USS Malinche NCC-38997-A

<<1225 Hours -- Day 2 -- Marketplace>>

=A= "Beladd to Tournneau...we need to talk." =A=

Tournneau pressed his commbadge as he and Greyman were walking away from the smoldering cafe. "Tournneau here...we need to talk? All right, I promise to leave the seat down next time..."

<Engineering Office>
"Derek!" Viradia hissed. "I'm serious. I just saw something..." she wavered, looking around the office. The other technicians seemed busy. "One of the crew here was acting very strangely. She was relieved of duty and sent to the infirmary. She had..."

<Marketplace>
"Let me guess - white eyes, dumb look on her face, just standing in the way?"

<Engineering Office>
"Yes! You've seen it too?"

<Marketplace>
"Yes, there were several colonists down here that were the same." He looked over at Greyman, still holding the black kitten they had found.

Derek (PNPC) frowned... Apparently whatever was happening with the people wasn't limited to just the Marketplace area, or just to civilian colonists. If StarFleet colony personnel were being affected or some of the colony workers in particular areas, perhaps some of the issues at the colony were due to that. "Not a good sign, sir... Especially if people being affected aren't from a limited area," he said quietly.

"Agreed," Tournneau replied. "It's time to get to the bottom of all of this." He turned around, surveying the market square. The colonists seemed relieved that the crisis had passed, but they looked weary and haggard. Greyman was still holding the cat; even though they had passed by everyone who was in the cafe on their way towards the administration buildings, no one seemed to recognize the small animal.

"We need to get things up and running, pronto," Tournneau said into his commbadge. "V, can you meet us in the generator complex?"

<Engineering Office>
"I'm standing in for the officers that relieved the affected woman for the moment, I'll meet you there when they get back. Beladd out."

<1245 Hours -- Main Generator>

Viradia came up to the door of the main power generation station. It was set into the cliff face about one hundred meters behind the main administration and engineering buildings of the colony. There were two guards posted on either side of the large cargo bay style double-doors who nodded her in. The doors opened with their characteristic groan of machinery.

The passageway beyond the doors was cut through the raw bedrock, high and wide enough for two small utility vehicles to pass on either side. There were a few parked in a motorpool on the right-hand side of the entryway, so she hopped in one of them and set off down the passage. The small wheeled vehicle had two bench seats and a thin steelplast canopy. The passage was dimly lit by red emergency lighting, so she drove by the vehicle's headlamps.

The passage curved around a bend and opened into a large cavern. The top of the cavern had a large fissure that was open to the plateau high above, the sunlight streaming through its narrow opening. The walls were lined with some of the luminescent flora that was found all over the planet, giving off a blue glow in the otherwise dim mountain hall. In the center of the room sat the main power generator - a thermolytic turbine built over the geothermal vent that originally formed the cavern. The generator did not sound happy - it periodically whirred and groaned, and steam was off-gassing from the top of the structure and out through the fissure.

The road from the passageway continued along the floor of the cavern right up to the generator, which was surrounded by railings and catwalks at various levels. A handful of colony technicians could be seen working at terminals along those accessways or in front of the machine. Pipes and plasma relays ran from the generator back to the walls of the cavern, meant to exchange plasma, energy, and heat with the colony. She parked the small cart next to a few others at the generator, and found the two Dereks rummaging through the pallet of boxes that had been brought down from the shuttle earlier.

"Ugh, where the hell is it?" Tournneau asked Greyman. "No isolinear bus in here, either?"

Derek moved the last few parts out of the way and sighed, "I'm afraid not, sir." As he started to reorganize the contents, the kitten put its paws on the edge of the box to peer inside. It looked up at him, mewed, and jumped in. Derek shook his head and plucked the kitten out of the box, setting it back on the ground. Hearing someone approach, the Security Officer turned to see the Assistant Chief Engineer.

Viradia walked up to the stack of boxes and unclasped the lid to a large black container, removing the bus in question. "Looking for this?"

"Oh, hey V - yes! How-"

"It's in box twenty-four, remember?"

"Erm, no." Tournneau sheepishly took the bus from Viradia, hefting it in both hands. "Thanks for joining the party. It's not quite as bad as I thought, but it's not great. Come have a look."

She shut the lid to the box, when suddenly a dark something leapt from the stack of boxes on to her arm.

"Aaah - oh." Her surprise led to realization as the small black cat pranced across her shoulders. She looked up at it as it settled down and nuzzled against her neck. "I don't remember packing a cat?"

Perhaps bringing the cat with them hadn't been the best idea, the Security Officer mused, but it had seemed determined to follow them even if they hadn't. "Back in the Marketplace when I was clearing the cafe, she nearly knocked me over while I was coming down the stairs. She seemed keen to come with us, so...here we are," Derek explained.

Viradia pet the head of the cat, who had begun purring contentedly. "Well, I suppose we can use the extra hands -- or paws, as it were." She chortled as she followed the two officers around the back of the turbine.

"Fortunately, it seems like there's no physical damage to the turbine body," Tournneau explained as they rounded the generator. "However, the isolinear processing core is completely shot. The last round of storms fused every single relay and chip in the turbine. The crew here is working to replace what they can, but without the turbine's processor it can't manage the power output safely."

The turbine whirred and groaned again, the sound almost deafening now that Viradia was this close. Steam vented from the top of the machine and out great fissure. "And this is safe?" Viradia exclaimed.

Derek raised an eyebrow and looked over at the Chief Engineer. It certainly didn't seem safe to him, but Engineering was not his specialty. Isabel would definitely have had thoughts on the state of the turbine, and he had no doubt the other Derek would be sharing his. The kitten stayed further back, her posture seeming to indicate she was not impressed with the noise or likely much of anything going on in this particular area.

"It does have a fail-safe mode that handles the gas pressure if it can't generate, but that's about all it's got," Tournneau replied.

Frowning, Derek eyed the turbine a bit more closely, "I'm not sure that that's very reassuring, sir. Shouldn't there be more safety features built in? I'm no expert, but this doesn't seem to be in good shape. How much more needs to be done?" Hopefully not all the systems would be this damaged and unsafe. Especially with people acting odd...he didn't like it.

