BBS Archive of Personal Logs

Randal

A Final Blow

Mon Feb 24

The image stream resolves with a brief burst of static, showing Randal. He's sitting on a bunk in some rather spartan-looking crew quarters on some kind of freighter. Instead of facing the recorder directly, though, he is looking out a viewport, while a pattern of streaking stars sweeps past the portal.

"This is it. Just a few hours -- minutes, possibly -- from T-minus zero. The checkmate move." A smile crosses his face. "It's been a long time since I've felt like this. For the first time in almost a year, I'm out here in space, again. Waiting. And hunting. The predator and the prey, at the same time. And somewhere out there there's an Orion pirate ship who's both predator and prey. They just don't know it, yet."

He sighs, a release of nervous energy. "I'd like to think I'm out here because my actions will make the sector safer. One less Syndicate crime boss, one less pirate base. Making my friends safer... Isole and Magret. All they wanted was for the Syndicate to leave them alone. So now, we've been forced to make them regret they ever crossed us. I'd like to think my only motivations were as noble as that."

"But I can't deny that I have my own selfish desire to have a hand in Kostva's destruction. Because in so many ways I don't want to admit, he's a mirror for me. A reversed image, maybe, but a reflection of my qualities, all the same. He's... what I could have been, if I'd gone down the wrong path." There is an extended pause before Randal speaks again. "So, I need to show to myself that ultimately the path I chose is right. That even though I've done a lot of things that are normally socially unacceptable -- to put it lightly -- that in the end, as long as your motivations are true and you do your best to protect the innocent, that it is in some small way justified. That the good always wins out over the bad, in the end."

"I only wish I could really be sure that I am one of the good guys. End recording... encrypt and save." The image blinks out of existance.

Magret

Letter to Harker

Mon Feb 24

The CTC emblem blinks away to show a very solemn Magret sits cross-legged on the bed in her quarters, lit by the blue-white-green light of the terminals. "Letter to Ensign Christian Lambert Harker, Stardate 53025.2, from Magret Etena, Engineer First Class, CTC Hernes." She looks almost dead in that light: it's not a flattering setting, overall, but ends up giving her features a sort of gruesome and brutally grave-like appearance. The words which follow are, given that, somewhat ironic. "I may be dead by the time you get this. I'm hoping not to be, but I might be. You might get angry when you see this, but that can't be helped. I can't leave on the note we left on earlier today. It's not like me."

"I'm sorry, Chris. I'm sorry that our attempts to protect you ended up making you angry, and hurting you, and pushing us apart. I never wanted that." She shakes her head, then, and looks down for a few moments before turning her gaze back into the camera. "You hurt me, a lot. And you hurt me pretty badly. I'm scared. I'm really scared. I'm scared of doing the things we have to do, but I can't just sit and wait anymore. And I can't let you help me because I can't screw up your life to save mine. And I'm sorry that I can't let you do that, but... I can't. But. I was trying really hard to tell you that even if something bad /did/ happen, that it's not... that. That I wasn't doing it without thinking about what it was that I was doing. That I knew the possibilities, and I think the risks are worth it. You're part of why I think the risks are worth it. And me trying to say that? And then you... shutting down, and getting... angry? It hurt. It was a slap in the face. I'd just tried to turn over every meaningful thing that would be left of me if I died to you, to give you these things, and you just... I know it's not an easy thing to think about. I don't like thinking about it either. But... I wish you'd acted like that gesture meant that I love you, and not that I hate you or I'm trying to hurt you."

A long, low sigh escapes Magret, and she pushes one burgundy-dyed side of her hair out of her face. "That /is/ what it means. I love you, Christian Lambert Harker, and so does Isole. If we didn't care, none of this would ever happen. Isole wouldn't yell at you, I wouldn't get uncomfortable or feel hurt. It just... wouldn't matter. It does matter, though. Because we love you. No matter what happens, now or in the future, understand that I love you, I trust you, and... and I hope we'll come back."

She shifts slightly, pulling her CTC beret off of her head and turning it in her hands. "If we don't, though... please don't think anything changed. If we don't come back, please understand that we loved you right up to the end. I know that's cold comfort, but it's all I've got to offer. That and some poetry and a beret that hasn't fit since I was fourteen." A pause. "It's all in the bottom drawer of the desk in 1524."

"I don't know how to end this."

"We love you, Chris. I love you. Don't forget that. No matter what."

"Computer, end log and send to Ensign Christian Harker. Five hour time delay."

The CTC logo reappears, replacing the Centauran's oddly-lit face.

Shaft

A Circling of Crows

Tue Feb 25

A large built figure rests in the green tinted metallic creche that are his quarters. The Centauran, bearded in salt and pepper with long hair to match -- eye tatooed in an invocation to the North Star -- taps at his terminal to receive the incoming encryped and secure hail. The face of a sinister looking Orion dominated the screen, his scowl matching the lavishness of the quarters behind him for sheer overbearing pointedness.

"Achine," the Orion greets, "why have I lost contact with the Bolerophone?"

The Centauran ticks an eyebrow slightly. "If I had my guess, I'd say it was because you're trying to kill Randal Thorne. And now he's returning the favor."

"He should be /dead/, Barsil! You /failed me/! Need I remind you what is at stake?"

"The fact that you're resorting to /me/ to execute your enemies, Kostva, tells me all I need to know about what's at stake. I can get you Randal Thorne. I can get you the Red Pulsar. Slag, I can hand you the trade routes from hear to Ferengar if that's what you want. But something tells me someone isn't in a position to be making threats anymore. Something tells me you're scared."

"One ship, one infiltration, and one escape are hardly worthy of my fear, Achine."

"Then why aren't your assassins handling this?"

Silence is his only reply, causing the Centauran to chuckle.

"If you want him, Kostva, you do things my way. I'll meet you at the Dulcais Border. It won't be hard to get him aboard."

"Oh? And why's that."

"Because I know how he thinks, Kostva. Hernes out."

The Centauran closes the hail, shaking his head in amusement.

"And I like it."

Isole

A Time to Reap

Tue Feb 25

**
** Personal Datadeck v12.2.5
** Network Via Federation LCARS (Encryption Active)
** Terminal... Detected.
** Command Control Headset... Detected.
** External Iso-Chip Reader... Detected.
**
** Initializing Headset Controls... Complete.
** Initializing Network Access... Complete.
** Initializing Active Encryption... Complete.
** Initializing Passive Encryption... Complete.
**
**
** Welcome, Sprite.
** Good Fortunes.
**

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Open Communications Relay.
$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Text only.
$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Voice Dictation.
$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Activate Source Scrambler.
$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Activate Identity Scrambler.
$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Initialize Passive Safeties.

**
** Connecting to Requested Network... Please stand by.
**
** Connection Established.
**

> Syndicate Communications Relay: Dulcais a012198-65.

> Present Authentication Code:

$Sprite> #Voice Command Encrypted-> Bolerophone-21-x91

> Authenticating... Complete.

> Welcome to the Communication Relay Network.
> Currently active as Captain Torkas, KSS Bolerophone

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Network: Starbase Sandstorm.

> **
> ** Connecting to Requested Network... Please stand by.
> **
> ** Connection Established.
> **

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Disable Command Controls.

> Disabled.

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Lockout Command Controls.

> Enter new Password:

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Time2Reap

> Password Changed:

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Initialize Shield Maintenance.

> Shield Maintenance initialized.

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Reverse Polarity.

> Polarity reversed.

> WARNING: Ion Storm approaching. Initializing Station Extraction Protocol.

$Sprite> #Headset Command-> Override and cancel.

> Station Extraction overridden.

> WARNING: Shields now at %67.
> WARNING: Shields now at %12.
> WARNING: Loss of atmosphere on Deck Two, Section Three.
> WARNING: Loss of atmosphere on Deck One, Section Two.
> WARNING: Loss of asmos

> **
> ** Connection to Starbase Sandstorm Terminated.
> **
> ** Attempting to re-establish... Please stand-by.
> **
> ** Unable to establish connection.
> **

$Sprite> _

**
** Inactivity timeout.
** Goodbye, Sprite.
** Good Fortunes.
**

Park

Personal Log

Tue Feb 25

Chief Medical Officers Personal Log

The log opens to show Park milling about in the background, just pulling on his uniform undershirt as the computer begins to record. It appears hes just returned from a swim since his hair is still damp and threatening to fall into his eyes. Well, I managed to max out on my PRT, so I move to Tier II on my OER., he begins. It was a little touch and go there for a while, but I just kept thinking about Wendy and how she managed to pick up that phaser and shoot. If figured that if she could overcome something like that, then there was no reason that I couldnt keep going. Its amazing what your mind chooses to focus on when your body is working that hard. At any rate, now I need to figure out who to ask about writing my peer evaluation. He tucks his shirt into his pants and sits in front of the screen, running a hand through his quickly drying hair. I have plenty of people that Id feel comfortable enough with writing that up for me, but I still dont know who would be willing or able to give an accurate assessment of my performance as CMO. I think Ill talk to Wendy about that later tonight and bounce some ideas off her. Aaron stands and pulls his uniform jacket on, zipping it up. Well, time to go check on Magret. Shes been recovering exceptionally well and I think this will be her last checkup for a while. Computer, end log.

Harker

Manumission

Tue Feb 25

The logo of the CTC appears, holding for the requisite few moments before winking out. The replacement image is the gaunt visage of Ensign Harker, as usual, just staring without speaking for several moments before he begins.
"So, Lieutenant Tahlandi has been shuffled out. One down, one to go, I suppose." He pauses, gathering a breath. "Though I don't think I'll be so lucky when it comes to my more immediate superior; no matter what happens, it looks like I'm stuck serving with him. But that would just be how it goes."
"I met with the new Operations Manager yesterday; it's lieutenant Havaris, from Security. Praise be to God, at least, there's a professional leading things now. Maybe something will actually get done at some point. Soon. Certainly an improvement so far, but we'll see. He actually handed over a report to me when I mentioned I could do it. I seem to recall doing the same thing with the predecessor, for all the good it did me then."
But maybe I'm just beating around the goddamn bush again. Isole almost trampled me, and Magret, well." The eyes are averted from the image. "I got more than a little pissed at her the other night. I'm sick of hearing about, or rather not hearing about what's going on beyond the fact that it's dangerous. Beyond the fact that it's going to be my job to pick up the pieces if it falls apart."
"So yeah. I pried. And apparently that wasn't quite the thing to do. So." A final pause. "So."
"End log."
The ensign's regard is replaced by the CTC logo once more.

