SD241805.10 - Joint Log - Grey & Chamilla - "A Cup of Tea"

Posted on Tue Jun 12th, 2018 @ 2:04pm by Brigadier General Jonathan Grey

2,452 words; about a 12 minute read

Mission: Tremor Trouble
Location: Versailles
Timeline: Current

=^= The Memory Den =^=

A small group of young men staggered out of the Den, shoving each other playfully. One slurred his way through a pun, a second looked equal parts puzzled and tired, and the third laughed until his face turned suddenly green. Whether these folks were actually drunk, or just faking it to appear cool, the people passing them on the promenade simply ignored them.

The sick-looking one stumbled around, bleary eyes looking hard for a safe place to chunder, and suddenly found himself very close to a Starfleet officer wearing green shoulders.

"Woah there. Back up." said an enlisted marine with a Corporal's pips, placing a hand against the nauseous civilian and physically moving the man away from the officer. Behind him, the other three bodyguards had closed ranks on the officer, eyes scanning the crowd carefully in case this was some sort of diversion.

As the officer in question, Grey observed the incident with a tired expression on his face. This incident had repeated itself any time someone had gotten too close to the group, and every time his little parade had completely stopped while the incident was dealt with. It had taken them twenty minutes to get here from his office, and the novelty was starting to wear thin.

Eyeing the drunk suspiciously, the Corporal finally allowed him to shuffle away with his friends. With a gesture to the rest of the close protection squad, the marines fanned out a little. Two took up position near the entrance to the Den, while the other two followed the General through the front door.

As soon as the entourage stepped through the doors a forcefield popped up holding them where they were. "Bloody hell!" Chamilla said looking at the entrance. "No weapons! Why is that such a pinché concept to understand?!"

"An excellent question." said Grey, staring directly at the Corporal. The man glared back at the General, as if giving that sort of attitude to your CO was in any way a bright idea, and received a caustic eyebrow-raise for his trouble. His mouth now a thin line, the Corporal leaned down and extracted a thin phaser from an ankle-holster; presenting it to the General.

"I'm curious." the General said to himself, just loudly enough for people to hear, as he inspected the phaser. "When I say 'unarmed escort', I wonder what people hear."

Sighing, Grey showed the mini-phaser to the lady near the bar, before passing it to the Marine Private on his other side. "Would you mind dropping the rear section of the forcefield so we can pass this to the men outside?" he asked, politely. The automatic forcefield was a neat trick. He made a mental note to have one installed in his new office.

Looking at her PDD (personal digital device) tablet she sighed again looking at the Marines. "This is why people find it hard to trust Starfleet. When I say all weapons I mean all weapons. Including blades." She said looking at the other Marine.

"Go stand outside." said Grey, glaring at the marine who was, apparently, a one-man arsenal. The Corporal seethed, his hands closing into fists at the public dismissal, but years of Corps training could not be denied. On a swivel, one pair of green shoulders turned and walked to the rear of the forcefield surrounding them and waited for it to be dropped.

"Grey to Cap...Major Meitner." the General said to his badge.

"Meitner here."

"My close protection team is led by an idiot. Kindly send someone smarter."

"Yes sir. Corporal Krug is available for tasking. I'll dispatch him and a new fire team to your location asap."

"Thank you Major. Grey out." he finished, impressed by how quickly she'd taken to the role as temporary head of the MEU. Eventually they'd either need to bring in someone new to take over full time, or maybe he'd make her the permanent MEU CO. He hadn't decided yet, though her efficiency was certainly swinging the ball in her favour.

Moments later, a fire team of marines showed up at the door. Spotting the glow of the forcefield and pulling up short, the new Corporal (a tall Klingon man) signalled two of his marines to replace the ones on the door, and stepped closer to the forcefield.

"Are you in trouble, sir?" he asked in a deep baritone, his dark eyes peering through the forcefield cage and into the room; casually picking out the shapes of people.

