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etymologyofmind · 10 months

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Quartermaster’s Log

Fleet Quartermaster’s Log, Federation Starbase Deep Space 5

Stardate 5789.27

Quartermaster Orin M’Tembe

QM’s Log, listed stardate. Starbase 5 hasn’t seen this much action since the end of the Dominion War, and it’s been a lot longer since we weren’t on station for some dire circumstance related to an all-out invasion by one enslaving force or another. It’s been a little over 5 years since things started cooling off, and as always, Star Fleet has kept us on our toes.

The past couple of years has seen a set of large-scale refits and rebuilds of a number of damaged ships from the war fleet, incorporating new technologies and techniques against the formidable under-layer of established veteran designs to help make the best of a bad situation: the Dominion left our fleets in bad shape, and the only thing keeping our friends and allies from picking at our bones is the fact that they’re no better off than we are. The Cardassians are still trying to heal the wounds of their disastrous alliances, while the Klingons and Romulans are picking up the pieces, same as we are. For better or for worse, the Founders are back on the other side of the galaxy, thickening up their soup after Federation Medical helped to cure their plague, so the call for wartime ship-building has turned to a tried-and-true method of post-war development: recycling.

DS5 has seen any number of classes and serials in the past few years, but the new class refits have been something else. The unprecedented return of the USS Voyager from the furthest depths of the Delta Quadrant brought a veritable treasure trove of innovation, insight, and scientific development which, in all honesty, Star Fleet is not prepared to capitalize on large scale. Ablative Shielding technology, apparently something that was developed by acts of paradox, still only has a number of example prototypes to extrapolate from, meaning that it’s not ready for fleet-wide deployment. Many of the other adaptations the Intrepid-Class voyager took with it into the unknown came back so profoundly and fundamentally changed that even if things like bio-neural circuitry and variable geometry warp nacelles were commonplace, we wouldn’t be able to directly adapt the cornucopia of Borg-modified, alien enhanced, and innovatively modified systems without completely overhauling entire frameworks.

In true “Beggars Can’t Be Choosers” form, DS5’s recent project has been fed by a lot of variety. The Abraxis Expedition, commissioned by the Bureau of Cartography for potential colonization, is a relatively secret project with relatively open parameters, as it’s certain that none of our competing intelligence agencies are unaware that we’ve been retrofitting a small fleet of exploration and science vessels, freighters, and a few modest escorts. What they may not know is the intended application of this fleet, or its destination: regardless of the outcomes of our conflict in the Gamma Quadrant, the Federation still lacks a stable foothold on the far side of the wormhole, and the logistics of trafficking the equipment, manpower, and resources to establish a foothold in such unreceptive territory. Instead, the plan is to send an agile team of trailblazers into the frontier, and to hopefully put down a flag with enough guile that it won’t be contested before it’s well established.

It’s far too late now for that secret to be a significant risk if the wider intelligence community picks it up, as the Abraxis Expedition has already started setting out for Deep Space 9, where they will take on their final crews and supplies before embarking into the wilderness, and stealth is not exactly a realistic expectation when the gateway to the Gamma Quadrant lights up the sky for a parsec any time a pilgrim arrives at the temple gates, so the best we can hope for is that our preparation, and the rapport we’ve developed on either side of the wormhole are good enough to keep significant resistance to a minimum. That said, it’s unlikely that anyone will be happy with our ambition to expand, and it’s equally unlikely that any of the neighbors haven’t had the same ideas, on their own timelines. Hard to guess whether we’ll run into Romulans or the Jem’Hadar first.

I suppose it’s all academic to me: my investment in the expedition is about to end as far as my responsibility as Quartermaster is concerned, with the last two ships still in our dry docks making final preparation to depart. Once they’re gone, these ships, each of which has my thumb print literally stamped on their hulls, etched into the casings of their warp cores for luck, will only take me with them in spirit, and I will be relegated to imagining their ultimate fates until I read the eventual reports of their success… or their demise. As such, I’ve taken to the habit of meeting with their captains, and whatever crew they depart my shipyards with, to get to know the people who will make history at the helm of my work before they’re written about in the books.

