Chapter 12: "Time and tide wait for no man." ... nor woman. The Klingons don't care if you have three cracked ribs. So Lt. S'Vrall does what Lt. S'Vrall does: walk it off and pretend there's no issue. Issues keep cropping up, however, and three cracked ribs quickly become the least of Lt. S'Vrall's concerns.
From 10,000 light years away.
"Sir? um, ... Michael Burnham told me to do this. Um, like, ... really hard? Sir? Please don't kill me."
For words to make sense, words needed to have meaning. Nothing had meaning for me in this no-where.
And then the slapping commenced. And I learned I had a face. And I learned that there was a flat surface that gave 'pain,' ... I'll call it a 'palm' for now. And I learned what 'pain' is. And I learned that a face and a palm are sometimes separate, and sometimes not.
"Sir? Wake up! You have to wake up!"
Smack. Smack. SMACK!
That did it.
I reached out with my hand and grabbed the offending wrist, and was going to tell Michael Burnham that I was going to kill her.
You know: our morning ritual. Yay!
Like: hopping out of bed for to go poop.
Or have that first cuppa.
Or giving your boyfriend a blowjob to deflate that morning wood, right?
You know! That!
It wasn't Michael Burnham.
"You're not Michael Burnham," I said stupidly, trying to bring the fractured bits of my consciousness up out of the nothingness and reassemble them into some kind of cohesive whole.
The big guy on top of me looked at how easily I stopped his hand. He was probably also remembering how I eviscerated those Klingons yesterday, and remembering Klingons were also much bigger that he.
"No, sir, I'm not."
"Where is she?" I demanded.
"She said she'd get your boots from your quarters, sir."
"Ah," I said. "How thoughtful." I said. "Get off me." I said.
You should have seen the guy jump at that. It would almost make you believe in levitation.
I had found out that Mike O'Brien was blessed with more than just height.
He was a 'big guy' down below, ... if you know what I mean.
He did wear a large boot, so it made sense.
I gingerly sat up. That hurt.
I was back up to about 30%. Not good.
"O'Brien," I said, "I'm going to need you to help me to stand up, okay?"
"Yessir," he said, "do you need me to pick you up, or ..."
"No," I said, "I don't want you to throw your back out. Just offer your hand, okay, and brace yourself."
He extended his hand, then got the shock of his life when he realized I was serious.
Vulcans may look 'elfin' to you humans: wispy and etherial? But we're solid muscle and very dense bone inside. The Klingon kicked me, hard, to fracture those ribs, because that didn't just come for free, like: on a human.
O'Brien did brace himself, but he had to brace the brace, as it were, as I slowly rose from my seated position.
"Ow! Ow! Ow! Fucking ow! That hurts!" My face twisted in pain as I slowly straightened myself up.
O'Brien gave me this confused look. "You're ... really different, sir. I mean, I though Vulcans were supposed to be ..."
"Spare me, O'Brien," I said wearily, raising my hand. "You ever been on Vulcan? You ever seen a Vulcan before, up close?"
"No ..." he said.
"No," I confirmed. "So just shut the fuck up about it, okay? It's not like I've heard this incessantly from the second I've stepped aboard this tvoikh hevam ship."
It looked like I slapped O'Brien in the face. "Oh, for fuck's sake," I grumbled. "I'm in pain, okay, O'Brien? Can you bring me over to that bulkhead?"
"Yessir," he said.
I leaned on him, pretty heavily, and it was a good thing he was a big guy so he could take my mass – good things come in small packages was how I consoled myself. There were couches and lounge chairs on this observation deck, but sitting down wasn't something I could manage yet.
I leaned against the bulkhead. The short walk had tired me out. I took stock of the situation.
It was now 07:45. No Michael Burnham in sight. I was starting to get antsy: it was coming time for the inspection of the troops. If Ensign Doran wasn't around, still being T'Sil, then I would have to do it. I wanted more than 15 minutes to prepare myself for this possibility.
Michael Burnham appeared at the door. Boots in hand.
"We have a problem," she said.
"Oh?" I asked.
I sniffed myself, surreptitiously. The scent of Mike O'Brien was all over me.
Smart. I thought. Smart. Michael Burnham goes off to get my boots, leaving O'Brien to rouse me, thereby erasing any trace of her on me.
If there were any trace of her on me.
Smart.
She saw my self-examination and blushed, slightly. "Not that," she stated. "We need to talk."
"Can we talk and walk? How is Ensign Doran?" I asked, pushing myself off the bulkhead.
"Ensign Doran?" O'Brien asked. "What's wrong? Is she okay."
Michael Burnham looked at O'Brien, then looked back to me.
Ensign Doran was not okay, I gathered from Michael Burnham's look.
