Rom, hold the root beer!" The Ferengi at the other end of the bar made a hand gesture that might have meant "OK!". If Harry had been paying closer attention, he would have noticed that Rom hadn't been doing anything that could have been construed as pouring a root beer in the first place.
Quark leaned in close to Harry. Harry could count the points of his teeth. "So what do you have in mind?"
"Um...you pick. What's good?"
"Well, everything I have is good. But I thought we were having an adventure. You don't want something good, you want something great. And I have just the thing for you."
"What's that?"
"Romulan Ale."
Harry's eyes widened. "That's illegal!"
"It's illegal in the Federation, my boy. This station is Bajoran territory!"
Harry pondered, remembering his third grade production of the epic drama, Romulan Ale Is Uncool, where he had played "Incurably Insane Romulan Ale Addict #3", as well as a lifetime of anti-Romulan Ale propaganda.
On the other hand, Romulan Ale was cool, and Harry, a lifelong dork, sensed an opportunity to achieve his long-thwarted dream of not being a dork. "Okay," he said. "I'll have some."
Quark smiled in a way that made Harry want to flinch a little. He retreived a decanter of blue liquid from under the bar, and with great ceremony, poured some into a small glass, which he pushed across the bar to Harry. Harry took one sip; it was smooth and cool, and very sweet, unlike how he had imagined.
"That will be one strip of latinum," said Harry.
Harry fished in his pockets for his FedBank chit, which let him carry Federation credits with him in areas where money was necessary. Quark held a chit reader over the bartop. Harry gave Quark one credit, plus fifty centicredits as a tip. He smiled at Quark.
"Where are the other hundred ninety-three and a half credits?" said Quark.
"The other what?"
"The other hundred ninety-three and a half credits you owe me."
"But you said it was only one."
"One strip of gold-press latinum. You're paying in Federation credits, and the current exchange rate is 194 to 1."
"But the official exchange rate is 1 to 1!"
"The official exchange rate is 1 to 1. Only an idiot actually accepts one credit for one strip of latinum. Try it; go down to the currency exchange and buy one strip for one credit. They'll laugh you right out the door."
"But you have to take credits at the official exchange rate. That's the law."
"I have to take credits at the official exchange rate in the Federation. That's why, so far as I know, nobody has ever successfully bought anything in the Federation. You owe me one hundred ninety-seven credits."
"197? I just paid you one and a half."
Quark put his hands on his hips. "The credit just fell to 198 and a half to the strip."
Harry sighed and paid. He didn't try to tip the Ferengi this time. He even bought a second Romulan Ale, and a third, and a fourth, the last costing him 352 credits, Harry reasoning that once back on the ship, he wouldn't have much to spend his money on anyway (Harry listened as Quark told a long tale of woe about the instability of the credit on the Ferenginar currency exchange, Harry the whole time thinking that he thought it was the customer who was supposed to tell the bartender a sad story). He had been at the bar for an hour when a civilian took the stool next to him (a stool Harry didn't remember being there, but he'd been drinking for an hour).
"Romulan Ale," said the civilian, a man in his early thirties. Quark poured him a glass, and, unlike with Harry, demanded payment up front.
"One strip of latinum," said Quark.
The man thought for a moment, then entered a number. Quark entered a different one; they haggled for a few minutes until they had settled on a price. Then he moved down the bar, leaving Harry and the stranger alone.
The man took a sip of his drink. "Damn," he said. "This is a lousy vintage." He squinted down after Quark.
"Mine's okay," said Harry.
The man eyed Harry. "Mind if I take a sip?"
"Sure," said Harry.
The man took Harry's glass and had a small sip. He started laughing.
"What?" said Harry.
"This isn't Romulan Ale," said the stranger. "This is Wild Berry Tasty-Ade and synthehol. And I thought I got snookered. Next time make sure he hasn't switched bottles on you."
Harry stared at him. "I paid 352 credits for that!"
The stranger laughed again. "The exchange rate isn't that bad. I paid 83 for mine. Always stop by the currency exchange first to check the rates."
"Oh," said Harry. He stared into his glass, having intense flashbacks to high school.
The stranger seemed to take pity on him. "What's your name?" he said.
