Lieutenant Commander Ruzinni found the Porthole Lounge in short order with the help of Yeoman Hill's directions. He was still mulling over the problem of how to deal with Chief Telko. At least he knew where his highest-ranking enlisted crewman was: according to the Yeoman, he'd already moved onboard the ship. The door slid open to reveal a room with a bar along the right side and a small performers' platform to the left, several tables in the middle, and a half-dozen booths along the far wall. There was a large round window, complete with a fake wet-navy style porthole cover, over each booth. The floor, he noted, appeared to be wood, and all the furniture looked like they belonged on a sea-going vessel as well.
Russ glanced around the room and noted seven people at one table: five men and two women. They were drinking and laughing, and their music was too fast and too loud for Russ's taste. At another table, four other beings, all male but not human, were playing cards. A couple civilians huddled together at a corner table, apparently discussing a business deal. He walked over to the bartender and asked, "Dave?"
The man flipped a towel over his shoulder and extended a hand, "Good to see you again, sir." Russ wondered why it was, with modern technology, bartenders across the galaxy still used cloth towels. "You don't remember me, do you, sir? David Hill, from the Tasmania."
An old memory flashed into Ruzinni's mind, one he'd rather forget. "Oh, yes, of course. You don't have to call me 'sir'; call me ‘Russ'. So, how have you been, Dave?"
"Still breathing, thanks to you. Walking again, no thanks to the doctors that said I never would. I'm still on one-third medical pay; got a decent job and a good life. I'm married now, with a little girl, and Jessica just found out we're going to have a boy."
"That's great! Jessica, the Captain's Yeoman? Nice girl." That answered the question of how the bartender knew to call him. He turned so he could look over his shoulder without making it obvious. One of the women was sitting on one man's lap and leaned back to kiss another square on the mouth. So young, Russ thought, they look like teenagers. Or maybe I'm just getting old. "She's having fun, but I don't see a serious problem."
"Not them; her," Dave pointed his thumb to the booth farthest away. There was a lone figure in a Star Fleet uniform sitting, head turned looking out the porthole. There was a large, dusty bottle half-full of a dark liquid and a glass full of the same on the table. As she turned her head, Ruzinni's heart sank. He recognized her immediately from the personnel files he had reviewed on the trip out. It was obvious that she'd been crying, her eyes all red and puffy. A surprising thought that crossed his mind: So just how Chief Telko would deal with this? He watched as she picked up the glass, stared at it for several seconds, then sat it down and began typing on a port-a-comp.
"What do you think? Homesick? Boyfriend problems?"
"Nope," Dave said, inspecting a glass he was wiping down, "she came in here about two hours ago as happy as could be. She was over there," he indicated to the nearest booth, "and watched as the Farragut pulled out. After she talked to one of the other patrons, she went over to look out that porthole. Man, she was like a puppy that didn't get any table scraps.
"She left for ten minutes, then came back and asked me if I knew which ship is docked out there. When I told her, she ordered a drink. I asked what she wanted; she said she didn't care, just so she could get very, very drunk." He put the glass down and looked Russ in the eye. "I'd say she's not happy with her new assignment."
Russ sighed as he considered this. "What's she drinking?"
"T.P.M." He casually started cleaning another glass.
"Straight? Without milk?" He gave a shiver.
"Like I said, she just wanted to get drunk, so I figured I'd give her the strongest stuff I had to help her get there quickly."
"Yeah, it'll do that," Russ said, remembering his first experience with it. Actually, he only remembered the unpleasant aftermath.
"Either that," the bartender winked, "or it'll cure her of wanting to get drunk again for a long while."
"You're a cruel, cruel man, Dave," he laughed. "So, how much has she had?" With the bottle half-empty, it was amazing that she was still awake, let alone sitting up.
"See, that's the thing, Russ … she hasn't touched a drop. I don't think the girl has ever had so much as a sip of wine in her whole life. She's been banging away at her port-a-comp for a solid hour. Every once in a while she'll pick up her glass, but it hasn't touched her lips once. It's like she needs to get drunk to build up the courage for something but doesn't have the courage to get drunk."
"Hmmm," he contemplated an idea. "Let me have a glass. And send over a pitcher of water and some bread sticks, please."
Dave reached under the counter, pulled out a squeeze bottle and filled a glass a third of the way with a thick, dark substance. "Chocolate syrup. It doesn't curdle like milk does. Make sure you stir it up good."
Russ thanked him, picked up the glass and walked over to the booth. "Mind if I sit down, Ensign?"
"I'd rather be alone, sir," she replied, but he'd already sat down and pulled the bottle to his side of the table. She turned away from him and looked out the porthole.
