Man's gotta eat...

Posted on Sun Jul 17th, 2011 @ 7:43pm by Captain Nathan Cowell MD & Lieutenant Jasad Broca

Mission: Too Close for Comfort...
Location: Main Engineering, Deck 5, USS Arizona

Commodore Nathan Cowell stormed into the bowels of the ship with a fire in his belly... and not much else. This lack of substance inhabiting his gut was the cause of his less than amiable temperament. His personal replicator located in his Ready Room had decided, rather independently of any instructions on Nathan's part, to just stop working. Even a stern talking to... and several gratuitous right jabs to the command console... had not prompted the device to comply with his lunchtime request. Could he have gone to the lounge to tuck in to a hearty meal? Sure... by why would he? He had his own damn replicator and he expected the damn thing to work! Given that he hadn't bothered to actually try it since the chaos that was the Gavarian Corridor he wasn't sure exactly when it had stopped being compliant... Petty details did not a complaint undo...

The Commodore appeared in the compartment that was Main Engineering, struck by the urge to suddenly to yell the name 'Stretch'... That urge faded quickly, having not administered a proper label for his new Chief Engineer. Looking around him for a moment, he found that he could not even find the woman in question, so he decided to take another route.

"Who do I have to kill to get some service around here?!" the Commodore bellowed angrily.

Jasad was still recovering from his shock at seeing the Commanding Officer walk into Engineering when the old man called out for service like a drunkard at a brothel. On the Shras, the CO had rarely ever visited the bowels of the ship. Such tours had been left to the XO and lesser officers to perform. He had also displayed a much more discreet demeanor than this white-haired firebrand that had just scared the whole duty shift out of their skins.

Pulling himself away from a workstation, Jasad approached the CO and stood at attention. "Assistant Engineer Jasad Broca, Sir. I can help you with anything you need." He hoped the 'killing' reference was nothing more than dark humor. He also wondered what could possibly be so critical that it brought the Commodore to personally rail at them so. As discreetly as he could, he took a deep breath and tried to detect hints of alcohol in the air.

Nathan had about a thousand choice things to say when his eyes fell on a Cardassian on his boat. None of them were nice... The Commodore had served in both the wars in which the Federations and Cardassians had been bitter enemies, the most recent of which in the capacity of a hospital ship commander. He'd seen first hand, more times than he had cared to, the handiwork of the race that was now represented by an engineer wearing a Starfleet uniform. The image itself was tantamount to a slap in the face to his sensibilities. And then the man had the balls to try to see if Nathan had been drinking on duty. That brought the devil out of Nathan...

"What the hell are you sniffin' the air for?! You wanna know if I'm shitfaced, you have the balls to ask me! And for your information, Mister Bronco, I'm not and haven't touched a damn bottle in almost fifty years!" the old man fumed loudly.

The scatter effect the Commanding Officer's ire had on the general population was immediately noticeable. Anything under Lieutenant Junior Grade, which constituted everyone in the compartment, grabbed whatever was near them and hauled ass out of the room like there was a warp core breach in progress. That fact might have registered with the Engineer standing before Nathan, but the Commodore himself didn't take his eyes of the object of his displeasure at the moment.

"Hell, I've worked on more people in my life, saved their damn lives doing it, and been drunker than space is dark. Who the hell do you think you are passing judgement on me? Just because you're the oldest damn Lieutenant on my boat, you think you've got something on people around here? Don't let these good looks fool you, boy, I've got you by five hundred years at least. And I'll beat you by at least another five hundred before it's all said and done. Now..." the old man continued to bluster for a moment before finally inhaling, "I need something looked at... like yesterday. And since no one else around here seems to know how to take an ass chewing in stride but you, you just volunteered to do it. Grab your tool box and bring your ass."

As the Commodore raged with all the ire of the War Gods of old Cardassia, Jasad paled by several shades. Not since basic training had any officer offered him such a withering stream of invective. Whatever ill turn his fortunes had taken last night with the Doctor, they were now in full free-fall. Only a harsh Cardassian military education, followed by a long residence on Vulcan, kept Jasad from completely evaporating under the heat of the old man's anger.

"Right away, Sir," Jasad said, taking two measured side-steps and picking up his tool satchel without ever daring to look away from the Commodore. "Please, lead the way. I am very anxious to solve your problems." Jasad judged there was at least a slight chance that the ship's commanding officer would reach into his chest, pluck his heart out, and eat it if he didn't get whatever it was he wanted.

"Damn right you are!" Nathan agreed, turning toward the exit of the compartment into the corridor network once more. If the Cardassian had any illusions that Nathan was done ranting, he'd been sorely mistaken.

