Star Fleet desperately underestimated the value of its Communications officers.
For one, the duties of said officers were slim, defined by their role in front of a terminal and not by what roles they could be filling. Communications Officers are trained to receive, translate, and relate messages – but the truth was that a com officer could be of great use on almost every mission, even those unrelated to their duties. Nyota Uhura, communications officer on the star ship Enterprise, had made such points in lengthy communiques with Starfleet Command and her recommendations for the inclusion of com officers on more missions and in more procedures on the ship had been denied.
Did that mean she was just going to sit at her terminal and perform the minimum duties her rank required? Certainly not! If Doctor McCoy stayed where he was meant to be during missions instead of trailing after his Captain like the lovesick dog he was, the Enterprise would've imploded a dozen missions back. But if Starfleet Command was asked, they'd insist McCoy stay in sickbay, logic be damned so long as the rules were followed.
What about being a com officer meant she couldn't hit the ground with the others from time to time? So long as one com officer was on the bridge, surely others could be part of mission deployments? If it would be of no use to the missions, Uhura would never insist on it, but the truth was that her talents, her perceptions would surely be of use!
Being a com officer was a great privilege and responsibility, to be sure, but Uhura would not hesitate to say it was also enormous fun. Communications, after all, were the bare bone basics of life, a skill every culture and society throughout the galaxy used in some fashion or another. Her skills didn't become superfluous when her duty shift ended – what she knew could always be used to her advantage.
Not that she meant anything harmful by it, of course! (Though another Uhura in a mirror galaxy might certainly have.) But being able to understand body language, tone, gestures, noticing what is said and what goes unsaid, all of it was a fascinating exploration into the human mind, especially when it was playing out around her with teammates and friends. It was fun!
Not to mention it gave her something of an edge, and that was always good to have when on the crowded flagship; while Star Fleet might spout honorable intentions, that didn't stop human nature from taking its course. Promotions were fought for, friends and enemies made, and culture clashes were almost a daily occurrence.
It wasn't always so serious though.
"Sulu?"
"Oh – yeah, sorry." Uhura watched as the helmsman shook his head, returning from whatever place he'd been in his head and paying attention to the game again. His aim was off. He was trying to bank the cue ball off one side, around the eight ball, and hit the striped ball on the other side. But it wasn't going to work. By the way his fingers were trembling minutely, the sweat coating them, she could tell his grip was going to slip just enough to screw up the shot. When the clack of resin hitting resin was followed by a stream of angry curses, Uhura smirked; she'd been right.
She'd only been paying half attention to the game before that, but at Sulu's screw up she turned around on her bar stool to face him. They were in a wreck room on one of the lower levels of the ship, a small side room put aside for recreation, a new-fangled concept Uhura was getting to like. She hadn't done much in the rec room, yet, to be honest, mostly just enjoyed her drink amongst distant company. But it was nice to get out of her room when she wasn't on duty.
Sulu was at the pool table, playing his second game with Jabilo M'Benga. The doctor was relaxed, a big grin lighting up his face. His shoulders were slack, his eyes bright, slumped with one leg balanced on the bottom rung of the stool he was sitting on, back against the wall, the cue held vertically between his legs. It was not the posture of one much concerned with winning, which did not surprise Uhura, since M'Benga was rarely competitive outside the medical arena.
Sulu, on the other hand, was very competitive. Between his renowned, award-winning fencing and his piloting expertise, it was hard for Sulu to ever not win. But it didn't seem like that was why the young man was so flustered, in Uhura's opinion. At least, that wasn't the whole explanation. Sulu had been flustered before his losing streak began: sweat running along his hair line; fingers clenching and unclenching periodically, nervously; licking his lips, glancing up at his opponent, and then away quickly whenever M'Benga so much as twitched. No, Uhura thought with a sly smile, Sulu was not anxious about his victory.
"Don't be so harsh about it," M'Benga spoke up as he stood to take his turn. His shot sent the 3 rolling lackadaisically into the top corner pocket it had been conveniently parked outside of. Beaming grin brightening to the effulgence of a solar flare, the man shrugged his shoulders and gave a light laugh. "It's just a game, after all!"
"Just a game you're winning." Sulu replied snidely, but his lips twitched with a smile. He was against the wall, standing up, arms crossed stiff, tense with repressed motion, the cue in the crook of his elbow. Eyes half lidded, head down, shoulders up and stiff as if he were being inspected, Sulu was hardly comfortable. His voice was run ragged like he'd just recovered from a cold, but he was in fine health.
"I'm sure that won't last long," Just as he said it, M'Benga's attempt to make the seven enter the side pocket botched. Approaching Sulu, the doctor elbow him in a friendly way, grinning and lowering his head to meet Sulu's embarrassed, downward gaze. The helmsman laughed as if against his own wishes, trying to keep it in but unable, and he laughed harder than the joke merited.
That settled it. Downing the last of her drink, Uhura stood. When Sulu lined up his next shot, Uhura leaned down with a hand against the railing, and murmured into his ear.
"You've got it bad."
"Got what?"