Idrani

Subspace Message

Tue Feb 25

To: Lieutenant (junior grade) Korvus Idrani, Planetary Science Officer, USS Davy Crockett
From: Lieutenant (junior grade) Jaylas Idrani, Diplomatic Attache Officer, S419.

"Hello, cousin. Happy belated birthday, or it will be by the time this message gets to you. We have your last position at 23.7 Light Years due galactic south from the Middle of Nowhere. But, I am sure you are keeping yourself busy.
"We are directly in the midst of OERs and, of course, there has been a general feeling of gloom and depression. Surprisingly enough, I was elevated to Tier II, which considering that I came here last year as a Science Officer and had to work very hard to learn the skill requirements for the Command Branch, I am quite pleased. I spent many months going over training programs and reading PADDs that were generally dry and boring. I'll let you know how the Tier II turns out and whether you will have to call me 'Sir' anytime soon.
"I wanted to ask your advice about something, cousin. I have been mulling this over for weeks now. I am seriously considering taking on an apprentice. I have met someone, a human, with amazing potiential as a bladed weapons fighter. She has not been training long, but I am quite impressed with her ability. Moreover, I have concerns that the limitations placed on weapons training here will stifle her before she can realize that potiential. She has never trained with anything but a holographic knife. Ridiculuous, I know and rest assured that little issue will be addressed before a blade is raised. The venue is important, but it is the least of my criteria for apprenticeship. I would need approval from her superior officers and from Starfleet medical. She is human and would be at a disadvantage for many of the training regime. But even before that, I do not know her well enough to determine if she could be a bonded sister to the Keth. I cannot take an apprentice that is not an Idrani, or a bonded to the Keth. And before anything like -that- happens, I must see if she is willing and able to undergo this. But if she is, cousin, I will take her before the fighting masters of Andoria myself and demand that she be recognized, human or no. But, as I said, I am still in the consideration phase of this endeavor and would appreciate any wisdom you could offer me.
"In the meantime, I am doing well. I would like you to meet Thalev sometime; I think you would like him. Maybe your words can keep my mothers from nagging at me to get married and have babies. I'm not ready for that yet. I just want to take whatever time I have and enjoy it. There will be time enough for babies later, right?
"Take care of yourself, cousin and keep safe. I can't wait to hear from you."

*Subspace message sent*

Dakin

Personal Log

Tue Feb 25

The UFP sigil blinks away, revealing Dakin, shirtless and in warmup pants and kickboxer's pads, going to work on his heavy bag like a man possessed.

"Personal log," he begins with slightly haggard breath, "stardate 53027.2. Well, it's finally happened. The straw that broke the vole's back as it were. Should've seen it coming. Didn't. Stupid, Rann." A back fist strike smashes into the bag before he continues.

"Kusto's been promoted. Chief of Ops, replacing Tahlandi. Over me. Should've seen it coming. Didn't. Stupid." Roundhouse kick. Wham.

"I let him do it. I let him run the damn department for me. I didn't take him aside and say look, I'm cheif of security. I'm supposed to be, anyway. I shouldn't start every shift by finding every single damned project and decision *I'm* supposed to make handled out from under me, I shouldn't find out second-hand when situations break out here. I should <Bajoran expletive> know. And I don't, because I'm out of the loop. KEPT out of it." A trio of hard jabs. The teeth-loosening kind.

"Of course I blame myself. I allowed it to happen. Encouraged it even. And now look where things are." A final spinning back kick end the workout. Dakin sits on his chair and unstraps his gloves.

"I should be proud of him. He's my friend, right? But as stepped on as I've been feeling since I came back from having that... thing crush my spine... Morgan says I should be glad, because I can finally run the department as I should be doing.

"But I'm not, whether it's due to Kusto's promotion, or the vindictive way I feel about it... I just don't know anymore."

He lowers his head, lacing his fingers on the back of his neck. Without looking up, he concludes, "Computer, end log and save." The image of the dejected Bajoran blinks back to the starkly contrasting hopefulness of the UFP sigil.

Nilee

Crossroads

Wed Feb 26

<The recording begins with Galen sitting on the long side of his bed, the camera recording a profile of his entire body.>

"Personal Log, stardate 53022.8..."

<Lifting both his hands to rub his face, he doesn't turn to face the screen, he just speaks.>

"OERs are finished. I planned to complain about how inadequate I thought my results came out to be... but... that just seems irrelevant now. It looks like I've finally got my wish. Nev was probably right, I should have kept my nose out of it... but, I didn't."

<Shaking his head the Trill stands and begins to pace, going off camera for a few moments and then coming back on camera going the opposite direction as he speaks.>

"I was 'interviewed' by Lieutenant Golden. Apparently, Wendy isn't the only one working on this project. The entire Rapid Response Team is part of some secret quasi-military organization. And their not actually the RAPID Response Team... they're the Timefleet Response Team... or something along those lines, I was only given the acronym."

<Galen falls back down onto his head, on his back, his head facing the camera.>

"Timefleet. That's what he called it. Working to save the galaxy, under the very noses of everyone on this station, and it seems very few even have any idea of their existense. I know Nev must... or atleast know SOMETHING about it. I'm sure Kusto does... or atleast, does now, with his promotion to head of operations. I still can't believe all of this was going on and I didn't have a clue. I don't know what to think. Golden made their work sound imperative. From what he said, it sounds like it is... something about silicon-based lifeforms wanting to conquer the galaxy... and will in two years unless something is done. Tholians maybe? Sheliak? Couldn't be... they're both pretty benign... keep to themselves, or they seem to have anyways. By the time I'd found all this out though, he said it was too late to back out, I'd crossed the proverbial line. Nev warned me to be careful... he must have known what I was getting into."

<Flipping over on the bed he faces the camera, propping up on his elbows.>

"I don't know whether I regret finding this out or not. I told both Golden and Wendy that this is why I joined Starfleet, to help protect the Federation, but I didn't expect I'd ever actually be in a position where my work directly determined the fate of the entire galaxy! I think I might have gotten in over my head. For once in my life, my curiosity may have gotten the better of me. The worst part is, I can't talk to anyone about this... because it's all classified, and technically, I don't think I even have the authorization level to know any of it. This need a lot more thought on my part, just wish I could talk to someone... someone who isn't in charge of this whole thing."

<Shaking his head, he looks to the camera finally.>

"Computer, end log and encrypt."

<The recording promptly ends.>

Havaris

A Day in the Life

Wed Feb 26

The emblem of the UFP appears on screen before fading away, revealing a uniformed Havaris kneeling before the mandala in his new Senior Officer's quarters. Big. They are, actually, really big. And the interior is a vast improvement over the normal gunmetal and gray-blue interior. Very earthy and full of fabrics and fineries. Homey, in short. Having concluded the lighting of the altar, he rises to his feet and paces slowly across the room, pausing before a small tapestry on the wall embroidered with three blockish words. That earns a small smile.

"My promotion went through roughly thirty-six hours ago. Lieutenant Havaris Medes Kusto, Operations Manager. It is an honor to wear the rank and the title. It well and truly is. I've finally reaches my old grade, the one I carried back on Bajor. And it may well be argued that a Starfleet Ensign is comparable to a Resistance Lieutenant, but that's hardly the point of the matter. I've proven myself. To my peers, my suboordinates, my friends, my family, my superiors, my wife, and -- not the least of all -- myself. I am right where I wanted to be, right when I wanted to be. My own command after two years in grade."

"The amusing thing is that when I had set that goal it was with the understanding that I would be a Chief of Security. Or in some other way affiliated. A Tactical Officer of a Starship, perhaps. But the goal was a return to Bajor. Serving aboard DS9. As close to my old home as I imagine I shall ever be again. Who knew how much of a difference two years could make?" Kusto turns to pace slowly about the room, pausing before a photo of he and Medes holding hands in their dress whites, all smiles.

"No. I do not think I shall see much of Bajor again. Or the war. I have said all the sorries that I have to say. I have a future now that I have to look to. And I have just learned that this future may be both violent and brief. That may the /best/ I can hope for. Two years at my wife's side and a fall at my post. At worst, I live to violate all the precepts of honor and Starfleet Law that I have fought to uphold these past two years. The foundations of my temple. Perhaps worse still? My wife as well. Or perhaps I end up like Jaylas. Just another mindless rock spitting spoor at whatever confronts me."

Kusto turns about at that, pacing off towards the center of the room to toe at the rugs.

"I thought I had left the fighting behind when I left Security. The active role, at least. The propensity towards combat. But now I realize the lesser threat of the Dominion. Of Cardassia. Now I see no beauty in that thing outside my viewports. I see the death of us. The shining hope diminished. That's what I see now. No options, no possibilities, no other course but to wait out my time and expire as I might. Yes. That? That is what I see now."

"But two years ago, I did not know I had a niece. Yet alone think to rescue her. I did not believe in love, yet alone think I might marry. A Terran, no less. I would have never imagined I would be a desk jockey and a paper pusher. I never would have thought the war would end this way. I never would have dreamed of half the events that have come to pass. But here they are. And here I am. Two years distant from desolation in either direction."

"But I stand here -- now -- and all is well. Tonight I will rescue the children. Tomorrow I will see my sister and my niece reunited. The weeks that follow will be dizzy with joy, hours lost in my new duties, nights spent swimming in my wife's eyes. And all is well here. And I do not look ahead of me. That is the Prophets' place. And I do not look behind me. That was the Prophets' will."

"I look around me, and I am grateful to be alive."

"Lieutenant Havaris Medes Kusto, Operations Manager, s419-Upsilon, Dulcais Sector. Encryprt message, classify level seven, end log and save."

The emblem returns in its time.

Sharei

Both Alike in Dignity...

Thu Feb 27

The UFP logo clears to show a weary-looking Daxaanos Sharei, rubbing his face as he doses himself with his medication. He looks dressed for bed, and one can hear Japanese koto music playing softly in the background.