"Okay," I breathed out angrily. "Let's go."
...
"Um, sir, can I ask a question?"
"Besides that one?" I asked.
O'Brien pressed forward. "Yessir," he said. "Um, ... what if you like a girl? And ... you don't know if she likes you?"
Ah, youth! I thought, but that's an ironic thought, coming from me.
"You could ask her," I offered.
"It's, uh, ... kinda complicated."
"Is it now?" I asked. Complicated, for him meant: 'she' who was none other than Ensign Doran, was his superior commissioned officer and his commander.
I wondered, idly, if her being a Vulcan, wanting a Vulcan ...girl, at that, would further complicate the situation?
Mike O'Brien looked conflicted.
"Son," I offered, "you can get answers or you can make it weird. For me, it's simply: she likes me, we fuck. She doesn't like me, she can fuck off."
"You like girls?" O'Brien asked, confused.
I sighed.
We were back at my quarters.
"O'Brien," I said, "tell the rest of the security team I'm doing the inspection today, not Ensign Doran, so if they thought they were going to get anything past her this inspection, they thought wrongly."
"Is Ensign Dor-..."
"Inspection is in 10. Why are you still here talking to me?" I demanded.
"Sir," he said, snapped to attention and raced off.
I looked to Michael Burnham; she looked right back at me.
Let's do this. I thought grimly.
I opened the door to my quarters. T'Sil was in my bed, the sheets covering her up to her nose, but not hiding her Vulcan ears. "Um, ... hi!" she said brightly, but blushing a bright copper green.
"I've got inspection," I grumbled and hit the shower.
Stripping was hard.
"Ow," I said.
Michael Burnham, boot-girl, came to my aid. I couldn't bend over to take off my boots. I couldn't flex my body to remove any part of my uniform, top or bottom. I couldn't do anything. I could barely lift my foot.
"Fuck," I cursed under my breath.
Michael Burnham heard me. "You have to exhibit more self-control," she stated. "People will talk." Concern in her voice.
That helped.
"FUCK!" I screamed as I slammed my fist into the shower wall. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why the fuck does it have to be harder on a human ship?"
"What has to be harder?" Michael Burnham asked reasonably.
Just like a fucking Vulcan would.
I leaned my head against the wall as water rained down on me from the shower head.
"This," I replied. "This."
T'Sil came in. "Is everything okay?" she asked.
Great. I just got an eyeful of naked T'Sil, too, to add to my list of things I didn't need to deal with today.
T'Sil was a looker! Her weight, redistributed Vulcan-wise, made her slightly taller and thinner. Her being in security made sure she already had excellent muscle-tone as a human, but now she was sculpted.
I looked away and picked up the soap. "Everything is just dandy!" I snarled, and very, very gently began to wash myself.
"I could ..." she began.
"You could what?" I snarled. "Go out there? In that condition? And make everything worse?"
Her chin started to quiver.
"Look," I said as reasonably as I could. "You're no help to nobody like that. Just stay in our quarters until the effects of the gene therapy wear off, then we can talk about what you can and can't do, okay?"
"It-it's not wearing off..." she whimpered and a tear fell from her eye.
"How long did it last previously?" I asked.
"F-four hours, s-so I doubled the shot this time b-because I wanted to..."
"YOU DID WHAT?" I screamed, appalled.
T'Sil was blow back by my outburst. She tripped over the lip of the door, falling back into the room onto her ass. Tears fell freely from her eyes now. She slammed the door shut.
I heard crying from my rack.
"I don't have time for this," I muttered angrily, finishing my shower. "Michael Burnham, can you look after her?"
She smirked at that. "Much as I'd love to babysit our resident girl-Vulcan, I have to report to duty."
"Great," I sighed.
"You can manage?" Michael Burnham asked. "You really should cancel the inspection and rest. Nobody would hold that against you, you know."
"Thank you, Michael Burnham," I said.
"That means 'no' in Vulcan," Michael Burnham informed me.
I ignored her barb and carefully stepped out of the shower. Michale Burnham handed me a towel.
"You look like shit, you know?" she informed me, then added: "... and I'm not dressing you. Duty calls."
She left.
I shambled out the bathroom. There was a bundle of crying-thing under my covers.
"Look, kid," I began.
"I'm not a kid!" T'Sil spat.
"Then quit acting like one," I snapped back.
"Nice."
T'Sil's response was angry and bitter.
"Okay, look," I said, starting over. "Take a breath and take stock. It's not the end of the world. Take a sick-day, let the gene therapy wear off, and return to duty tomorrow."
"But I wanted to help today!" she whined.
"Well, you can't," I said, but then added. "Wait. You can help me get dressed."
"Really?" she popped up out of the covers like a jack-in-the-box.
"Yes, really," I said.
