Dinner

The Galactic Gourmet restaurant is on the plaza level of one of the largest civilian hubs Sentinel has and Swayla T'Vayne nervously checks her reflection in the glass windows as she waits at their table for the rest to arrive. Her black hair is in its habitual neat bob and her trim figure is swathed in a Romulan water-silk gown in a deep shade of green. She checks the time again, only thirty-three minutes to go, where is everyone?

She glances out through the glass along the busy sweeping boulevard of the plaza, lined with bars and shops but there is no sign of the others yet and so she taps the menu button on the table and a rotating hologram of the dishes of the day float in front of her.

'Ah! Glad I'm not the only one who's early!' Swayla jumps slightly at the voice and turns to find the Chief Engineer Mixie at her shoulder, dressed in a simple silvery shift layered over a black Volelian bodysuit, her Volelian fur spritzed with a sparkling furspray.

'Chief.' Swayla inclines her head formally at the Volelian.

'Call me Mixie, us women should stick together on a night out and I'll call you..?' Mixie waits for the second-in-command to reply as Swayla blinks at her informality. 'Love your dress, is it Romulan water-silk? I've heard of the fabric but never seen it before. Now what do you think of my nails? I had them done especially.' Mixie wiggles a hand under Swayla's nose as sits she down next to Swayla and starts to peruse the hologram menu. 'Yummy, doesn't this look really yummy?'

Swayla stares at the Volelian's silver nails, completely taken aback by her informal nature.

'Yes, it is water-silk and your nails are very... and I am not sure I know what yummy means.'

'Yummy? Old Earth word, means tasty. I've been learning loads of new words since I arrived here. My engineering crew are very informative.' Mixie giggles and nudges Swayla in the ribs with her elbow, 'And not all of the words are appropriate for the dinner table! Now, what are we drinking?'

'The rest have not arrived yet, surely we should wait?' Swayla replies primly.

'Nonsense, they'll be ages yet... I'm just going to call you Swayla till I think of a nickname for you. Now, how about we see what cocktails they have? Ah, here we are, I'll order a couple of Juggernauts. Just the thing.' Mixie beams at Swayla and presses the order button for two cocktails. Already the station is beginning to feel like home and she has a feeling she and Swayla are going to be good friends.

Swayla stares at Mixie with a feeling of alarm. The evening is not going how she imagined it would. When Commander Pierce had suggested a formal dinner at the Galactic Gourmet as a thank you to his command crew for the inaugural resolve of Sentinel being a success, she presumed it would be a ceremonial occasion, not a...a 'night out', with juggernauts and yummy food. But before she can protest, the cocktails arrive and Mixie proposes a toast. 'To us, the brave and fearless crew of Deep Space Sentinel!' and she drinks her juggernaut down in one. Swayla, not wanting to insult Mixie by refusing her toast, follows suit, the fiery cocktail coursing down her throat and making her choke.

Quarter of an hour and two juggernauts later, Mixie and Swayla are deep in conversation about their day on board Sentinel and barely notice as Peator, Worwynd and Numbers arrive.

Peator bows courteously to the two Starfleet officers, resplendent in his ceremonial shoulder plumes, then offers a chair to Worwynd and Numbers. Worwynd sits and growls softly to herself, already uncomfortable in her Klingon ceremonial armour, she hadn't thought to wear an evening dress like the other two women! Numbers quietly sits and watches as the group order more drinks and talk of the day's events flows around him, a warm wave of words. When Elenah Mapletree arrives with Dr. Jones, all eyes in the restaurant are on her, her tall frame accentuated by a long, flowing midnight-blue gown, scattered with light-reflecting crystals and her silver hair flowing free, studded with small blue flowers.

By the time Commander Pierce arrives, the rest of the group are busy trying to decide what to order and the table is littered with an impressive array of empty juggernaut glasses. For a moment Pierce watches his command crew from a discreet distance, a look of surprise on his face. For some reason, they had all decided to wear formal dinner attire to the meal and he glances down at his jeans, casual shirt and sports shoes, far more suitable for a retro burger bar like the Galactic Gourmet. He checks on his Sentinel PDA to see the message invite he had sent and groans inwardly when he reads it.

'Invite to an in formal dinner at the Galactic Gourmet as a thank you for the successful inaugural resolve of Deep Space Sentinel' The autocorrect function had clearly been at work and changed 'informal' to 'in formal'. He glances up at his incongruously dressed crew and can't help but chuckle to himself. The only one who wasn't overdressed was Numbers, still in his Starfleet uniform.

Pierce buttons up his shirt and runs a hand over his hair, then joins his crew at their table.

'Commander, a bold choice of attire tonight?' Elenah raises an eyebrow at his clothes.

'Sorry, Elenah, I think my tuxedo is still in transit with the rest of my personal effects. So, have you all ordered?'

'Not yet, everything looks suspiciously like algae cake burgers.' Jones sighs. 'What made you choose this particular place for our meal anyway?' he asks, glancing around the restaurant suddenly noting the basic interior decor and ketchup dispensers at every table.

'Well, I checked up on the potato rumour.'

'And?' Jones asks, suddenly regaining his appetite.

'And, it's true, there are potatoes and this place is one of the first place to serve them. As chips.'

'Chips?' Peator asks, 'I am unfamiliar with this delicacy. Is it of animal origin, I am not permitted to eat flesh.'

'Chips!' Jones practically cheers. 'Don't worry Peator, it's a starchy root vegetable, fried in vegetable oil until it is crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. A delicacy indeed!'

Commander Pierce sits between Numbers and Worwynd and, while waiting for the chips they all order to arrive, he turns to the Borg and asks why he's still in his uniform. He had hoped everyone would have a chance to relax and forget about Starfleet for an hour or two.

'I noticed a syntax error in your message, Commander and I computed the likelihood it was a mistake by the autocorrect function on your PDA, then computed the likelihood of everyone misreading and assuming the message was correct. I did not want to cause any discomfort by appearing in casual clothes instead of formal attire and so decided my uniform would cause least offence.'

Overhearing, Worwynd growls again, 'You mean we didn't have to wear our ceremonial clothes?'

'No, sorry, I think somewhere the message got a bit mixed up, as Numbers said... but, you all look very smart and I appreciate the effort.'

'So what kind of restaurant is this?' asks Mixie.

'Well, not really a restaurant, more of a retro burger bar.' Pierce is realising this could all go horribly wrong as it begins to dawn on them all how overdressed they are.

'Burger bar, as in a fast food outlet?' Elenah asks.

'Um, yes, you could call it that.' Pierce smiles, willing the chips to arrive.

'We have all got dressed up to the nines for a meal in a burger bar?' Elenah asks again.

For some inexplicable reason, the outrage Swayla T'Vayne was feeling at the thought of being completely inappropriately dressed for the occasion suddenly evaporates and all she can do is giggle helplessly at the silliness of the situation.

'Um...' But the Commander is saved from answering as the chips arrive and they are every bit as delicious as Jones imagined them to be. Soon all thought of the mix-up is forgotten as the chips are accompanied with good conversation and laughter late into the evening. After a while, it occurs to Pierce that, despite his misgivings, maybe Deep Space Sentinel would turn out to be a better posting than he had given it credit. He raises his glass and proposes a toast. 'Here's to Deep Space Sentinel and to whatever tomorrow will bring.'

'To Deep Space Sentinel!' they all reply.

'Would you like me to sing The Sentinel Song now?' Swayla asks and there is a unanimous chorus of 'No!' around the table and then, in perhaps the first time since being assimilated by the Borg, Numbers sees the funny side of the whole situation and almost smiles.