"It looks like they were able to repair most of the transfer piping and equipment, we're just here to deliver what they can't replicate. Don't worry," Tournneau said with a wave of the hand, "Our warp cores are far more hazardous than this setup. Don't think about it."

They came to the turbine's main processor housing - or what was left of it, anyway. Two of the colonists were working on ripping out the last of the burned out isolinear circuits. "The colonists have been able to replicate the basic chips, but we've had to provide them with a new processor core from our own reserve stock. I'm hoping their main computer is in better shape, but I've not had a chance to see it." Tournneau placed the isolinear bus on a crate next to some other new components. "Once we get this cleaned up, we can rebuild the core and try and get this thing going again."

The Security Officer was afraid to see what kind of condition the main computer was in, if this turbine was any indication. "How long do you think that might take, Commander? Anything I can do to assist? Engineering isn't my forte per se, but I'll help out how I can if I can be of any use."

"Well, maybe you can help Miss Beladd put together that bus while I work on the processor. Ever put a ship in a bottle when you were a boy? It's basically the same thing."

Derek grinned, "I can't say I did, sir, but I understand the concept. I'll go speak with her."

The two colonists (NPCs) stepped back from the computer console. "That's the last of the old stuff, Commander," the foreman said, "She's all yours. Think you can get it up and running?"

"Well," Tournneau replied, "I'll certainly give it the ol' college try. Thanks, gentlemen, that'll be all for now." The two technicians nodded and headed over to the other side of the machine to help their colleagues finish up.

Meanwhile, Viradia had uncrated a selection of chips and was handing them to Greyman. "All right, Derek, go ahead and place this blue one in slot B2...."

Taking the blue chip from the Bolian, Derek nodded and narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked for the slot she had indicated... B1...B2. He firmly placed the chip in the correct slot, "Got it, Viradia. What's next?" He waited for the next chip, glancing at the different slots before looking back at her. Not the most exciting assignment, but the faster it was done, the faster he could get back to his specialty.

"All right, now, power on the unit and let's see the readout...."

As the lieutenants were building the new control bus, Tournneau uncased the computer core from one of the black crates nearby. It was still shrink-wrapped from its manufacture, the words "Spacedock One" visible alongside the Starfleet Engineering sigil. He carefully removed the wrapping, the smell of the plastic strangely satisfying. He hefted the rectangular core in both hands and brought it to the console. He carefully placed the control pins in the core slot and twisted the unit until it locked into place with a satisfying clunk and a whir of electronics.

Instantly, the monitor flickered into life.

INITIALIZING.....

LCARS OS v. 2393.122
Designed by Admiral Okuda
Programmed at Jupiter Station, Sol

SYSCORE MODULE 12C-7780X
Manufactured at Spacedock One, Sol
Created on Stardate 70684.6

Detecting Primary Interface - Initialized
Detecting Secondary Interface - Initialized

WARNING - Insufficient power, SUBSPC GEN - OFFLINE - FTL mode disabled

No control bus detected...aborting installation.

Press any key to restart....

"Bingo!" Tournneau exclaimed as he clapped his hands enthusiastically. "I think we're back in business, V. How's that bus coming along?"

"Almost there, just a few more chips to add," Viradia replied. "There and....there." She placed the final chips and lifted the unit into Greyman's hands. "All set!"

Nodding at Viradia, Derek carefully brought the control bus over to the Chief Engineer. Luckily the kitten was still staying out of the way, so it wasn't under his feet for the time being. He offered it to the other Derek, "Here you are, sir."

Tournneau placed the bus in the alcove and hastily connected the power couplings and data terminals. Not the prettiest job I've ever done, he thought to himself, but just enough to get this thing going. The guys here can doll it up if they want.

[SYSTEM INITIALIZATION: Geothermal Power Integration]
Status: [ONLINE]

[COMPONENTS VERIFICATION]
Core Matrix: Online
Geothermal Node: Active
Geothermal Energy Conversion Array: Optimal Efficiency: 99.8%
Auxiliary Backup Systems: Engaged

[SIGNAL ALIGNMENT]
Initializing geothermal energy uplink…
Energy Frequency Lock-In: 22.2 kHz (sub-terra)
Geothermal Coupling Protocol: Engaged
Connection Strength: 87% Stabilized
Crystal Matrix Integrity Check: Complete. No abnormalities detected.
Transfer Line Pulse: 33% Stable… 47% Stable… 99.7% Stable

[DATA SYNCHRONIZATION]
Direct Energy Feed: Active
Energy Flow Rate: 39.5 MW
Core Resonance Synchronization: 92% Complete
Geothermal Flow Stability Check: Nominal
Energy Flux Density at Transfer Point: 8.2 Terajoules

[INTERNAL CONNECTION ESTABLISHED]
Linking geothermal power node to primary core: SUCCESS
Geothermal Core Interface: Established
Power Transfer: Engaged
Energy Distribution Pathways: Open
Backup Power Integration: 100% Operational
Discharge Surge Protection: Active

[MONITORING SYSTEMS]
Energy Surge Detection: Nominal
Magnetic Field Variance: Minimal fluctuations
Cryogenic Stabilization: 85% within optimal range
Thermal Regulation: Standard operating range

[COMMAND EXECUTED]
GEOTHERMAL POWER CONNECTED: READY
Command Termination in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1

[DISPLAY RESET]

Awaiting Next Command…

As the computer finished initializing, its signals reached out to the various parts of the great machine which began to click and hum in turn as they were queried by the processor. The machine began to come to life again, the sputtering and venting replaced with a slow, methodical thrum that slowly increased in tempo and intensity. Tournneau allowed himself a self-satisfied smile as the turbine spun up...perhaps too 'up'? His smile changed to a perplexed grimace. The intensity and tempo of the turbine was far higher than he expected. He turned to the console, which read:

WARNING - OVERPRESSURE EVENT - VENTING GEOLOGIC GASSES

For your safety, please remain clear of this area.

