Warp Geometry, Human Chemistry, Bad Dim-sum

Posted on 08 Sep 2016 @ 1:30am by Petty Officer 3rd Class Micah Hershey & Crewman Aurangzeb Ameen
Edited on on 09 Sep 2016 @ 1:46am

3,269 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Episode 12 - Recluse
Location: USS Galileo: Mess Hall, Deck Two
Timeline: MD -04 0115 hours; Gamma Shift

[ON]

The bleak truth wasn't about to get Micah Hershey down, but he was feeling the weight of fatigue. His mind: sludge. His uniform chafed and longed for the free of night air... preferably under soft sheets. But sleep itself was elusive on a second night aboard his new ship. Normally when Micah couldn't sleep he'd go topside of the family home. There he'd be able to see the great bowing lines of the old Noctis dome, a dull gunmetal and stained in rust patinas from Mars' soil. And the scarlet horizon giving way to the cold crisp night. Always dry. He'd stare up at the pinprick moons of Deimos and Phobos. Unlike Luna the moons of Mars were little more than captured asteroids, and tiny by comparison. They looked more like large, unflickering stars than moons. But he knew where to find them all the same.

Micah hadn't done any of it in some time, his last time back on Mars had been close to two years ago. On the Proxima shipyards he'd stared into the deep red of the nearby red dwarf star and found comfort in the color of the light, if not the vastness. It was a tiny star but still yawned larger than any world. On Galileo it was a steady streak of stars and the call of the warp field's hum through the deckplates. Alien and new, and it would grow on him. But it was still a biological clock misalign.

The fullness of his lip bows snarled at the plastic disappointment the Galileo's replicators pretended was stir-fried wheat noodles with the Martian take on the "Seven tastes" of Sichuan. Largely settled by the peoples of Guangzhou, Hong Kong and Taiwan, the climate was friendlier to the dry spices found further west. The result was a uniquely Martian hybrid. And the replicators had a terrible time of it. Micah pushed it away, unappetized by the plastic textures and salt. The ricewine was fine but then most ricewine on Mars was an import. Mars wasn't wet enough for true rice, let alone enough surplus to make booze of it. That made it a bit of a luxury for the real thing and most people, Micah included, settled for a nonalcoholic replicator equivalent.

He nursed it with tugging lips, and a suctioned crackle as he came up off it just shy of half-empty. He returned gaze to the improbability... the Nova Class, and it's eventual refit.

Biyu insisted his transfer to the Galileo was fortuitous, he'd be able to apply his knowledge of the upcoming refit to an existing ship. Micah pondered the possibility without the mystic lean Biyu put on everything. His transfer was fate. His promotion was fate. Meeting Kuai was fate... fate fate fate. Whatever it was, it was. But there might've been some opportunity there: apply some of what he'd known. But he'd left the program during an imperfect time. Officially the project was on time and the theoretical engineers were "ironing out the bugs". Unofficially the refit was going to be late and the higher ups were starting to panic.

Starfleet wanted to retrofit many of the existing Nova-class surveyors into self-sufficient deep space explorers. Wider mission profiles. Greater mission times. Longer periods between refuels. More efficient engines and better speed. And the sad truth was... the consensus among many was it would be a massive undertaking. The Nova in it's current form was underpowered and too purpose-built. It was called a "refit" but in some ways it would be a total rethink.

Of course headway had been made. Challenger was testbedding some new, experimental components. A couple of other as yet unfinished vessels testbedded others. But combining it all into a working refit prototype was still probably a few years away. And Starfleet was quietly disgruntled with that. Micah had never been personally in on such "pep talks" but he'd seen the faces of the men who were. The officers. The designers. The theoretical engineers. Drawn faces, tense shoulders, chattering minds.

Before he could do a thing he had to produce a working theory and series of goals to the Chief Engineer to even sign off on. And none of this was priority. Galileo did what it was designed to do. Resources and manpower went elsewhere. So whatever he presented would have to be a pretty damned compelling working hypothesis. And Hershey had no illusions that his paltry few years were near enough to understand the true, day to day stresses a vessel dealt with. There was design theory and there was practical application. Designers lived in the latter and Engineers in the former.