He followed her gaze to a small ship docked to the outside of the base. "So, is that your ship?"
"Yeah. A Patrol Cutter. Doesn't even have a name yet." Star Fleet had nothing else like it, nor did any other fleet anywhere in space for that matter: a cylinder laying on its side with a large, pointed slab extruded from the front end and a stubby warp nacelle strapped to either side. Someone once said it looked like a gigantic gardening trowel with a roll of paper stuck on its handle. "Have you ever seen anything so ugly, sir?"
"Yes." She looked at him quizzically. "Of course, a Klingon wart-hog doesn't have warp drive." She giggled. That was promising. "But who cares? You can't see what it looks like once you're inside it."
"I'll be the laughing stock of the Class of '47! For the life of me, I can't see why anyone still flies those things. They're an old pre-Warp design, aren't they? Even modernized with new technology, I hear it's pretty clunky."
"No, you're thinking of the old-style Destroyers. Those are all gone, save for a few floating museums. The Patrol Cutters," he indicated with a sideways nod, "are all new construction. You do know, don't you, that they have been in service for twenty years now? Same basic shape as the old tin-can, obviously, but the interior layout is completely different, redesigned from the keel up to incorporate all the modern technology." As soon as he said ‘all new' he remembered what Captain Bower said about the problems doing renovations. He wondered what that was all about but didn't want to mention it now, for obvious reasons.
"Yeah, well, while everyone else is off adventuring on starships; I'll be stuck on that crate," she point out the windows with her thumb, "trekking back and forth over the same route for weeks on end, babysitting freighter convoys, no doubt."
"Have you considered, Ensign," he began as he poured from the bottle into his chocolate, "that your patrol zone covers one point five billion cubic parsecs of space, from here to the Romulan Empire, with over ten million stellar bodies. There are over five hundred thousand planetary systems, hundreds of which can support humanoid life, and less than twenty percent have been surveyed. How much space do you need for adventure?"
He stirred the concoction in his glass. When she didn't answer, he continued, "Want action? There's an ungodly amount of traffic -- smuggling, black-marketing, drug running and outright piracy, as well as legitimate commerce -- going through this sector. You'll make more contacts with other ships in a week than a starship does in a year."
"It can't be that busy, sir," she replied skeptically, "We're out in the middle of nowhere."
"We're on a direct line between the Orion Enclave and the planet Denebola in the Neutral Zone. Not to mention planet Vidalia is only sixty hours away from here at high warp. That ship," he pointed out the porthole, "and the eight others like her based in this sector, has to protect the Brecon homeworld, three colonies, a dozen settlements, and God-only-knows how many outposts, mining camps and archeological digs."
"Yeah, right," the Ensign snorted. "It doesn't look like it can protect itself from a tramp freighter. I still say they'd be a lot better off scrapping all these boats and stationing a real starship here."
"A single starship can only be at one place at a time; nine Cutters can cover a lot larger area at once. And just because they're small doesn't mean they're helpless. They pack quite a wallop for their size. Besides, most pirates would rather run away than stand and fight. But it's the crew that gets the real job done. That ship there can make a world of difference, if it has good officers running her."
"Well, yeah," she said ruefully, "but how good can it be for me? I'd get so much more experience on a starship, more training and a shot at an early promotion." Bingo! Ruzinni wished the Academy would fire the current Student Career Advisor ... fire that woman out a photon tube, that is. They served together when they were both Ensigns; she was a political animal then, and he could only imagine the crap she was feeding the cadets now.
"You think so? My first assignment out of the Academy was the Tasmania; I didn't set foot on the bridge but twice for my first year on board. I went on exactly one away mission during that year. I was never in charge of anything as an Ensign; I was about number forty-six in the chain of command. There are what -- only five or six, maybe seven, command-line officers on a Cutter? As one of them, you'll pull at three or four six-hour shifts per week in the Center Seat. You'll not just be on the bridge, but in the command chair itself!"
"Really?"
"Really." He didn't mention, of course, that she wouldn't solo a command shift until she complete several weeks of certification training first.
Dave came over with the water and breadsticks. Russ tried to pay him, but the bartender waved it off. The bread was fresh and smelled great; his stomach reminded him he was overdue for lunch. He tore off a hunk of bread and began to nibble on it.
"So what will I do if we go to Actions Stations? Wake up the Skipper? I'm sure he won't leave me in command during a battle!"
"It depends," he said between bites, "If it's just a routine interdiction, sending over an inspection team and the like, you'll be in command. Of course, if something comes up that you need a hand with, your shift will overlap with a senior officer's ... probably the Exec ... while he's working his other duties. There'll always be at least two command-line officers awake and on-duty at all times."