"Personal Log, Stardate 53030.5."

Dax tosses the airhypo on the desk before him and leans back in his seat. "Here I thought I was going to get some studying in for my OER retest. Just a little project, Lt. Golden called it. Sacred Riix, what a mess. All those poor children." He lets out a sigh. "I hope whoever took those children away loses someone close to them. I can't imagine anything more monstrous than to harm a child."

His eyes drift closed, and he draws a deep breath. "So many of my fellow crewmen were together, there. They found children they thought missing. Through these damned migraines, I could feel just a silver, just the tiniest _hint_ of the happiness and joy they all felt in their unity. Joy and unity that I've only dreamed about." His eyes open, and they glisten in the dim light. "It's not _fair_," he whispers quietly, almost venomously. He leans forward, picking up a picture from atop the camera. He runs his fingertips across the face, and as he does, the wave of jealous anger that crossed his features fades. "Imzadi," he says softly. "LoDnal. You could be my loDnal, couldn't you?"

With a sigh, Daxaanos tosses the picture back up atop the camera, where it lands with a clatter. "I'm tired of being lonely," he says. "I've been alone my entire life. I swore I wouldn't let my illness rule my life. That's what I've been doing ever since I got here." He gets to his feet and crosses to the bed. "I'll tell him tomorrow. I'll tell him, and what happens next is in Riix's hands."

Dax gets under the covers and stares at the ceiling. Then, he draws a breath. "ToH jlDogh," he says, his eyes drifting shut. "But Heavens help me. I'm in love with him."

"Computer, end music. Lights out. End log and save."

Sovar

Sovar's First Log

Thu Feb 27

The emblem of the Federation Diplomatic Corps clears to reveal an image of Sovar. His face is bronzed and weathered from much sun, his expression placid and impassive. "Personal Log, Stardate 53030.9, Sovar of Vulcan, Adjunct to the Ambassador S'Terik, Station 419." A long pause follows while Sovar stares at the screen, expressionless.

"I have now been present on this station for one week. I have found that my earlier assumptions about it were in error. Specifically, I have not adapted as quickly as projected. Nor have all the aliens I have met been violent and difficult." A pause. "Specifically, I have spent the last week suffering through decreasing episodes of claustrophobia, agoraphobia, and xenophobia. Thanks to the efforts of various individuals, including Lieutenant Havaris, Ambassador K'net-Mauri, Madam Isole, and Dr. Park, I find myself returning to a logical center."

He frowns slightly. "I have not encountered many of the other Vulcans who live here, doubtlessly due to their Starfleet work schedules. In many ways, that may be better. If I am to pursue this new diplomatic career, it would be logical to pursue more contact with other species. I am endeavoring to master a Terran game called 'pool' in an attempt to socialize further."

"Indeed," he continues, frown clearing, "socializing appears to be a major portion of my education. I find the imprecise terminology, casual physical contact, and general rowdiness of the aliens discomfitting at times. And they have expressed negative emotional responses to my honesty. It seems I must learn subterfuge, according to all sources. There is another attache to the Embassy, a Betazoid, who I hope will aid me in learning to socialize. In return, I shall aid her in developing her telepathic skills. I am confident that she will accept this trade of services."

He pauses, and lifts a teacup from below screen to his lips, taking a sip. "I have much to learn. I am completely unprepared for this life. Kolinahr was, in many ways, much simpler. I must accept, however, the consequences of my actions. To rail against my fate would be both counterproductive, and most illogical."

He leans forward, and must have tapped the log closed, because the symbol of the Federation Diplomatic Corps reappears.

Sulkat

Personal Log

Thu Feb 27

Sulkats quiet, mildly irritated voice calls out (mid-sentence), "..personal log, Lieutenant JG Sulkat, stardate 53031.4."

A carefully timed pause; Sulkat's clipped tones follow on fairly quickly. "No reply. What a shock. And this computer doesn't like me. Do you, computer?"

Naturally, the computer feigns innocence and ignorance. "Please state a full command," its feminine tones proclaim.

A vague rush of air - perhaps from between Sulkat's gritted teeth - can be heard. "But seeing as it /is/ recording now, I'll move on. And not smash my fist... or fists... into the terminal here."

A deep breath. "No matter how tempting," he mutters.

"I seem to have sunken back into this... staying in... mode. Except for exercise, and the odd glass of ale or water in the NZ, I'm being an utter hermit."

A snort. "Which is utterly unnacceptable. For some reason. Which I can't quite figure out. But apparently it is, so I shall change it. Crew harmony, or some Vulcan-esque reason, I'll bet."

A sniff. "Damned Vulcans." Well, Vulcans /are/ a conveniant scapegoat. For just about anything. As far as Sulkat is concerned (apparently), anyway. "So, in the interest of being a good and social little armoury officer, I'm going to head down to the NZ a bit later, after I eat. Possibly. Maybe."

A sigh. "Computer... end log."

Havaris

Outgoing Mail

Fri Feb 28

To: Commander Lexington, USS Baden Powell
From: Lieutenant Havaris, s419 Dulcais
CC:
RE: Invictus Enterprises

Sir:

In the pursuit of Darmonus Cenobiar and the corruption within Invictus Enterprises, I wish you to consider the matter of Gelniak Solnus, our informant prior to and agent during the rescue Operation we recently undertook. Part of his reason for turning his efforts towards our ends was my promise to attempt the liberation of his sister who, according to Solnus, is a slave in the house of Cenobiar and the tool that was used to force Solnus' father and Solnus himself into these criminal activities.

I do not wish to obligate you as I have obligated myself in this matter, but if the occasion arises to liberate the slaves of Cenobiar's house, please locate Ms. Solnus. If I or any member of 419 can be of assistance in this matter, do not hesitate to ask. I found working with you to be an honor and a pleasure and would not pause to consider if offered the chance again.

Moreover, please bear in mind that Solnus was working under duress throughout his time with the Cenobiar Syndicate. Given his duress, his testimony, his leads, and his actions on the day of the rescue, I would request that his charges be -- if not dropped -- then lessened to the point of probationary. He was invaluable to us in this matter and has proven himself willing to work in opposition to such criminal activities when presented with the opportunity.

Yours most sincerely:

Lt. Havaris, Operations Manager, s419 Dulcais

------

To: Gelniak Solnus, Sector Command Dulcais
From: Lieutenant Havaris, s419 Dulcais
CC:
RE: Promises Made

Mr. Solnus:

First, my thanks are extended for your assistance in this matter. I wish you to know that all of the children have been safely accounted for. The Cardassian children will require medical attention and their fate is, at present, in question. But the Bajoran children who shared their cell -- my niece among them -- are as hale and healthy as can be. You fufilled my expectations only to exceed them to the pale, Gelniak. Rest assured I haven't forgotten my end of the bargain and am making every effort to make your sister a primary focus of this investigation as it is ongoing.

I have repeated and improved my statements regarding clemency for you. If there is anything I can do to assist you in that regard, you know how to reach me. Thank you, Gelniak, on behalf of the United Federation of Planets, Starfleet, Dulcais Sector, Station 419, my family, and myself. Thank you.

Prophets guide you,

Lt. Havaris, Operations Manager, s419 Dulcais

------

To: Havaris Mar, Shanlaya Dahkur, Bajor
From: Lieutenant Havaris, s419
CC:
RE: [No Subject]

Havaris:

I realize it has been some time since last I wrote to you. I realize, moreover, that my messages are rarely welcome and news of me is often discarded somewhat out of hand. I have been content to allow my younger sister to feed you what news of my life she deems appropriate. I am uncertain of what she tells you, but I am certain I have never heard your praise for it. I was content to leave this as the way it was. I was content to pretend you weren't there at our old home, alone. I was content to put you, like Bajor as a whole, behind me.

This was only because I did not wish to face what I had done there. And refused to accept that some of the things I had done were of benefit. Noble in design if not in actual results. There was a time, Mother, when I was a Soldier as well as your son. The boy you knew, however, grew up. I left you when I was eleven years old. I left Bajor when I was eighteen. I never saw you in those years between. I never saw Jiasha. And the last word you hear of me -- perhaps the first, we have never discussed it -- was that I was responsible for that massacre. That I had given the order that killed your husband, my father.

It's worse, Mother. I planted the bomb. I had regretted that my entire life. But I do not anymore. You are old, Mother. You have two children left alive. One grandchild. Jiasha left you. I left you. Nua was stolen from Jiasha when Mauno was killed. You have nothing, Mother, but the memories of all of these people that left you alone to die. Perhaps you are entitled to your bitterness. But you do not deserve your loneliness.

I am your son, Mother. I have changed. I am not the boy you knew, nor the man you hated. I am a husband now. And an uncle. I helped to reunite Jiasha with her daughter. I have fought to save planets apart from Bajor. I have fought wars. I've been promoted twice. I have my own command. Again. I have medals on my chest. I have taken a middle name. I have a reputation now, Mother. I have done good things. Perhaps I have done enough good things for you to forgive me. Perhaps I have not. But I will not leave my Mother alone to die unmourned.

Please join your family. We have grown without your knowing it. Your daughter would benefit from your presence. And you would benefit from the company.

I love you, Mother. And I am sorry for the pain that I have caused you.

Your son,
Kusto

Lao

Arrival.

Fri Feb 28

The Starfleet crest disappears to show young Ensign Lao, standing in his quarters, unpacking while he talks. Boxes are open around him, and his quarters are generally a mess. He's holding something that appears to be a century-old Romulan disruptor. Without looking at the screen, he says, "Stardate 53033.5, personal log." And then looks around to see where he ought to put his antique disruptor.

"Well, I arrived on Station 419 this morning. Got my physical. That was fine, as usual." He holds the disruptor up beside a viewport, then shakes his head. "I've met a bunch of people so far. Lieutenant Medes, the vehicle maintenance engineer. Lieutenant Ghorev, the Chief Engineer. And Roque, an ensign who's running the environmental controls." He sets the disruptor down on a chair, and goes digging through a box.