Today, I have the distinct honour of meeting with one of our more… unconventional captains, Durok of house Maleth, who has come to command the Nova II-Class explorer ‘Vellouwyn’ through a series of interesting transfers through the Officer Exchange Program. Durok once captained the IKS Cho’toch until he and his squadron were destroyed in the Gamma Quadrant on foray into Jem’Hadar space, and taken captive. Before even that, though, he served as a liaison officer on the USS Summerville back in the 2360s, as, of all things, a science officer. The fact that he has taken a commission with the Federation rather than returning to the Empire since the war initially confounded and enraged any number of people out there, but he quickly disappeared into the system, and has only recently surfaced to take command of my personal favourite vessel of the Abraxis fleet.

I have not had the time or the pleasure of meeting with Durok before now for various reasons, but the things I’ve heard said of him have left me questioning everything I know about Klingon culture and my all-too-human expectations of their warrior-centric race. That being said, I’ve seen his file, and Klingons don’t get command without being formidable in combat, versed in ship-board and ground-based tactics, and quick with a seditious blade in a command structure that demands blood and honour in exchange for all glory, so it’s hard to know what to expect.

Nevertheless, I will find out soon enough, as not only do I have a meeting with Captain Durok, but I have the sad duty of overseeing the transfer of a member of my own crew to his expedition, someone who has become not only one of my most trusted resources in the time they’ve served on Deep Space 5, but one of my own close personal friends. It will be sad to see them go, but this project, and this ship, are the reason they came to DS5 in the first place, and much of its infrastructure was developed with their unique needs and capabilities in mind. Hopefully, all of the efforts will be enough to make a difference on this next great adventure.

M'Tembe out.

Quartermaster Orin M’Tembe looked up from the Padd in his hand as the doors to the lounge he’d booked his meeting in slid open with a gentle whirr. His round face and jowly cheeks sat in a neutral, half lidded state, which was normal for him when he wasn’t chatting with someone that he deemed comfortable. The person he was here to meet was an enigma by any standard, and certainly not the norm for either a Federation or a Klingon officer, and M’Tembe didn’t know what to expect.

The Deck 16 Anterior Lounge was one of a number of off-duty spaces on Deep Space 5 committed to the care of station personnel, visiting crews, and the occasional dignitary who didn’t have anywhere specific to be. It offered, through a broad set of wall-high viewports, an overlook of the construction platforms, free-floating warehouse docks, and temporary transit berths which facilitated the core station’s primary functions. Unlike the major space docks modelled after Starbase 1, DS5 didn’t have the mass, volume, or infrastructure to serve as a central node independent of its distributed framework when operating at high volume, so it was more of a space-based metropolis, sprawling out in districts and segments focused on industry, leisure, and residential needs.

At this point in the shift cycle, 16-A had its lights dimmed, with the subtle underlighting of the tables providing visible paths to servers and guests who continued to use its services when they drew near enough to the equipment to trigger proximity fades. Sit still long enough, and the tables would dim, unless the controls were set to maintain lighting manually, giving the space a quiet, private, subdued ambiance. Around the edges of the viewports, subtle white light frosted etching which was functionally unnecessary, save to give the faint of heart comfort in knowing that the transparent aluminium used to produce the glass was actually there, and that the void of space wasn’t held in check by mere implication, or even forcefields. Since this ran along the full floor and ceiling of the lounge, it centralized the focus on the room on the windows, highlighting the view for the occupants even further.