"Ensign Harry Kim," said Harry.
"You with Voyager?" said the stranger.
"Yeah."
"Me too." He held out his hand. "Tom Paris."
Harry took it. "Nice to meet you. What are you, a civilian expert?"
"Something like that."
A call came over the station intercom: "All Voyager crew, report to Pylon Three."
"That's us," said Paris, finishing off his drink. When he saw Harry abandoning his, he finished that, too.
"Should I try to get my money back?" said Harry.
"From a Ferengi? You might as tell a Klingon you're going to steal his bat'leth. Come on."
They walked out of the bar, joining the crowd flowing towards Pylon 3.
"Say," said Harry, "was it my imagination, or did your stool wink at me when you got up?"
Paris shrugged. "You never know in this place."
Ensign Harry Kim stood by one of the Promenade's huge windows, watching Voyager's final approach. His heart raced when he first read the name and registry number--his ship, his first assignment. His hand drifted up and brushed the single rank pip on his collar, and then down to his communicator badge.
He watched the ship until it passed out of view, docking high overhead. Then he wandered back onto the Promenade. He still had three hours before he had to board Voyager--a ludicrously fast turnaround for a starship making the trip from final evaluations at Utopia Planitia to Deep Space Nine, but still a long time for him to stare out the window in dreamy excitement, watching starships pass through the Bajoran Wormhole (maybe we'll be sent on a mission to the Gamma Quadrant, he thought, thrilling at the notion of traveling all the way to the other side of the galaxy).
The Promenade was crowded with people moving in all directions, but there were a few discrete streams, and one of them was flowing into Quark's Bar. The place was crowded with Starfleet, many of them waiting, like Harry, to board Voyager. He felt like he should be mingling in the crowd and making friends, but his shyness presented an insurmountable wall. He found a seat at the bar instead.
The Ferengi bartender (Quark, presumably) had no problems with shyness and seemed to sense Harry was looking for someone to talk to. Or maybe just that Harry wanted a drink.
"Good afternoon, friend," said the Ferengi. He struck a classic bartender's pose, leaning on the bar with one elbow while polishing a glass, which was a neat trick because he was barely taller than the bar (Harry peeked over and saw the floor on the other side was raised). "What can I get for you today?"
Harry glanced at the blizzard of different liquids in bottles behind Quark. His brain promptly locked up. "I'll have...a rootbeer," he finally said.
"A rootbeer? A rootbeer?! My good sir, where are you from?"
"Uh, Earth?"
"Earth! And have you ever left Earth before?"
"Well, we took a family vacation to Mars once."
Quark gave Harry a look of pitying astonishment, like Harry had just admitted he was a virgin or had never eaten chocolate. "Do you mean to tell me that this is your very first time outside your home solar system, and you've come to this magnificent bar--" he gestured at the air around them "--with beverages to delight your senses and expand your horizons from across the galaxy, and what you want is a root beer?"
"Well, I--"
"Never mind. Starfleet has obviously already beaten the adventure out of you. Rom, one root beer!"
"Now wait. What else do you have?"
"That you'd like? Oh, tap water, tap water with ice, tap water with bubbles, that kind of thing."
"I'm serious. What else do you have?"
"Are you sure you don't want a root beer? It's safe and bor--I mean, predictable."
"I'm serious. I'm sure I don't want the root beer."
"Well, okay then. Rom, hold the root beer!" The Ferengi at the other end of the bar made a hand gesture that might have meant "OK!". If Harry had been paying closer attention, he would have noticed that Rom hadn't been doing anything that could have been construed as pouring a root beer in the first place.
Quark leaned in close to Harry. Harry could count the points of his teeth. "So what do you have in mind?"
"Um...you pick. What's good?"
"Well, everything I have is good. But I thought we were having an adventure. You don't want something good, you want something great. And I have just the thing for you."
"What's that?"
"Romulan Ale."
Harry's eyes widened. "That's illegal!"
"It's illegal in the Federation, my boy. This station is Bajoran territory!"
Harry pondered, remembering his third grade production of the epic drama, Romulan Ale Is Uncool, where he had played "Incurably Insane Romulan Ale Addict #3", as well as a lifetime of anti-Romulan Ale propaganda.