"People here are pretty uptight. I mean, Roque's okay. Nice guy. A lot younger than you'd think, y'know, in his head?" He comes up with an antique Terran firearm. "Hello, sweetness!" he says to it, and then sits down in a chair and starts to disassemble it while he talks. "I get the impression they're not big on personal initiative here. There's some project going on to do with the defensive systems. First, this Medes tells me not to make a wishlist for it. Apparently, people might get offended." He looks up and gives the viewer a very dry look. "Okeydokey, thinks I. Next, Lieutenant Ghorev snaps at me for asking about it in this bar he's at. I'm like, dude, if you don't want to discuss business, tell me to report to your office!"

He shrugs. "Oh, and people here are really tense about the occupation of Betazed. I'm like, hello? Hello? I was there for a year, people! I know it was bad!" A pause, and he walks over to the viewer, looking down into it. "GET OVER IT!" he announces, and then grins. "Okay, maybe I'm being a little insensitive, but geez! You'd think they didn't know what might happen when they joined a -military organization-! What's that, you say?" he asks, putting a hand to his chest, and looking mockly shocked. "War kills people? Oh, no! They never told me that at the Academy!"

He chuckles, and goes back to his pistol maintenance. "Methinks I am, perhaps, a little too cynical for my own good. Still, all complaints aside, I think this post ought to turn out. They just need to relax...mellow out. Yep." He has the gun apart in startling time. He picks up a rag, and starts to clean it. "So, yeah, things could be fun. I hope the guys working on this defensive systems project are a little more open to new ideas than Medes and Ghorev. 'Cause, dude, this place is in -serious- need of a rapid fire quantum torpedo turret. Oh, yeah. Mmm." He looks up at the viewer, and says, "End and save."

The screen blinks back to the Starfleet crest.

Spect

New CO.

Fri Feb 28

Spect sits on his bed with his trombone laying across his lap. "Stardate 53033.8, Personal Log David Spect, Mission Operations Officer, S419. Quite a designation hmm. Thought I would never get through that, anyway." he rubs his lips a little, "Up until now my stay here on S419 has been uneventful for the must part. Except for that Klingon hitting with a goblet then me drinking his bloodwine then being blamed for the whole situation. Then I was referred for cultural 'training'! Does anyone give the Klingons classes in Terran culture, why should I have to tiptoe around these guys when they -know- I am only trying to be nice too them." *sigh* "Anyway, I digress. I just wanted to make note of my approval of my new CO. Havaris is his name and he is definitely a energetic guy. I have had more to do this past week than I have in sometime." he pauses and glances down at his trombone then back at the camera. He picks it up and holds expertly and prepares himself to play. "Anyway, I like him and think I will follow him wherever he leads this department. I have to say that I am excited. Computer End Log." he says and just before the camera blinks off the intrsument comes up to his lips.

Idrani

Rant On

Fri Feb 28

Personal Log: Stardate 53034.4. Lieutenant junior grade Jaylas Idrani, Diplomatic Attache.

"My frustration with my job and this station has just hit an all-time high. And I was getting to the point where I did not think I could become any more jaded." With a short,bitter laugh, Jaylas turns away from the monitor. She is speaking to a portable computer, Keth Rimosi make. Her surroundings appear to be a small, barren storage room. A hiding place, of sorts. "The diplomatic meeting was hard and biting, again, and due to the lack of support from up the CoC, once again, I bear the brunt of it. I'm sick of my blue ass getting chewed because the people above me obviously don't take what I do seriously." Her hrisal is in her right hand. She runs the heel of her left hand along the blade, not quite hard enough to draw blood. "What I do is very important, I am told, but evidentaly not important enough to reschedule a dress fitting. I still can't believe it. Well, on second thought, who am I kidding? Of course I believe it. It was naive of me to think that a reshuffling of departments would be enough to change the perception of my department. Moreover, I have Ensign Sarvok to look after now. He still has a very idealistic perception of his job, like I used to have, and it is going to be sad watching that become jaded. If I can protect him at all, I will. I won't throw him to the proverbial wolves, as I was." Another pass of her hand over the blade, this time raising a thin line of blue blood. The young Andorian doesn't flinch, perhaps because she doesn't feel it, or perhaps out of a strong desire to impose her will over her instincts. "Security last night was the final touch. Complete and utter disregard for my authority in my own meetings. Again, the fact that this should surprise me only means I was more naive than I thought. I complained, of course. Not that I expect anything to be done about it."
She holds the weapon horziontally, at eye level, looking at the faint blue smear on the razor-like edge. "Am I doing any good? Am I making any difference whatsoever? I used to think so. Now, I am not so sure. Am I putting myself through this frustration and heartache only to meet some fate worse than death in two years? When everyone says you only have a short time to live, how do you spend that time?" A hint of a self-mocking smile. "If I had the guts the gods gave a polar worm...." She closes her eyes, shaking her head. After a long moment of silence, "But I don't."
Idrani leaves the view of the monitor for a few moments, with just the blank wall staring back at you. Then, her voice can be heard. "Computer. Delete log."

Roque

Personal Log - Stardate 53034.4

Sat Mar 01

The UFP logo appears; the star date, the log type, and name of Daven Roque displays. It eventually blinks away to show the drab interior of a yet-to-be decorated crew quarters, the view ports and what is beyond glisten in the distance. There is no visible person in the picture, a muffled sound emits from the left side and what looks like a shirt flies across the screen, followed by the sound of a beeping console.

"You'd think that I would be able to get the temperature right in my own quarters." A voice is heard from off camera. Roque strolls into the picture a second later, only to leave it behind again as he crosses to the other side of the room. "My first week has been somewhat eventful." He pauses, more rustling is heard. "I suppose" another pause.

Finally Roque comes to be seated at the desk in front of the display, his short cropped brown hair and slightly stubbly chin now firmly in view. "At least it's not fixing professors computer simulations at three in the morning.." He swivels in the chair before resuming. "I'm not sure how much I enjoy being away from Earth. Large open skies are a slowly fading memory, not to mention rain." He taps his boot on the floor, rewarded with a thunking sound, looking into the camera as if it all added up to something naturally understood. "My biggest challenge this week was to adjust the atmospheric conditions in the cargo bay to accommodate some refuges. I would think nothing of it, if it decided to stay adjusted, but it was not to be." Leaning back in the chair he props his feet up on the desk, his hands going behind his head.

"Other than that, I've met several of the engineering officers, whom all I seem nice, not to mention a cast of colorful people my first night here, a farewell party for a well-liked officer." He scratches his chin, standing up and moving towards the replicator. "Computer, green tea" he speaks to the device waiting for the drink to materialize, lifting it from the tray and walking back towards the chair. "I've got some evaluations upcoming I believe, that should be interesting if nothing else. Overall, I think I like it here. I'll have to tell my father he was right." Roque begins to chuckle, sipping at his tea, the chuckle eventually turning into a light sigh. "Computer, note addition personal tasks, review flow and exchange efficiency for the lower sections" he pauses for the familiar chirp from the computer. "Perhaps I can create a project out of that." He covers his mouth, yawning wide, "Com... (yawn) ...puter, end recording."

Jameson

Log Entry 53036.9

Sat Mar 01

The scene opens on the gunmetal gray walls of someone's quarters. The quarters appear to be little changed from what is standardly issued. No personal touches are visible to distinguish it from anyone else's. A voice begins from off-camera. The voice is a pleasant male tenor. "Stardate 53036.9. First personal log entry for Ensign Marcus Jameson aboard station 419. I have moved into my quarters and managed to at least get my basic belongings unpacked. I still have some personal items to go through, but they can wait for now. The quarters are somewhat drab and lacking in personal warmth, but once I receive the last of my things from Centaurus, I should be able to give it more of a personal flair."
A face appears as Jameson takes a seat in front of the camera. The Centauran's attractive features are held in an expression of thoughtfulness. "I've survived my first day here and despite missing my family, it's been easier than I thought it would be. Everyone here has been friendly despite everyone warning me about the unfriendliness and rudeness of everyone else. I've heard nothing but glowing praise for my CO, Aaron Park. It would seem that he's quite popular with the people here on the station which gives me hope for a good working relationship. I've heard a lot of not so flattering things about others in my department, and a lot of the former counselors here."
He sighs and reaches off-camera and produces a cup of some sort of tan colored liquid. "It seems that according to some fellow Centaurans I met that the station is really suffering from a good deal of tension and repressed emotion. This no doubt offers a good deal of explanation for why everyone seems to think everyone else is rude or 'not nice'." He chuckles, "Because of course it's everyone else's fault, and couldn't be their fault, right?" He shakes his head, "Regardless it looks as if there's a lot of work here helping the crew and civilians here to learn to balance their shadows and develop the ability to just be, and to exist comfortably in their own skins. I'm sure my father would find it a fascinating study if he were here. I can only hope that I can offer these people the same quality of help he's offered his patients for years now."
There is a quiet pause and sigh, the young counselor's expression turning sad for only a fraction of a second. "I have to remember Anna and my promise. I have to stay strong personally so that I can do my job. It's hard without my family and my friends from Academy, but I'll make friends here too." His expression lifts, a smile touching his lips, "If nothing else, I can already count Magret and Isole as friends. And there is the poker game discussed with Lt. Medes and Lt. Havaris. If that pans out, it should be fun and would help me make friends. I especially look forward to getting to know Lt. Medes better. I knew her mother at Academy, and counted her among the most amazing people I've known. There seems to be some sort of tension there besides mourning her mother's death on Medes' part. I'll be interested to discover more as time passes."
Jameson finishes the rest of his drink off in one toss and sits the cup off to the side off-camera. "I'm going to head out now and perhaps get one of the drinks that Lt. Medes showed me. It's called a stout. Amazing beverage really. It's so thick it's almost like alcoholic oatmeal." He stands up, his face leaving the camera, the only thing visible the black of his uniform. "Computer end log."

Heller

Dear Mom

Sun Mar 02

The UNA symbol appears and blinks out to reveal the charming visage of Mr. Marcus Heller, grinning, and preparing to speak. Heller's newly-moved into quarters are visible in the background. Newly-moved into it, yet there are already signs of disarray. Clothing is scattered here and there, and just in the corner of the view screen, the edge of a well-stuffed sack, apparently over-flowing with crumpled clothing, is visible.