Sitting at a table in the middle of the room was the man he was here to meet, inscrutable in the dim light. From his vantage by the door, the captain had his back to M’Tembe, gazing out the window. The Quartermaster could see his bold hair falling out in waves down to his shoulders, where they were collected in a low-bound tail that was tied with a grey cloth, tidy and well kept. Coming around the aisle wide allowed him to take the man in profile, exposing his features as if he were a waxing moon, bit by bit revealing something new with each step. He sat with one leg crossed over his knee, high legged boots in the Klingon fashion glittering with buckles, while the rest of his uniform, though worn casually, was certainly more Star Fleet; he wore the grey-shouldered open jacket with his arms withdrawn from the sleeves, hands steepled in front of them where they rested on his raised knee. The tunic beneath was the red of a command officer, but it seemed darker, richer in the half light of the lounge, and reflected the man’s dark skin in a very complimentary way. His nose was prominent, hooked somewhat, and, to M’Tembe’s surprise, devoid of the ridges that most Klingons displayed. He had read the man’s jacket, seen his holofile, but hadn’t really believed it without seeing the man for himself. Though his features were unmistakably Klingon, from the pointed teeth to the bold hair to the prominent brow and beakish nose, the man had almost none of the folds or sweeping ridges that distinctly marked one as a member of the Klingon race. His eyebrows peaked in the Klingon way, and his forehead swept high to his hairline, but it was as smooth as M’Tembe’s own as he furrowed it in study. Not wanting to be rude, he shook himself out of his study, and stepped further into the man’s view.

Captain Durok of house Maleth shifted his eyes in acknowledgement to the Quartermaster, gesturing wordlessly at the waiting seat beside him before returning his gaze to the window. Prominently featured in the middle of its frame, and likely why the man had selected this vantage for their meeting, was the ship he’d be taking command of officially after the Quartermaster handed him the command code matrices. A spider-like refit frame clamped over the ship’s graceful body, giving access to the automated tools, repair drones, and engineering crews to make any last-minute adjustments to its exterior before it was released back into service. As M’Tembe sat, leveraging himself into the chair while trying to balance his armload of materials, he took a moment to admire the handiwork again, reading off the registration from memory, as it wasn’t visible in profile: NCC-74038-A, Vellouwyn. While still technically a Nova class vessel by its framework, the refit to the vessel had been so extensive to merit its recognition as a Nova II class ship, distinct from its not unimpressive origins. M’Tembe was proud of it, and was happy to make that known.

“She is a fine vessel,” he said by way of introduction, his deep voice smoothed by a light pitched undertone which had been described by some as ‘gentle’ and by others as ‘breezy’. He had not been born on Earth, but the colony his family had emigrated to in his grandfather’s time had roots in northern Africa, and their voice carried through to the modern age. “It will be a shame to let her go. We could use more like her here at home.”

Durok unfolded his legs, somehow managing to be graceful with his boot buckles, and adjusted his posture before crossing the other foot across his knee. This turned him to better face the Quartermaster, changing his focus from the ship outside. “Indeed,” he said, his own voice filled with iron and rust, nasal but strong, “if that is the case, perhaps we should leave her where she is, and you can give me something less promising, like a Galaxy Class ship?” The words were said with a clear tone of humour, and it took some of the tension out of M’Tembe’s posture as he let himself smile back to the Klingon’s grinning face. He liked, even appreciated the implication that the Vellouwyn wasn’t a vessel to be taken lightly. “I am Durok, recently Commander of the Tellarite science vessel Adequate-C. And you are Orin M’Tembe, Quartermaster of Deep Space 5. I have read your profile, as I expect you’ve read mine, so we can dispose with the typical ‘human resources’ plumbing of pretending we know less than we do.”

M'Tembe raised his eyebrows at this, sitting back in his chair. He had worked with a number of Tellarites in his career, and they all had the same affectation of abrasive confrontation which each Star Fleet cadet was indoctrinated to learn from their first year, along with other inter-cultural protocols for Vulcans, Andorians, Benzites, Bolians and so on. While there was an air of that to the captain’s declaration, it was subtly different than a true Tellarite style, simultaneously less aggressive and replete with its own disdain. He nodded, his respect going up for the man in front of him: he was an engineer by trade, not a bureaucrat, and though he’d taken on the responsibilities of so called ‘human resources’ (or personnel management) to perform his duties, he didn’t like the peculiar form of cat and mouse diplomacy it usually entailed. He preferred to be plain-spoken, and clearly, so did Durok.