"Okay!" she bounced out of bed, all in her morning-glory.
"You can get dressed, too," I added.
She glanced at me over her shoulder, giving me the once-over. "You like?"
She put a hand to her hip and struck a pose.
I rolled my eyes, but then added an encouraging: "What's not to like?"
"Right?" she demanded, and, just like that: T'Sil was back at the top of her game.
She went to the closet. "This?" she pulled out the golden sequins number.
"Not yours," I stated.
"Technically," T'Sil replied, "none of these are mine, but this ..."
"Not ours, either," I said.
"Oh," she said, crestfallen. She perked up. "Whose is it then? The daisy underwear-lady?"
"Yes," I said, "do you know who that is?"
"No, but her scent was all over me this morning. I mean, like: all over me! Michael Burnham told me to take a hotel shower to scrub the stank off me, and I tell you what, a hotel shower the morning after whatever-all happened last night, ... mmmmm!"
I held up my hand. "I get it," then added: "The underwear belonged to Nurse Duke."
"Nurse Duke? Nurse Duke? No way! She's so out of my league!"
"Out of Ensign Doran's league, but not T'Sil's," I replied.
"You mean she was only hot for me because I'm Vulcan now?"
"And now you know how I feel," I said acidly.
"Oh."
Silence as T'Sil processed this.
For far too long.
"Uniform. Me. Help. Now."
T'Sil tsked then gave me the big eyes. "Are all Vulcans like that?" she asked in a little girl's voice.
"Like what?" I replied shortly. I wasn't interested in playing whatever game T'Sil was.
"Like you," she clarified.
"No Vulcans are like me, babe," I said.
"'Babe'?" T'Sil's eyes got even bigger, if that were imaginable.
I glared at her, and a little giggle escaped her lips, like carbonate escaping ginger ale.
This levity displeased me greatly, which only made her disposition sunnier.
She did help me get dressed, first dressing herself in a daisy-print sundress that she had the replicator provide.
Me: "Really?"
T'Sil basked in my attention, even if it were censure. I attributed her exuberance the 'morning after glow'-effect.
She taped up my ribs snuggly before helping me get into my uniform, and her medical attention helped me return to at least a semblance of a division officer.
"Are you going to be okay?" she asked me, all but clasping her hands with concern.
I growled a warning: "Do not leave these quarters!" as I exited.
Does everybody think they must mother me for some reason?
...
It was 08:15 hours by the time I reached the lower decks where the security crew were berthed.
"Officer on deck!" Senior Chief Wilson shouted as the members of security stood, already at attention, by their bunks.
I hated being late to anything, but my cracked ribs and a vivacious T'Sil, who was supposed to do the inspect herself as Ensign Doran, slowed me down unacceptably.
I hope by the Immanence these absurdities were the exception, not the everyday-norm, but I had nothing to reassure me in that regard.
"Senior Chief," I rapped out, "you accompany me on the inspection."
"Yes, SIR!" he shouted and fell in beside me.
The inspection went ... okay. Each berth was obviously lavished extra attention this morning, but, without exception, there were issues with each station I inspected. Sheets were one-quarter centimeter off regulation. A uniform was hurriedly pressed. Boots weren't polished to a glow.
It wasn't awful, it just wasn't a perfect inspection.
I noted each defect to Senior Chief as I observed them, and he noted each down.
I posted myself at the head of the formation.
"Not ... great," I stated to the security crew. "You've heard the issues. You have ... 40 minutes to correct your defects, and we'll go through this inspection again, ... UNTIL YOU GET IT RIGHT; UNDERSTOOD?"
"SIR, YES, SIR!" the security team responded as one.
"Senior Chief," I addressed him, "dismiss the troops."
"Yes, SIR!" he shouted. "All right, you space-sloths! You heard her! Get to it, ... NOW!"
"YES, SENIOR CHIEF!"
As the crew started addressing the issues I pointed out, I called Senior Chief over to me.
"Now, we inspect Ensign Doran's quarters," I said to him.
His eyes narrowed at that. "Yes, sir," he said, and followed me to her quarters.
...
"Ensign O'Malley," I said, entering their quarters, "give us the room, please."
Ensign O'Malley snapped to attention. "Yessir!" she said, then left, quickly. Ensign O'Malley was not in the security division, but I didn't have a problem inspecting these quarters. To be fair to Ensign Dolan, she might not have known she wasn't coming back before the inspection, or even that her quarters would be inspected. She should have assumed this, however, as accountability is a hallmark of Starfleet service. Or it should have been.
It would be under my command.
I turned to Senior Chief. "Let's get to it."
And we got to it.
...
The quarters were neat, not immaculate, but neat, but I wasn't looking for 'neat.'