"Hey Mom." Marcus sits back a bit, still grinning. "You've probably been wondering what your little boy has been up to... It's been...oh." Marcus counts on his fingers. His eyebrows go up. "I guess it's been about three years." His eyes register surprise. He pauses. After a moment, he appears to remember himself, and he looks back at the recorder, his grin springing back nicely. He continues.

"Anyhow, I think you'll be pleased to know that I've returned to Federation civilization." His hands go up, indicating his quarters. "Some Starfleet space station near the Romulan Neutral Zone." He shrugs and grins, sitting back, pleased. "And, Father should be extremely gratified to know that I'm finally putting my university education to good use." His smile takes a decidedly mischievous turn. "Representing the United Nausicaan Alliance as a diplomatic aide, but hey. It's legit. The guy I'm working for is alright, and there are even a few decent-looking ladies around here. Should be a good time, if I can... uh... keep my nose clean, so to speak." His mouth transforms into a dazzling grin.

"Feel free to get me back, Mom." His expression softens mometarily, then the grin returns in full force. "Love ya."

Heller leans forward and taps something. With that the transmission ends, transforming into the unmistakable form of the United Nausicaan Alliance symbol.

Haven

Letter to a ghost

Sun Mar 02

The Federation symbol fades and the audio begins.

Dear Momma.

Oh, I wish you where here..more so now then ever before. I feel so..small and insignificant and lost. You taught us to see -people- not races. Now, I don't know what to do. At every turn I'm battling this overwhelming tide of hatred and prejudice and I don't know how to make any headway. All I can do it stand my ground, I guess. I don't understand how people can be so blinded that all they see is the past. The prophets have placed this gift in our hands.. placed /us/ on the path that leads to healing and forgiveness.. and they steadfastly refuse to see it. They see only the bad.. not the possible good that can and will come from this. I see the path so clearly. It's right there before me.. Waiting for me to take up the gantlet and walk the path. I feel so alone, Momma.. and it'll only get worse. Right now its just Loni getting riled up over some kids. Wait until they know that I'm adopting one if the Union doesn't claim them.

I'm not a crusader, Momma. I'm a Doctor. At the core of me.. That's what I am. But how do I live with myself if I /don't/ fight for them. Someone has too. I won't let them be raised to be monsters. I. Won't. I. Can't. The healing has to start somewhere. So many of my friendships are on the line right now, but the healing has to start somewhere, right? Right?!

I wish you where here to help me. Lend me a little of your strength while I face this alone. Nothing else matters right now. Not the crap with K'ruQ or the crap with Gr'laH. None of it. /This/ matters. I miss you so much. The boys and I are so far away from each other now. It hurts that so much distance is between us. You where the cog that held us all together and now I've let you down and I'm so very very sorry. Please.. /please/ forgive me. I love you. Bye... Computer, end recording and delete.. no, save.

The audio ends and the Federation symbol returns.

Magret

Babies!

Sun Mar 02

The CTC log precedes the beginning of another log recorded in a holodeck. Magret is pulling the guts out of a wall, replacing electronic bits with other electronic bits. At first, all that's visible of her is her back end in cargo pants and boots, and as she starts to back out, she manages to bump her head against something. "Ow! Personal log, Stardate 53037.7. Ow. CTC Engineer First Class Magret Etena. Ow." She sits still for a few moments, rubbing her head and grinning like a loon all the while.

"First and foremost: we're free. That's all that needs to be said about that. Well, that and that I've thought about proposing. I was going to the other day, but somehow I don't think that, despite the fact that my heart was in the right place, the fact that we were both desperately hung over made it the, ah, right time. I guess it would have been appropriate to us, but somehow. Mmm. Not romantic enough, I guess."

"And babies! Isole's so happy. Her baby want is acute, and now we're going to have a Creche of our own and maybe the Hernes will take some or most of the little Cardassians on. We talked about it, and I'm so fascinated by the idea of the little Betazoid, but too we want to make sure the ones that... maybe fewer people want... that they get taken care of. We know what it's like to be outsiders. So we're going to cut down a lot on our business by converting the one Holodeck into a Creche. I'm so looking forward to it. According to the report, Miss Anu and Darax are offering to take in kids, and Jiasha's going to take one in who bonded with her daughter... a good number of people are stepping forward quickly to take up the burden, and damn. That's great." All the while, Magret's fiddling with trying to get a piece to snap into another piece, and she screws up her face irritatedly before shoving the piece into place with a *snap.*

She crawls back into the wall of the holodeck, then, and continues talking, though now really only her legs are visible, as she turns about and sits down, leaving her legs poking out from the wall a la the Wicket Witch of the East, toes pointed toward the ceiling. "Babies! I'm so excited. Babies. I still want a baby of our own, but if we can't? Well, maybe one of the babies will stay with us. Maybe even if we can. Still, the Hernes would do better with a full creche in the long run. We're only two people. How can two people raise babies, at least more than one, maybe two at the most? It takes a whole crew to do that!" One of her hands gropes out of the wall for a tool, and, snagging the silvery apparatus, disappears again. Clank. INSERT CURSE WORD HERE. CLANK.

"Ah. Better. And then there's Marcus. Marcus! There's another Centauran aboard! Oh, I haven't had someone other than Isole to prattle comfortably with in ages, not, like, full-time. I can't wait. It's just so EASY to talk to him, and I don't mean just 'cause I don't have to use a translator. Of course he's a counselor, so that's good. This place could definitely use a Centauran perspective on counseling. Much more. Mmm. Holistic. Yes. And then there's the yoh-gah and the other meditative exercises he's going to teach us and he says we can be his adoptive sisters because he misses his and oh! I wonder if that means we get to steal his favorite shirts from his closet. I forgot to ask again, 'cause he didn't give me a definite answer on that one and he's almost as tall as I am so maybe he'll have some cool shirts I can steal."

"BABIES!"

"Computer, end log and save." And thus, the CTC logo returns to replace the image of Magret's feet sticking out of a holodeck wall.

Spect

Pbbfft!

Sun Mar 02

<Ensign Spect replaces the Starfleet logo except that he is pacing back and forth in front of the camera>
Personal Log Ensign David Spect, Mission Operations Officer, S419. Well, it is official, my Junior OFficer hates me. What did I ever do to him. Maybe I should recommend him for counselling. I went over his service record and he has had some blemishes on that record. I also found out that he comes from a planet that has been occupied..I think and he is not even sure if members of his family are still alive. He is in Starfleet because he is the second born...he says and I am sure he resents my much -luckier- circumstances. I do realize that I was lucky." he shrugs and sighs, "What does it matter?" he throws his hands up in mid-pacing-stride, "I tried to talk to him to get to know him." he pauses and looks directly into the camera, "-I- tried, I don't think he even gave me a chance. He probably wants my job." he flops back onto his bed, "But again, what does it matter?" he arms fold over his eyes and head, "He has requested a transfer into another Section which is probably a good move, since he can't seem to work with me. Why does niceness backfire, first I get my stomach pumped then I have a Junior Officer who is just plain mean too me." Spect sighs once more, "Oh Well, I guess it doesn't really matter. I just have to be less-nice to those who couldn't care about people being nice to them. And the worst thing about it all is that he -beat- me in POOL." he just lays there for a minute in silence and the computer pipes in 'Ending Log' and the Starfleet Logo appears again.

Kentoz

Personal Log

Mon Mar 03

Kentoz's puddy colored face appears on screen in his quarters, looking rather glum. "Personal log. Stardate 53041.7. Completed my OER. Sort of." With a sigh, he holds his head and stomps once in frustration. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Sure, Kentoz. You'll do it tomorrow. No really, you can handle it. There's plenty of time." Standing up, he starts pacing and wringing his hands. "Figures. I couldn't procrastinate with something unimportant like a...routine physical or something like that. I bombed the OER." Shaking his head, he shrugs. "Didn't do too hot, either. Sure, I can handle directing the ships in and out, but do I need to work out! Yeesh!" Sitting down on his bed, Kentoz leans back against the wall and sighs. "And I haven't heard from Lt. Havaris about it...yet. I'd almost believe he was letting me wait to psych me out before dropping the kl'enpahli TRANSLATION UNAVAILABLE." A few seconds of lying on his back and then Kentoz wraps it up with, "Computer, end log."

Havaris

Command Decisions

Mon Mar 03

Havaris reclines behind his desk in the Operations Office on deck five. It is, almost to a fault, the textbook office of a paper pusher. Complete with two fake plants over either shoulder. Fake. Plants. He's not precisely bristling, but he's got a cat in the bathtub look that isn't quite washed away as yet. The look of a Security Grunt thrust headlong into an Office, only to find nothing there to battle but paperwork. Oh, the Bajoranity.

"Well, here I am, learning my first lesson about Command. The sort of lesson they don't /really/ tell you about in those books. Or in Academy Training. Or in Line Training. Or even in those 'Tough Choice' Command Simulations the redshirts have to tackle. I am about to file my first reprimands. Because I drew a line in the sand and some of my officers chose to cross it. And if I /don't/ do what I said, I'm a liar. And worse, I send the wrong message. I just didn't expect to find Kentoz among them. Summer? That was, frankly, a really pleasant treat. I'd been wanting to pin a reprimand to her chest since she came aboard. But Kentoz?"

Havaris straightens up in his seat, eyeing the PADD in his hand.

"Kentoz dusted us off of Betazed. If it weren't for him and the Amazon, we'd be drifting caskets and stories over drinks in the Neutral Zone. And, sure, I saved his life right back, but even that's an affirmation. You save my life, I save yours. That's a basis for a professional relationship if ever I heard of one. But I here I am, staring at this report about administrative leave and reprimand for one Ensign Kentoz. Junior Flight Deck Control Officer."

"So here's a lesson for all you half-pips out there. How do you file a reprimand on a man that saved your life?"

Havaris taps his PADD with a bleep and eyes the camera with a slight smirk and a lift of an eyebrow.

"That's how."

"Computer, end log and save."

Gellan

Returnings

Tue Mar 04

Personal Log, YaSharra Gellan, Counselor. Dulcais Sector Headquarters.

