Disclaimer: Star Trek is (gasp and surprise) not mine. I suppose Lowell is though.
CHAPTER TWO
Following the announcement of their newest mission, life aboard the Enterprise went on as usual. Things rarely disrupted the normal pattern of life on the Enterprise. Matters tended to proceed with almost boring regularity. As matters did today. The Enterprise aimed herself towards Palladium, and everyone aboard her continued his or her normal day until afternoon, as it was wont to do, passed into evening.
As was his custom, Mr. Spock entered the Mess Hall at precisely 6:20 in the evening, PADD tucked under his arm. The room was crowded this evening. He estimated a 24% rise in people since the previous night. Odd how humans never did seem to create a precise schedule for themselves and stick to it. Spock noted the item down as another example of human illogic. Perhaps someday he would write a paper on the matter. No doubt it would be well received on Vulcan, less so on Earth. Spock set the idea aside as something to consider at a later date, and crossed the room to the replicators, navigating around the ever-present and ever loud crowd of humans.
Spock ordered a bowl of soup. Contrary to popular legend around the ship, he did eat non-Vulcan food. Plomeek soup is not an easy item to obtain on a primarily human ship, but he had found potato soup, with extra leeks, a palatable substitute. He added to that a green salad, no dressing, and picked up his tray. He scanned the room, and finally located an empty table in a back corner. He maneuvered once more through the bustling humans, set down his tray and his PADD, and sat down to eat his supper, while reading a paper on the latest advancements in microscopic techniques to view subcellular structure.
* * *
At approximately 6:27, though he probably couldn't have told you the time if you asked him, a very different individual entered the Mess Hall, for the simple reason that he felt hungry. Ten minutes ago Dr. Leonard McCoy, chief medical officer of the Enterprise, had realized in the middle of an experiment involving meitnerium and seaborgium that lunch had been at eleven and it was high time he ate again. Promising his nurse, who didn't believe him, that he'd be back in half-an-hour to clean up, he left Sickbay in search of food.
The Mess Hall was crowded. McCoy noticed the fact in passing, and the only conclusion he drew was that sooner or later someone was bound to bump into someone else, and then it really would be a mess hall. He eventually made it through the crowd and to the replicators, where he ordered a steak. Tray in one hand, he set about to the serious business of deciding where to eat. Spotting the chief engineer, Mr. Scott, at a back table, he headed that way. His route took him past Spock's table, which remained empty except for the Vulcan. If there was one person on the ship that McCoy didn't understand, it would have to be Spock. There the man was, in the middle of a crowded room, sitting at an empty table and reading something off of a PADD. And McCoy doubted it was the latest adventure novel. He rolled his eyes, something he did often around Spock, and continued on his way.
* * *
At roughly 6:38, though he definitely didn't know the exact time, Lowell paused in his reading of War and Peace long enough to notice that it was evening, and therefore time to eat dinner. Onboard a starship, there aren't many options for eating places. So dropping the book on his desk, Lowell set off to the Mess Hall.
He ordered a ham sandwich at the replicators, failing to notice that this was the third night in a row he'd eaten a ham sandwich. He did notice that Spock was sitting alone at a back table, a pool of silence in marked contrast to the noisy room. Lowell had always felt a bit distant from his first officer. Very distant in fact. And he'd never quite been sure what he could do about it. Eating dinner with him couldn't hurt though.
Lowell headed towards Spock's table. On his way to the quietest table in the place, he also passed the loudest one. Mr. Scott and Dr. McCoy reigned at the head of a long and boisterous table. They were deeply engrossed in a conversation which, judging by the expressions of the faces of the others at their table, only they fully understood. Lowell passed close enough the catch a piece of the exchange.
"One part to two parts, and, Scotty, you wouldn't believe the results!" McCoy was saying.
Scott looked doubtful. "Can ye verify these results consistently though, Doc?"
Sounded like a chemical experiment, Lowell supposed.