"You know something... I don't remember even seeing your name on my manifest, Bronco. Didn't even know we had Cardies in Starfleet. I remember back in the day, the only good Cardie was a dead one... but then again... the Klingons used to be good only when they were dead as well, and now we're all chummy chummy with those lobster-headed freaks... The times, they are changing..." the elder officer mused aloud.

As they moved through the corridors, the topic changed, "Now what I want to know, is why the hell you engineering pukes didn't come up to my damn Ready Room and check things out sooner. I shouldn't have to be starving like a homeless man in the middle of a war zone before I find out my damn replicator is broken and it won't do anything but take up space. I hate having the munchies and nothing to munch... makes me irritable... Yes, I know, you're thinking to yourself 'Not you, sir, you're as pleasant as punch.' Well, not when I'm dammit hungry... and I'm dammit hungry! So you better know how to fix those infernal food replicators or we're going to have problems!"

Jasad tried to let the racial slurs roll off of him without penetrating the surface. But he nearly stopped in his tracks when he found out what the problem was. A food replicator? A polite inquiry would've sent a pair of low-level technicians here to solve the problem in no time. If the CO reacted this way when he couldn't have saltines and soup, What would this man do when the phasers or shields went offline? The Doctor must keep a nurse on duty at the bridge merely to save him from his periodic apoplectic fits.

"It's Broca, Sir," he said, "Jasad Broca. Much like your replicator appears to be Broke-ah." He smiled weakly, but found himself regretting any attempt at levity as soon as the words tumbled from his mouth. The very best that could happen now was that this man would be calling him 'Broke' for the rest of his tenure here on the Arizona. Then people would be snickering at jokes like, "If it ain't Broca, don't fix it!"

When they came to the Commodore's Ready Room, Jasad thanked his ancestors that this ordeal would soon be over. He'd pull the whole unit and replace it if he had to, and figure out the actual problem later. Surely Minamoto couldn't fault him for taking shortcuts when the alternative was enduring some more energetic language from the ship's commanding officer? Indeed, she'd probably feel a swell of gratitude in her heart that she hadn't been required to deal with this problem herself.

"Cute... but Joker's already been taken," the Commodore said with a frown. The nickname conjured in Nathan's mind an image of his last First Officer, Commander Roberts, just before he'd died. The two had only just started to patch up their rocky start when the Romulans had killed him, and had nearly killed Lt. Col. DeVries and Ens. Akron along with him. It was more than a little disconcerting that the man's memory was still such a fresh wound...

Nathan crossed the floor and sank back down into his chair, "So look here, Bronco, do what you have to do, make as many trips as you have to, but I'd appreciate it if I didn't have to get up every time I want a damn cup of sweet tea and walk to the lounge. Convenience is the perk of being in charge around here... and I want my perks working. Do it fast enough and there's a bottle of 1866 whiskey in it for you. It'll put hair in places you never knew you had in the first place."

It appeared that 'Bronco' was going to stick. Jasad made a mental note to look up 'Bronco' and see what sorts of negative associations the word might have. It sounded familiar, but it wasn't part of the English language that he'd ever needed to use. He supposed that if he'd had the translator in his communicator active, it would have told him if the word meant anything. But there seemed little point in learning Federation Standard if he was going to rely on a translator all day. Besides, the translations would become far too distracting for routine use.

When the Commodore offered him some kind of beverage for fixing the replicator, Jasad found himself flummoxed. How could a man run from cold to hot within the space of an eyeblink? He was El'Aurian. Jasad knew this based on his claims of extreme age. Other races lived as long, but few of them looked perfectly human. Maybe on his native planet, before it had been absorbed into the collective, it had been customary to blurt out whatever was on his mind... good or ill? Or perhaps the experience of losing his homeland made him just slightly unbalanced. It didn't matter much, either way. The man was his boss. He was, in fact, everyone's boss.

"I don't think this will take very long, S-" He paused as he approached the unit. There was a slight crack in the display, as though someone had been pounding on it. He decided not to mention it, pulling a molecular blender from his satchel and applying it to the damage. "To be honest, most of the minor malfunctions I've found since coming aboard have been the result of some plasma fluctuations in the EPS lines after your recent battle with the Romulans."

Jasad put away the molecular blender, produced his tricorder, and linked it to the replicator so that he could run a diagnostic. "Your very efficient Second Officer demonstrated how these fluctuations can create system errors over time in your highly advanced but sensitive systems. I can pull this unit and have it replaced within the hour, but I wonder if..." Jasad smiled. "Yes, this will be much simpler."

He sent a diagnostic code through the tricorder link, resetting the replicator to its 'factory specifications.' "The settings fell out of calibration due to energy spike degradation over time, which damaged the code on your PNIC. That is, the Programmable Neural Interface Circuit. This should fix it."