He leaned up, hands still in position to shoot, meeting her gaze with a fragile look not befitting the affable persona he always wore when attempting to entice. Let me amend that; he's got it really bad.
When she knew Sulu was looking, she let her eyes dart over to M'Benga. The doctor was currently distracted by someone in civilian clothes who'd just walked in. When Sulu's ears went red and he jumped up, straightening up too formally and fidgeting a little too much, she knew she'd hit the nail on the head.
"What – there's not – I don't know what you're talking about."
Arms crossed, eyebrow quirked upward, Uhura was the picture of disbelief. "Uh huh."
Seeming to realize how much he'd incriminated himself, Sulu winced a little. "Don't tell anyone."
"I won't. But I think you should really tell him." She nodded to M'Benga again, and watched as the confident, unwavering Star Fleet officer sputtered indignantly.
"But I can't – no. No, I couldn't."
Uhura smirked and fought the urge to roll her eyes. She couldn't help teasing him, for sure, but she understood his fears. Communication was one of her greatest skills, and yet even she sometimes felt overwhelming terror at the idea of communicating something to someone, for one reason or another. The first time she'd ever spoken to Commander Spock, for instance, she almost fell to pieces just trying to relay a message from a Vulcan cargo ship, terrified he'd poke a million holes in her translation.
"Okay. If you'd rather fall apart all over the pool table –"
Just as she was preparing a few fun quips at Sulu's expense (meant not to be cruel, but to spur him to action, as such things usually did for Sulu), M'Benga approached with the stranger at his side. Her sentence suffered a sudden death in her mouth as her lips ceased moving and hung open.
It was no stranger with M'Benga – it was Christine Chapel, head nurse of the Enterprise and a stunning sight in civvies, if ever there was one. Uhura hadn't even recognized her with her hair down, long and wavy against her shoulders, framing a face which held within it twin orbs of utterly bewitching beauty.
"Nice to see you, Nyota," M'Benga's voice snapped Uhura out of it, and when she spun her head to face him, she immediately understood his expression and tone. The sharp knowingness of his voice, the slight lifted eyebrow and sly, smile, those narrowed eyes. M'Benga might not have been a communications officer, but some things between friends were blatantly obvious: such as a woman trained to communicate well in extremely stressful situations tripping over her tongue when a pretty lady enters the conversation.
"Good to see you, too, Jabilo,"
"I thought seeing was all I'd be doing of you tonight, what with you holed up in that corner over there, brooding," He pointed towards the table where she'd abandoned her drink and laughed as she looked back then turned to him with an angry frown that was borderline pout.
"I was not brooding. I was –" What had she been doing, sitting in the back of the room, gripping her drink with both hands tight, scowling at the countertop. Brooding.
With the insight that made him such a great physician, M'Benga leaned back and leveled Uhura with a steady stare. "You got the reply from Starfleet."
"Yes." She said with a huff, shoulders slumped, and all the dark, twisted feelings she'd been holing up somewhere inside settled into her bones as her posture slumped.
"The same as last time, I gather?"
"Wait," Sulu, holding a hand up between them, interrupted. "You sent a letter to Starfleet Command? About what?"
Frown settling upon her face, Uhura felt her discontent coming across in her tone, her eyes, and she didn't try holding it in. "I have sent multiple reports to Command about the need for the inclusion of communication officers on more missions and more roles within the ship, and each time I've been denied without so much as a consideration. In fact, I'm pretty sure the responses I'm getting are automated at this point. No one at command wants to hear from some nobody about how their system is wrong, even when that nobody is out here in the middle of the system, and knows exactly how it needs to be fixed!"
"Darling, where have you been all my life?" A drunken smile curled up on Chapel's face. Uhura found that both her words and the smile, accompanied by a look from those molten eyes that could turn even the great womanizer Kirk into a fumbling mess, had her insides committing a coup in the vicinity of her throat. "I've been trying to make central command come around to my way of thinking for months now!"
That surprised her, and she was able to fling her desire aside for the moment. "You have?"
Nodding fervently, Chapel continued. "Do you know how many security officers are injured or killed during per quarter? Per mission?" Passion colored her voice as she pushed on. "Getting them back to the ship in time is impossible in most cases, and it would all be so much simpler if we could just have a member of the medical staff along on away missions!"
"That makes perfect sense."
"Of course it does, that's why Star Fleet won't listen."
That brought forth sputters of laughter from Uhura, which made Chapel grin in reply. "You know, we can't be the only ones upset by all this."
Surprised by the sudden serious turn, Uhura gave a slow nod. "You're probably right."
"What do you say we do something about it? If they won't listen to just you, or me, maybe they'll listen to both of us, together."
"Or… to the both of us, with a lot of others behind us." Uhura, a finger tapping against her chin, beamed back at Chapel. "Sounds like a plan to me!"
Behind them, Sulu and M'Benga exchanged nervous stares.
"I have a feeling a terribly dangerous force has just been unleashed upon the world." M'Benga admitted quietly, as the two women began to drift away.
"I think you're right." Sulu replied. "Which is fine with me – I'm just going to get out of the way!"