"Okay, Senior Chief," I said, "where is it?"
"Sir?"
I shook my head. "Don't play dumb with me, Senior Chief," I said. "Ensign Doran has been on this ship for, what, four months now. How long have you known she's had her 'problem'?"
Senior Chief Wilson frowned and his eyes shifted away from me. "A couple of months, sir."
"A couple of months," I said. "You know what her problem is?"
"No, sir," he said, "I just know she would report sick once a month. I attributed it to 'female problems' at first, but things seem to get worse recently, so ..."
"... so you checked in on her," I completed his statement.
Senior Chief tilted his head, noncommittally.
"So," I said, "what did you find?"
"I didn't, sir."
I tsked, displeased.
"But," he added quickly, "see here?" He pointed under Ensign Doran's recessed rack. "The panelling's been replaced. That's a false bulkhead."
I nodded then went to Ensign Doran's rack, inspecting the panelling closely. The panels were too new as compared to the rest of the panelling in the quarters. I felt around for a pressure point, and struck gold.
Or 'struck Romulan Ale' would be a more apt analogy.
Under Ensign Doran's rack were seven bags, each containing vintage Romulan Ale. Senior Chief inspected each bag.
"Do not record this, Senior Chief," I told him.
"I'm won't, ma'am," he replied.
We replaced the panelling. And sat on the deck, the rack to our backs. Senior Chief blew out a slow whistle.
I nodded in agreement. At our backs was more wealth than the combined economies of several systems, ... poorer ones, but still.
"She trading this stuff at all, Senior Chief?"
"Not that I know of, sir." He was quiet for a moment. "If she were, ... you couldn't keep something like this under wraps."
I nodded. "I concur. I'm wondering where we should stow this contraband, ..."
"My quarters?" Senior Chief offered with a wry grin.
I rolled my eyes. "I guess we'll leave this here for now and hope an Ensign who replaces Ensign Doran doesn't get curious."
"'Replaces Ensign Doran,' sir?" Senior Chief repeated. "You reporting her, sir?"
"That's my job, right, Senior Chief?"
"Yessir, but ..."
I waited for him to finish.
"Look," he said, "she's a good kid. I don't know what kind of trouble she got mixed up in to get all this inventory, but obviously she's in way over her head. Isn't there something we could do that don't involve official channels?"
"Trying to get me fired, Senior Chief?"
"Nosir, I'm just saying that ..."
"Court Martial'd, then?" I interrupted.
Senior Chief was silent.
"Well, Senior Chief, Court Martial'd it is, because this is way bigger than you, me, and official channels, but not for the Romulan Ale, which is, in fact, not my greatest concern about all this at present."
"It isn't?" he said, surprised.
"Nope," I said, "it isn't, because Ensign Doran has a much bigger problem than this."
"She does?" he said, again surprised.
"Yup," I said, and picked myself up from the deck, carefully. The medical taping helped, but only so much.
Romulan Ale would help more, but I needed a clear head on my shoulders.
I inspected Ensign Doran's rack carefully.
"Where is it?" I muttered.
"Where is what, sir?" Senior Chief asked, looking over my shoulder.
I tossed the pillow. Nothing there. I pulled out the mattress. Bare rack greeted me.
"Senior Chief," I said, "can you hop in there and see if you find anything out of sorts?"
Big old Senior Chief Wilson crawled into tiny Ensign Doran's rack and his one good eye became like a laser. Eventually he said: "Like this, sir?"
He pushed the panelling on the rack's overhead, and a satchel fell from a hidden compartment onto his face. He grasped it and sat up, flipping it over.
"Oh, fuck," I uttered.
Gold writing.
"Do you recognize the script, Senior Chief?"
"Nosir," he said.
"Good," I replied.
I took the satchel from him and peeked inside.
I quickly resealed it.
"Yeah," I said regretfully.
"Senior Chief," I said, "I'm going to need you to forget what happened in here. Can you do that?"
"Yessir." Concern strained his voice.
"Reinspect the troops. Be firm. Be fair. Tell them to fall in at 1500 hours on the computer simulation deck. I'll assess their readiness for combat, and then we'll get to training, understood?"
"Yessir, ... sir, ... is Ensign Doran in the shit?"
"No, Senior Chief. If I'm not mistaken, Ensign Doran is dead. She just doesn't know it yet."
"Sir?" Senior Chief asked, aghast.
"Senior Chief," I replied, "I have to take care of this. I'm afraid you have to take over Ensign Doran's duties for the security division going forward. I'm ..." I paused and collected myself.
"I'm sorry, Senior Chief."
I exited the quarters.
"What does the writing mean, sir?" Senior Chief called after me.
But he didn't get it.
It's not what the writing meant. It's what the writing was.
And the writing was Orion.