The log opens with Gellan sitting at a desk, the wall behind her covered by a pictureque scene of Tugala Lakes on Dulcais Prime. Her soft voice carries a hint of cheer, accented by a soft smile. "I've recieved orders to return to Station 419 Upsilon," she begins. "To aid in the current overload of children recovered from a slavery ring in the absence of a fully assigned Counselor. I must admit to being excited with the prospect. Of returning..seeing old friends. And the children.." Here she sighs softly. "What hell those children must have gone through. I've read in the report that many are being adopted or fostered by Station personnel. This is not unexpected, given the open hearts of many on that station. And a large part of the reason I'm so thrilled to go back, even if its only temporary. I've missed them all."

Sharra sits back in her chair, reaching to lift a PADD from the top of the desk. "Morgan's twins are due about now too," she adds with a warm smile. "The timing couldn't be better. And my shuttle is due to leave soon." She spares a sweeping glance about the office. "This will be my last log from here for a while." A pause, and she smiles again. "Computer, end log. Compress and download."

Glemm

New Arrival

Wed Mar 05

The UFP logo flickers off to reveal Glemm furiously working to clean his quarters. He darts from one side of the screen to off camera in a matter of seconds. Then passing in front of the camera again, a pile of isolinear chips in his arm, "Stardate 53045.7. Gotta gi' ta cleanin' these ol' quartas up." Disappearing off screen again, "Gots moren maself ta t'ink o' now." He returns to the gaze of the camera, standing at the back of the room in front of the viewports. He begins a stack of crates of electronic parts, many of which are overflowing. "Met tha young lad las' night, name o' Remik, cute as a button." Setting down the last of the crates, he walks up to the couch, dropping down with a happy sigh. "Took tha boy a bit ta warm upta me, bu' I left wi' a goo' feelin' 'bout it all. I t'ink this'll be goo' fer me, 'avin' a kid ta look afta. I jest 'ope I can do as goo' a job as ma folks did wi' me. Is gonna mean sum changes fer ol' Glemm, though. Not as much time in tha 'Zone, more time in tha counselor's office. But is whaa I'll 'ave ta do fer tha sake o' Remik." A soft smile drifts across his round face, "Is a loss I'm willin' ta take on tha snout, eh? Anythin' fer tha boy." He casts a glance back towards the large grandfather clock that sits before the viewports, "Soon as I'm dun cleanin' this place up, I'm gonna start werkin' on a clock fer Doc Haven. Din' realize tha lady were as big a fan o' clocks as she is. Nice ta know sumone else on this station 'as taste, eh?" His grin widens as he reaches down between the cushions of his couch, retrieving several stray isolinear chips. "Still 'ave quite a ways ta go ta gi' this place fit fer a child, but I'll 'ave it all ready 'fore Remik gi's 'ere. I can't wait." He stands, picking up another crate that had been hidden beside the couch, "Computa, end log, eh?"

Rancion

Hitting the Wall

Wed Mar 05

The Starfleet insignia rotates slowly on the black background before flashing to Josh Rancion sitting down at a desk with a book in front of him. "Personal Log, Rancion." glancing at a display near by "Star date 53046.7. The Officer Evaluations have me running ragged trying to make it possible to pass it, and maybe move on for promotion." The sound of a page turning can be heard, "I've got to admit things couldn't be better though, Heather and I are getting used to sharing quarters and being married, not something that Michael ever warned me about." A slightly bewildered look comes to his face, "Though he did warn me that women do things that men would never be able to understand..."
The beeping from the terminal signaling that there is an incoming message starts it's strident notification. Josh sighs softly and hits a button to play the message. A gravely voice can be heard and Josh's face tightens, becoming a stone mask at first, his eyes beginning to spark with anger, "Well son I heard you got married." the voice carries an audible tone of mocking, "Going to let her push you around like I did, or are you going to be a man and put her in her place." the growling words come out to be almost a threat, "Maybe I should come to your post and give you lessons, since you obviously need them. You never got the hint when you were younger."
Rancions face becomes a mask of anger the sound of paper tearing is plainly heard over the gravelly voice, covering it up. A roar of anger comes from the young mans mouth as the screen jumps and bobs as if something has violently shaken it. The book that the young ensign was reading comes flying into view to cover the screen and the sounds of glass breaking can be heard. The noise continues as a female voice can be heard in the background asking what is wrong, the sounds of the door opening can be heard as stomping footsteps fade away, the screen cuts back to the Starfleet insignia rotating on the black background as the recording ends due to lack of input.

Bailey

No Time

Thu Mar 06

Personal Log: Rebecca Bailey, DTI. Stardate: 53046.8

The Federation Science Council symbol fades away and is replaced by a vid feed of Bailey sitting in a leather chair. The Anomaly is in the background, casting a queer cast of blue light about her pale white skin. "It's getting harder and harder now..... I'm close... well, my version of close with someone again.... He knows what I know. I've known my time was limited... that I'd have to pass Nelle along to someone else."

She sighs and lays back, looking down at a ring on her finger. "Niel asked me, in a roundabout way, to marry him... I love the man... so, I said yes... but... I know in my heart that I likely will not reach the altar. And so, I begin work on the hologram, a modification of the Emergency Medical Hologram, one that looks and sounds and acts like me. One with my memories. My non-classified memories. Someone who can talk to Nelle when she's old enough to understand."

Rubbing at her eyes wearily, Bailey continues, "So... she'll have my logs... she'll have this hologram, and she'll have Niel. I hope, in the end, that this is enough to make her strong. She has a destiny too. Just as I have mine."

Dovoro

Never A Dull Moment

Thu Mar 06

"Personal Log, Stardate 53046.9."

The Starfleet echelon on a field of black fades to a shot of a young Andorian woman standing in the Lodge, apparently getting into uniform. She's got most of it on already, and she's pulling on the black-with-grey-shoulders jacket as she speaks.

"Well, I haven't even been here a whole week yet, but it's certainly been an interesting post so far. A lot more exciting than I expected it to be, I'll admit. And here I thought this would be a dull post. Within... oh, the first 48 hours of arriving here, I had my physical, I had my meeting with my department head, I took my first-ever OER, and I drew up the SOP for customs with Lieutenant Cristobal. Even managed to contribute a little to the flight deck SOP, too."

Jacket in place and fastened, she affixes her lone gold pip to her collar.

"I'm pretty happy with my OER scores, too. Got a score of 2, which would be enough to get me a promotion if this wasn't my first real assignment since my graduation. At least I got a commendation for it. Need to spend some time on the phaser range, though. And I'm not quite happy with my SQT score--I only got 8 out of 10--and although I hear that's a pretty good score, I want to get a perfect one next time. But Akeen Ghorev's already offered to help me with the law sections--I had some trouble with those--and I'll be doing some command simulations to work on that, too."

A small smirk curls her lips.

"Speaking of Akeen Ghorev... he's an interesting fellow. My new XO... and he doesn't live in the Lodge. Not really sure why, but I can tell he's not crazy and he's not exactly thrilled about living on his own, that much is clear. So I figure he must have a good reason. Although he says that same reason makes it suspicious that I want to get to know him. So we'll see what happens there. He's definitely a handsome man. Especially given that he's a decade older than me. Wouldn't have guessed that."

"Cristobal's a nice guy, too. Spent a good deal of time working on the customs SOP with him. I imagine I'll probably spend some more time with him off-duty when we get the chance. Interesting sense of humor. Kinda like Lieutenant Havaris. I think we'll get along alright."

"Havaris is my department head here. I like the guy. Not so sure about his assistant. During our departmental meeting a couple of nights ago, the Assistant Ops Manager, Lieutenant Foster, snapped at me out of nowhere because he didn't like my response to something that was said... I think he was annoyed that I welcomed the challenge of a test that would be harder than the SQT. Maybe because I outscored him; he might be bitter that I'm the only one in the department that hit Tier II. Anyway, he thought my appreciation of a challenge was a sign of arrogance. So he yelled at me. At any rate, he's apparently bitter that he didn't get the DH spot himself, although given his... lack of self-control and calm, it's not a surprise he didn't. Going to have to watch my step around him, he seems like the type to hold a grudge. But I think Lieutenant Havaris understands that, so he knows about the problem, at least."

She tugs her jacket down and smiles.

"Alright, time to get to work. I thought when I came all the way out here that it'd be pretty boring. So far I've been proven wrong... now I just hope it stays that way. Computer, end log."

The Starfleet symbol flashes back into existence.

Poole

Siblings listen up

Thu Mar 06

Personal Log: Gwendolyn Anne Poole, Second Officer, S419 Upsilon. Stardate: 53046.9.

As the Starfleet sigil fades away, it is replaced by a view of Gwendolyn Poole, dressed in kimono and barefoot as she paces about her quarters. It's a change in scenery from her last log, these quarters being much larger /and/ containing Nevaren's things and hers in a pleasantly haphazard mixture. "Computer, make a note to save this recording when finished and route copies of it to my brothers and sister."

Breathing deeply, she moves to take a seat on the couch and looks steadily at the camera. "They gave me back the 2O position guys... gave me back my strength. Made me a department head and a senior officer once again. It's an entirely new and entirely old feeling at the same time." She smiles and adds, "And I /like/ it."

"Apparently they already had me in mind for it... should a space open on the roster above me. The OERs must have clinched it... speaking of which, I should leave a mental note here to file those written evaluations I have ready in the morning." Winking at the camera, she says, "See... I'm still leaving those reminders everywhere. Just like when we were kids." Another pause and she says, "Speaking of which.... Nevaren and I have volunteered to foster a Trill child. He lost his immediate family and his closest relatives are too old to take care of him. I hope that Nev and I will get the chance we deserve to take care of a child as our own."

"Sorry Alec, but the wedding is still on... that means you have to stay on the USS Worthy and not detour to Risa like I know you've been thinking about. Trust me, you'll have fun here. I promise the party of a lifetime. Two words. HUGE wedding. Lots of people, chances to mingle... plenty of food. Plus you can visit your middle sister who takes care of all the family business while you all go about your lives."

"I can't wait for you all to meet Thea and Kusto... ooo, and Femke... and Rann... and Morgan... if she isn't in labor during the cerimony... Twins, wouldn't you know it? Akeen Ghorev, too... and Josh.. and... there's so many people I want you to meet.... And, of course, Nevaren. You'll get along famously with him, Alec... you too, Chere. You can show him some of the projects you've been working on... and maybe he'll show you his ship design."