Closing his tricorder, he touched the display. It came to life, and he ordered, "Red Leaf Tea, Hot."

A moment later, a cup of steaming tea materialized in the alcove. Jasad lifted it and tasted it. Then he made a face. "It's awful. But Red Leaf Tea is always awful when replicated. I think your unit is working fine now, Sir."

Jasad stepped back so that the Commodore could try it.

Nathan rose and approached the machine, giving it a suspicious glare for a good five or ten seconds before making his demand, "Tea, Sweet, no lemon, large pitcher, one glass."

The replicator chirped in a sickeningly cheerful manner and the desired items materialized before him. The old man plucked the glass out of the device first, then the pitcher. One long, slow pour later, the Commodore set the pitcher, now half empty, back in the replicator and took a long drag of it. He swished it around in his mouth for a moment, as if he were pulling the drink apart molecule by molecule for inconsistencies in taste, texture, anything that could be amiss. A swallow later and the Commodore set the glass back inside and his the recycle command, sending it back into oblivion whence it came.

Without saying anything, the old man made for the bookshelf adjacent to his desk and made a sweep with his hands along the spines of several very old looking books before settling on one. Appropriately, it was titled 'Prohibition', though there was no author emblazoned on the spine. With a finger, Nathan motioned the Cardassian to approach his desk where he had gingerly placed his book.

"Deal's a deal. You did a good job making that infernal thing work, Bronco. Now it's time for payment," the Commodore said, cracking the book open to reveal an incredibly old and utterly nondescript bottle with a rather enticing amber liquid inside. He plucked the half full bottle out of its hiding place and from the small curio cabinet behind him, two shot glasses that looked roughly as old as the bottle did.

"I've had this since 1866, was a gift from a dear friend of mine back on Earth for saving his sorry ass more times than he knew he'd needed it. When I say it puts hair on you, son, I mean it burns like a sonofabitch and will knock most men off their feet. But, you look like you can handle a little fire water so..." the old man explained as he carefully poured a little in each glass.

He held on up for Jasad, and left his free hand covering the other. When the Cardassian had taken it, Nathan brought his own up, "I got no love for your people, son. I got no love for a lot of races for a lot of reasons. But this ain't the place for any of us to hash that shit out. One of these days I'll find me some Cardie bastards worth blowing to hell and I'll do just that. But you... Hell, I like you. You take it all in stride... You don't let the small shit get in the way of the big picture. I respect that. Here's to you, Bronco. Just like the horse you got a strong will, a good heart, and without someone like you we can't get where we need to be to do what needs doing. Keep doin' what you're doing, boy."

Nathan raised his shot glass just a little in salute before he smirked, "Down the hatch!"

With that, Nathan dumped the contents in his mouth, took a hard swallow, and looked like he'd just sucked down hot plasma as he exclaimed, "Good lord, that shit's good."

Jasad swelled with pride when the Commodore explained that 'Bronco' was not a derogatory term, but rather the name of some kind of powerful riding animal on Earth. A derivative of the Horse, apparently. He'd seen one once, when dating an open-minded Texas girl at the Academy. She had demonstrated an ancient Terran riding art known as 'bareback.' Jasad could recommend it heartily.

The Commodore's openly stated dislike for various races was at once troubling and... oddly refreshing. He wondered if this was what being a telepath was like: Hearing people's thoughts unfiltered by decorum as swiftly as they were generated by the brain. Resisting the urge to protest that he was still on duty, Jasad took the offered beverage. It was a sign of respect, and he would drink down all the respect that anyone here consented to give him.

Gulping down the amber fluid, Jasad's eyes watered and he coughed reflexively. Perhaps this whiskey was slightly more respectful than he could manage. He allowed himself to smile at the Commodore, once the sensation in his lips had been restored. "Thank you, Sir. It means a lot. I'll do my best not to let you down."

Not wanting to delay the Commodore's meal any further, Jasad bowed his head and offered, "If that's all, Commodore, I'm sure you'd like to get to your meal?"

"You know, I hear that a lot... Like I have high expectations for people," Nathan grumbled, "All I ask is people do their jobs... and don't fuck'em up. After that, I could care less... But hell, who am I to stop someone from givin' something their all, right?"

The old man reclaimed the shot glass and returned the liquid to its sacred holder, "Go ahead on back down to your manifolds and coils and shit... do all that techie crap us ship Captain's take for granted."

"Yes sir," Jasad said with a grin, "I'll try to never give you cause to think too deeply about the engines." Withdrawing from the Commodore's room, he shook his head, smiling to himself as he made his way back to Engineering. He'd only been on the Arizona for 24 hours, but there was one thing he could say about the ship with authority: It sure wasn't boring.