"I figured I'd just about live in Weapons Control, such as it must be. Did you know that boat only has three phaser mounts and a single photon torpedo launch tube? Some weapons suite," she pouted.
"You forgot the two shuttlecraft, each with a point-defense phaser of their own, and a rack of transporter mines. And a tractor beam. Twenty percent of the ship's permanent crew is in the Weapons Division. And they're all yours … if you were on a starship, you'd probably be the Assistant Targeting Officer in the Secondary Phaser Control compartment. Here, you'll be the Chief Weapons Officer."
"I'm the only Weapons Officer onboard, sir," she replied dryly.
"A minor technicality. What title do you think fits better? You will be in charge of the whole shebang!"
"Me? In charge?" She felt a mild panic attack as the idea started to sink in. "I'm fresh out of Academy, sir; I'm not ready ... I can't do that!"
"Sure you can. Your instructors wouldn't have recommended you for the job if you hadn't scored well in both tactical and technical skills. And leadership, too. Besides, I hear Senior Chief Gunner's Mate Gar Telko is on that boat -- there're none better."
The Ensign considered this for a full minute. "Chief Weapons Officer Amanda Jones." She smiled. "I like the sound of that!" Without thinking, she picked up her glass and offered a silent toast. They clinked glasses, and she tilted her head back to down the entire drink in one smooth motion.
As the glasses hit the table, her eyes went wide and the smile vanished from her face. "Oh dear Lord in Heaven! What IS that stuff?"
"Tarvokian potato mash." He stayed her hand as she reached for the water pitcher and handed her a breadstick instead. "A hundred and forty proof alcohol."
"It burns!" she exclaimed and bit into the breadstick.
"It was invented by prisoners in a forced-labor camp. Their Kzinti captors wouldn't drink the raw potato mash because it was too bland, so they added jalapeno-like peppers to the mix to spice it up. They got the guards drunk and escaped. Guy by the name of Igor Tarvok refined the recipe and marketed it as the ultimate He-Man's drink."
"Tabasco and turpentine! How can anyone drink it?"
"Try mixing it with milk. Or chocolate syrup," he held up his glass to show her. Milk made it tolerable, but Russ had to admit it wasn't half bad with chocolate. "At least that's one less trick your troops can play on you. You do realize, don't you, that they consider Ensigns fair game?" He chuckled, remembering what he went through with Chief Telko's bunch.
"Yeah, I've heard some stories about that. Thanks for the pep-talk, Commander." She held out a hand, "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't catch your name. I'm Amanda Jones."
"Pleased to meet you, Amanda" he took her hand, "my name is Romeo."
"‘Romeo'? If that's supposed to be some sort of cheap pick-up line, sir, I'll have you know that I am NOT that type of girl!" she stated indignantly.
"You know, I get that response all the time. Seriously, my name really is Romeo, but all my friends call me ‘Russ'."
"But I should call you ‘Commander', right, sir?" She laughed at the old joke. "You know, I think my new skipper's name is … oh-my-God." She felt another, more serious, panic attack coming on. "You're not … are you … I mean…."
"Lieutenant Commander Romeo ‘Russ' Ruzinni, at your service," he smiled.
She had her hands flat on the table and her eyes fixated somewhere a few light-years away. "Oh-my-God-oh-my-God, Oh My God! I can't believe that I … shut up, girl. Just shut up!" She took a deep breath and looked at her new commanding officer with an embarrassed grin. "Daddy always said ‘If you say something stupid, it's best to close your mouth before you say something really dumb.'"
"That's good advice. As a matter of fact, I got that very same advice from a Chief Machinist's Mate way back when I was a young, naive Ensign." She glanced away from him and hoped she could get her poker face on. She was sure he was talking about Chief David ‘Big Guns' Littleton, now the Fleet Master Chief Petty Officer for the entire Third Fleet and a prime candidate to become the next Command Master Chief Petty Officer of Star Fleet, the top policy maker for all enlisted affairs.
A smiled tugged at the corner of her lips as she remembered the story of how he got the nickname of ‘Big Guns', but she suppressed it quickly. She got into Star Fleet Academy on her own, she made the Commandant's List on her own, and she was darned sure she was going to make her career on her own. And to that end, she adopted her mother's maiden name. She'd never deny who her father is, of course, but she didn't go around advertising the fact.
"You look like you could use another drink, Ensign."
"NO! I will never drink that stuff for the rest of my life. In fact, sir, I don't think I'll drink anything with alcohol in it ever again."