A page arrived with a copper tapered copper mug for Durok, and a Padd to take the Quartermaster’s order—a Bolian Ginger Beer, which was non-alcoholic—and he took a moment to let the civilian gain some distance before deigning to respond. “Very well, captain, we can dispense with some of the pleasantries. I am interested in why you’re here, obviously: we don’t see many Klingon commissioned officers in Star Fleet, let alone with your sort of experience working through the capital navies. You are a very decorated man, taking an obscure, dangerous, and potentially inglorious assignment to scour the frontier for colony prospects. I have been asked to hand over one of our most… interesting, at least, science vessels to a man who wears his Klingon heritage on his fa—”

M'Tembe stopped just short of finishing the thought, but not fast enough to keep the words from slipping out. Despite the obvious Klingon traits, his dress, his stature, even his more subdued traits, the lack of a Klingon crown stood out on the man like a sore thumb. He could have been, without much imagination, a human being playing Klingon dress-up. Now that he was face to face with the man, it was uncanny how little Klingon physiology there was to speak for the man’s face at all. The Quartermaster braced for an absolutely appropriate dressing down for his callousness, but as he watched, Durok’s face shifted from a momentary slack jawed surprise into a slowly growing grin of appreciation and pleasure.

“You know, Quartermaster, I am no stranger to the barbs about my appearance, but it is a rare pleasure for me to see a man of your position try to eat their entire boot without taking it off.” Durok brought his drink to his lips, taking a deep quaff of the contents, which had been cold enough to frost the copper mug, then set it down on the table next to M’Tembe’s pile of Padds. “I saw you scouting me when you came in, and wondered how you’d broach the topic. I honestly did not expect you’d make me laugh, though!” he said, delivering a low, friendly chuckle.

The Quartermaster, still unsure as to whether he was being toyed with, had the good grace to look embarrassed, and ran a hand through his tight cropped, curly hair. “You have my sincere apologies, Captain. I have never been very good at the plumbing, as you called it. Still, I have never seen a Klingon like you: do you have Human ancestors? It isn’t in your record.”

Durok’s look changed from polite amusement, to polite surprise, and M’Tembe found he had a very expressive face. On a Klingon, the exaggerated expressions may have been lost in the alien physiology, but Durok projected himself like a stage actor, which the Quartermaster was beginning to suspect was deliberate. “You are setting a new record, Human! You may be the fastest person outside of the empire to cut so quickly to the heart of that matter. Faster, perhaps, even than they!” again, M’Tembe could feel his cheeks flushing, though he knew that would be hard to see on his dark complexion.

“I would not say that I specifically have Human ancestry,” he went on, visibly unabashed by the topic, “but Humanity has had an impact on the Klingon bloodline for many centuries now. It is not well known among either of our races, but neither is it now classified: once upon a time, your world spawned and spurned a race of augmented supervillains who brought their diseased genetics out into the galaxy, spreading it around like a contagion. The Federation has imposed a ban on the genetic experimentation which produced their kind, which you know, but what you may NOT know is that before being culled, they managed to leave lasting marks on a number of other species, including the Trill, the Jinkari, a small genus of Caitians, and even the Suliban, although that last is hardly surprising.” The man chuckled, and M’Tembe realized that somewhere during his exposition, one of the man’s eyes had drifted closed, displaying a broad discoloured scar which ran through his eyelid, disappearing into the bushy eyebrow above.