On the other hand, Romulan Ale was cool, and Harry, a lifelong dork, sensed an opportunity to achieve his long-thwarted dream of not being a dork. "Okay," he said. "I'll have some."
Quark smiled in a way that made Harry want to flinch a little. He retreived a decanter of blue liquid from under the bar, and with great ceremony, poured some into a small glass, which he pushed across the bar to Harry. Harry took one sip; it was smooth and cool, and very sweet, unlike how he had imagined.
"That will be one strip of latinum," said Harry.
Harry fished in his pockets for his FedBank chit, which let him carry Federation credits with him in areas where money was necessary. Quark held a chit reader over the bartop. Harry gave Quark one credit, plus fifty centicredits as a tip. He smiled at Quark.
"Where are the other hundred ninety-three and a half credits?" said Quark.
"The other what?"
"The other hundred ninety-three and a half credits you owe me."
"But you said it was only one."
"One strip of gold-press latinum. You're paying in Federation credits, and the current exchange rate is 194 to 1."
"But the official exchange rate is 1 to 1!"
"The official exchange rate is 1 to 1. Only an idiot actually accepts one credit for one strip of latinum. Try it; go down to the currency exchange and buy one strip for one credit. They'll laugh you right out the door."
"But you have to take credits at the official exchange rate. That's the law."
"I have to take credits at the official exchange rate in the Federation. That's why, so far as I know, nobody has ever successfully bought anything in the Federation. You owe me one hundred ninety-seven credits."
"197? I just paid you one and a half."
Quark put his hands on his hips. "The credit just fell to 198 and a half to the strip."
Harry sighed and paid. He didn't try to tip the Ferengi this time. He even bought a second Romulan Ale, and a third, and a fourth, the last costing him 352 credits, Harry reasoning that once back on the ship, he wouldn't have much to spend his money on anyway (Harry listened as Quark told a long tale of woe about the instability of the credit on the Ferenginar currency exchange, Harry the whole time thinking that he thought it was the customer who was supposed to tell the bartender a sad story). He had been at the bar for an hour when a civilian took the stool next to him (a stool Harry didn't remember being there, but he'd been drinking for an hour).
"Romulan Ale," said the civilian, a man in his early thirties. Quark poured him a glass, and, unlike with Harry, demanded payment up front.
"One strip of latinum," said Quark.
The man thought for a moment, then entered a number. Quark entered a different one; they haggled for a few minutes until they had settled on a price. Then he moved down the bar, leaving Harry and the stranger alone.
The man took a sip of his drink. "Damn," he said. "This is a lousy vintage." He squinted down after Quark.
"Mine's okay," said Harry.
The man eyed Harry. "Mind if I take a sip?"
"Sure," said Harry.
The man took Harry's glass and had a small sip. He started laughing.
"What?" said Harry.
"This isn't Romulan Ale," said the stranger. "This is Wild Berry Tasty-Ade and synthehol. And I thought I got snookered. Next time make sure he hasn't switched bottles on you."
Harry stared at him. "I paid 352 credits for that!"
The stranger laughed again. "The exchange rate isn't that bad. I paid 83 for mine. Always stop by the currency exchange first to check the rates."
"Oh," said Harry. He stared into his glass, having intense flashbacks to high school.
The stranger seemed to take pity on him. "What's your name?" he said.
"Ensign Harry Kim," said Harry.
"You with Voyager?" said the stranger.
"Yeah."
"Me too." He held out his hand. "Tom Paris."
Harry took it. "Nice to meet you. What are you, a civilian expert?"
"Something like that."
A call came over the station intercom: "All Voyager crew, report to Pylon Three."
"That's us," said Paris, finishing off his drink. When he saw Harry abandoning his, he finished that, too.
"Should I try to get my money back?" said Harry.
"From a Ferengi? You might as tell a Klingon you're going to steal his bat'leth. Come on."
They walked out of the bar, joining the crowd flowing towards Pylon 3.
"Say," said Harry, "was it my imagination, or did your stool wink at me when you got up?"
Paris shrugged. "You never know in this place."