Still... drawing his thumbnail across the plush of his lip, hazel eyes stared into the variant warp geometries of both vessels: the old and the new. Significant advances in architecture, composite materials and improved structural integrity design were all requisite for the refit and beyond Micah as a propulsion specialist. But he understood the warp theory, the engine design demands that were pressed onto the requirements of the ship. If a team could meet or deal with those, they might have something to go on...

Might...

When Micah lifted his eyes again, finger rubbing his temple and thumb a perch for his jaw, he saw what was possibly the most beautiful man to date on Galileo. He was tall. He was slim. People of his ethnicity were an extreme rarity on Mars, which had been the colonized domain of the Eastern Coalition countries and the North American bloc. The few were known as the Dune Drifters derogatorily or as Red Sikh in a slightly more polite way...

They roamed through the isolated stretches of the Tharsis, living a harsh back to nature, preservationist life... a mystic life tied to their God and their philosophy. They came into the NQ to refresh supplies and trade every third of a Martian year. And a Martian year was a long prospect indeed, all 687 days of it. Hazel eyes followed him until he felt the tug of social convention. He didn't look Sikh. No long beard of terrific braid- their God prohibited them cutting their hair. No knife or wristband. But this person had the bearing of one.

Micah could picture their red ochre stained skins and heavy black arctic wraps, and how when they peeled away their air masks the skin under was cleaner and paler than the rest of them. The NQ tolerated them because they were seldom of any trouble... but they held on to some peculiar beliefs around vigilante justice and the invasiveness of technology as a destroyer of souls. And there would be the occasional scuffle when one of them thought someone was trying to pass them replicated food.

Micah dropped his eyes back down to his PADD and the dithering shrill of key sounds echoed in the empty of the mess.

He'd meandered the corridors, relishing the peaceful stillness of the late hour. There was a quiet that subdued the hustle and bustle of the prior two shifts, coaxing those worn out and weary to rest and recharge. Most sought refuge within the confines of their quarters, either reveling in the solitude of their private accommodations or sharing the trials and tribulations of the day with their cabinmate. Others preferred a more public venue to decompress, like the mess hall or Callisto Bar; slowly nursing a beverage while enjoying the view just beyond one of the many portals. Still others chose to spend their excess energy at the gym or participating in a new adventure on the holodeck. Wandering aimlessly, Aurangzeb found his calm in the pages of a book.

Presently, he was re-reading an epic poem; written by a renowned poet from Vulcan, it seamlessly wove the complexities of attraction between himself and his lover. Compounded by the fact that the poets' lover was another man, Aurangzeb was fascinated by the controversial overtones of the poet's brash honesty, eloquently simplistic in its composition and delivery. He'd studied the profundity of its emotional intricacies a number of times before, this being one of his favorite poems. The poet's ability to find reason in the most illogical of situations encouraged Aurangzeb that love still had its way of muddling even the most sensible of species.

He flicked at the creased corner of the tattered page, paper yellowed with age and overuse, as he stepped through the open doors of the mess hall. The cabin was nearly empty, with one of its two occupants passing him on their way out. "Goodnight Arun." The female crewman managed through a yawn, her tone of voice parched with fatigue. He offered a broad smile, bidding his friend a night filled with pleasant dreams, as he continued toward the replicator.

"Ginger tea, please, hot." He requested politely, his fingertips rubbing the thin cotton hem of his kurta while waiting. The replicator complied, materializing a glass filled with amber-colored liquid, subtle wisps of steam rising from its placid surface.

Retrieving the beverage from the device's cavity, Aurangzeb glanced the lingering eyes of the cabin's only other occupant, a man he'd not had the opportunity to meet quite yet. The man tried to recover quickly, focusing his attention on a data PADD that he now probed relentlessly with a finger. Amused by the man's reaction to having been caught starring, Aurangzeb couldn't help but smile.