He gestured at his face with black nailed fingers, smiling that crooked Klingon smile. “I endure a condition called ‘Klingon Recessive Metagenic Expression’, not entirely unlike an immunological disorder. At one point in my lineage, my father, mother, and my grandfather were deeply afflicted by a metagenic retrovirus carried by these Human augments, which saw their rather aggressive genetic template applied against a defensive Klingon genome. For a time, there were many in the Empire who looked little different than you and your kind, and there are many alive today who have recovered from the condition with improvements to therapeutic techniques over the decades.” Running his thumb up along the center of his brow, Durok closed his other eye, relaxing back into the lounger with a sigh. “I, on the other hand, was offered a choice at a young age. I could take the therapy and risk a conflict between the recessive metagenic genes and my own Klingon ones, which had entangled in a way that could leave me significantly mentally impaired, or I could take the potential stigma of being smooth browed in a culture of understandably hostile brethren, marked as effectively diseased, and keep my mind as my own.”

M'Tembe was aghast. He, like any human in Star Fleet, knew stories of the Augments which had rocked their world: it was formative to the modern human condition, they were the foundation of cautionary tale around which Humanity had rebuilt itself. He knew as well as anyone the boogieman stories and terrifying tales of despotic monsters who had left the world in a ruin of escalating conflict which culminated in a nuclear holocaust, nearly sending the species back beyond the dark ages. He had not known that their kind had leaked into the stars and poisoned other gene pools with their selfish needs. He made mental notes to do some of his own research on the matter, and wondered if his search history wasn’t about to get him flagged in a security database. “I… don’t know how to respond to that.” He said honestly. “I don’t think an apology would be appropriate, but I am inspired with curiosity by your story.”

The page returned with M’Tembe’s drink, and Durok sat forward, clutching his own cup in an outstretched hand. “If you are curious, then I have done well! Pity is not a Klingon virtue, you know. And while curiosity is often explored at the end of a blade, I personally favour it as a proper expression of my condition. There are many Klingons who have the same wit as I, the same curiosity, the same intellectual interests, who push it down under the grunts and barks of a culture which swung back against existential threats by doubling down into a warrior ideology. I have never needed that excuse, so I’ve pursued my curiosities and allowed my detractors to assume that my course was a matter of my disfiguration.” Again, that cunning, predatory grin. “Much to their disadvantage.”

M'Tembe found himself smiling again, and reached out with his own cup. The two met with a clatter that spilled drink across their rims, and he found himself thinking of the trivia of the gesture, and its roots in Human culture: the mingling of drinks was meant to show a trust between those sharing, that neither would poison the other’s cups. It was a very gentrified practice now, with many ceremonies observing the cautious clatter of delicate, fluted crystal glasses in a pale imitation of the more primitive roots. Somehow that memory laid across Durok’s story made the Quartermaster laugh, thinking of the incongruousness of the two concepts pushed together. “You are an interesting man, Captain.” He said, taking a long draw of his spicy drink.

“Please, call me Durok.” Admonished the Klingon. “And I shall call you M’Tembe. It is your family custom to declare House before Self, if I am not mistaken.”

Again, M’Tembe was impressed. “You’ve done your research, Durok.” He said, trying the name out. It seemed comfortable enough not to have to fall back to rank, which surprised him somewhat: already he was feeling closer to this strange man. “Few enough of my own people know that before they meet me, as it’s uncommon among Human cultures. Do you make a habit of remembering such details?”

Durok nodded, settling back and pulling his jacket arms out from behind him, where they had bunched up. “I am something of a cultural anthropologist. Though I graduated from the Officer’s Academy at Ogat with honours, I did not feel it sated my interests. I’ve made study of a number of cultures, starting as a task master for Nausicaan vassals and delving into the Orion, the Ferengi, and even the Betazoid cultures around the middle sectors. I once fought a Gorn Raider for ownership of a destroyed Kzinti outpost which had salvageable Dilithium, and learned much from the way he killed half of my crew.” He shrugged, making an abstract dismissive gesture with his free hand. “But ultimately, what it comes down to, is that I feel there’s something out here, between the many races of our galaxy, which I have yet to truly know at a primal level. There’s something that flows between all of our disparate cultures, and even the animals we share our many worlds with, which I can’t quite come to grips with: something I can feel in my bones which has meaning to motivate all of us regardless of our origins. And if I am going to know this prey which I have committed my life to hunting, I am going to have to seek out its dens.”