X-Ray Blues
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CaptainChewbacca
- Browncoat Wookiee
- Posts: 15746
- Joined: 2003-05-06 02:36am
- Location: Deep beneath Boatmurdered.
Quite possibly the funniest thing I've ever read that had to do with voyager fanfics.
Well done.
Well done.
Stuart: The only problem is, I'm losing track of which universe I'm in.
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
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Burak Gazan
- Jedi Council Member
- Posts: 1536
- Joined: 2002-12-30 07:45pm
- Location: Sault Ste Marie, Ontario
- Contact:
So Harry blows about a thousand credits on kool-aid? I am loving this
"Of course, what would really happen is that in Game 7, with the Red Sox winning 20-0 in the 9th inning, with two outs and two strikes on the last Cubs batter, a previously unseen meteor would strike the earth, instantly and forever wiping out all life on the planet, and forever denying the Red Sox a World Series victory..."
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Soontir C'boath
- SG-14: Fuck the Medic!
- Posts: 6853
- Joined: 2002-07-06 12:15am
- Location: Queens, NYC I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF MANHATTEN IS CONSIDERED NYC!! I'M IN IT ASSHOLE!!!
- Contact:
Oh Harry, you marked yourself sooo easily.
I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season."
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RedImperator
- Roosevelt Republican
- Posts: 16465
- Joined: 2002-07-11 07:59pm
- Location: Delaware
- Contact:
USS Voyager
Federation-Cardassian Frontier
Lieutenant Commander Kathryn Janeway was still getting settled in her office when the door chimed. "Come," she said.
The doors hissed open and Captain Bujold walked in. Janeway sprang to her feet.
"As you were," said Bujold. "I just came down to see how you were settling in."
"Just fine, ma'am," said Janeway.
"What do you think of the facilities here?"
"They're very nice," she said. "Not as much space as we had on Atlantis, but all of the equipment is top of the line."
"Nobody has the lab space of a Nebula," said Bujold. "Our mission profile is geared more towards observation than analysis."
"That makes sense," said Janeway. "If we're not going to be in deep space for years at a time, we might as well leave the analysis to facilities on the ground." Like hell we should, she thought, but she was not about to question the design of the captain's starship on her first day on board.
"Yes, indeed," said Bujold. She looked around. "Still, you would like more lab facilities, no?"
"Yes, ma'am, I would. Science is what Starfleet is all about."
Bujold heaved a theatrical sigh and gave Janeway a wry smile. "I agree. But since Wolf..." She shrugged. She was right. Since Wolf 359, science had gotten the short end of the funding stick. Janeway understood the rationale, but she didn't have to like it.
"Have you gone over your inventory yet?" said Bujold.
"Eh? Yes, I have. I was going to mention--"
"You are short several items."
"Yes, I am." It's a lot more than "several".
"We were in a rush to depart Deep Space Nine. Since this is a short-duration mission, I felt we could leave non-critical supplies in storage there and return for them later. I apologize for not telling you earlier, but as you can imagine, today has been hectic."
"I understand," said Janeway. She pretended to be distracted by a blinking figure on her PADD, to hide her irritation.
"I have an assignment for you," said Bujold. "We will be in the Badlands in a few hours. I would like you to send someone to work with Mr. Paris and Lieutenant Stadi to plot a course and plan our search."
Janeway went through her mental list of offficers and crewmen in her department. The trouble was, she'd been on board Voyager less than a day, and couldn't even remember all her people's names, let alone their qualifications. Bujold waited, tapping her foot. Janeway, pressed, decided on the one person she knew she could trust.
"I can do it," said Janeway.
Bujold gave her a curious look. "You, Commander?"
"Yes ma'am."
"What is your specialty again?"
There was a long pause. "Meteorology, ma'am."
"Meteorology."
"Yes. Specifically, meteorology of class J and T planets."
"Gas giants," said Bujold.
"Yes," said Janeway. Her ears were starting to turn hot.
Bujold stared at the overhead for a moment, as if she had just spotted an interesting bug or somesuch thing. She said "Hmm" several times. Finally, she said to Janeway, "Well, if you feel it is best, by all means, please join Lieutenant Stadi and Mr. Paris in stellar cartography. Just please send somebody."
