I've got a lot of things planned for this day, some of which I've been working on for weeks.  It's been almost a month since I reprogrammed the coffee makers, slowly reducing the caffeine levels until last week we've been running on merely the disillusionment of caffeine.  However, as of midnight, they've been pumping out a brew that has the level of a triple espresso in every cup.  Given how many cups the average engineer drinks… Well it's not even the end of the night shift and already I've seen at least three people who are literally vibrating and/or bouncing off the walls.  By the time day-shift gets going… sometimes I'm evil enough to scare myself.

            I head on down to main engineering – dodging a few falling sludge buckets and shock traps along the way, who do these guys think they are anyway – and stop dead.  Two large pictures have been plastered across the warp engine, supposedly of me.  I mean it's my head, but for the body to be accurate (for the body to be possible) they'd have to shave at least six inches off the chest.  I also tend to wear more clothes.

            Immediately I know who's responsible:  the only two idiots who think stuff like this is still funny.  Crewmen Bryson and Higgens have been a source of frustration since day… since about day .0000001.  Commander Tucker and I have whiled away many a pleasant hour fantasizing about how we'd get rid of them – they're too well politically connected to simply cut them out of the crew.  Personally, I do like his idea of re-working 'The Cask of Amontillado', and walling them up in a maintenance shaft somewhere.  Maybe it would give them a chance to find out just how in love with each other they really are.  If not, we can always just chop up the bodies and place them in the stores under "Emergency Rations."  It'd probably be the first useful position either one of them has ever held.

            "Very good, gentlemen."  No point in ignoring it, I'd have to be blind or unconscious for that to be anywhere near believable, "However, it's hardly that original.  People have been manipulating images that way for almost two centuries now. Surely you could have come up with something a little different…"

            The rest of the crew cracks up, unable to help themselves.  Part of it's the extra caffeine, and the other is the fact that – as much as Bryson and Higgens are oblivious to it – nobody really likes those two.  Bryson, always faster on the uptake, laughs a bit too, but it's obviously fake.  Neither one makes any move to take it down though, and I don't make them.  The whole thing fizzled the second I didn't take offence, and I see that they hate me even more for it.  Good.  A life without enemies is simply uninteresting.

            Bitten staggers in, a look of pure hatred on his face when he sees me.  I can see that one eye is already puffing up a bit, but it's still no excuse for being a poor loser.

            "Hey, Lieutenant."  He glances up at the engine, then back at me. Seeing that I've been pranked seems to restore some of his perspective. "Just thought I'd come see how things were going for you."  He makes a show of looking at the pictures now; suddenly I'm glad I left them up.  Shows everybody how the game is supposed to be played, and the fact that no one is immune.  I mean if I don't punish a pair of subordinates (not that I say that word within hearing range of Bryson or he'd say something disgusting) for what qualifies as a clear violation of anti-harassment guidelines, how can anybody else claim about the innocuous stuff that makes up the bulk of what we do.  "Looking good, I see."  One of the things I've never been good at is the whole officer/enlisted thing.  I tend to take people on an individual basis: not fraternizing per say, but the ability to carry on a conversation like human beings.

            I shrug.  "Nah.  Personally, I think they could've done a better job.  I mean the resolution's pretty shitty, don't you think? And there's no way my thighs look like that.  I'd kill myself if I ever packed on that much cellulite."

            Out of the corner of my eye I see Bryson change colour.  Apparently, he's not taking well to a critique of his favourite model.  Bitten gives me a wink, and I realise he's known about this for a while:  his revenge isn't directed at me, but at them.  He's been their target more than once, for reasons humanity is supposed to be long past.

            "And black leather with that complexion?  I know you've got way more taste than that."  Bitten shakes his head while the other two whisper behind his back.  I see the looks they're giving him, and it's not nice.  On the other hand, he's survived them for this long.  They know if they go too far then even Mommy and Daddy can't save them.  But if I get involved on a protector level (which as an officer I'm entitled to do) I destroy any credibility Bitten has.  Not to mention spoiling his fun.