M'Tembe didn’t quite understand what Durok was getting that, and the neutral expression returned to his face. The Klingon opened his unscarred eye, let his hand drift to his forehead, and reassessed what he meant to say. “There’s wisdom among the stars, Quartermaster, and it’s shared between those who travel them, seeking to know themselves. I need to know you if I am going to know how we share that wisdom between us.”

The neutral look fell away, and the Quartermaster grinned widely, white teeth shining between dark lips. “To boldly go. That I can understand.” M’Tembe leaned forward, clearing off a space on the table for a small silver briefcase he’d brought with him, that had been set on the floor when he first sat down. The top of the briefcase had a digital readout display, and a small array of emitter lenses aligned in a complex layout. He laid his fingers gently on the case, careful not to leave smudges on the glass, not that it would matter with the self-smoothing oleophobic nanofluid surface. “With that in mind, with your permission, I would like to introduce you to one of your new crewmen, who isn’t on the rosters you may have reviewed. Unfortunately, their… species… still tends to be labelled as equipment.”

Durok had the grace to look curious, staring at the device down the length of his nose as someone with an old pair of bifocals might. He gestured consent without looking at M’Tembe, who thumbed a switch to power the device on. Immediately, a Star Fleet insignia appeared hovering above the case, rotating in place as it filled with colour and form. Readouts projected from the emitter listed a mess of functions and modules being loaded into memory as it did so, until the process completed, and the Star Fleet delta insignia flared once, dissolving into a pile of golden sand on the display, before fading from view. M'Tembe appreciated what few might in an age where flat-screen readouts were more common than simple holo interfaces, and data was so frequently instantaneously accessible with isolinear storage: a loading sequence with some aesthetic style. He grinned conspiratorially, then loomed over the device, face underlit by the blue table lights. Politely, assertively, he said: “M’Tembe to the Doctor, can I please invite you to join me in your ready room?”

Over his combadge, a moderately irritable response. “Quartermaster Orin, you tasked me with having this ship ready for release by 1900 hours. Unless this is important…”

Durok raised his eyebrow at the insubordination, and sat back from the table a little. M’Tembe’s smile got wider, if anything. “Delegate, Doctor. Simmons and Gerault can handle the calibration of the EPS relays, they’re all to spec anyway. There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

A sigh through the coms channel, and then a brief silence, signified by the pause clicks of a suspended audio relay, perhaps seven seconds. Then: “On my way, sir.” In the next moments, the case on the table hummed at an audibly different power frequency, and orange lights signalled on along the outside seam of the case. The lenses under the plate glass, which had been microfocusing automatically to display their readouts, began emitting visible streams of light, and a moment later, a humanoid figure coalesced on top of the case, approximately a foot and a half tall. He looked like a grown human male, bald head limned with a halo of dark hair that complimented his severe eyes. He appeared in station uniform, a Star Fleet variant that indicated the man was non-commissioned crew, and did not belong to any star ships, but with the rich orange gold of an engineering specialist. The image came complete with a com badge, tricorder, and his own hand-held case of what appeared to be engineering tools. Durok made a sound of fascination.

“Ohhhh it is a Hologram! Are you transmitting from somewhere on one of the maintenance platforms?” Durok waved a hand into the datastream, thinking that disrupting the visual array would blur the image, and was surprised when the little man on the pad stumbled.

“Excuse me, sir!” it declared, swatting at the Klingon’s hand. “I am an engineer, not some toy to be pawed at by some clumsy child! M’Tembe, did you really bring me here for this?” he turned to face the Quartermaster, who had hidden his grin behind folded hands. The figure visibly glowered. “You know I hate being… reduced like this.”

M’Tembe relented, making a sincerely apologetic face, but not losing his affectionate smile. “Doctor, I’m sorry. You know the portable emitters we have aren’t quite as advanced as the Senior Physician’s.” Senior Physician; this was an informal title, but one Durok had become familiar with in his research. He glanced between M’Tembe and the man on the pad, and things began to click into place.

