A/N: Hello all! After a brief (cough) hiatus in a few other fandoms, I'm back! This little story has been rattling around my head since goodness knows when, though it is a bit different stylistically from my other stories (mainly because I haven't posted here for a while, apart from my joint fic with volley – check it out via my profile!).
"The Little People": One brief explanation. I was adding it up a few days ago (from my own estimates: I'm not sad enough to actually count the number of people in engineering in one episode) and came up with the following figures for the crew of Enterprise:
Command Team: 6
Engineering Crew: 15 (at most)
Armoury Team: 6
Medical Staff (incl. Phlox): 4? He must have some help, after all.
Lab Technicians (though we have never seen them, they must exist!): 5
Even multiplying the above by two for the night shift that still leaves ten or so crewmen unaccounted for... the lackeys, the people who do the real work. Which is who this story is all about. Sort of. Of course, we can't leave out our officers...! Half of this story is made up of original characters with very unoriginal names, but I hope I don't bore you too much. The story is set shortly after Terra Prime, since that is the last episode I have seen in recent memory, and Trip is alive and will stay that way!
I will try and update at least once a week! (ducks as readers of previous stories glare in disbelief)
Disclaimer: I don't even want to remember the fiasco of the last season, let alone try and claim I own the rights to it.
Chapter One
In the Quartermaster's Store
"They don't appreciate us." It was a frequent moan, taken up between the buzz of the sewing machines and the hiss of the welder.
"No." There was a rustle of clothing as civvies and uniforms were separated.
"I mean, they just take us for granted, don't they?" The whoosh of the detergent being poured into the machine.
"Yes." A large, heavy section of spare raw metal fell to the ground. Someone swore.
"All up there in their – manners, Billy! – command uniforms, never remembering the little people..." The offending crewmember mumbled an apology and retreated, red-faced, into the central workshop.
"Hmm." There was a clunk as the clumsy crewman managed to get the sheet of metal stuck in the door.
"Never a word of thanks, though we clean their uniforms, scrub their boots – bloody fix their uniforms, look at this! How many times is it actually possible for a man to rip his uniform? Bloodstains, too..." One of the sewing machines paused in its buzzing and a peal of laughter could be heard from a third voice.
"I win!"
"What?"
"The bet... that's the fiftieth time."
The happily complaining, motherly voice swore. Her single-syllable sympathiser gave a snort of laughter.
"Manners, Miranda. Sorry – manners, sir."
"Sir, what you calling me 'sir' for? What's the point of formality when we're all on the bottom rung?"
"Not quite the bottom." A fourth voice intoned darkly. "At least we don't maintenance the... plumbing."
There was a good-natured peal of laughter from all concerned, and then the room was filled once again with the sounds of work. Then, thoughtfully, the bet-winner mused;
"Remind me to thank Lieutenant Reed when I see him next. Fifty times!"
There was a long pause as the four workers reflected that, even if they were ignored, put upon and taken for granted, at least they hadn't received managed to ruin their uniform fifty separate times. Then;
"Oh, damn it, I need a better formula to get out bloodstains. Good job his piping's red... you know, they don't appreciate us..."
The cycle started again.
888
By rights, Malcolm Reed's ears should have been burning. Unfortunately, too much else was burning for him to really notice.
"For god's sake, man, watch where you're sticking that damned amoeba!"
Trip, standing beside him (apparently sympathetically, though Malcolm had his doubts), gave a snort of laughter, and Phlox shot him a quelling look before almost rubbing his hands with glee as he retrieved yet another disgusting-looking creature from its tank. Malcolm groaned. Once again, the good doctor shot him a somewhat hurt glance.
"Lieutenant, in case you haven't noticed, your wounds have become infected. These creatures will get your fever down faster than any hypospray I can administer. Now – if you would just sit. Still."
Malcolm lay back on the bed, admitting defeat. A couple of scratches, that was all. But of course, if anyone was going to catch a damned illness which the initial bioscans couldn't detect, it would be him -
"Feeling a little sorry for yourself, Loo-tenant?" Trip was grinning. He had, it seemed, picked up on Malcolm's self-pitying vibes. "Got somethin' might cheer you up. Quartermasters' sent this down with your uniform." And he put, incongruously, a piece of paper in front of Malcolm's eyes. He squinted to read it, wondering where they had procured a pen, for one thing.
"Fifty times. Many thanks, Crewman Manning." He read out, then looked up at Trip in perplexion. "What?" Much to his annoyance, his friend merely shrugged, his eyes glittering with what Malcolm knew was suppressed laughter.
"I can't be sure, but... I reckon it might have something to do with the number of times they've had to fix yer uniform after a... accident."
"Oh." Phlox's pets seemed to be doing the trick; his fever was abating and his head was becoming heavy. "Excuse me, Commander, I think I might -" the rest of his sentence was cut off by a yawn, and he vaguely saw Trip smile and turn to leave.
"G'night..." as he exited the sickbay, Malcolm heard him chuckle; "Fifty times...!"
As he finally drifted off into an entirely critter-free sleep, Malcolm Reed couldn't help but think is that all?
