by Chris Hechtl
The doctor put a call in to the chief. “Yes, Doc?” the chief responded, surprising her.
“Chief,” she said looking at the vid feed. There wasn't one, just a screen saver. “I'm not seeing your feed,” she said.
“That's because I'm out and about. What is it?” he asked.
“Have you been checking your mail?”
“I'm a bit behind on paperwork and my email, Doc. I've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” he said.
She looked up as she heard steps. The captain stepped in followed by the XO.
“Well, I noted you and your department have fallen well behind on their PT quotas. You've also been eating well above your allotted calorie intake. That's not healthy. You need to report to the gym for a minimum two-hour workout. That's an order,” she said.
“Doctor …,” the chief said in an exasperated tone of voice.
“I am the chief medical officer of this ship,” she reminded him with a smile. “Do as you are told, Chief,” she said.
“Now wait a damn minute,” Commander Riker snarled. “Before you get your prissy ass all happy about scoring one over on me, why don't you step back and take a look at the real picture. You know the one beyond your nose that you've been ignoring as unimportant. Have you noted when the last time any of us had some sleep? You're so good at monitoring our food and PT …,” he snarled.
“Don't take that tone with me,” the doctor said, voice cooling as the captain and XO paused in the entryway to her office at the tableau unfolding in front of them. She'd planned it so Captain Knoll and Commander Ramses would be witnesses and cut off any protest, but she hadn't expected the chief to lose his temper this fast. “I don't care who you sleep with …”
“I never said I'm sleeping with someone, Doc. I have been on my feet for sixty-one hours straight. I'm tired, I'm stressed, and I'm fucking frustrated because some jackass dumped a shitload of work on me when my plate was already full,” he snarled. “Now you come along with your anal retentive, I know better than you because I'm sitting in a sterile office not latched to the fracking hull bullshit, while I'm trying to calibrate the fracking sensors for the second time because someone wasn't happy with the first round we did!”
The XO pursed his lips in annoyance. He'd passed that order down when CIC had said they hadn't been happy with the results. They hadn't gotten more than a half a percentage more in efficiency and resolution after engineering supposedly did their job. He'd expected better and wanted to see better results. He hadn't known it would have so much drama involved though.
“They dump this bullshit on us knowing it's their own damn fault not ours! Not that anyone's willing to admit a fracking thing! Sensor miscalibration my hairy ass and scrotum!” The doctor's face took on a decidedly sour expression at the coarse language. Captain Knoll's face took on a blank set expression. “They screwed up, but we get it in the gods-be-damned neck to fix it! Again! So, on top of every fracking thing else I'm supposed to do, plus manage fixing the damn cracks, I'm stuck with this crap! And some asshole tells me to do it again???”
Commander Ramses scowled blackly. He was definitely going to have a nice long chat with the chief. That was, after the captain got through with him he thought. The idea of the chief getting a double reaming wasn't too amusing though.
“Now you dump this shit on me. You're fracking lucky I'm on the gods-be-damned hull in this fracking stinky ass suit and not in that fracking office right now, Lieutenant, or I'd shove your gods-be-damned orders up your anal retentive ass!” the chief roared.
The doctor flushed angrily.
“Do you have any idea the level of concentration it takes to get this damn job done? Do you? Well? Trace thousands of wires? Check every connection? Check every voltage line, every data line?? How the more we work, the more careful we have to be not to screw something up? How we have to choreograph every move in tight spaces so we don't rip something, and how hard that is when you're tired?” he hissed. “The calories we burn moving gear, moving equipment, moving parts, holding up beams, soaking up radiation in this fracking suit, rewiring shit, pounding pins in, or crawling through Jeffery tubes? And who the hell named them that anyway?” the chief continued to rant, voice rising in octaves as he was close to completely losing it. “The stress …what the frack's wrong with you, get back to work!” he snarled to someone else.
“Chief, you need to check yourself. You are beginning to hyperventilate and that's not good in a suit,” someone cut in.