            "Like fairy-boy would know a woman when he saw it."  Did I mention Higgens has a tendency to be stupid?  "Goddamn…"

            I spin around just as Bryson has the foresight to physically lift Higgens and drag him away to a safer location, probably on another deck.  I don't take kindly to violations of the second commandment (and I don't mean the ones I mentioned earlier). It's something I thought everybody onboard the ship learned the day I slapped Commander Tucker and knocked two of his teeth out. [1]  That was for saying J---- C-----, after dropping a wall panel on his fingers.  Profanity I can handle, anything humans want to get up to is okay with me as far as "bad language" goes (shit, I use enough of it myself) but C2 explicitly states that Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain:  For the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.  My momma raised me with those commandments in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, and I don't mean she was making breakfast.  The Commander may be Southern, but I was brought up Southern Gothic.

            After the threat of a serious beating on Higgens is over – if I won't violate C2, do you really see me busting C5?  (Some people call it splitting hairs, this line between violence and death, then again, most Hesses grow up to be lawyers[2]) -- things start getting back to normal, or as normal as they can around here today.  Someone takes the posters down (too bad, I was kind of flattered, actually), and Commander Tucker shows up to start the dayshift.

            "Where do you think you're going, Lieutenant?"  It's not a question you want to hear from your commanding officer, not on a day like this.

            "Off shift?  That is how things are scheduled for the day, isn't it?"

            He shakes his head.  "Sorry.  I've got three people in sickbay with minor injuries, and one who had a major allergic reaction.  We need the extra coverage."  He's not smiling when he says this, but he's also a magician of a poker player.  Probably because he plays Go for fun, which is not generally the sign of a sound mind, but is an indication of one that tends to think on odd, inscrutable angles.  Sighing, I return back to my station.

            "Um, not exactly."  He comes over, hands me a datapad. 

            I take one look, and hand it back.  "Not all that funny, sir."

            He gives it back to me. "Do I look like a man who's joking, Lieutenant?"

            I give it back.  "Honestly, sir, with your face it's hard to tell.  But this hardly seems like a reasonable work schedule."  Another reason why we like Commander Tucker.  He lets us have an opinion.

            He presents it to me again.  "Like I said, you're taking the work of four people, Lieutenant.  It's going to be a long list."

            Back to him.  "I fail to see why me, sir.  Regulations specifically state…"

            Over to me.  "This is not a union ship, Hess.  I am perfectly entitled to give you a double shift.  No overtime."

            Back to him.  "I can refuse to work it."

            To me. "And be confined to quarters for insubordination."

            To him.  "Fine with me, sir.  I can use the sleep."  Not to mention that my quarters are pretty well outfitted with a kick ass entertainment system that includes stereo, game console, widescreen, mini-fridge and wet bar, plus all the books I can cram into a .3mX.3mX.3m space.

            To me.  "My quarters, Hess.[3]"  He knows about the entertainment system, he helped me install it.

            To him.  "You can't make me do this, sir.  It's cruel and unusual."

            To me.  "I think the Constitution burned up in the War, Hess."

            To him.  "This isn't fair, sir."

            To me.   "Fair is a sunny day, Hess."

            I'm not doing it, I'm not doing it, there's no way I'm going to do it.


[1] You ask yourself:  if she slapped Commander Tucker that hard, why is she still his department second?  Why is she still in Starfleet at all?  Actually, it's not the possibility of me hitting him with a suit for harassment, it's more a case of Commander Tucker being a stand-up guy and taking his lumps.  Which is why we love him in the first place.

[2] I double majored law and engineering at the academy, so if anyone gets in trouble, I'm probably the best person for them to go to for help»

»Unless, of course, it's Bryson or Higgens.

[3] This is not a case of sexual harassment, or even the hint of it.  It's simply a variation on the old saw of  "Go to your room!  And no T.V., no video-games, and no colouring books either.  And no playing with your toys.  On second thought, go to my room."  Parents can be so annoying.