Approaching the man's table, Aurangzeb quietly slipped into the chair left of the man. He placed his book aside, its broken spine barely able to bind its pages much longer. "I thought perhaps if I joined you, you wouldn't have to pretend not to stare." He offered by way of explanation, unabashed and straightforward. Grinning, he waited to see how the man would respond.

A charming if lopsided grin joined the dusky rose in Hershey's cheeks. This man was very straight forward, very no beating around the bush. The Propulsion Specialist set away his PADD with a last click of a key, its twinkled chirp a singular sound in the space between them. "Sorry about that," he began to explain with a shrug, "You looked like the Sikh people that come into my city sometimes. They're rare," his fingers even then circled around his replicated rice wine and it's bottle. Most people thought rice wine was like European wine. It had more in common with beer. "Except you don't have the braid or the beard." Micah tilted the bottle to lush lips and nursed it. When he set it back down, just a sip, he added, "Or the wicked looking knife."

His hazels surveyed as he spoke, not a particularly shy person just... introverted in a way. He extended a hand, "Micah Hershey, Propulsion Specialist. I'm new here." And still trying to get his head around the ship and it's... quirky... crew.

Aurangzeb didn't know if he necessarily liked being compared to a rarity left to behold, as if he were an exotic ruby, the last of its kind left to be discovered. He was far from looking like anything as extravagant as a ruby. In truth, Aurangzeb thought himself rather plain and ordinary, no different than a countless number of others from the Indian subcontinent. It was nice to be noticed though, to have attracted the man's attention merely due to his appearance. Superficial? Perhaps. He chuckled, "If you can tame this hair into a braid, I'll give you a prize." Aurangzeb scoffed jokingly, adding "And it takes a month for a single whisker to sprout from my chin." He declared, gently rubbing the hairless knob of his chin. "Welcome on board the Galileo." The crewman accepted Micah's hand, encapsulating it within his own and squeezing it gently, his cold palm warmed by the other's hand. "How are you settling in?" He wondered casually, missing the opportunity to introduce himself.

Naturally Micah's eyes went first to the dark ringlets and then to the hairless chin Aurangzeb sported. Only a surreptitious lift of his brow came with the offer of a prize. "I'm finding my way," he answered, elbows on the table, his body a subconscious lean into the table. Micah gave the hand a squeeze when it came time, the other one had a colder feel to him. Micah tended to run hot. But a name stayed ungiven right then. "It's... different," the boy next door Micah said with the cock of his oval jaw, his look up at nothing a thoughtful kind. "You get used to being on a station that's huge but sort of... spiders out, you know? But actually being on a ship you realize just how small they are. I mean you can cross this ship by walking in no time." Brows lifted and Micah leaned on his hand. "How long've you been aboard...?" And his voice hung, eyes intent, to maybe get a name this time from the other. Or maybe it was some kind of game?

Aurangzeb nodded, "I can appreciate that. I spent six months assigned to Jupiter Station to complete my training. Some stations are quite the monstrosities; how one doesn't become forever lost wandering, even with the help of technology, continues to baffle me." His hand lingered, clasping Micah's for a second or two longer than what was customary. Breaking the formal, yet friendly embrace, Aurangzeb leaned his chin against the open palm of his hand, elbow resting against the cold metal surface of the tabletop. "That's a good question." He was thoughtful for a moment, a contemplative expression outwardly conveying how best to describe his service to the Galileo, most aware, yet respectful, of its thorny nature. "On and off for a while. More on these days than off." He recognized he look of confusion etching across the man's forehead and decided quickly to counter the question with one of his own, "Umm, is this your first assignment since training?" His cheeks radiated a redness that mirrored Micah's from only seconds prior as he busied himself with wiping away some non-existent crumb from the tables surface.

"Jupiter Station," Micah chuckled around an exclamation, impressed. "You played around with the big boys in the Jovian system?" Micah had only been through there, a brief transit in a shuttlecraft. He'd heard things about something around a Titan run but that was around Saturn. Jupiter had it's own unique sets of challenges, from it's massive radiation belts to it's magnetic field and gravitation distortions. Jupiter Station was a study in the cautious calibration within the LaGrange points. And what a view! The youth folded his limbs over themselves, pretzeled arms that were worthy of nesting in. Aurangzeb had a pleasant voice and Micah felt lulled. Another soft chuckle as he reached to scratch his temple, "How many decks are on Jupiter Station? Over two hundred right?" And he meant all the way to the bottoms of it's matter/antimatter reactors in its twin "hanging" pylons.

