Star Trek and all related characters and indicia are owned by Paramount. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.
WWLAOS: We'll see a bit more of Cissy, a lot of Admiral Braye, along with Garibaldi and a few other, more familiar faces.
JadziKathryn: My take on replicators is that they assemble objects from stored materials, be it atoms or molecules. Fashioning stuff from pure energy would take a LOT of power: making one kilogram of matter would require as much energy as would be generated by the annihilation of one kilogram of matter. That's a bit too energy intensive, even for the Enterprise, so farming, mining and manufacturing are still the source of nearly all goods.
grayangle: Glad you're liking it.
trkkie: I never read that book. My view of Troi (for purposes of this story, at least) is that 'Ship's Counselor' is another way of saying 'Political Officer'. Hope that clarifies things. And of course, I'm glad you like the story.
Riker scrolled down the screen of his PADD, going over the items one more time before his meeting with Captain Picard. It was a daily ritual, required by regulations, where-in Riker would bring the captain up to date on the status of the ship and its crew. Riker smiled to himself. Jean-Luc Picard commanded the Enterprise, but William Riker managed it. It was his job to organize the crew, stores, training schedules, maintenance: indeed, every aspect of its operation, and do it so well that Captain Picard never noticed. It was a daunting job, one that could, when things were going badly, leave Riker with no free time at all.
This wasn't one of those bad times, Riker noted thankfully. With the Enterprise in parking orbit and not scheduled to load her own share of the convoy's cargo for another three days, there was less to do than normal. Well, that wasn't quite right. The number of tasks was the same, but not so time consuming. Take the daily fuel consumption report. The warp core wasn't even idling. Engineering had opted to use the down time during their stay in the Republic to do some preventive maintenance that could only be done with the core cold. Indeed, many of the ship's systems were off-line or operating at minimal power. The life-support system was the biggest energy hog at the moment, and it could almost have been run off the batteries. The single fusion reactor they had lit was operating at small percentage of its rated maximum. All of which made for a nice, uncomplicated fuel use report.
Riker halted at the Ready Room hatch and pushed the call button. Almost at once he heard the familiar word, "Come." That was one of Picard's eccentricities. Every other captain Riker had served under used the word "Enter." Just why Picard didn't was one of those little mysteries that never seemed to get solved. Even now, after several years under Picard's command, Riker still found it odd. Apparently he was never going to get used to it. Oh well. The hatch slid aside and Riker stepped into his captain's sanctum sanctorum.
"Good afternoon, Captain," Riker said formally.
"Good afternoon, Number One," Picard responded with equal formality as he looked up from his computer terminal. Picard gestured at one of chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat, Wil," he invited in a much friendlier tone of voice. "Anything exciting happen today?"
Riker grinned. "Nope. It's been a nice, boring day." He slid the PADD across the desk. Picard turned it around and began reading.
"The main thing is that Engineering says the warp core will be down for another eighteen to twenty hours, barring unforeseen complications." Picard nodded silently and Riker added, "So far they're on schedule, and haven't run into anything they didn't expect." That was always a good sign. Picard added another four hours for restarting the core. It could be done faster, of course. Almost instantly, in fact, but cold starts were hard on the equipment and dramatically shorted the service life of core components. Given their present circumstances there was no need to hurry, so a nice, easy restart was possible. Riker watched as Picard kept reading, pausing occasionally to sign off on Riker's recommendations. Some captains were picky about having things done their own way. Picard wasn't. True, he sometimes disagreed with Riker's solutions to various problems - or rather, Riker's approach wasn't always the one Picard would have thought of right away. But, as long as they were workable, Picard tended to let Riker have his way. Picard would sometimes require changes, but not often. Riker took that as a sign of Picard's trust in him and his abilities.
Picard stiffened slightly. "What's this about Hanson being late for watch again this morning?"
Riker sighed. "Ensign Kolos reported Comm Tech Eric Hanson was twenty-two minutes late for his watch this morning."
Picard frowned. "That's the third time this month, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir." Picard said nothing. The expectant look on his face asked the question for him.
"I spoke with Hanson and his bunkmates. Apparently he's homesick and hasn't been sleeping well."
"I see," Picard said. "I trust you've already told him to see Counselor Troi and Dr. Crusher after his watch ends?"
"Yes. In fact," Riker glanced at the chronometer on the desk, "he should be with Deanna now."
"All right then. One or the other of them should be able to help him. That being the case I see no need to resort to official discipline at this time." Picard scanned down the rest of the items on the pad, signed off on them, and slid it back towards Riker. "Anything else?"
Riker produced a folded sheet of yellowish paper embossed with a seal of red wax. "This arrived a short time ago," he said, handing the paper to Picard. The captain broke the seal and unfolded the sheet. He read the contents quickly.