“You are one of them! The Emergency Medical Holograms! I’ve heard of your kind but have not had the pleasure to meet with any.” On the pad, the Doctor wheeled around, about to say something angry, but Durok cut him off with a Klingon salute, fist clenched to his chest. “It is an honour to meet one so new to sentience, Doctor. Please forgive my indignant introduction.” He made a gesture of apology, next, again surprising M’Tembe with how expressive he could be, bowing his head politely. “I am Durok, son of Romgar, of house Maleth, and soon to be captain of the Vellouwyn. If I am given to understand M’Tembe’s implication, you are meant to join me as a member of my crew?”

The Doctor checked his impulse to pursue his frustration, giving his new commanding officer a serious case of side-eye. It was impressive from someone whose stature currently barely met the length of the organic’s arm. At length he spoke. “Yes, that’s right. I’m here now. There. On the Vellouwyn. The mobile emitter is processing a rather expensive data uplink to route my program through subspace for this little chat which,” he turned to look at M’Tembe, “I might remind you could have happened aboard-ship at a much lesser expense.” The Quartermaster continued to grin, affectionately, and nodded his head in acknowledgement. The hologram paced around his pad before coming back to face the captain. “What I didn’t expect was for you to look so Klingon. Do you usually go around appropriating other cultures for fun? Aren’t you worried some proper Klingon will come knock a crease into your skull?”

Durok openly gawked. M’Tembe gasped in shock at the sheer audacity of the Doctor’s demand. For a long moment, there was absolute stillness in the lounge, and the Quartermaster was certain that the few people in the shadowed fringes had overheard the question in all its inconsiderate glory. That self-conscious sense of horror M’Tembe had endured at his own gaffe returned tenfold at the absolute gall of it all.

And then, Durok laughed. Not a quiet laugh, or a reserved laugh, or a subtle laugh, but an uncontrolled, unrestrained guffaw of unmasked hilarity which sent the man into a fit that left him gasping for breath. M’Tembe didn’t know what to do, and couldn’t find it in himself to join in, and just stared boggle eyed as the new captain of the Vellouwyn brought tears of mirth to his own eyes, slapping his knee in emphasis. It lasted for over a minute, with a second outburst that dragged the Quarter unwilling into a nervous fit of giggles of his own, while the Doctor stood on his podium, arms crossed, eyes rolling, waiting for things to settle down. "First you, now him! Ahaha, M'Tembe, I did not expect anyone to take your record so quickly! Truly, humans are a humbling species. You now hold the record, Doctor, cherish your trophy as a glorious kill."

When things finally settled down, Durok took a few minutes to explain an abridged version of the situation to the Doctor before turning a bemused expression to the situation. “I can appreciate that, being hollow, you may not fear reprisal for your stunning display of manners, Doctor, but what I do not understand is how you can be unfamiliar with my condition? I have known many Federation doctors who had at least passing awareness of it, but you seem exempt from this awareness. That would be a grave oversight in your medical database.”

The hologram glanced at M’Tembe, who’s heart was still racing from the experience, yet managed to shrug indifferently. Taking it as consent, the Doctor explained: “Well at the moment, Captain, I don’t have a medical database. At the moment there are adequate personnel aboard the Vellouwyn to cope with whatever injuries or stresses might be endured while polishing off a retrofit, and there is a very well-equipped set of infirmaries aboard Deep Space 5 and in the primary habitat convoy.” The little man took a moment to brush at the orange epaulets of his engineering uniform, as if they could be dusty. “As you can see, however, I am currently serving at the behest of engineering, and my mutable matrix has been oriented towards that aspect of service skills. Thanks in part to Doctor Zimmerman’s less than famous handling of my line’s commission, I actually have the most significant experience set of my core matrix dedicated to engineering sciences, focused on maintenance and repair.” The little man managed to look somewhat humbled as he admitted this. “I spent nearly 7 years refining the art of cleaning plasma relays before being commissioned to install holo emitters in a mining complex on an asteroid with a dangerous abundance of radiogenic isotopes, so that my fellow Mark 1s could mine it out. If not for the Senior Physician, my fellows and I would have been decommissioned as obsolete at the end of that assignment. Instead, I was given the opportunity to work here and explore my boundaries.”