“You know this is an omni broadcast, right?” someone else interjected. “The entire fleet is probably hearing this.”
“And I don't give a flying frack! I'm tired of this shit! I'm tired of … of not getting more than two hours sleep in a couple days, then anal retentive twits who sit on their ass pass on orders from on high and think it's okay! I'm tired of working nonstop seven days a week for the past six gods-be-damned months without a break! There is a limit you know!” he snarled just as the captain stepped up to the doctor's desk.
“Yes, Chief, there is,” he rumbled, leaning over the microphone to be sure he was heard.
All was silent in the room and on the channel.
After a moment the XO cleared his throat. The captain hit the mute button and turned to the XO. “Should we relieve him, sir? He's over the line.”
The captain pursed his lips and looked from the XO to the doctor. “And replace him with who? He's the best we've got, and we both know it. I didn't know he was that overworked. Obviously that wasn't why you called us in here, Doctor,” he said, turning on the doctor.
The doctor flinched. She shook her head silently.
“No, I thought not. You wanted witnesses to this. You've got it unfortunately,” the captain said with a heavy sigh. He hit the mute button again. “Chief, I want a check on all of your personnel. If they are past the max time in the black, pull them in. I want a mandatory health check on everyone, including you, Chief,” he said.
“Aye aye, Captain,” the engineer said in a sober voice. Apparently the captain's intervention had been the bucket of ice water he'd needed to cool off.
“And Chief, try to keep your head. Space is dangerous enough as it is,” the captain said mildly.
“Yes, sir,” the engineer replied in a chastened tone of voice.
:::{)(}:::
A comm rating flinched when he heard the conversation and then elbowed her partner nearby. The partner looked over and the rating pointed to her earphones and then patched the signal in. The rating went bug eyed, then covered her mouth and then stage whispered to someone further away to tune in.
Catherine frowned, seeing it, but for the moment it didn't seem important. That was up until Admiral De Gaulte snapped his fingers. “Why don't you share that with the rest of us, Spacer Brown?” he demanded.
“Sir um …”
“Now,” the admiral growled.
“Aye aye, sir,” the rating said gulping. After a moment they heard a voice snarling over the radio. The admiral looked up with a frown.
“Now wait a damn minute,” an unfamiliar voice snarled, making everyone in the compartment look up in surprise, and then around to see where it was coming from. A sensor rating pointed to the overhead. They all looked up to the speakers. “Before you get your prissy ass all happy about scoring one over on me, why don't you step back and take a look at the real picture. You know, the one beyond your nose that you've been ignoring as unimportant. Have you noted when the last time any of us had some sleep? You're so good at monitoring our food and PT …,” he snarled.
“Don't take that tone with me,” a female voice replied, voice cool and reproachful. “I don't care who you sleep with …”
“I never said I'm sleeping with someone, Doc. I have been on my feet for sixty-one hours straight. I'm tired, I'm stressed, and I'm fucking frustrated because some jackass dumped a shitload of work on me when my plate was already full,” the male voice snarled in fury. “Now you come along with your anal r
etentive, I know better than you because I'm sitting in a sterile office not latched to the fracking hull, trying to calibrate the fracking sensors for the second time because someone wasn't happy with the first round we did!”
Catherine glanced at Myron. The tactical officer flushed in anger, turning slowly purple. Someone was ending their career in this rant; she was certain of that.
“They dump this bullshit on us knowing it's their own damn fault not ours! Not that anyone's willing to admit a fracking thing! Sensor miscalibration my hairy ass and scrotum!” A comm tech snickered. A few of the sensor techs looked nonplused though. “They screwed up, but we get it in the gods-be-damned neck to fix it! Again! So, on top of every fracking thing else I'm supposed to do, plus manage fixing the damn cracks, I'm stuck with this crap! And some asshole tells me to do it again???”