"It seems the captain of the Victory would like us to come for dinner this evening," Picard announced. "I think I could stand a tour of one of the Selenker's most modern battleships, don't you?" he inquired solicitously. Riker grinned.
"I take it I'll be telling their messenger that you accept," Riker chuckled.
"Most assuredly," Picard nodded.
Troi kept her expression calm and friendly while Crewman Hanson told his tale. She could feel fear radiating from him. Some of it was fear of her, though the flavor of it suggested that was more because she was an officer than anything else. There was also fear of punishment, along with a sick self-loathing. If he had looked as miserable as his emotions said he felt, he would have been a pathetic sight indeed.
"It's just that I've never been so far from home," he explained, his voice raw. "It wasn't so bad in basic, because we were always so busy I never had time to think about it. Tech school was the same way, and even then, it was at least on Earth. Now, I'm way across the galaxy. I think about home all the time, and I worry I'll never see it again. I lie awake in my bunk for hours before I fall asleep, and then I oversleep."
Troi smiled gently. "It's all right, Eric," she assured him. "Homesickness is a very common thing, and perfectly understandable. It's so common, in fact, that we counselors take a special course in how to deal with it. I have some techniques that are proven to work, and I want you to try some of them." Hanson looked at her curiously. "Why don't we start with writing," Troi suggested. "Instead of recording your letters home, write them out. Writing can be very relaxing. Also, try keeping a journal. When you feel homesick, write down how you feel and what you're missing. You may find that expressing your feelings helps you put them in perspective." Hanson nodded his understanding. "Also, I find that when I'm having trouble sleeping, a glass of hot milk before I turn in helps me drop off faster."
"Hot milk?" Hanson asked, puzzled.
"Hot milk," Troi repeated. "Supposedly it contains a natural sleep aid. I don't know about that, but it does help you relax, so it can't hurt," she added with a smile. Then she became businesslike. "I know you have to see Dr. Crusher yet, so I'll sent you on your way. Start your letter writing and your journal today. I'll want to see you again next week to evaluate your progress. And try the hot milk tonight. It really works."
When Hanson had gone Troi rubbed her eyes wearily. She doubted Dr. Crusher would find anything: Hanson's problem was psychological, not physical. Fortunately it was one that was easily managed. And it was a welcome reprieve from other matters. In twelve hours she'd have to start processing another batch of crewpersons wanting to take liberty dirtside, followed immediately by the task of dealing with anyone who failed to report back aboard on time, for whatever reason. Intellectually Troi knew that defection wasn't all that likely. Assuming all seven hundred and fifty of Enterprise's crew took liberty, they might lose one or two. It was far more likely that anyone who failed to return would simply have gotten lost, and the Selenkers, Troi had to admit, were very helpful in assisting such persons in getting back. Welcome (and surprising) as that was, it didn't change the fact that Troi would have to perform a psychological evaluation and write two reports on each individual, and if there was one thing in the universe she despised it was paperwork. Troi leaned back and sighed. She'd have to call Dr. Crusher. Hanson had been pretty upset. Hot milk, by itself, might not do the trick. The final decision would be Crusher's, but Troi resolved to suggest that a small amount of sleeping inducing drugs be added to any hot milk Hanson ordered. That settled Troi consulted her computer terminal. Her next appointment was a nice, easy marriage counseling. She pushed the intercom key. Instantly the voice of her assistant crackled from the bulkhead mounted speaker.
"Yes, Counselor?"
"Send in Ensign Jackson and his wife," Troi ordered.
"Right away, Counselor."
Wesley found his mouth watering as Cissy approached with a tray of food. The replicators aboard ship turned out food that was...edible, but that couldn't hold a candle to the real thing. She smiled at him as she set his soup and sandwich in front of him, and he decided to risk another question.
"Uh, Cissy?"
"Yes?" she replied, still smiling.
"About what I said before? I should have minded my own business. I'm sorry."
Cissy made a dismissive gesture. "Don't sweat it, kid. You didn't know, and the only way to find out was to ask."
Wesley almost sagged with relief. He wasn't really sure if he dared say what he was thinking, but there was, he reasoned, no harm in trying.
"So, uh, what time do you get off?" he asked, trying to sound confident.
Cissy laughed. "Trying to live up to the 'girl in every port' legend?" she asked.
Wesley's face flamed. "No! No. I just, well, I just think you're really interesting, and, uh, I'd like to get to know you better."
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"Sixteen, huh? You know, uh..."
"Wesley."
"Wesley, I'm more than twice as old as you are."
"Really? You don't look it." He said the last so earnestly that Cissy's cheeks darkened as well.