Aurangzeb's smile broadened, eyes intent on Micah, "'Big boys'?" He asked with a soft chuckle, delighted by the man's enthusiasm. "I don't know about that; she's a monstrosity, so it's hard to think of myself as anything more than a nameless face in the crowd... completely forgettable." Retrieving the glass of tea, the surface looked as if it had cooled enough. Bringing the brim of the glass to full, pouty lips, he tugged a sip of the warm liquid before continuing with a nod, "It may not look it, but she's the better part of 278 decks... although, there's some debate in what qualifies as a deck in some parts of the station." Aurangzeb mused, tucking a curly length of hair behind an ear as he crossed either leg over the other under the table, his slipper-bound foot accidentally rubbing against Micah's shin.

His shin brushed, Micah naturally shifted some. It would be one of those moments he'd eventually lay in bed about, thinking. Dwelling on. But he held his drink and couldn't help but lilt up a wiry eyebrow. "Whatever you can walk upright and not crawl through. I guess." He too had wondered- and concluded- about what was considered a deck. A crawlspace or a Jeffries wasn't a deck, and some power shafts which were little more than turboshafts and some array access were hard to pin down. But there were livable decks, and operable decks. And the two more frequently than you might think didn't sync.


His eyes studied the face in front of him. The pleasant lines. The dark eyes. The fullness of lips. But he found other areas on the table to look upon when he felt the wakening crawl of his penis trapped along his thigh. Then it was time for a sip of booze to head off anything. "What do you do aboard?" With the man's Kurta he didn't especially scream any particular field. But headed off with a good question, Micah shifted hands to lean upon. "I started at the Indii warp test facilities. Mostly focusing on the soliton wave theories in order to kick a ship into slipstream." His fingers diddled the neck of his ricewine, a twist of lips, "But it's an outside theory... I can't see it working out as anything more than a way to move automated, unmanned supplies quickly." He felt the need to return to talking more about this person, the tug of the personal was hard for Micah sometimes. And while talking about his job wasn't all that personal he was more interested in the other, "So," he grinned a boyish grin, "Are you ever going to tell me your name or should I make one up for you?"

Aurangzeb found the cadence of Micah's voice pleasing, albeit unusual; his accent was peculiar and although he appeared Human, Aurangzeb would've guessed he wasn't from Earth. The intonation was nearly imperceptible. Yet, he was picking up on subtle variations that led him to believe that Micah was more than likely from one of the colonies, perhaps mars. Marsara colony, maybe? He guessed. Regardless, Micah's voice fascinated Aurangzeb. Had it not been for the man's persistence, he would have continued their conversation and although he could have stayed up all night listening to this man's voice, he was due for his first shift back in just a few hours and didn't want to give the chief any reason to doubt his returning to active duty. Instead, Aurangzeb allowed the mystery to linger. Standing, he retrieved his book and beverage, offering a sweet smile to Micah. "It's getting late and I should think about turning in for the evening." His eyes never left Micah's, fixated on the man's gorgeous hazel-colored orbs. "It was good to meet you. I hope you come to find the Galileo as home." With that, the crewman turned away and wandered back out in the corridor, this time back in the direction of the nearest turbolift.

It was a fleeting moment and from behind a half-drink he dropped his bottle to burble out a far less suave, "goodnight," than he meant to. He half-stood, half-choked around the words. And he felt his grin was a foolish one. It was all in the sweetness of his smile, another peculiarity, The Red Sikh seldom smiled, held their faces in grim determination more like. Micah watched the man go before he slowly returned to his seat.

[OFF]

Crewman Aurangzeb Ameen
Engineering Officer
USS Galileo

PO3 Micah Hershey
Propulsion Specialist
USS Galileo

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