A geyser of hot gasses erupted from the top of the turbine and shot through the fissure to the outside. The gas seemed to have more form than it should, almost fluid but clearly not. Its tendrils spread across the roof of the cavern, seemingly searching for something.

The colonist technicians were already scrambling away from the machine and back towards utility vehicles. Unfortunately, the tendrils found what they were looking for - five branches of the hot blue gas wrapped themselves around a large stalactite in different parts of the cavern. The one nearest to the turbine was thrown down with incredible force into the utility vehicles, flattening them. The technicians regrouped in front of the turbine and huddled under some of the raised walkways. The Malinche officers looked up to see that the geyser had pulled the other stalactites off the ceiling, the four gaseous arms holding them slowly rotating the pillars of stone around the central form.

"Y O U . . C A N N O T . . R E M A I N . . . ." A great wind issued again from the geyser through the fissure. The wind blowing over and through the fissure howled in a way that seemed to resemble speech, its deafening sibilance whistling slowly and terribly in the mountain hall.

"What the hell is that?" Tournneau asked Derek and Viradia. "Suggestions?"

The Security Officer stared at the...creature looming over them. "A...gas centopus? Doesn't have eight tentacles like an octopus, but seems to be able to use them quite well. There were rumors of elemental creatures, but I don't recall any reports of actual communication with them, sir. If it really is made of gas, I don't think firing phasers at it would be wise, especially considering its size and proximity."

"Whatever it is," Viradia chimed in, "It's definitely not happy that we're here. This probably destroyed the computer..." Viradia's eyes widened. "The computer - Derek - we have to pull the core again to keep it from being destroyed - we'd have to pull one out of the ship if we lose another."

Tournneau wrenched the console cover open again and twisted desperately at the core's locking ring. It wouldn't budge - it should have moved - but it refused. "It's stuck fast! I - I can't remove it!" Tournneau cried.

Derek looked from the Chief Engineer to the core and then to the creature. Could the creature somehow be holding it in? But why? If it didn't want them there, why hold onto the core? Unless....

"Y O U . . W I L L . . N O T . . R E M A I N . . . ." The great wind blew again.

"What does it mean, we can't remain?" Tournneau asked.

"Wait - I heard this before," Viradia interjected. "A woman in the engineering office seemed to lose herself and said the same thing to me. 'You cannot remain - you will not remain - '" she gulped visibly. "She also said, 'you should not be here.'"

"Well, I agree on that point," Tournneau yelled over the tempest.

His mind racing, the security officer looked back at the other Derek, "So far it hasn't directly hurt us, but what if it wants to overload the core to ensure we can't fix this? I'm not sure we should stay here, sir. Whatever it is, it seems sentient...and mad."

Tournneau nodded. "At the first indication that this is going south, get the Lieutenant and the others out of here." He looked up at the...thing. "It's trying to communicate, and I dare say it qualifies as 'new life'!"

Tournneau drew as much breath as he could and bellowed at the gas and rock entity. "What do you want!? We mean you no harm!"

"Y O U . . . . D O . . U S . . H A R M . . . . Y O U . . H A V E . . D O N E . . U S . . H A R M . . . ."

"We do not intend to harm," Tournneau breathed, "if we have done so!"

"W E . . S H A L L . . N O T . . B E . . H A R M E D . . A G A I N . . . ."

"Agreed!" Tournneau would have given anything for an empath right about now. "What are your terms!?"

"L E A V E . . U S . . . . L E A V E . . U S . . . ."

"Can we coexist!?"

"W E . . T R I E D . . . . Y O U . . F A I L E D . . . ."

"There are many here!" Tournneau yelled, his voice growing hoarse, "That have settled to live! Is there no way!? Can we talk - our people and yours!? Negotiate!?"

". . . . . . . . . . . . . . P E R H A P S . . . . . . . . . R E T U R N . . I N . . O N E . . S U N . . . . . . . . . ."

The geyser dissipated as quickly as it formed, the great stalactites falling to the ground with a tremendous shudder. The turbine's tempo began to slow to a manageable rate, and the power levels stabilized on the console. The howling wind was replaced by the steady thrum of the machine. Tournneau tapped through some of the console's readouts. Power was being restored and shunted to various parts of the colony in a stepwise manner. If it weren't for their encounter, their mission would be a success; however because of the encounter, their mission just went right out the window. None of this mattered if the entity decided to lay waste to the turbine tomorrow.

=A= "Tournneau to Captain Kersare...we need to talk." =A=

OFF

A JP brought to you by:

Lieutenant Derek Greyman
Security Officer
USS Malinche-A
PNPC of Kersare

Lieutenant Viradia Beladd
Assistant Chief Engineering Officer
USS Malinche-A
PNPC of Tournneau

and

ON:
<<Torva IV Colony Orbit, USS Malinche, Bridge, Day 2, 1205 hours>>

Aniela's (PNPC) eyes were focused on the Communications console before her. She'd just come on duty; her first official shift back in Operations and she was the ranking officer on the bridge at that. Part of her was disappointed at being moved out of Science as that was her true passion, but what the Malinche needed at the moment was someone to lead the Ops department and she was the best candidate. Unfortunately, she was playing a bit of catch up. Between the normal day to day of Operations as well as her department's role in their current mission, there was a lot to sift through.

One thing that had caught her eye was the new Boatswain who they were supposed to rendezvous with at Starbase 122. Of course that had been postponed since the Malinche received orders to divert to Torva IV. Tapping a finger on the console, she brought up the Boatswain's personnel file and started reading. Oisín was older than her, though not by that much, but he had seen enough conflict for a few lifetimes at least... Seeing mention of cybernetic augmentations due to injuries he sustained, Aniela raised an eyebrow slightly. As she was about to return to the reports she needed to read, her console beeped with an incoming message. Tapping the console she listened to the message.

“This is Federation shuttlecraft Ortegas, broadcasting in the clear Torva IV and the USS Malinche. We have arrived in-system, and are requesting permission to approach to a standard orbit.”