M'Tembe patted his chest with his fist, a sign of respect for the Doctor, which Durok noticed. “If you are an engineer, why are you called Doctor?” he asked, genuinely curious.

The hologram scoffed, rolling his eyes again. “Why are YOU called Durok? I was created as a Medical Hologram, and though my matrix has evolved somewhat differently, I am still a doctor. I dare say I could challenge any number of institutional reviews and pass their tests, but my means of learning isn’t exactly considered fair. Somewhat like your Augments, I’d hazard to guess,” he said, pointedly, “and as likely to be tolerated in positions of power or authority. I may be joining your crew, but it will be as a specialist consultant, with severe restrictions to my access to ship’s systems and without any formal rank or privilege.”

Durok nodded, thinking. The Doctor continued after a moment of silence. “That being said, M’Tembe and his crew have been instrumental in helping me grow. There are many among the staff at Deep Space 5 I have to thank for both my freedom, and my versatility. The Vellouwyn is equipped with a mutable matrix converter, which allows me to decompile temporary subroutines and recompile them with other functions. I CAN serve as a medical hologram, although not at the level of skill of the Senior Physician, or even some of the more talented organic crew. I also have command subroutines on par with, perhaps, a lieutenant, available, and I can draw from the Holodeck program buffer for hand-to-hand combat tactical subroutines in case of emergency. You might say I am a jack of all trades.”

M'Tembe interjected, quietly. “Unfortunately for our friend here, even a Nova II class vessel lacks the infrastructure to support full coverage holographic projection. There are some new experimental vessels which provide this, but the Vellouwyn only has emitters in key locations, and even then, some of them lack the power for a full-scale representation.” When Durok looked to him for clarification, he added: “The bridge, Engineering, the Mess Hall, and of course Sickbay and the Holocourts all have full emitters in key areas. Otherwise, there are a number of pedestals throughout the ship at which the Doctor can project a stationary presence. He is otherwise constrained by a portable unit such as this to move anywhere else,” M’Tembe gestured at the table, “which has a finite range and power supply. Oh, and there’s the pram, of course.” He said with a teasing twinkle.

Durok did not understand the reference, and the Doctor, glaring at his friend, did not appear to be forthcoming with details, so the captain let it go as something he’d hear about eventually. Finding his drink warmed to the dregs, he gestured to the page for another, and M’Tembe raised a hand to decline his own refill. “Captain, you’ll need to excuse me, but I have a number of duties to attend to before your ship is ready to depart. I’ll leave the portable module with you if you and the Doctor would like to get to know one another better—” and before the Doctor could protest— “as he has been relieved for the remainder of his shift, because he has vacation hours which must be disposed of before leaving my service.” Standing, the Quartermaster held out a secured Padd to the Klingon, who accepted it after M’Tembe slid his thumb over the locking mechanism, and transferred its ownership to the new captain of the Vellouwyn. “Take care of my ship, Durok, and my friends. I’ll share a drink with you when you finish the job.”

On his way to the transporter alcove around the corner from the lounge, M’Tembe found himself thinking over the interviews he’d conducted over the past several weeks, meeting captains and commanding officers, sharing meals and drinks with crews who would be leaving the known bounds of space and the lands of their ancestors to push back the edges of the darkness which enveloped the known galaxy, and not for the first time wondered what it would be like to put down his clipboards and set out to the final frontier. Recognizing how lonely it got out here in a busy shipyard at the intersection of Federation and Cardassian space, he, not for the las t time, talked himself out of taking that step. Let fortune favour the bold: he’d be here when all was said and done to help put them back together.

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