"Yes ma'am." After Bujold left, she pulled up her department's personnel records and flipped through them, looking for someone to send to meet with Stadi.
#
USS Voyager
The Badlands
Lieutenant Stadi didn't like the way Tom Paris was leaning over her shoulder, watching the helm station's readouts. For one thing, he was making noises: small "hmms" and "uh-huhs" like an Academy instructor, making it clear he was critiquing her performance, as if a failed revolutionary had any business judging a Starfleet officer. For another,he was looking at her breasts. She was sure of this because she was Betazed, and though she tried not to read minds unless she had a good reason, Damn. Nice cans. I'd hit that. was hard to ignore, especially when he thought it two or three times in the first hour.
"Set course 285 mark 13, warp 3, four minutes," said Paris.
"That's a little slow," said Commander Cavit, Voyager's first officer.
"If you want to blow your nacelles off running at high warp through a subspace pothole field, be my guest," said Paris.
"This is ridiculous," said Cavit. "The Cardassians told us where Val Jean disappeared. Why don't we just go straight there and start looking?"
"Because the Cardassians couldn't find their own asses in the Badlands," said Paris. "All we know is that Val Jean went into the Rat's Nest. We're looking where she would have gone if she came out."
"That's not a rational search pattern, Mr. Paris," said Bujold.
"Look," said Paris, "One of two things happened. They went into the Rat's Nest and they never came out, meaning the ship was wrecked, meaning it's not going anywhere; or they did leave, and they're hiding somewhere else in the Badlands. If that's the case, you want to catch them now, because the Maquis watch both sides of the border and someone saw us go in. If Chakotay is still in here, and he's alive, it's a race to find him before he finds out we're looking."
Bujold and Cavitt seemed to accept that explanation, though Stadi glanced back over her shoulder once and saw Cavitt sitting in his chair cracking his knuckles, a sure sign he was unhappy. Stadi felt the same.
That unhappiness deepened as the search dragged on for another hour, and then another, and then another after that. Paris tried several times to make small talk with her. She brushed off each attempt with clipped, one-word answers. She tried to ignore her disgust when he started having sexual fantasies about her. When that failed, she started deliberately making small mistakes for him to correct, under the assumption that if he was micromanaging her, he wouldn't have time to wonder if she took "it" there.
She was profoundly relieved when the pipes sounded the end of her watch, and just as dismayed when she heard Paris's thoughts just before he spoke them: "Lieutenant Stadi should stay on post," he said as her replacement approached the helm. "We're working together well."
"Is this so, lieutenant?" said Bujold. Bujold, who was human, knew how to frame the thoughts in her head so Stadi could clearly hear them (Stadi often wondered who had taught Bujold that trick). I know he is a pig, thought Bujold (in French; Stadi had taken a crash course). It is up to you if you wish to stay.
Stadi looked up into the face of the leering Tom Paris. The less time she spent with the repugnant toad, the better. On the other hand, she sensed he wasn't lying, at least not all the way: he was comfortable working with her, and uneasy at the thought of training another helmsman on the fly in this dangerous environment.
She sighed. "I can work another watch, captain."
That was the decision that killed her.
#
USS Voyager
Time and place unknown
Paris was awakened by a horrid screeching wail, like metal being twisted to the breaking point, an instant before he was flung to the deck of the brig. He stood up, only to get thrown to the deck again by a violent shock. The red alert sirens wailed to life.
"What the hell was that?" said Paris. He crawled to his bunk, held onto it as he rose to his knees, braced for another shock. He looked around, noticing the lights were flickering. The cell's forcefield held steady, powered off a 72-hour backup battery if main power became unreliable.
The Andorian able crewman who had been guarding the brig had fallen to the deck, but was pulling himself up at her station. She had a huge cut on her face, and blue blood was dripping off her her chin onto the control station.
"Hey!" said Paris. "What's happening?"
"Quiet," she said. Her fingers flew over the control panel.
"Let me out," said Paris. "I know first aid; I can help you."
"I said keeep quiet," she said. She tapped her commbadge. "Brig to security."
"Security," replied whoever was on the other end of the channel. It sounded like pandemonium in the background.
"This is Tsien. I'm requesting instructions."
"Stay at your post."
"Acknowledged."