"Anyways... I should get around to bed one of these nights... Good night, you lot. Sleep well... and I pray for your safe arrival within the next few days.... computer, end log."

Zuh'raah'do

In sickness and in health

Thu Mar 06

The Ambassadorial quarters of Zuh'raah'do fade into view. The old Nausicaan has the lights low, perhaps no higher than 20 percent illumination, and he's sitting in one of the Fed-issue chairs that furnish his suite. From the view of the recording, it doesn't look like Zuh'raah'do has done much of anything to change the decor of his quarters. The only "personal" items in view are his trusty Ferengi-made terminal and a half-empty bottle of Romulan Ale, both of which are resting on the table next to the Ambassador, and a United Nausicaan Alliance flag resting on a stand near the viewports. Outside, the anomaly is in full-splendor.

Zuh'raah'do speaks in his native tongue, his usually slow-paced and articulate method of speaking Fed Standard being replaced with a faster, more relaxed tone as he utilizes a language that is more befitting of his unique mouth structure. "The average intelligence of Station Command has increased ten-fold recently...Lt. Commander Edwards is gone and Lt. JG Golden has put on a red shirt." A smile slowly crawls into place. "Edwards was a moron. Or still is, since Starfleet wouldn't do the galaxy a favor and remove him from the gene pool. Pity." Zuh'raah'do picks up his bottle, a rumbling chuckle escaping from his chest, as he salutes the recorder. "Here's to you, Commander! I'd wager you didn't expect to be cleaning out your quarters so soon." The Ambassador tilts the bottle and drains half of the contents. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Zuh'raah'do's attention is drawn to the bottle. Romulan script orbits the glass as Zuh'raah'do turns the bottle around, then back. The very same written letters can be seen on the Nausicaan flag behind him. After a few silent moments, the Ambassador continues. "Lt. Golden is a soldier. He has the ability to give orders and to follow them. Which, in it's own queer way, makes his presence on the Diplomatic Chambers equal parts of boon and bane. He will not dishonor himself or his uniform. Mores the pity." Zuh'raah'do takes in a deep, ragged breath, then slowly releases it. He puts a hand to his chest and coughs, clearing his throat before continuing.

"The Klingons are bellowing for war again. So soon after their appalling losses in the Dominion war. Which, in a way, shows their incredible inability to think more farther ahead than the step that is right before them. Maybe that is why they've lost every war they've fought against the Romulans and the Federation. Warrior race, indeed." Black eyes turn from the bottle to the recorder. "We do not war. I do not want war. But, if the Klingons force the issue, let them come." Zuh'raah'do stares at the recorder, the fire in his eyes melting perhaps a quarter-century of age off of his face. "To their own suprise and damnation, let them come."

His anger lessens just as quickly as it arose, and Zuh'raah'do goes from fierce warrior to aged diplomat in the blink of an eye. He leans back in his chair, resting his head against its' high back. His breathing takes on a wheezy element. "The fools think a Nausicaan-salvaged ship was used in the Dominion gambit to bring the Alliance to blows. Occan salvage." Spittle runs down the length of his mandibles as he talks. "And that we've harbored Dominion forces since before peace was declared. Idiots. Some Klingon Noble lost a ship and is too proud to have his honor stained. So, they blame the Nausicaans. Not that this is their only cause for war, but it's a key one. They're also upset that one mining facility was hit by pirates, /months ago/, and now demand satisfaction." He chukles. "Nothing like punctuality. But, when you need a scapegoat, why let facts get in the way? Unfortunatly for the Klingon Empire, the Romulan Star Empire and the Federation are not easily manipulated. They share a common ignorance, but great powers can afford to be wrong."

"Relations with the Star Empire are progressing smoothly, but I have no illusions that they would stop a Klingon invasion directly. We would not want them to, which I think suprised K'net-mauri. He's an astute man. I doubt our reasoning is lost upon him." Zuh drains the remainder of the bottle, then looks back to the recorder. "Starfleet is acting like...Starfleet, much to the annoyance of myself. And..." eyes twinkle. "...of others. It pleases me that their heavy-handedness is not lost upon other delagates. Gr'raak'ta would like to exclude Starfleet from diplomatic proceedings, but I do not agree. It is better to have them present, before all the Ambassadors. To date, they have not disappointed me, and have done more to move foreign relations along than I could have managed alone."

Popura has proven to be very useful." He smiles. "Too bad he can't stay. But we'll have to make the most of the time we have." Zuh'raah'do's chuckle turns into a fitful cough that seems to take him by suprise. He jerks up, the bottle tumbling out of his grasp and onto the carpeted floor. Zuh'raah'do's left hand clenches the armwrest while his right goes to his chest. Several minutes pass as the Nausicaan coughs and gasps for air. Finally, he loses consciousness, his huge form slumping forward in his chair.

The recorder stays on the still form of the Ambassador, who seems to be breathing easier after losing conciousness, and eventually times out.

Gr'laH

Leading from the Back

Thu Mar 06

The crimson emblem of the Klingon Empire flashes on the screen, followed shortly thereafter by the image of Gr'laH reclining in his chair within his spartan quarters. His only hand holds a PADD, his single eye watching it rather than the camera before him.

"Diplomacy: The art or practice of conducting international relations, as in negotiating alliances, treaties, and agreements. Tact and skill in dealing with people." Gr'laH shifts his eye to the camera for a humorless snort before flicking his PADD away with a wheezing growl. "The entire Empire could stand to read the definition of that word as I have done. It is a measure of our stupidity that we continue to press for war wherever it should be found. War against Nausicaa? To what end? Might we rather suggest joint patrol of Nausicaan space to weed out these pirates, should such pirates exist? Would not a Nausicaan central government capable of policing its own serve /our/ ends in buying us time to rebuild and strengthen our forces in the wake of the Dominion War? Should we not look /outward/ for peace? And /inward/ for strength? Rather than attempt to /prove/ our strength outward and trust ourselves to keep the peace?"

"B'val. Was. A coward. A fool to think she could simply push our Empire into war on Nausicaa. Can you /be/ so blind not to see the interactions of K'net-mauri and Zuh'raah'do? It is as apparent as the closeness of Haven and either man. If you court war with Nausicaa, you invite -- if not war with the RSE -- then such assistance /from/ the RSE to make the war costly. Painful. Brutal. Attritious. Prolonged. Wasteful. Pointless. Should we win Nausicaan space, what then? It will be another Siinoga. Another Bak'TUR. And who shall we ask to rid ourselves of the /Nausicaan/ 'infestation'? The /Siinogans/?" Gr'laH barks out a laugh at that.

"And now Avok comes. And he says he shall /continue/ B'val's push for war. Cowardly and based in half-truth as it is. While the ashes of Bak'TUR continue to settle, and an attack on our people -- a clear and present danger -- falls to the wayside in favor of a warrior's pride and a contrivance against an Enemy nobody seems concerned with. The Romulans stare across our borders as they ever have. The Siinogans no doubt breed in some hole we have forgotten. The Dominion lies beyond our space, licking its wounds. Some power or other has devastated our cities. And we wheedle and cajole and paint an ever tighter circle around the Nausicaan's ability to avoid this war. This is not Diplomacy. This is warmongering. This is not justice, it is impudence."

"Our cities burn and they fly in search of a new war to slake their prides, when in my sleep I heard the screams of the dead of Bak'TUR and find no pride in bringing this all about. I am forced to follow my orders. It is my duty. At least-- so long as Avok lives. So long as B'val lives."

"Which, should providence play a part, will not be long I hope. This is not a place to sharpen your blade. This is not a place to dull it, either. This is a place to wield your wisdom before you /draw/ your blade. And plunge the whole of the Empire into a spiral of darkness, death, and weakness that will spell the end of an age of greatness. Let /that/ be the legacy they carry should our ships fly to war. As for me, let it be said that he did his duty, and as the shadows circled said only, 'You did not listen. You did not see.'"

Gr'laH nods his head faintly. "What was screamed into your faces."

The emblem of the Empire returns as Gr'laH taps his terminal's keyboard.

Lux

The High Cost of Living

Thu Mar 06

The Ferengi Alliance's emerald seal vanishes to reveal Lux sitting in his shrtsleeves, behind his desk, with his feet propped up, tumbler of gin in one hand and a large Bolian cigar in the other. "Ambassador Lux, personal log. After careful deliberation and intense research I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing more irritating than a station full of smug, self-righteous communists who think that they know something about anything." he adopts a less than flattering impression of a hew-mahn accent and says, "Hi, we've never worked for a darned thing in our lives but listen to what we have to say about reality." he snorts. "Like they know what the word means trapped in their little pinko colored tower here. Gods it's like having the universe explained to you by veal.
"So a couple of backwater hicks have gotten their grubby little pauper mits on some nuclear bombs thanks to the fact that the Rynkans have no idea how to successfully take over a planet." he rubs his eyes tiredly. "It's like my dear old grand moogie always said, 'If you want something done right, kill all of the poor people before you start.' So of course some nutter with less braincells than latinum shavings goes and nukes a Klingon colony and now I get to hear every half-lobed hew-mahn with a pair of vocal cords and a state issued opinion voucher giving me their two-slips about the state of the galaxy. Not that this effects them mind you...oh, wait, my bad, their Federation citizens and we all want to be members we just don't know it yet so they have to politely but thier little pink noses into everything until we mean ol' capitawists get the picture." he has some gin and blows a few smoke rings. before continuing.
"I had to listen to some tubegrub brain the other day explain to me that the Klingons would very likely go to war with the Alliance over this Bak'TUR thing and that I was wrong in my assessment that they wouldn't. Do the math people. The Klingons hate us. The Klingons invade and kill the daylights out of anything that they don't like yet....the Ferengi Alliance is still standing....hmm. Well I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that the fact that we can outgun them should we have to and that their economy goes toes up if you look at it crosseyed. It must just be the goodness of their big warm fuzzy hearts that's kept them from invading all these years. Or a lack of provocation. Exchequer knows that if history shows us anything its that the Klinks need lots of provocation before they'd ever dream of a military solution to one of life's little problems. They're such a peaceful and kind race, known throughout the galaxy for their diplomatic accumin." he sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. "I need a vacation. I need to not be around opinionated commies for at least a week." the subspace messenger in his room chimes and he sighs. "Alas, no rest for the wicked though. Computer, end log."