The Ortegas? Aniela frowned slightly; that was the shuttle the Malinche was supposed to rendezvous with at the Starbase. What were they doing here? One way to find out... "Shuttlecraft Ortegas, this is the USS Malinche. Torva IV's voice communications are temporarily down due to some additional difficulties with their equipment, but go ahead and establish a standard orbit; I'll relay the information to them so they're aware. I take it you diverted from Starbase 122?"

Difficulty with their equipment that was interfering with communications? Oisín's brow furrowed. Over the last few hours, he'd taken the opportunity to review whatever scraps of information on Torva IV he could manage to source from the cockpit of a shuttlecraft — not enough for him to feel fully informed, but enough to be glad that the shuttle's destination was in orbit, rather than on the surface. It certainly sounded like the kind of planet where the environment might do a number on your equipment if it had the mind to; but also the kind of planet that you wouldn't colonise unless the equipment you were taking with you was pretty heavy duty. To lose something as vital as voice comms suggested more severity than the casual nature of the Starfleet dispatch Oisín had read, and to have lost those comms subsequent to Torva IV's call for help? Things suddenly seemed more serious than Oisín had allowed himself to assume. Perhaps Mendez' willingness to bend the rules would prove positive after all; he certainly would not have enjoyed learning all of this from several star systems away.

"That's correct, Malinche. We heard about your detour, and thought we might lend a hand. I hope no one minds me showing up for work a little early."

Aniela chuckled quietly, a smirk playing on her lips before she replied, "Always glad to have more for the party. Our runabout took an away team to the colony. The shuttlebay manager should be able to get you squared away on board when you're ready."

A runabout to the surface? Oisín quirked an eyebrow at that, peering past the fuselage of the shuttlecraft at the turbulent atmosphere below. Flying through that hardly seemed like the optimal option, which meant something about the planet or the weather was likely messing with transporters. His fingertips began to itch, the slumbering memory of having been a Transporter Chief beginning to awaken within them. His knuckles flexed, fighting against the insatiable urge to be doing something useful. "Understood, Malinche. We'll get ourselves parked, and then I'll find my way to someone to report in to."

<< Turbolift, en route to Bridge, ten minutes later >>

Oisín fidgeted awkwardly, suddenly incredibly conscious of the uniform he was wearing. As a younger man, he'd always found transfers awkward and uncomfortable: they often came with new uniforms, new adornments on your collar, even a differently shaped commbadge a couple of times. That wasn't an issue today: the uniform he wore was the same one he'd grown comfortable in aboard the Callisto these past few years. It was also the same uniform that he'd spent the night in, and that more than anything was the source of his discomfort. Starfleet Officers weren't unfamiliar with the toll, odor, and other unkempt complications that came with long hours and unavoidable overnighters, but there was a difference between crossing paths in the corridors and mess halls, and reporting aboard a new starship for the first time. Hopefully no one would notice.

His preference would have been to swing by his quarters first: shower, shave, change. Freshen himself up before those all important first impressions. But the loadmasters down in the shuttlebay had been eager to make a good first impression on the new Boatswain, and Lexie (PNPC) had been all too delighted to encourage and facilitate their efforts. She and they were in the process of relocating his personal effects from the Ortegas to his quarters; Lexie had even said something about running him a bath for later, although somehow Oisín doubted that was a luxury available to a non-commissioned officer aboard a vessel with the more militaristic stylings of a Prometheus-class.

His wandering mind was brought back to the present by the subtle shift in momentum as the turbolift began to slow, and the faint change in pitch as the circuits that propelled it powered down. He braced himself, the sleek surface of the turbolift door sliding back to reveal a sudden influx of sight and sound that his implants took a few microseconds to adjust to. Giving himself the momentary pause that he needed, Oisín then willed himself into motion, stepping out onto the bridge, his false colour vision sweeping across the scene before him in search of the unfamiliar thermal silhouette of someone to whom his presence seemed relevant.

<Bridge>

Hearing the turbolift doors swish open, Aniela glanced back to see Oisín. She recognized him from his personnel file. "Chief Ocasta," she smiled as she made her way over to him. "Welcome aboard, Chief. I'm Lieutenant Commander Darvetti, currently Acting Chief Operations Officer on the Malinche. I understand you'll be our new Boatswain, which we can discuss further later. I imagine you'll want to report in to the Captain?"

Oisín's mind slowly processed the information provided. He'd been aware that the Malinche had some vacancies — his own assignment was evidence of that — and had been making do with the officers it had on hand; his orders hadn't specified an Operations Chief, acting or otherwise, so this must have been a recent development. He made a mental note of the Commander's name, and another to look into where she'd been transferred from. Operations was something of an overlap department, it snuggled up cosily alongside just about every other department, but that meant that officers could be shuffled in from all over, and whether you found yourself working for an ex-engineer, an ex-scientist, or an ex-tactician could lead to some wild differences in your service experience, especially when you were just a lowly NCO.

He offered a curt nod at the Commander's suggestion that they discuss the brass tacks of his new assignment later, and instead turned his attention to their surroundings, letting his gaze sweep its way around the space for emphasis. "Yeah, about that, sir. This isn't a bridge configuration I'm familiar with. Which door is the ready room? I don't want to stride off with confidence and accidentally find myself in the head."

Aniela was a little surprised that he hadn't looked up the layout of the bridge, but he wasn't likely to have regular bridge shifts either, so it would make sense he wouldn't prioritize it. "It's the door on your right ahead of us, on the right side of the Main Viewscreen, Chief."

<Ready Room>

Isabel frowned slightly as she read the latest update from the colony. She hadn't gotten reports directly from the away team yet, but they hadn't been there long and based on the update, it sounded like they likely had their hands full. If this is what the Torvans had been dealing with even a portion of their time there, she was surprised they'd made it this long. She was about to contact Korath for an update when the door chime sounded. "Come in."