"That's it?" said Paris. "You didn't even ask them what happened."
"They're busy," she said.
The lights steadied themselves. Paris was starting to wish he was back on New Senegal, digging some nice, safe holes.
"You're bleeding pretty bad," he said.
"I'll be fine."
"You should let me help you."
"You are not to leave your cell."
Andorian pride, thought Paris. Even a Klingon would put a bandage on that. "Look, I'm a pilot, not some kind of kung-fu master. And you have a phaser. There's a dermal regenerator in the first aid kit over there. Let me out, I'll fix you up, and then I'll go back in my cell. If I try anything, you can stun me and dump me back in here."
She hesitated before responding.
"We're on a starship," he said. "Where am I going to go?" To the shuttle bay, after I seal your eyelids shut, steal your phaser, and shoot everyone between here and there. A low-warp shuttlecraft would be just the thing in the Badlands; they'd never find him, not with Voyager apparently crippled.
Able crewman Tsien touched a button on the control panel; Paris heard the brig's security doors lock. "Okay," she said. "I'll let you out."
She was reaching for the panel when there was a deafening bass roar--the warp core! thought Paris--and all the lights went out. Behind able crewman Tsien, a wall panel blew out in a fountain of iradescent gas. For an instant she was silhouetted against a cloud of blue death, and then she was overwhelmed, her scream cut off as if by a knife, and the brig force field glowed blinding purple-white against the energy of the plasma.
Eventually--it was only a few seconds, though it seemed like decades for Paris--some cutoff valve upstream shut off the plasma flow and emergency vents opened in the brig, flushing the atmosphere, clearing the air so that Paris could see the devastation the blowout had wrought. Nothing was left of able crewman Tsien except a pile of glowing bones.
Federation-Cardassian Frontier
Lieutenant Commander Kathryn Janeway was still getting settled in her office when the door chimed. "Come," she said.
The doors hissed open and Captain Bujold walked in. Janeway sprang to her feet.
"As you were," said Bujold. "I just came down to see how you were settling in."
"Just fine, ma'am," said Janeway.
"What do you think of the facilities here?"
"They're very nice," she said. "Not as much space as we had on Atlantis, but all of the equipment is top of the line."
"Nobody has the lab space of a Nebula," said Bujold. "Our mission profile is geared more towards observation than analysis."
"That makes sense," said Janeway. "If we're not going to be in deep space for years at a time, we might as well leave the analysis to facilities on the ground." Like hell we should, she thought, but she was not about to question the design of the captain's starship on her first day on board.
"Yes, indeed," said Bujold. She looked around. "Still, you would like more lab facilities, no?"
"Yes, ma'am, I would. Science is what Starfleet is all about."
Bujold heaved a theatrical sigh and gave Janeway a wry smile. "I agree. But since Wolf..." She shrugged. She was right. Since Wolf 359, science had gotten the short end of the funding stick. Janeway understood the rationale, but she didn't have to like it.
"Have you gone over your inventory yet?" said Bujold.
"Eh? Yes, I have. I was going to mention--"
"You are short several items."
"Yes, I am." It's a lot more than "several".
"We were in a rush to depart Deep Space Nine. Since this is a short-duration mission, I felt we could leave non-critical supplies in storage there and return for them later. I apologize for not telling you earlier, but as you can imagine, today has been hectic."
"I understand," said Janeway. She pretended to be distracted by a blinking figure on her PADD, to hide her irritation.
"I have an assignment for you," said Bujold. "We will be in the Badlands in a few hours. I would like you to send someone to work with Mr. Paris and Lieutenant Stadi to plot a course and plan our search."
Janeway went through her mental list of offficers and crewmen in her department. The trouble was, she'd been on board Voyager less than a day, and couldn't even remember all her people's names, let alone their qualifications. Bujold waited, tapping her foot. Janeway, pressed, decided on the one person she knew she could trust.
"I can do it," said Janeway.
Bujold gave her a curious look. "You, Commander?"
"Yes ma'am."
"What is your specialty again?"
There was a long pause. "Meteorology, ma'am."
"Meteorology."
"Yes. Specifically, meteorology of class J and T planets."
"Gas giants," said Bujold.