Avok

One little ship...

Thu Mar 06

The pointy symbol of the Klingon Empire appears, with the words "Audio Log Only" in Klinzhai and English below it. A chirrup is heard, and Avok's voice follows it.

"Diplomatic log, stardate 53049.1. This station... is a microcosm, one might say. Ironic that so much of the galaxy is about to have its fate decided by what goes on here. Ironic, and at the same time terrible, because cool heads cannot prevail onboard this station."

"The House of K'mpec persists in its warmongering, and Martok has no choice but to let the standardbearers march on. A war would be good for him; the forces of K'mpec would fight it and the KDF would stay largely out of the conflict, weakening his biggest opponent... but he would be seen as weak by the Federation, and the point is to strengthen the central government, not let the Empire degenerate into the feudal state it was a hundred years ago. And here /I/ am, powerless to do anything about it! chu'jaqH, it makes me wish I'd stabbed that woman the first time I met her. B'val! Ah, B'val, if only K'mpec could see you now. Carrying out his damned legacy to the letter, without a heed for the well-being of the Empire! This war serves no purpose save to weaken Martok's position before the Council, and will weaken more than that! It will weaken the Empire, destroy her ships as well as her credability."

"Pah. Duty demands that I follow her orders and push for this war, but honor and loyalty demand the opposite at least... killing her at most. We shall see... but I hope something comes of this before shots are fired. War is the last thing Qo'nos needs right now."

"Computer, end log."

Medes

Conflict! Drama! Cookies!

Fri Mar 07

"Personal Log, Lt. JG Alethea Ruth Medes, Stardate 52050.5. Audio only."

"Hey, Dad."

A minute's pause.

"I haven't recorded a log since the night we brought Nua home, and I haven't talked to you in... months. There's been too much. So many children, so many things. Overload. I've felt the need to divert, to push myself away from this. I overdid it, emotionally if not physically. I mean, really, who other than some sort of masochist goes through and looks at all of the children, one by one, when they have numbers? Before they even have names to you?" She stops here for a moment, breaking off her train of thought in a self-deprecating chuckle. "Me, obviously. I'm no masochist. I just. I had to see. I had to make it /real./ More real that even Nua could make it. I couldn't let 'three hundred children' be just a number. They had to be three hundred faces, each with a mother, alive or dead as she might be."

"Mother. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I could see it on Kusto's face last night when Gellan and Dakin Morgan were visiting that he wants a baby. I could see it in the Not Looking he was doing. He's very good at Not Looking in such a way that it's a Look all the same. And you know, if /he/ was the one with the uterus? I'd be all for it. I mean. He can still sit in a bridge chair while pregnant, right? Or. Could. If he was the one with the baby apparatus. But I... not right now. I can't take the time off. I've come too far, worked too hard, done too much. I'd go insane."

She pauses for a long few moments, and adds, "Still. It's tempting, at times. To be all soft and round in the belly and watch Kusto go insane with fussing and then have a little ridge-nosed baby? It's tempting. It's like I have these Mommy Bits Of Me that come out and play. Fortunately, my Good Sense rounds up the Mommy Bits and clobbers them heavily with wrenches, or else I'd be in trouble. I'd start doing things like letting up on the Baby Stopping Measures. Tempting the Prophets. Which is silly, I think. I don't think you can tempt the Prophets like Terrans would say you tempt Fate. Still."

"I've found myself talking to Nevaren more often than not lately, of all people. I guess it's 'about time' or whatever, given that he's marrying my best non-Kusto friend and all? But almost crying in front of him the other day." A cough. "It was weird, Dad. I'm having a hard time separating him from boss-ness. Ghorev, too. I noticed the other day that Ghorev -- Mr. Formality -- lets me get away with calling him Boss instead of sir. Maybe he just hasn't noticed that he lets me get away with that. It took /me/ months. Also, he made me a hat. Which is cool. And I like him, in a weird, detatched kind of way. he makes me nervous. That's probably good."

"Speaking of weird tenative friendships. Ensign Jameson was close to Mom, he says, at Academy. I suppose I should be glad that she was close to /someone,/ but the pathetic little girl in my head who I wish would SHUT THE HELL UP wants to whine about it. Why couldn't it be meeee? 'Cause I look like you, Dad. I guess I should. You know. Talk to him. Learn about. Mom. But. It's too much right now. So I'll build my darkroom and learn to use Aunt Kate's camera and... Yeah. Sooner or later. We'll talk."

"Univira." A rough throat-clearing. "Latin word. Roman ideal. One-man woman. I'm sorry that it hurt Kusto that I wanted that tattoo. I am. More than I can say. That doesn't change that it's true. He's it. The end. Either I'm married to him always or, if I'm left? I marry Engineering. And I'm /okay with that./ I've had one relationship in nearly thirty years. Having had this, I can't go back to anything that means less."

"Univira. It's what I am. And I'm all right with that. Eventually, I'm sure, Kusto will be, too."

"Computer, end log and save."

Mirell

Arrival

Sat Mar 08

Mother,

I have arrived aboard the Federation station. I have already been exposed to a dose of the chaos I expected to find here. When I attempted to locate the Ambassador, the computer informed me that he was in 'The Neutral Zone'. Before I could decide whether the Ambassador's absence or the computer's apparent ability to track him was a greater concern, I discovered that that is the name of a drinking establishment, a 'bar' in Federation vernacular. In the short time that I was there, introduced to the Ferengi Ambassador, romantically propositioned by a human civilian, and witnessed an enraged Klingon threaten random passersby. He had to be removed by Security. I wonder what is signified by the human gesture of grabbing one's groin? The wife of the owner of the bar, a Starfleet science officer, performed that gesture in the direction of the departing Klingon.

After that little entertainment, we retired to the Ambassador's quarters where we discussed the present situation. The conversation reminded me of those rare few with Father where he wouldn't get distracted by preparing me for my military career or trying to find me a husband. I hope that Father has softened somewhat. I am deeply sorry that I have placed that particular burden on you, and I hope you can forgive me.

Mirell Valer'ya

Alarcon

Altercation

Sat Mar 08

When the video begins, Isobel is sitting Indian-style on the sofa in her quarters, wearing a faded t-shirt and flannel pj pants. She gives a surreptitious look around, as if to make certain she is alone, and sighs. "Personal log, Lieutenant JG Isobel Alarcon. Stardate 53053.1." She leans in, lowering her voice and speaking almost conspiratorially. "I haven't had a chance to talk to Miguel about this yet, so here's hoping he doesn't walk in during this as he is, well, sometimes wont to do." She settles back, sighs again. "So I went to the bar last night, ostensibly to relax after a long day of recalibrating the displays down in Stellar Cartography... they were off by a fractional amount, but, ah, that can make a big difference in throwing off orbital or trajectory caluclations. I'm trying really, really hard to do the best job I can standing in for P'Trell, but..." She looks down at her hands, muttering, "I'll get to that in a minute. Anyway, I went down to the bar."
She looks back up, now, and continues, wearily. "I had just gotten my tea, and I was on my way to go possibly play pool with Medes... or watch Medes play pool," she amends, looking down at her hands again. "I wasn't going to butt in, just... she's one of the only people here I really even kinda know, so..." A shrug, and she shifts again, going on. "Then in comes Dr. Gorgha, this big Klingon, and he brandished his blade at some mild-mannered Bolian, and... well, he can't be doing that." Her brow creases, somewhat crankily. "I mean... chasing away our business like that... Miguel wasn't there, but I know he wouldn't have appreciated that. And so I set my tea down and headed over to talk to Gorgha."
Here she gets positively scowly and indignant. "You know, I was as nice as anyone could be expected to be! I really was. I'm not some... I don't have some problem with Klingons. In fact," she continues, still indignantly, "I pride myself on being NICE--" Here she flings a throw pillow across the room, where it bounces harmlessly off the wall. "--to EVERYONE! I'M A NICE PERSON!"
Clearing her throat, she runs a hand back through her hair and settles herself again. A small grey cat leaps up on the back of the sofa with a wary expression, prowls past for idle touches from Isobel before disappearing again. Isobel sighs. "I made him leave. With some help. And he's banned now, and I was so tired and frustrated and sick of his baiting..." She waves a hand, vaguely. "I know I'm not the biggest, baddest person out there. I'm not RRT, I'm Sciences for a reason. But you don't disrespect my husband's rules in his bar and expect me to take it lying down. And you can only insult me so many times when I have been nice and diplomatic and firm about the whole thing..." Her expression turns sheepish. "He made a crack about balls. So I grabbed my crotch when he finally left. In an act, ah, of defiance." She looks embarrassed again. "In front of everyone, and I will probably never live it down. But I guess it's better, marginally, than being the nice Science girl who has a supernatural talent for putting her foot not only in her mouth, but down deep somewhere in her own intestines, accidentally saying precisely the wrong thing like it's a... well, a science." She worries the edge of one of the other pillows between her fingers for a moment, then shrugs, her expression one of resignation. "I know I said there'd be more. I lied. Alarcon out."

Tzannos

Movin' on up...

Sat Mar 08

The UFP logo blinks off to show Tzannos' face, a mix of relief and sadness.

"Chief Iason Tzannos, Personal Log. Stardate 53053.8."

"I did it. I went and asked for the transfer to a Warrant Officer training site. I dug myself out of this pit of menial repair work and transporting things from one place to another and made a push to go somewhere with my career in Starfleet."

"And don't I deserve it? A 2 on the OERs, when some of those damned Academy grads cant even pull a 1. I might even get bumped to MCPO if it wasn't for Time-in-grade requirements, but this way is better anyhow. I could be an Ensign by the time I'm 25."

"Only three years behind those Academy twerps who can't even put a uniform on straight, let alone run a space station."

"When I came out of that meeting I felt so /alive/. I've always thought that this station's layout was representative of what it does to your career; you just keep walking in circles and never escape. But tonight tonight I broke free. I didn't walk around I walked forward." He pauses, spinning in his seat, an expression of pure glee on his face.

"I walked out."

Tzannos stops spinning, and reaches over to tap the control for the log, terminating it abruptly.

BBS 04-30-03 Personal Logs

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