"No Corporal. Your predecessor just upset the locals. And since the weapons will be leaving with my former close protection squad, I hope the proprietor will see fit to drop the forcefield." said the General, addressing the last part of that statement to the woman who held the keys to their cage.

Chamilla wasn't thrilled with letting them in but they had no more weapons. "Alright you are clear. But one sign of trouble all of you are gone and I don't care of your rank or status on this station." Chamilla said dropping the field.

Suspecting that the woman was unaware of his new position as CO of the entire station, but unwilling to go five rounds of do-you-know-who-I-am (not, he suspected, that she would be impressed anyway), the General watched the forcefield drop and felt the air move behind him as the guard was changed. Two new marines, both Bolians, now waited outside the front entrance. The General's personal guards, formerly a disgruntled Corporal and a private of some description, were now a pair of Klingon marines.

"So," began the General, walking towards the woman, "I presume you are the proprietor here?" he asked. It made sense, but he wanted to be certain before asking the questions he'd come here with.

After all, there was no point inquiring after the details of the business if she was just the bouncer.

"I am the proprietor. Drink?" She asked watching his group closely.

"Certainly. What's good?" he asked back, settling into a seat at the bar.

"Depends on what you are looking for?" Chamilla said watching the man trying gauge what he liked. Her guess was whiskies, bourbons and scotches.

"Well, I'm back on duty soon, so let's stick to synthale." said Grey with a hint of dull resignation entering his voice. He wasn't sure what his duty hours were, as people just kept showing up with more padds and more work, so he suspected his duty hours were all of the hours.

As a former MEU CO, he was used to an environment where the work just didn't seem to end. It was jarring when you went from a driven role, where your workload was set by others, to the driving seat, where you still got given work but the person managing your time sheet was conspicuously absent. He'd found the best way was to delegate clearly and loudly, to lock his quarters and disconnect the chime. Comms, he'd found, could be locked to Captain rank and above. This blocked enthusiastic Corporals from bugging him at 3am, and enforced the rules of delegation.

Unfortunately, as a station CO, he was getting bugged by Admirals at 3am. Which meant that, regardless of his comm settings, he still didn't get a solid 8 hours.

This was not ideal.

Chamilla chuckled looking around the bar, "Does it look like we serve that swirl here?" Chamilla said looking at the man still not knowing who he was.

"Tea then. Any good blends?" Grey asked, trying to be patient. He knew that civilian life was a more relaxed pace than life in the service, and it was important that he took the time to build a rapport with the businesses on the station. The repairs over the past years had allowed the station to support a burgeoning business community beyond the minimum required to support the population (and the thriving repairs industry getting rich off fixing up the immense station, much of which was still dilapidated).

Making new businesses feel welcome was important, especially ones representing industries new to the station. They needed to go back to their industry contacts with rave reviews, inviting their friends and colleagues to come and join them. After all, the station would eventually be completely fixed, and the repair crews would leave. If the other businesses weren't thriving by then, the community would stumble, and could start slipping backwards.

Grey had heard enough horror stories to not want that scenario.

"Or coffee, perhaps?" he added, bringing his attention back to the moment.

"We have a better selection of tea than coffee." Chamilla said putting a PADD in front of him showing him the full selection of their tea. "The ones with the stars next to them are the best selling teas."

Grey blinked at the list of teas, beginning to get the impression that a visit to the Memory Den wasn't a five-minute affair; it was a day trip. For some reason he'd expected to get a feel for the place inside of a small break. This wasn't going to happen, he was starting to realize, unless he did some of the driving.

"Keemun black tea, please. I hear it's good for memory and focus. Seems appropriate for this place." he decided, setting the padd down on the bar.

Chamilla started heating up the water while pulling down a box with the Keemum black tea leaves and placing them not a cup. Setting the saucer and cup onto a tray with milk and sugar and finally the kettle with the hot water. "Keemum black tea." Chamilla said setting it in front of the general.