Oisín held his breath as the doors opened. He wasn't sure why. One of those subconscious habits, something he'd picked up as a Crewman and hadn't ever been able to let go of. Was it anxiety? Was he bracing himself? Oisín had never really been sure, although friends and colleagues had always been keen to offer their playfully teasing theories whenever they'd notice. But it had its benefits. The breath he drew in pulled his posture straighter, and gave him a moment to center himself, to quiet down any stray thoughts and brush aside the constant sensory pressure of too much information that his implants provided. It provided a sense of calm, briefly at least, and it was within that moment that Oisín stepped into the ready room.

"Apologies for the intrusion, Captain. I'm Senior Chief Oisín Ocasta, I've been assigned as your new Boatswain. I realize I wasn't expected until after you arrived at Starbase 122; I hope I'm not overstepping by arriving a little early and unannounced."

Isabel raised an eyebrow, "Chief, you are a bit early... I wasn't made aware that you had diverted to join us, but I'm glad to see you arrived safely." She stood and extended her hand, "Welcome aboard; please have a seat."

As Oisín returned the Captain's handshake and complied with her invitation to sit, he allowed himself a moment of gratitude at how reluctant his face usually was when it came to displaying emotions. Often, people would read his typically neutral face as negative, dour, or disinterested or other emotions to that effect. It took performative effort to portray the engagement and enthusiasm and enjoyment that he might be feeling, at least to the standard day to day. But for now, that expression reticence did him favours: it stopped the surprise at the Captain's invitation from registering on his face. Reporting in was usually a formality, a protocol to be followed, a box to be checked. In Oisín's experience, most Captains allowed it to breeze by in only a few minutes, and kept their crew standing for it. Perhaps it was about reinforcing the power dynamic between a commander and their new subordinate; perhaps it was about reinforcing the brevity of the encounter by not allowing the new crewman to get too comfortable; perhaps it was about reinforcing the stereotype, a Captain living up to expectations, a crewman getting those quintessential Starfleet experiences. A seat meant that Oisín would be sticking around for a conversation; not unprecedented, and not unwelcome, but definitely not something he'd prepared himself for. His regret at having forgone a sonic shower and uniform change quietly doubled.

Once they were both seated, Isabel slid her finger along the console on her desk and tapped a few buttons to bring up her new Boatswain's service record. Her eyes skimmed it quickly, "I apologize Chief, normally I would be more prepared. I have read your file, but I usually like to re-familiarize myself with a new crewmember's file before they check in. I see from your service record that you've moved between departments multiple times - you were last in the Security/Tactical Department on the Calisto, but you requested a transfer...any particular reason?"

As an NCO, a skill you often acquired was the ability to learn things about your superiors in subtle ways. Direct questions weren't always welcome, and enlisted scuttlebutt and plasma cooler conversations could only take you so far. Captain Kersare's apology was one such situation: Oisín had served under Captains who would have made sure to clarify that their lack of preparedness was Oisín's fault, but this Captain took it in stride as a matter of circumstance. No doubt she had more important things to worry about, but even if there was no reason beyond that, it felt amiable enough for Oisín to bypass the kneejerk default answer he might have offered under different circumstances, and tried to pull together something a little more satisfying and informative instead.

"I like to go where I'm needed," one eyebrow quirking to the right slightly, a subtle approximation of a shrug that allowed his shoulders to maintain a more formal posture. "Crew safety and discipline is vital, of course, but there are limits to how useful the Master-at-Arms on a deep space explorer gets to be. No one asks you to point a phaser at a supernova or to lock an uncharted gaseous anomaly in the brig all that often, and, well —"

Oisín trailed off, an actual shrug rolling off his shoulders this time, trying to dismiss the brief insight into his psyche as a casual FYI. "You just looked at my file. Plenty of reasons in there to explain why I'm the sort of guy who doesn't like feeling as if he's not doing or contributing enough. Boatswain might not have the same kind of shine to it as Master-at-Arms, but hopefully it'll let me put a little more of everything I've learned over the last twenty-five years to good use."

Isabel nodded slowly as she considered his explanation and smiled slightly. This was far from the first time she had heard a new crewmember say they wanted to go where they were needed. Over the years, the Mali had had her share of crew wanting a second chance after difficulties, a new challenge, or a change in general. "That's true, Chief. Though I would be interested to see someone try," Isabel replied chuckling. "I'm glad you mentioned wanting to contribute and of course, I do see your years of experience in multiple departments here... I was wondering if you might be up for an additional challenge on the Mali."

Oisín felt himself straighten a little in his seat, his posture pulled subtly upwards by the siren song of potentially feeling useful. "What do you need, sir?"

"I'm not sure if you're aware, but the Malinche has been without a Chief of the Boat for some time now. With your experience, I thought you might be suited to the role," Isabel explained, watching for his reaction. In theory she could assign him to the role regardless, but in her experience that rarely ended well. She added, "If you need time to consider it, I understand, but I wanted to at least get you thinking about it, Chief."

White hot needles prickled between Oisín's shoulder blades as a maelstrom of conflicting emotions decided to culminate in the center of his chest. Much of the maelstrom was positive: flattered by the recognition, enticed by the opportunity, provoked by the role's presentation as a challenge. Of course he was interested — Chief of the Boat was about as high as you could realistically climb as an enlisted member of Starfleet without earning yourself a warrant or a commission, and that was a direction that Oisín had long ago decided he didn't want his career to take. As a Senior Chief, there was still a little headroom before he reached the glass ceiling at the top of enlisted status, but Chief of the Boat was an inviting handhold to help him finish that ascent. But beneath the flurry of anticipation and opportunity rumbled a bass note of apprehension. As Boatswain, or Master-at-Arms, or other roles of that ilk, a Chief Petty Officer had a box within which their role and expectations were clearly definited. They gave you a lane to stay in, a clear sense of what to do and how to do it. Chief of the Boat overflowed those boundaries. More authority, more responsibility, more expectation. More room to excel, but also more room to fail and fall short, more room to disappoint. More room to choose, too: Oisín had served with many Chiefs of the Boat over the years, all of whom had their own way of doing things, their own style of being. How Oisín would approach that kind of role and responsibility was a question he had never found himself spending any time trying to answer; the opportunity suddenly made that overdue introspection a lot more urgent.