"I've never seen a Vulcan blush before," he added. "It's kind of pretty."
Cissy said nothing, just looked at him with an oddly thoughtful grin on her face.
"Oh, what the heck," she finally said. "Be back here at two, and you can buy me a cup of coffee or something."
When she had gone Geordi said, his tone somewhat incredulous, "Damn. And I thought I was a fast worker."
Data weighed in as well. "It will be interesting to hear you relate your encounter, especially if you succeed in 'bagging' her." He spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone that Wesley and Geordi just gaped at him. In response to their shocked expressions he affected a confused look.
"What?"
Garibaldi looked around in wonder, grateful now for his run in with the shopkeeper. The man had approached him after he'd been standing reading for several chapters and said, "Hey pal, this ain't no lending library. You wanna read that, buy it."
Garibaldi had been embarrassed, to say the least. Fortunately his attempt at apologizing had worked. Indeed, once the shopkeeper found out that Garibaldi was from the Federation he'd become downright friendly. He'd sold Garibaldi a copy of 'Marxist Mistakes' at barely above cost ("Hey, I got a business to run here," the man had said.), then told him about a nearby branch of the New Chicago Public Library. Garibaldi had found the place without difficulty, and had walked inside to find a whole new world. The first thing he saw were the periodicals. Printed reading material was uncommon in the Federation (being a waste of resources, after all) but he recognized newspapers and magazines. There were hundreds to choose from, on every subject imaginable, it seemed. There was even (to his surprise) a communist weekly from the Federation. Tempting as the papers were, though, he lingered only briefly before heading for the books. The Selenkers used the same library organizing system the Federation did. Garibaldi quickly deduced the layout and made a bee-line for the Political Science section. There he found books. And what books! There were tomes arguing for and against every political system Garibaldi had ever heard of, and even some that were completely new to him. Scanning the shelves he snagged a text titled 'The Decline of Democracy in the United Federation of Planets'. 'Marxist Mistakes' was interesting, to be sure, but he could read that later. Garibaldi opened 'Decline' and started reading.
Reg Barclay fidgeted nervously. He really, really didn't want the assignment he'd been given. It wasn't that there was any real personal risk. All he had to do was wait in the Metro Southwest Terminal and keep track of who got back when, and look into who was late and why. He had been thoroughly briefed by Commander Riker and Counselor Troi, who had made it perfectly clear that he wasn't responsible for anyone who turned up missing. It wasn't up to him to make sure they got back on time, only to account for their whereabouts. Still he wished he hadn't been the one chosen. He'd have much preferred to stay aboard the ship and work on the warp core. Heck, he'd have preferred to scrub toilets with a toothbrush, to use the old expression. Anything but a damned political assignment. He sighed. Oh, well. There was no avoiding it and, he reminded himself again, it wasn't risky. At all. He was prepared for every possible contingency. There would be a staffer from the embassy to assist him, and a member of the New Chicago Policy Department as well, to co-ordinate police efforts to aid lost crewpersons. It would be easy. Even if there was a (shudder) defection. In that case, all he had to do - all he was expected to do - was pass word to the ship that he'd been notified that someone had asked for 'political asylum'. Even if everyone who had gone on liberty defected, Reg Barclay wouldn't be responsible in any way.
They said.
He hoped.
It would be easy.
It would be easy. He started tapping the side of his neck the way Counselor Troi had showed him. He felt some of the tension leave him. He kept on tapping.
It would be easy.
Geordi and Data parted company with Wesley a little before two o'clock, after Geordi had reminded Wesley of how to conduct himself and where to meet up with them again. Most of the people on leave where going to be put up for the night in accommodations arranged by the embassy with the help of the local Communist party and other Federation sympathizers. Geordi, Data and Wesley had opted for a hotel downtown, with Geordi picking up most of the price (all of it, really).
"I don't care if you are scoring, or only think you might," Geordi had said. "Be at the hotel by six o'clock, got it?"
"Got it," Wesley had answered.
"I mean it, Wes. Don't get distracted. I don't want to have to come looking for you. Understand?"
"I understand, Geordi."
"Ok, then. Go have fun."
When Wesley had departed, Geordi turned to Data.
"Well, what should we do now?"
Data thought for a moment. Being an android gave him a huge memory, and Geordi knew he'd done exhaustive research on New Chicago before they'd arrived. "The city's Recreational Baseball League is playing it's season," Data offered. "I believe there is a game scheduled to begin within the half hour at a nearby sports complex. Perhaps we could acquire tickets?"
Geordi grinned. He liked baseball, and had forgotten that the Selenkers still played it.
"Sounds good to me, Data. Let's go."