“Now you dump this shit on me. You're fracking lucky I'm on the gods-be-damned hull in this fracking stinky ass suit and not in that fracking office right now, Lieutenant, or I'd shove your gods-be-damned orders up your anal retentive ass!” the voice roared.
“Who is that?” Myron demanded.
“Do you have any idea the level of concentration it takes to get this damn job done? Do you? Well? Trace thousands of wires? Check every connection? Check every voltage line, every data line?? How the more we work, the more careful we have to be not to screw something up? How we have to choreograph every move in tight spaces so we don't rip something, and how hard that is when you're tired?” he hissed. “The calories we burn moving gear, moving equipment, moving parts, holding up beams, soaking up radiation in this fracking suit, rewiring shit, pounding pins in, or crawling through Jeffery tubes? And who the hell named them that anyway?” the chief continued to rant, voice rising in octaves as he was close to completely losing it. “What the frack's wrong with you, get back to work!” the voice snarled to someone else.
“It's um, Chief Riker, sir, on Star Mauler. He's having a bit of a meltdown. It's the fourth this shift actually,” the rating who'd brought it up said in a subdued voice.
“Chief Riker?”
“Chief Engineer Riker, sir,” the hapless rating reported.
“Fourth melt down? This shift?” Admiral De Gaulte said, interrupting the tactical officer. “Turn that down,” he ordered as the voices continued. “In fact, turn it off,” he said. He turned to Catherine. “Why wasn't I told about this?”
“Because I wasn't told either, sir.”
“Who else is doing this?” the admiral demanded, turning to the rating.
She spread her hands apart. “The engineers, sir. We hear them out on the hulls cussing and well, stuff. The ones trying to deal with the damaged ships are the worst. They usually bitch about trying to put their ship together with riggers tape, spit, and hope,” she quoted.
“And this is the fourth one? This shift alone?” Catherine asked. “Why didn't you say something to me?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“They usually get a handle on it. A section chief or someone calls them to order. If they don't buckle down, they get sent inside. I don't know what's going on internally but …”
“This is on Star Mauler?” Myron asked.
The rating shook her head. “No, sir, it's everywhere. The whole fleet. All the engineers.”
“Um …,” Myron frowned. “Sounds a bit like a mutiny,” he said. “Should we set an example?” he asked.
“Were the sensors at fault?” the admiral asked.
“No, sir,” a sensor tech admitted. “We've found minor bugs and stuff but … no, sir. He's right; we all fell for it.”
“And then pointed fingers at engineering and dumped the problem on them,” Catherine said as Myron's ears turned red.
“Yes,” the admiral sighed. “Comm, pass on a general order to the fleet. Finish this rotation of calibrations that are already underway but stop blaming them for CIC's failures. All engineers are ordered to get a minimum of six hours sleep,” he ordered.
“Aye aye, sir. I don't know if it will help. I heard that …,” the rating cut herself off when one of her partners glowered in her direction. “Sorry,” she said, ducking her head away from the admiral and her section PO.
“Continue,” the admiral ordered. “You heard?” he prompted.
The rating turned back. “It's just well, once you get that tired, it's hard to shut down. Hard to go to sleep when you've got so much going on, so many things to fix. I've got a boyfriend who is a tech and well …,” she flushed in embarrassment, “they don't know when to quit sometimes, sir,” she said in a small voice.
“They can't be medicated either since they need to be ready to go,” one of the other ratings chipped in.
“Thank you, that will do. Obviously we've been neglecting crew health,” the admiral said, eying Catherine. “Or I should say, the officers involved have. Well, I suppose we're all at fault here,” he said.
Catherine grimaced and then nodded. “We'll do what we can to get it fixed, sir,” she said.
:::{)(}:::
Commander Riker half expected a pair of SPs or orderlies to meet him at the lock and then escort him to the brig. He was so tired he honestly didn't care, as long as he got some food and sleep, not the suit chow he'd been sucking down for hours on end. He so needed a shower too, and he'd love to get the damn plug out of his ass and the catheter gone.