"That's a bit extreme, don't you think," he chided her. "You may find yourself at a social event where it's more polite to take a small drink than to refuse entirely. Alcohol is, after all, the only intoxicating substance known to have similar effects on all sentient races." Ruzinni paused to consider if this was the right time and place to segue into a subject that he needed to discuss with all his officers. Of course, since she was his only officer right now, he figured now was as good of time as any. "Well, it's one of two … but the second isn't all that safe, nor is it legal anymore."
"Oh, and what is that, sir?" her curiosity piqued.
"There's a new drug on the streets that's unlike anything else, and it's going to make our job a royal pain. Maybe you already knew this, but most drugs don't work cross-species. For example, Vulcans are totally immune to cocaine, but a simple aspirin will make them falling-down drunk … not a pretty sight, trust me. Opium-based drugs are toxic to Tellarites, whereas Andorians use LSD and other psychedelics to treat antenna ailments. Oh, never drink Andorian white tea -- it'll take you on a nice long trip to Fantasy Land!"
He stopped long enough to bite off another hunk of bread, hoping to stave off hunger until his dinner date with the Perry's senior officers. "All that aside, a powerful new drug hit the street about two years ago, a xeno-narcotic that, according to a new study from Star Fleet Medical, has a similar effect on any species because it works directly on the brain's bio-electrical field rather than on its bio-chemical makeup. If I can pronounce it correctly, it's called Zypolyethal…."
"Zap."
"Excuse me?"
"Its street name is ‘zap', sir. I know of it all too well," she said coldly, and he saw something dangerous flash in her eyes. "One of my best friends from high school is dead because of it."
"I'm … sorry to hear that, Amanda," Ruzinni said sympathetically. "I know what it's like to lose friends to an addition."
"Oh, Sally wasn't taking it; her boyfriend was. She was trying to clean him up when he became psychotic; he got all paranoid and starting having delusions, said she was trying to kill him. I won't describe what he did to her, but we had to have a closed-casket service. Bobby would have died, too, if they hadn't put him back on zap."
"They put him back on it? Why, in the name of sanity?"
"You mean it's not in those reports, sir? The ‘high' is supposed to be fantastic -- Bobby said he traveled out-of-body and fought Klingon Gods in hand-to-hand combat. But over time, it changes a person so much you'd never recognize your own brother. Towards the end, Bobby thought he was a Klingon hero, even started speaking the language, or so he claimed. It was all gibberish. As bad as that sounds, though, zap-withdraw is far worse. The synapses of the brain begin to shut down one by one. The doctors said it's a pretty horrible way to die, kind of like rapid Alzheimer's. So, once someone starts taking zap, they'll have to stay on controlled low-doses for the rest of their life." They sat quietly for a few moments before she declared, "My vote, if I have one, is we round up all the zap dealers we can find and throw them all in jail. Then we lose the key. Forever."
"That's the basic plan, Ensign. And something else you probably don't know," he looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, "Star Fleet Intelligence believes there's a major manufacturing plant somewhere in this sector. Our job will be to find it and shut it down."
"What about the operators? I'll bet their lawyers get them all off on technicalities and loopholes!" she snapped angrily. "That's what happened with Bobby's dealer."
"Well, we'll just have to make sure we do our job right and bring the prosecutor airtight cases," Ruzinni countered. "It took a while to get them written and passed, but the new laws are pretty solid now."
"And if they don't come in peacefully, sir? If they want to put up a fight, what then? Can we just … blow them out of the sky?"
"Something like that," the Commander looked his new subordinate right in the eye, "but only if we have no other option."
"I guess I can live with that, sir." Ensign Jones rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Commander, you're going to need the best darned Chief Weapons Officer in the Fleet. It's like Daddy always told us kids, ‘Don't bother trying something if you're not trying to be the best one at it.' Sign me up."
Russ gazed silently out the porthole, pondering whether or not if he didn't just create a monster. "That is one ugly little ship, isn't it?"
"Yeah," she smiled, "but it does grow on you after a while." She slid her port-a-comp closer and started entering commands.
"What's that?" he asked curiously.
She spun it around for him to see. "My transfer request." He read through it quickly; then she hit the delete function.
"Nice writing skills," he was impressed, "though a bit over the top, don't you think, threatening to resign your commission if the transfer wasn't approved? You do seem to have a flare for the dramatic, Ensign."
She brought up another document, her letter of resignation, and deleted that as well. "Daddy always said ‘Never threaten to do something you're not willing to do.' You know what? I haven't talked to my father in a while. If you'll excuse me, sir, I think I'd like to go call him now."
"Oh, yes, sure. By all means, go," he dismissed her. "Besides, I need to go have a talk with Senior Chief Telko." Oh boy, did he ever need to talk to Chief Telko.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
To Be Continued ... maybe