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The seven crewmembers who made up the Quartermaster's Department on Enterprise had been onboard the ship since its inaugural mission, and were, as Quartermaster (she was officially a Crewman, but since she was the ostensible leader of the 'ragged band' as she called them, she preferred to be called by the more old-fashioned title) Miranda Heron did not cease to remind them, more or less ignored by every member of the crew of a rank higher than Ensign. It wasn't a deliberate ignorance, but the Store was down on E-deck, along with the secondary cargo bays, and very few of the command crew actually ventured there. They simply took it as a given that they would put their dirty uniforms in one slot in the morning and that they would appear, cleaned and ironed by their doors, next time they came off-duty.
The Quartermaster's team was split into two groups; the textiles and the resistants. The textiles team dealt with uniforms, bedding and frequently the cleaning of all crew quarters. (Ironically, they as the lowest-ranking members of the eighty-strong crew had unlimited access to every crew-cabin on the ship). The 'resistants' handled anything involving resistant materials – the supply of dishes and cutlery to the galley, the creation of new sections of bulkhead to be taken anonymously to the Engineering Supplies Store, even the repair of phase pistol casings all fell to the three frequently begrimed members of the metals workshop. Different members of the team as a whole also specialised in more detailed repair work, for example the checking and fixing of communicators, PADDs and, somewhat bizarrely, the twice-a-year rejuvenating of the captain's water polo ball. The latter usually fell to Crewman 'Henny' Mackie (her full name, which she had long ago given up trying to forget, was Henrietta, and most people called her by her last name anyway), to whom also fell the duty of placating Miranda when she was on a rant with a few well-placed 'hmms' and 'ahs'.
"You know," Mackie said, in between sponging the cuffs of Commander Tucker's uniform (it was the 22nd century and they still hadn't made the advance of finding any better cleaner for grease than elbow grease), "I think we should start pinning messages to certain officer's uniforms when we send them back. Like 'can you stop crawling around in dirty conduits' for Tucker, or, 'do you know how hard red lipstick is to wash out of a blue collar' for Mayweather." Mayweather had never, for the record, returned a uniform with lipstick on it (save for that one time during the Terra Prime incident, but no one had been acting their best then, and that had been his civvies), though at one point there had been a suspicious amount of oil – similar to that on Tucker's uniform – marring Commander T'Pol's enviably slim uniform.
There was a collective burst of laughter in the room, though the only man present, Crewman Henson, remained sullen and silent. Then again, he was always sullen and silent.
"Like we did for Reed, you mean," the youthful, far-too-lucky-for-her-own-good Maire Manning commented with a wry smile. "You know, I got a reply from that one." The others looked up and, seeing she had their obedient attention, Manning continued; "It said 'glad I could be of service. Looking forward to the next fifty. Reed.'" She shook her head. "He's an odd one, that Lieutenant Reed."
"They're all odd ones!" Miranda Heron exclaimed, throwing one care-worn, somewhat podgy hand in the air whilst the other hand continued, undaunted, to handle the sewing machine. "They're command, aren't they? I mean, look at the way Tucker hounded after that T'Pol -" a crash from the neighbouring workshop brought her enthusiastic discourse to an end, and Crewman Billy Cortan poked his head round the door, looking bashful.
"Sorry!" He exclaimed, before retreating back into the workshop, from which an angry, shouting voice drifted;
"Sorry! Shouldn't you be apologising to me? Or to Commander Tucker, whose spare parts you're ruining?"
The three women in the textiles room exchanged amused glances, whilst Henson kept his eyes, unsurprisingly, down. The owner of the gruff, roaring voice was Crewman Tiller, a tall, grizzled man who had allegedly 'slaved in a workshop since before you were born' and enjoyed pretending he had more communication with the ranking officers than he actually did. As the shouting abated the third member of the resistants team, her red hair coated in a pale covering of grey dust, poked her head through the door and gave a grin.
"Y'alright?" She asked, cheerily. Three voices answered her, whilst Henson nodded, glanced up at her nervously, then looked back at his work, his pale face flushed. Henny shrugged and shot Jill Derner a sympathetic look.
"So-so. What did Billy do?"
"Dropped a section of plating. Again." Her eyes flickered to Henson, before glancing back into the workshop. "Ah well – no rest for the wicked!" And, with a flick of red hair, she was gone, leaving the textiles 'shop in relative silence. Henny turned to Annan Henson and sighed.
"You know, Annan, you really should -"
"Don't." The quiet crewman did not look from his work, but Henny – reluctantly – got the message. She didn't.
After all, they might have room and time up on the bridge to get involved in dramas both onboard ship and off, but down in the store it was cramped, and they had a lot of work to get through. Arguments – especially Henson's kind of arguments, quiet and stormily brewing – were, they had long since learned, far from helpful in their line of work.
After a long minute of work and no speaking, Manning looked up with mischief in her eyes.
"You know, I'm starting to think we might be under-appreciated..."
Quartermaster Heron opened her mouth, and Mackie gave a sigh. One of these days, she thought, if only to stop Miranda's daily moans, she would have to do something to remind the officers on the bridge who did all their dirty washing for them.
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A/N: So? What did you think? Just press the blue button!
