With dark eyes fixated onto the screen in front of her, the Communications Officer's fingers move deftly over the controls as she works. Since her duty shift had begun several minutes ago, she is naturally placed at her station on the bridge, and her hands enter each command and flick each switch with all the dexterity and skill of one who had spent much time at this console. And with a great deal of prior training, of course.
Currently, she is in the process of making a communique to Starfleet, to inform the appropriate commandants of the unfolding of recent events. The intentional attack of this vessel's First Officer, the apprehension of the assailant and the physical condition of the victim. The investigation and interrogation of the incident and perpetrator and the due processes thereof. Yes, reports had been filed upon the attacker's capture, but additional input is needed, as well as instructions from the appropriate persons regarding the next course of action.
As with anything regarding Starfleet, there are procedures in place that need to be adhered to and followed, and correct channels contacted. So that everything remains good and proper, and with an air of professionalism.
And yet, as her hands move about the console, there is a kind of disquiet behind her dark eyes.
While it is true that she, amongst her comrades, feels a deep rage toward the assailant, hers is of a more personal nature. The attacker's intended target is one to whom she is particularly close, and harm that has been placed unto him is also unto her. This is the soul that she had chosen, to whom she would inevitably be bound, whose life is near forfeited...and she will not have it.
It is with one final command entered, her task is complete. For now, that is. And now, whilst she awaits the appropriate response, a verbal report is needed for the Captain. Delivered in a stable tone, Uhura makes certain that her friend and commanding officer is kept abreast of this present status.
"Captain..."
And yet, he does not seem to respond. He may have heard her, but his mind might not have registered the summons he was given.
In his chair, which he had duly placed himself minutes before, he sits in almost a daze. His eyes glare vaguely at the screen before him, as if in some kind of fog. No doubt he is preoccupied with his questioning of the prisoner, the answers that he gave and the ones that still need to come to light. At least, the attacker will finally answer for his crimes, and his victim will soon recover.
However, there is still a degree of disquiet within the Captain.
"Captain?" The voice of the Communications Officer breaks through the fog, bringing him back to the situation at hand.
"Yes...Uhura?"
His eyes meet her at last, and she gestures for him to come over. In a moment, he approaches, and her eyes return to the console. The communique that she had just sent is put into view, for her captain.
"I've notified Starfleet on the situation."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
After viewing the screen, he then exchanges a kind of half-glance with her, his eyes not quite making full contact. This is not out of disrespect, however; more of an affirmation of his heeding to her words.
While she may not fully empathize with captaincy and all the pressures and responsibilities thereof, she can at least sympathize with him. Being a key member of the bridge personnel – a senior officer – she has obligations and pressure of her own.
And with that, her eyes speak their words to him, and divert themselves back to her work. All the tasks pertaining to the Chief Communications Officer aboard this fine vessel, the flagship of the fleet.
Some time later, far from the quarter-way point of their rather uneventful duty shift, the Lieutenant receives an alert on her screen. It seems that her message has been heeded and Starfleet has given their response. With quick fingers moving about the console, the message is opened and subsequently read. The instructions contained within are straightforward: the accused is to be transported to the nearest starbase to await trial. This procedure is rather standard, and the instructions will be forwarded to the Captain. And of course, acted upon thusly.
"Captain, ", she begins quietly, "I have a response."
At her summons, the Captain again rises from his chair, to make for the Communications console. And yes, the message on the Lieutenant's screen is read and understood accordingly. As clearly indicated by the nod of his head and the words he speaks to the Communications Officer.
"Tell Starfleet we've received their message. Start making those arrangements too."
His tone had been firm, authoritative, a far cry from its befuddlement from before. As for his final statement, Uhura of course knows just what those "arrangements" entail: the summons of the shuttle bay. A vessel is to be made ready, in due time, for this upcoming venture...and its occupant. With her hands moving once more, she heeds his order.
"Yes, Captain."
As the most proximate starbase is some light-years away, there may be ample time for the proper readying of a shuttle craft. Also, time enough for Uhura to notify the base's commanding officer, whoever that may be, of the vessel's upcoming arrival. And, of course, for prison officers and other staff to make arrangements of their own.
ooo
What had begun as an "uneventful" duty shift, has now become something more. Crossing paths with this fine vessel, is a wayward comet, travelling through space on its unending journey. What a spectacle to witness, with the trail of ice and dust particles left in its wake, made aglow by reflected light. And, as the crew marvel at this sight – an event not many humans, or otherwise, had ever witnessed first-hand – Uhura finds herself thinking of one of their own. Her mind wanders off, so to speak, wishing that the Vulcan were here to gaze upon this visual delight...with her. No doubt, he would find the spectacle to be fascinating...as well as pleasing. The thought brings a tiny smile to her face, yet also an inkling of woe.
'I wish he was here.'
Not at all straying from its intended course, the ship almost follows the comet, if only for a short time and from a relatively safe distance. The crew, of course, have an exceptional vantage point with which to view this spectacle, and naturally take their full advantage of it. And soon, the two part from each other, with the comet following its own path in the great expanse of space. The spectacle is over.
After this momentary lapse in their routine, the crew return to their respective duties.
Eventually, this duty shift nears its end, with all tasks complete for the daytime hours, and all crew members depart from their stations. They will of course be replaced by the next rostered shift, the crew of which have readied themselves for the tasks ahead.
With her shift now over, the weary Communications Officer rises from her seat. The officer to now commandeer the station had already arrived, along with the others, so the transition to the next shift is smooth, almost fluid. Efficient, even, as it needs to be. As Uhura departs from her station, a thought crosses her mind. And, it just so happens to be the same thought she had many hours ago, before the start of her duty shift.
With that thought lingering, she steps into the turbolift.