"Yes," said Janeway. Her ears were starting to turn hot.
Bujold stared at the overhead for a moment, as if she had just spotted an interesting bug or somesuch thing. She said "Hmm" several times. Finally, she said to Janeway, "Well, if you feel it is best, by all means, please join Lieutenant Stadi and Mr. Paris in stellar cartography. Just please send somebody."
"Yes ma'am." After Bujold left, she pulled up her department's personnel records and flipped through them, looking for someone to send to meet with Stadi.
#
USS Voyager
The Badlands
Lieutenant Stadi didn't like the way Tom Paris was leaning over her shoulder, watching the helm station's readouts. For one thing, he was making noises: small "hmms" and "uh-huhs" like an Academy instructor, making it clear he was critiquing her performance, as if a failed revolutionary had any business judging a Starfleet officer. For another,he was looking at her breasts. She was sure of this because she was Betazed, and though she tried not to read minds unless she had a good reason, Damn. Nice cans. I'd hit that. was hard to ignore, especially when he thought it two or three times in the first hour.
"Set course 285 mark 13, warp 3, four minutes," said Paris.
"That's a little slow," said Commander Cavit, Voyager's first officer.
"If you want to blow your nacelles off running at high warp through a subspace pothole field, be my guest," said Paris.
"This is ridiculous," said Cavit. "The Cardassians told us where Val Jean disappeared. Why don't we just go straight there and start looking?"
"Because the Cardassians couldn't find their own asses in the Badlands," said Paris. "All we know is that Val Jean went into the Rat's Nest. We're looking where she would have gone if she came out."
"That's not a rational search pattern, Mr. Paris," said Bujold.
"Look," said Paris, "One of two things happened. They went into the Rat's Nest and they never came out, meaning the ship was wrecked, meaning it's not going anywhere; or they did leave, and they're hiding somewhere else in the Badlands. If that's the case, you want to catch them now, because the Maquis watch both sides of the border and someone saw us go in. If Chakotay is still in here, and he's alive, it's a race to find him before he finds out we're looking."
Bujold and Cavitt seemed to accept that explanation, though Stadi glanced back over her shoulder once and saw Cavitt sitting in his chair cracking his knuckles, a sure sign he was unhappy. Stadi felt the same.
That unhappiness deepened as the search dragged on for another hour, and then another, and then another after that. Paris tried several times to make small talk with her. She brushed off each attempt with clipped, one-word answers. She tried to ignore her disgust when he started having sexual fantasies about her. When that failed, she started deliberately making small mistakes for him to correct, under the assumption that if he was micromanaging her, he wouldn't have time to wonder if she took "it" there.
She was profoundly relieved when the pipes sounded the end of her watch, and just as dismayed when she heard Paris's thoughts just before he spoke them: "Lieutenant Stadi should stay on post," he said as her replacement approached the helm. "We're working together well."
"Is this so, lieutenant?" said Bujold. Bujold, who was human, knew how to frame the thoughts in her head so Stadi could clearly hear them (Stadi often wondered who had taught Bujold that trick). I know he is a pig, thought Bujold (in French; Stadi had taken a crash course). It is up to you if you wish to stay.
Stadi looked up into the face of the leering Tom Paris. The less time she spent with the repugnant toad, the better. On the other hand, she sensed he wasn't lying, at least not all the way: he was comfortable working with her, and uneasy at the thought of training another helmsman on the fly in this dangerous environment.
She sighed. "I can work another watch, captain."
That was the decision that killed her.
#
USS Voyager
Time and place unknown
Paris was awakened by a horrid screeching wail, like metal being twisted to the breaking point, an instant before he was flung to the deck of the brig. He stood up, only to get thrown to the deck again by a violent shock. The red alert sirens wailed to life.
"What the hell was that?" said Paris. He crawled to his bunk, held onto it as he rose to his knees, braced for another shock. He looked around, noticing the lights were flickering. The cell's forcefield held steady, powered off a 72-hour backup battery if main power became unreliable.
The Andorian able crewman who had been guarding the brig had fallen to the deck, but was pulling himself up at her station. She had a huge cut on her face, and blue blood was dripping off her her chin onto the control station.