Reared on replicated teas, Grey still wasn't at home with the way fancy tea houses seemed to set the ingredients in front of you and expect you to do the heavy lifting. At the back of his mind, he always felt it was a kind of laziness; like a baker handing you flour and eggs.

"Thanks." he managed, flashing a smile that absolutely wasn't a hastily-cobbled layer of lies. He opened the tea pot, tipped some tea leaves into the in-pot filter, and closed the lid again to let it brew. He could only hope he'd used the clasp on the filter correctly, else his first gulp would be a hot draught of wet tea leaves.

Yummy.

"So," said the General as he watched the pot, "The Memory Den huh? I've heard what other people are saying about this place. How would you describe what you do?" he asked, looking up at the proprietor.

Chamilla stayed quiet watching the man doing it wrong but also picking up a sense that the man didn't appreciate the ancient art of tea ceremonies. "A place to relax enjoy some good music some dancing." Chamilla said keeping it vague the memory sharing part was still a bit controversial concept.

"Ah, an old fashioned club then, yes? Themed for the roaring twenties. Or was it thirties?" he added, realising that he didn't even know which thirties it might be. 1830s? That couldn't be right.

A curl of steam from the pot drifted past Grey's nose, and he thought he could smell the scent of the tea infused with the hot water. Careful to keep one hand on the top of the pot, in case the lid fell off, the General tipped the pot over the cup. Out came a stream of barely-steeped tea, swirling in the bottom of the fine china. It was regrettable that he couldn't hang around long enough for the tea to brew properly, but he only had a minute or so left before he'd have to leave for a chinwag with some Commodore or other.

"Very far from a old-fashioned club," Chamilla said pulling out her PDD tapping a few buttons, "......have you heard of sharing memories. And not in a mind meld sense."

"I'm familiar with the concept. I know Starfleet doesn't like its people using it, due to the security concerns." Grey replied, swirling his tea a little in the cup. His tone was matter-of-fact, without accusation. Civilians could do whatever they wanted to do with their brains, so long as they knew the risks.

This policy was sometimes difficult to justify, but removing the policy would mean banning a lot of the business on the station. Like the pubs, the clubs, the duty-free, the dens, the strip joints, the gambling houses, the seedy holodecks, the hypnotherapist, and everything that had ever made a person's brain work differently ever.

Reviewing the list in his own mind, Grey wondered at which point his station had become a wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Watching the general finding the man bizarre but also understanding his confusion. "We don't steal memories we buy memories we can use and then allow others to let them become their own. Like to be a famous musician or actor. Don't have a lot of asking of military memories." Chamilla said pouring herself a shot of some blue liquid and throwing it back before pulling another.

"I'm surprised. I thought action heroes were all the rage on the holodecks." the General remarked, taking a sip of the light tea. It was smooth, and good, but far too watery. He hadn't added any milk or sugar, and he definitely hadn't steeped it for long enough.

"Then again," he added, "real memories would be more....real, I suppose. The feelings, the consequences, the sleepless nights. Do you screen the more...negative aspects from your product?" he asked, wondering how many people seeking the Movie Star package wanted a dozen years of study and gruelling work.

Shaking her head she took another shot of the blue liquid starting to get a bit irritated. Drumming her fingers on the counter, "trade secrets was all she said. And maybe this isn't your kind of establishment." Chamilla suggested.

"Perhaps not." Grey agreed. Starfleet's stance on memory alteration was firm when it came to their own people, and since he agreed with that determination, he probably shouldn't have come here at all. Still, it was a business on his station, and when things eventually went horribly wrong (and they would, given enough time) it was best that he was on speaking terms with the management. Speaking irritably, perhaps, but speaking.

Placing a little latinum on the counter, the General stepped off his chair and gestured to his men that they were on the move.

"Thank you for the tea." he added, over his shoulder. "It was delicious."

Watching the general go she was glad that chances were he would not be coming back.

=^= End of Log =^=

Brigadier General Jonathan Grey
Commanding Officer
USS Versailles

Chamilla
Propriter for the Memory Den
SB Versailles

 

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