Instead only the usual shift change was there. They were not sensor techs though; they were a work party formed to work on a sticky servo in number seven's shaper grav emitter. “Skipper said to get some chow, shower, and go to bed, boss,” Mallory said from the other side of the hatch. “And if you ever stick your foot in your mouth so deep again, don't bother coming back in. Just stay out there and vent the right way. His words, sir,” she said.
The chief winced. He'd realized he'd crossed a line. His tired mind told him he was in for it, but it was too tired to really care anymore. That wasn't a good sign. It meant he was getting sloppy, and sloppy meant bad mistakes.
“I expect to get my ass chewed for a while,” he sighed.
“Had to be said,” his assistant chief said. “Thanks for taking the flack,” she said, cracking a smile. “Better you than me I suppose.” he snorted, but his head still hung down as he pulled at his gloves. “Don't get hurt anytime soon though. Doc's not happy.”
“Yeah,” the chief sighed shaking his head. “Yeah,” he said in a heavier tone of voice.
:::{)(}:::
The first arrival of Second Fleet's damaged ships in Protodon caused something of an uproar as the fortresses and starships defending the jump point went onto high alert. The unexpected arrival was something of a drill for them once they received the ship's IFFs.
Repair and construction crews were immediately overwhelmed by requests from the ships for parts and repairs. Lieutenant Commander Aren Hardesty shook his head, rolled up his sleeves, and did his best to get into it. As the senior engineer in the star system, he had the unenviable task to make some sense out of the mess—well, he and the Spacebees under his command. What sucked was that they had to drop everything in order to handle the damn gaggle of ships. And gaggle it was, with all sorts of honking and noises coming from the captains, XOs, and engineers. All competing to be the loudest it seemed.
One of the first things they did after receiving a download from each ship was triage. They did their best to ignore the pleading from the various ships. One by one they surveyed and then sent most of the most wounded ships on to Antigua. Anything less than 60 percent capable was sent to Antigua within hours of their arrival. Any ship with major damage such as missing turrets or drives was sent no matter what the crew claimed was their status.
But there were some who flat out refused to go. Some ships with captains who outranked the engineering staff and were being obstinate, which was why the boss got called in to get them sorted out. As if he had time for stroking and hand holding, he thought acidly as he let his current target lay out her case.
Lieutenant Co
mmander and Questor's Skipper Drue Januea knew this was her last chance to get her ship patched up for the fight ahead. From the bored expression on her opponent's face, she knew her desperate appeal was going to fall on deaf ears.
Aren was in charge of the triage efforts and repairs for his sins. The gruff officer was a graduate of the first Spacebee class. He'd fallen in love with engineering as a child. He'd spent some time in Horatio Logan's engineering school as a kid before his parents had been taken a job on the upper decks. He'd been one of the first volunteers for the navy, and he'd been in the academy engineering classes from day one. He still treasured the small amount of time he'd had under Admiral Irons and Horatio Logan's tutelage. He'd spent years moving from job to job. His favorite was yard work, but he'd learned long ago that you didn't always get what you want.
At least he wasn't stuck in a ship running her engineering department. That shit was for the birds in his opinion. He'd take his own job with all the hair pulling headaches any day. There was something new, a new challenge to overcome, a new project he'd never done that tickled him and kept him up at night.
“We've got eyes, Captain,” Aren growled. “We're not stupid. Get your ass to Antigua. And don't act all dejected, pout, and shit. I've got enough to worry about. So do you. Grow up.”
“Damn it …”
“No amount of begging, pleading, or bribery … okay, maybe bribery,” the engineer quipped. He smiled. “You aren't going to win. I'm not sending you home with your tail between your legs. I'm sending you home so I can focus on the ships I can repair in the time we've got while you get your engineers to do what they can en route to Antigua. So when you get there, the yard dogs can finish plugging components back in and get your ass turned around and back here pronto. The sooner you do that, the sooner you get your shot-up ass moving, the faster you get here. So, the more you argue, the more time you waste. Understood?”