"Hey!" said Paris. "What's happening?"
"Quiet," she said. Her fingers flew over the control panel.
"Let me out," said Paris. "I know first aid; I can help you."
"I said keeep quiet," she said. She tapped her commbadge. "Brig to security."
"Security," replied whoever was on the other end of the channel. It sounded like pandemonium in the background.
"This is Tsien. I'm requesting instructions."
"Stay at your post."
"Acknowledged."
"That's it?" said Paris. "You didn't even ask them what happened."
"They're busy," she said.
The lights steadied themselves. Paris was starting to wish he was back on New Senegal, digging some nice, safe holes.
"You're bleeding pretty bad," he said.
"I'll be fine."
"You should let me help you."
"You are not to leave your cell."
Andorian pride, thought Paris. Even a Klingon would put a bandage on that. "Look, I'm a pilot, not some kind of kung-fu master. And you have a phaser. There's a dermal regenerator in the first aid kit over there. Let me out, I'll fix you up, and then I'll go back in my cell. If I try anything, you can stun me and dump me back in here."
She hesitated before responding.
"We're on a starship," he said. "Where am I going to go?" To the shuttle bay, after I seal your eyelids shut, steal your phaser, and shoot everyone between here and there. A low-warp shuttlecraft would be just the thing in the Badlands; they'd never find him, not with Voyager apparently crippled.
Able crewman Tsien touched a button on the control panel; Paris heard the brig's security doors lock. "Okay," she said. "I'll let you out."
She was reaching for the panel when there was a deafening bass roar--the warp core! thought Paris--and all the lights went out. Behind able crewman Tsien, a wall panel blew out in a fountain of iradescent gas. For an instant she was silhouetted against a cloud of blue death, and then she was overwhelmed, her scream cut off as if by a knife, and the brig force field glowed blinding purple-white against the energy of the plasma.
Eventually--it was only a few seconds, though it seemed like decades for Paris--some cutoff valve upstream shut off the plasma flow and emergency vents opened in the brig, flushing the atmosphere, clearing the air so that Paris could see the devastation the blowout had wrought. Nothing was left of able crewman Tsien except a pile of glowing bones.
X-Ray Blues
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Darth Smiley
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 215
- Joined: 2007-07-03 04:34pm
- Location: Command School, Eros
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Burak Gazan
- Jedi Council Member
- Posts: 1536
- Joined: 2002-12-30 07:45pm
- Location: Sault Ste Marie, Ontario
- Contact:
Hey, nice Easter present
Bravo!
Bravo!
"Of course, what would really happen is that in Game 7, with the Red Sox winning 20-0 in the 9th inning, with two outs and two strikes on the last Cubs batter, a previously unseen meteor would strike the earth, instantly and forever wiping out all life on the planet, and forever denying the Red Sox a World Series victory..."
-
CaptainChewbacca
- Browncoat Wookiee
- Posts: 15746
- Joined: 2003-05-06 02:36am
- Location: Deep beneath Boatmurdered.
Awesome, she's a meteorologist?! How many other LtC's are on Voyager?
Stuart: The only problem is, I'm losing track of which universe I'm in.
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
You kinda look like Jesus. With a lightsaber.- Peregrin Toker
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RedImperator
- Roosevelt Republican
- Posts: 16465
- Joined: 2002-07-11 07:59pm
- Location: Delaware
- Contact:
Starfleet seems to like to make LtCs or senior-in-grade lieutenants department heads on its larger ships. Since Voyager is a medium sized ship, I figured the ratio would be skewed in favor of lieutenants. Janeway and Patel were the only LtCs. It gets complicated, though, by the fact that Starfleet captains can arrange the line of succession (first officer, second officer, third officer, etc) as they please. So Janeway was actually sixth officer, behind Cavitt (commander), Patel (lt. commander), the unnamed tactical officer/security chief (lieutenant), the unnamed ops officer (lieutenant), and Stadi (lieutenant).CaptainChewbacca wrote:Awesome, she's a meteorologist?! How many other LtC's are on Voyager?
And yeah, she's a gas giant meteorologist. I think it's a lot more fun if she has more or less no qualifications for the captain's position and has to learn on the job.
X-Ray Blues