At the center of the pros and cons swirling away behind his rib cage, however, a small haven of calm beckoned him in. His thoughts wandered back to one of his instructors back at the Tech Academy on Mars, all those years ago: a font of curious idioms but also of calm and warm determination, who'd always found a way to encourage the Recruits and Apprentices on his course while making them feel as if they'd found that motivation within themselves. In that moment, Oisín knew exactly what he would have said, and realised that there wasn't really even a decision at all.

"I'm not here to put socks on centipedes, Captain," Oisín replied, borrowing a slightly less unsavoury variant of one of said instructors favourite idioms, and managing to keep the nostalgic smile that tugged at his lips to a subtle minimum. "If that's a need the Malinche has, it would be my pleasure to step up."

Isabel smiled, "Excellent; I'm glad to hear it Chief. I'll get that entered into the system so your security access can be updated for the new role. I realize you just came aboard, so I imagine you'd like to get settled in a bit at least. Do you have any questions or anything you'd like to discuss before you do though?" It would be nice to have a Chief of the Boat again. When she originally considered the idea, Isabel thought it would be happening at the starbase rather than in the middle of a mission, but she had a feeling Oisín would be just fine and the crew was generally pretty welcoming.

Oisín had a thousand questions, but also knew that the Captain's ready room in the first minutes of his first day wasn't necessarily the best place to be asking them. There'd be other opportunities, and other people who could provide the answers, too. His thoughts ran a filter, searching for enquiries that felt as if they might be worth the Captain's time and attention. Under the circumstances, only one thing seemed to matter.

"Is there anything I should know about the mission at hand, sir? I'm sure that Commander —" He paused for a microsecond, reaching back into his memory for the name he'd heard a few moments before. "— Darvetti can brief me on anything Operations-related, but I imagine that at least some of your senior staff are planet-side right now. Is there anything I can be doing as Chief of the Boat to help support the crew in their absence?"

Pondering her response a moment, Isabel said, "Yes, Commander Darvetti can brief you on what Operations is currently doing. Since we've not had a Chief of the Boat for awhile, it would be a good idea for you to introduce yourself to the enlisted crew and start getting to know them. I can also have the last Chief of the Boat's records sent to you so you'll have an idea of what they had previously worked on or noted about the crew. You're certainly not limited to what they were doing, but it could provide some insight."

Oisín nodded quietly to himself at the Captain's suggestion. Acquainting yourself with the actions of your predecessor in the role was always a wise place to start: it let you know anything that they might have been in the middle of, and perhaps more importantly, anything that they might have messed up and left you needing to fix. If the Malinche had managed to function without a Chief of the Boat for a notable spell, then the previous Chief presumably hadn't left things in too much of a mess; then again, the fact that they'd managed just fine without one wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement of how useful that predecessor had been. Oisín found himself setting a private goal for himself: be useful enough that it'll be at least mildly inconvenient when you're gone.

"Understood, Captain. I'll get right on that —" He faltered for a beat. "— as soon as I'm settled. I should probably see about a shower and a fresh uniform before I go about making any introductions."

Isabel smiled, "Of course, please do get settled. If you find you need anything else, let Lieutenant Commander Darvetti or I know. Again, welcome aboard Chief; glad to have you with us." She couldn't help but have a good feeling about the new Boatswain/Chief of the Boat. He certainly seemed qualified and she was sure he would be up to speed quickly.

OFF: JP brought to you by:

Lieutenant Commander Aniela Darvetti (PNPC of Kersare)
(Acting) Chief Operations Officer
USS Malinche NCC-38997-A


and

Senior Chief Petty Officer Oisín Ocasta
Boatswain/Chief of the Boat
USS Malinche NCC-38997-A

and

ON:
<< Colony Surface | Day 2 | 1205 Hours >>

"But... I know what I saw, sir," Quinn said, the conviction clear in her voice. She swore she heard Korath give a grunt of concern in response, but the wind had since begun to whip and whistle in her ears, and Quinn couldn't be sure of it. And so she waited for a formal answer....

When none came, she tapped her comm-badge again. There was nothing — nothing except a sudden flicker of light in the distance.

Nestled beneath bowed boughs in the canopy of trees ahead, was a bright but distant twinkle Quinn hadn't noticed before. Maybe it was a campfire. Maybe that was where the little girl had come from or fled to — before disappearing into thin air.

At that, Quinn laughed, though the laughter surfaced as a sigh. "Get a grip, girl," Quinn said aloud to herself. Maybe the humidity was starting to get to her. And maybe that little light out there was a piece of the turbine that had been shorn off in the explosion, just jettisoned high and far into the surrounding jungle. A bit of debris that could potentially start a fire. A hazard she had some measure of responsibility to stamp out if she could, surely.

But... there was a kind of rhythm to the wavering light. Like a quivering candle flame synced to music, its reflection danced, standing out against even the glowing, globular flora of the jungle. As a musician, Quinn couldn't help but feel it. To see it as a "pulse" perhaps. Or even, a beacon.

Quinn tapped her comm-badge again, this time uncertain she'd be heard at all. "Commander, sir. *Sirs.* I think we may have lost comm-contact, but if you can hear me, there's a... uh, light at the end of the tunnel. I mean, a light ahead, about a klick north of the turbine. Could just be a colonist camp, but it might be a potential fire hazard. And with the turbine going boom, I think I should give it a look."

Static crackled from the commbadge before the unmistakable voice of the first officer came through, though somewhat garbled. ".... Tain ... position... On... Way .t... You.." As Korath couldn't confirm that Quinn had received the call, he tapped his commbadge again. =/\= Korath to Malinche.=/\=

< Malinche Bridge >

Aniela (PNPC) frowned slightly; the message from the shuttle that had arrived moments ago had come in loud and clear, but another comm signal seemed to be coming from the planet. With the interference, she was having trouble getting a clear communication. Bringing up the communications menu, Aniela tapped at the screen to try to compensate. Perhaps if she modified the wavelength and boosted the gain... =/\=Malinche to Away Team; we're having some trouble getting a clear read on your comms, but I've made some adjustments. Go ahead.=/\=

< Colony Surface >

=/\= Significant storm conditions are interfering with communication. I am unable to maintain contact with or ... A...Tain ... Quinns ... L....Cation or status. Can you ...her on ..s ... Sors?=/\= As Korath struggled to communicate with either the Away team or the ship the air became heavy with cracking static. And a wave of intense heat washed against his skin. Flames and arcs of electricity surrounded him. Inside his mind he felt searing pain and then. The blackness of the void.

