Liam Shaw entered the captain's mess and ordered his dinner from the replicator. Ordered up a couple of holo-candles, a placemat and fetched out a bottle of Malbec from the wine chiller. It being a red, the Malbec wasn't chilled so much as kept at a temperature just below that at which humans felt comfortable.
And he ordered up some music. Chopin nocturnes. He'd made sure to memorize the "names" of them: opus number and key. Some had fanciful titles, but she had told him, "Chopin hated those names people and publishers dropped on his works. 'Raindrop Prelude' indeed! He didn't care for people telling him his music sounded 'like water'."
She had played sometimes, but demurred that she wasn't good enough yet at Chopin. She played a lot of Bach, the Well-Tempered Clavier. (Bach appealed to him, the mathematical perfection of it.) The music was meant for teaching and was approachable, whereas Chopin … well, his work was "meant for more advanced pianists than I." She practiced it, and even played for him occasionally, but was always a little abashed at how it sounded. She did find the Nocturne in E-Flat Major was one that almost sounded good in her hands. But he loved how she played. He would listen patiently as she dissected where she needed to improve.
It was okay, he thought, she patiently listened to him when he talked engineering stuff, or comms stuff, or any of the other starship systems she didn't know much about because she had a doctorate in history and sociology, and only knew what she needed to know of ship's systems to pass her emergency certification. Instead she had many planets' worth of history in her mind, many patterns of peoples relating to each other, and was invaluable on first contact missions. He always felt a little proud when the captain chose her for a mission. He was often chosen himself, for different reasons.
So now he was reviewing his day, eating his blue "steak." It went well with the sharp taste of his wine and the perfect crisp of his potato fries. The blue color amused him. It was one of those replicator meals that tasted pretty damn good and had all the nutrients a growing boy could want.
The bridge crew had done their usual fine job. Yet, Hansen. He'd chosen her for her chops per Admiral Janeway; she was expert in so many areas and, like his dear heart, had a lot of knowledge crammed in her head. But she didn't always take direction well. Like, "Aboard my ship, you're Commander Annika Hansen."
Perhaps it wasn't fair. She would have tutted at him for changing someone's preferred form of address, especially something as personal as their name. But he couldn't deal with "Seven." Seven of Nine, something-something Borg designation that just gave him chills. She had looked stoic when he issued the order. She had recently been a Fenris Ranger, used to independence, and she had been known on Janeway's ship as Seven, but not here. Not on my ship. (And why would she prefer a Borg name? When she had basically been turned into one against her will? If she'd been willing that would have been different. But she hadn't. She'd been a child!) But having been a Ranger, she also knew the value of cooperation. (Didn't she?) That's what he counted on.
And she was damn good at her job. Despite having been a Borg, she didn't expect blind obedience from subordinates. She often put her orders in context, something Shaw could stand to do more often. But blind obedience had saved him once. Lucky number 10.