McCoy went on. "Now, you know I don't like Scotch—"
Scott nodded gravely. "Aye, one of yer few failings."
"—but just this simple mix, and it's like a whole new drink!"
"The question being why ye'd want to."
Or maybe it wasn't quite chemical in nature, Lowell amended.
Lowell walked on towards Spock's table, and set down his tray. "'Evening, Mr. Spock. Mind if I join you?"
Spock glanced up from the PADD he was reading, and nodded to Lowell. "Captain," he said by way of greeting.
Lowell decided to assume that Spock had no objections, although the number of emotions flitting across the Vulcan's face—that is to say, none—wasn't much help. It really was a strange thing to serve with a man three years, and never once see him smile, Lowell mused as he sat down. "So, Spock, how've you been lately?"
Spock looked up from his lettuce. Lowell stifled a groan. He had that blasted eyebrow raised. A substantial portion of the crew was willing to swear that that eyebrow was the only part of Spock's face that moved, as far as expressions went.
"How have I…been, Captain?"
"I mean, how are you? Any complaints?"
"If I had any complaints, I would have filed them, as per standard procedure," Spock said mildly. "I have not."
"Oh. Glad to hear it."
A lull in the conversation. A long one. Lowell was kicking himself for sitting here to begin with when Spock spoke.
"And…how have you…'been,' Captain?" Spock asked slowly.
Lowell blinked. Was he actually making a stab towards conversation? Incredible! "No complaints to speak of. Well, seems like Starfleet comes up with more paperwork every year, but aside from that I'm good."
"Paperwork is necessary to the efficient running of this ship," Spock acknowledged without any great enthusiasm.
"Sure," Lowell agreed, casting about for another topic. "So what do you think of our new mission?"
"It should be challenging for certain sections of the crew. As I am primarily a scientist I do not expect to be personally involved."
"Well, you may be right there."
"Indeed." Spock glanced at the timepiece on the wall. "It is 6:45. I should return to the bridge to check the results of a hypothetical experiment I was running on the computer." He stood up, and picked up his tray. "If you will excuse me, Captain."
Lowell nodded, a little thrown off by this abrupt-seeming exit. "Oh, yeah, sure."
Spock nodded, and walked away, tray in one hand, PADD in the other. Lowell watched him go, privately concluding, not for the first time, that it simply was not possible to make friends with a Vulcan. Not this one anyway.
Lowell finally shrugged, and picked up his sandwich, intent on returning to his quarters. They had just been about to declare war again in War and Peace.
* * *
Lowell and Spock weren't the only ones in the Mess Hall discussing their latest mission. Sulu and Chekov were having a far more successful conversation though.
"So, what do you give it?" Sulu asked.
Chekov frowned. "A four," he said dourly.
"A four? I'd give it an eight at least!" Sulu protested. "We're chasing down pirates!"
"It is just not very exciting."
"Pirates, Pavel. We're chasing the scum of the galaxy."
"But they are human scum. Ve are Starfleet. Ve should be chasing Klingon scum, or Romulan scum."
"Oh," Sulu said knowingly. "This again." He went on, with all the wisdom of two and a half years of Starfleet experience, as opposed to Chekov's six months. "I keep telling you, a lot of Starfleet doesn't spend time fighting Klingons. In the whole time I've been on the Enterprise, we've never fought Klingons."
"Doesn't that bother you?" Chekov demanded, just as though they hadn't already had this conversation several times.
Sulu shrugged. "It used to. But like I keep saying, it's still a perfectly good job. We do good work, the people are nice, shore leaves are frequent, and you can't beat the paycheck."
"I suppose so," Chekov agreed glumly. "Seems like there should be something else though. I just don't know vhat."
If this was a trifle slow, I'm still trying to get across what this universe is like, in contrast to the one we know. The excitement (and plot) starts next chapter. In the meantime, review! Constructive criticism welcome, suggestions will be met with interest, praise with great interest, and flames with no constructive purpose will get you blocked. : )