Suddenly the wind roared, and a strong gust rushed past Quinn, knocking her off her feet. Bracing one hand in front of her face to keep the whipping debris at bay, Quinn looked up to see the little flame appear to “venture out” from its alcove. Slowly at first, and tentatively, as though hesitant to meet the approaching wind — now a veritable vortex.

But then a second, larger and more powerful flame billowed up from deeper in the jungle. It subsumed the smaller one, guarding it away somehow, and together they grew to match the wind. Tendrils of fire and air darted toward and around one another, in thrusts and ripostes, until intertwined, pushing and pulling back and forth, *fighting* rather than dancing.

Then, as though only just recalling Quinn was witness, and an interloper in their midst, the scene’s curtain drew closed. With another gust of wind urging them on, tree trunks and long heavy vines bowed low, obscuring Quinn’s view.

=A= “…. Tain... position... On... way t... You.." =A= Came Korath’s broken voice through the comm.

Branches bristled and the wind howled again — its gusts all but drowning out Korath’s crackled communique. But this time, Quinn heard him.

Maintain position? Quinn looked around. She’d barely walked half a kilometer, but her surroundings had changed dramatically. Even the turbine was no longer within her line of sight, for a perimeter of gnarled tree trunks had risen around her, on all sides.

“Tell that to my position,” Quinn said, before tapping her comm-badge. =A= “Copy that, sir. Trouble is… I think my location was against staying put.” =A=

~~~

<< Colony Medical Facility | 1331 Hours >>

"You got Ray talking, hmm?" said Doctor M'olas (NPC), as Awen (PNPC) passed them in the hall. How long had M'olas been standing there, perhaps within earshot? Surely the Bajoran would have noticed their presence nearby when talking with Ray?

The Rigellian slowly raised a hand, as if anticipating the question. "There is no need to worry, I was not eavesdropping. Nurse Connor (NPC) merely informed me that you wished to conduct interviews. Our patients need their rest, yes, but some are eager to speak. Despite..."

M'olas shuffled forward, though first looking to and fro, almost conspiratorially.

"Despite Mister Dirth's (NPC)... let us say... *emphatic encouragement* to the contrary."

Awen raised an eyebrow at M'olas' comment. "I think my reassurances that I only want to find out what's going on and help, rather than cause further difficulties, convinced him to speak up. That and the situation itself," she explained. Also her promise to not disclose the details to the doctors didn't hurt. Though with everything going on, the Bajoran doubted at this point that anyone would be considered crazy with what they saw. Maybe initially, but not now. "The Governor's Aide has been here, telling patients to keep quiet?"

"Hmm," M'olas said, "not exactly, no. You see, the Governor's Aide was among the first injured and first treated. He demanded to be tested for — how do you humans put it — everything under the sun? But in the end, he made an especially..." M'olas seemed to have trouble finding the words, as though chasing some elusive concept, but in the end simply said, "... *swift* recovery.

"After that," the doctor continued, "Mister Dirth made a point of speaking to several patients — 'out of concern for their well-being' he insisted. Many of these patients are those we've had difficulty getting a word out of since, especially once news of your impending arrival reached us. Especially since —"

Suddenly the double-doors at the end of the corridor swung open. M'olas turned, perhaps expecting another patient to be carted in. But there was no one. It was just the wind. Just a strong gust of wind.

At that, the Rigellian seemed to retreat back into a shell of professional decorum, their earlier furtiveness gone. "But as he told me himself on more than one occasion, Mister Dirth has only this colony's best interests at heart. We are pioneers, he says. Trailblazers taking the next step. Hmm."

Then Doctor M'olas turned away from Awen and shuffled off — but not before glancing at the double-doors, which slowly swung shut again as the winds abated.

Frowning, Awen considered M'olas' explanation. It was possible something was going on with the Governor's Aide. Without witnessing it for herself, it was difficult to get a specific read on the situation. It could also be that the patients not particularly speaking had nothing to do with Colin at all - it was due to what happened to them and he was simply doing his job; checking on the other colonists, getting relevant information to share with the Governor and Lieutenant Governor. Without more information or questioning him, she couldn't be sure. Perhaps he should be next on her interview list....

~~~

<< Colony Surface | Moments, minutes, or perhaps even hours later >>

Korath "awoke" with a splitting headache.

When his eyes were finally able to focus again, in the distance, he saw a spindly human shape that might be — must be — Quinn. But as he made his way toward her, a strange feeling washed over Korath.

He was seeing through his own eyes, but it *felt* as though he were only *watching* his actions at a remove, or from a distance... through a looking glass.

OFF:


A joint post by:

Lieutenant Commander Fala Awen
Chief Security/Tactical Officer
USS Malinche NCC-38997-A
(PNPC of Kersare)

Lieutenant Commander Aniela Darvetti
Acting Chief Operations Officer
USS Malinche NCC-38997-A
(PNPC of Kersare)

Lieutenant Commander Korath
Executive Officer
USS Malinche NCC-38997-A

Doctor D'selaro M'olas
Torva IV Colony Doctor
(NPC played by Quinn)

and

ON:

<< Ocasta's Quarters -- Day 2, 1300 >>

A fresh uniform pulled over freshly showered skin, Oisín Ocasta stared at his own reflection. He was told that you could barely notice, that you could barely see the implants, the scars, the kintsugi of synthetic parts that bound the fractured pottery of his physiology together. He had been told time and again that his surgeons had been the finest in the Federation, that their reconstructive surgery was unparalleled, that his disabilities and technologies were nigh invisible.

He could see them. As his ocular implants processed the reflected light from the mirror before them, he could see the deprecations in his infrared aura where his eyes absorbed and retained light more efficiently than they were supposed to: darkened and soulless voids staring out at himself. He could see the deviations in his body's bioelectric field, the spiderweb of subcutaneous circuitry that wove his artificial hearing into his skull, the rhythmic pulsing of his artificial heart thrumming away in his chest like a power core. He could see the variations in the texture of his skin, subtle contrasts in reflectivity and radiant heat emphasising the fracture lines of subdermal scarring that delved through his flesh like roots. Such things might have been invisible to most people, but to Oisín they were as overt as if he had been Borg.

He could feel them, too. The Dominion War had been two decades ago, and yet he still hadn't become accustomed to the parts of him that were no longer him. At this point, he likely never would. A veritable buffet of Starfleet psychologists had assured him his experiences were imaginary, were psychosomatic, phantom limbs and phantom pain and other such things; maladies that existed only in his head. Unfortunately for Oisín, those phantom sensations cohabitated with his own consciousness, and knowing that they were figmentary did nothing to abate them. He flexed the hand that wasn't his, trying to dispel the electric sensation dancing across his forearm, willing away the synthetic skin's temporary decision that the texture of his clothes was intolerable. He fought to drown out the grumbling background mutiny of his foreign knees, politely reminding them that they were two decades younger than he was, and shouldn't have been protesting as loudly as they were. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable stillness in his chest cavity, the uncomfortable treble of a pulse that lacked the underlying bass of a heartbeat.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Oisín delved into the operating system of the cortical implants buried in his brain, the central processor that governed his other technological senses. For some, the integration between biology and cybernetics was seamless, control of their implants becoming second nature over time. For Oisín, his cybernetics were an outsider in his mind, a separate entity with which he needed to reason and negotiate, one with all the same efficacy and eagerness to assist as a disaffected receptionist. Gently, insistently, he urged the bionetics to dial down the intensity of his sensory inputs: to limit the wavelengths his eyes could perceive, to tighten the frequencies his Vulcan-designed aural implants were receptive to, to stifle the tactile feedback from his extremities.

It was a forcefield on a hull breach, a temporary measure to ensure functionality in lieu of more permanent repairs. But it had been twenty years, and the breach had not been sealed. Every day the forcefields were activated anew, every day the critically damaged and jury-rigged starship he inhabited limped on, balanced on the razor thin edge between disability and functionality. If the analogy held true, then Oisín supposed that his surgical reconstruction was akin to a refit: to many, his synthetic components might seem like upgrades; and like the evolution of the Constitution I into the Constitution II, what seemed like minor cosmetic changes from the outside was almost an entirely new construction underneath. But the refit had been rushed, and the new systems hadn't quite been integrated correctly, and a coat of fresh paint hadn't been enough to seal all those hull breaches, just smooth off the jagged edges a little.

A stray thought floated through his mind, half-remembered from his Engineering studies at the Technical Services Academy — I think this new Enterprise was put together by monkeys. A flattering comparison, he supposed, and perhaps a source of inspiration too: because despite Captain Montgomery Scott's concerns about the Enterprise-A, the ship had endured, and now found itself preserved in a place of honour at the Fleet Museum. She had only served seven years after her refit, too; Oisín was approaching three times that.

Idly, he wondered if anyone would remember him as fondly as she.

Resolve snapped into focus in Oisín's mind, and the overwhelm of his myriad sensory inputs settled from a loud whine into a more manageable persistent hum. Acting on the impulsive decision he had made, he abandoned his reflection, his biosynthetic legs carrying him in long strides across his quarters to the replicator. A few keystrokes on the LCARS interface, and the air within the alcove shimmered, resolving into the familiar form of a Constitution II in miniature — not the Enterprise, however, but rather the USS Atlantis: the starship that the Enterprise-A had once been before her history and deeds had been painted over with a more prestigious legacy. She had been a fascination of his as a Crewman Apprentice, a thought-provoking example of what might have been, if history had unfolded a different way.

Gently, Oisín lifted the foot-long replica free of the replicator, and allowed himself a moment to regard the new but familiar form. He'd had a model very much like this one in his quarters back on the Avalon, one of many belongings that had been packed up and shipped home after his accident, and been subsequently destroyed years later when Mars had burned. He had fought the urge to replace those things, his quarters remaining spartan and empty in tribute to all that had been lost. But it was hard, in isolation but also in context. It was hard enough not to feel as if his synthetics and cybernetics represented a loss of his humanity — more machine now than man — but harder still knowing that it was synths who had been responsible for all the death and destruction that had befallen Mars; and for the death of his mother, much like the Borg had been responsible for the death of his father at Wolf 359 decades prior. To have lost so much, to have had so much taken from you, and then to feel within it all as if you had been changed, transformed, corrupted into something far closer to the perpetrators of that loss than anyone would be comfortable with? No wonder then that his psyche still struggled to adapt, still resisted the changes to his physiology as some tiny act of rebellion against his trauma.

Oisín continued to stare at the replica Atlantis, marveling at the overwhelming weight of what it represented. His ocular implants told him it was merely metal and polymers, and yet it was so much more than that: a memory from his past, and yet a fabricated one; a fascination of the man he'd once been, twisted into painful symbolism for the man he'd now become; an imitation, a replica, of both a ship that never got to be and a trinket that had been lost in fire. Most of all, though, and most appropriately of all, all that pain and symbolism and significance was hidden. Invisible. Anyone else would look at it, and see nothing but benign normality, with no awareness of those meanings and metaphors. But he could see them. He could feel them, too.

Carefully, Oisín carried the Atlantis over to his workspace and set her down in a vacant space on his desk, before returning once again to regard himself in the mirror. He saw it all — the soulless eyes; the kintsugi repairs; the synthetic, cybernetic abomination that he was in secret — but this time he also allowed himself to see himself. Oisín Ocasta. Veteran. Survivor. Son of Mars. Senior Chief Petty Officer.

He fought against a twisting knot in his stomach to insist upon one last acceptance, to admit one more reality buried deep beneath his implants and impulses and self-image.

Human.

OFF: