NCC - 86105
Previous Next

SD241812.01 - Duty Log - CO - "Refugee Market"

Posted on Sat Dec 1st, 2018 @ 4:44pm by Brigadier General Jonathan Grey

Mission: Tremor Trouble
Location: Versailles
Timeline: Current

The lights had been reduced to emergency levels, leaving barely enough to see by. Personnel rushed around the base of the main platform as four took their positions on it. Time was a factor, and more than one person stumbled in the dark, only for a fellow to help them up and move them off to one side.

Eventually, the movement settled, and one of the four on the raised platform spun round.

A light blazed down, highlighting a Vulcan man. His broad chest was thrust forward by two muscular arms that rested on his hips.

"Captain, I detect an anomaly!" he cried out.

"When those green girls,
Are in front of me.

Alien lips,
So soft and round;
A logical thought,
Cannot be found."

The beat rose as another turned to face the room, the spotlight glinting off the Vulcan woman's silvery bodysuit. Two slender hands rose to touch the back of her neck, as long black hair swayed with her.

I feel so warm!
When I spy,
That alien form!

Eyes of silver,
Chest of blue;
Can't stop at one,
I must have two!" she cried, tongue touching her lips.

"I feel, recrimination!" they all shouted in unison.

"When it hits: Pon Farr Sensation!"

The leader burst forth onto the stage as roman candles sprung to life behind the group, surrounding the band with blazing fountains of red light. The leader darted through the center of the group and dropped to his knees, sliding to the edge of the stage with his saxaphone at the ready.

"Fweeeeeee!!!!" the golden instrument screamed, blaring a flurry of notes out at the audience as the holder's pointed ears went a deep crimson; his Vulcan face scrunched up tight with the passion of it all.

The audience had started slim, a few hundred strong, but more and more people were piling in through the door as the saxophone music leaked out of the exhibition hall and into the corridor outside. There were a few bouncers at the door to enforce good behaviour, but nobody was stopped for a ticket.

Beside the doors were a set of posters, one for each of the major bands set to play here today. "Illogical" had pride of place today, their faces staring impassively from the poster. The banner emblazened across the bottom read "Complimentary concert for YaDallan Refugees. One day only!"

A group of Vulcan refugees from YaDalla noticed the excitement and drew close to the door, but refrained from going in. The music seemed discordant and abrasive to their sensibilities, and they merely observed the rush of people scrambling to enter the hall.

Eventually, the group moved off, disinterested, except for two. These drew closer to the poster, inspecting the image.

"I am told that the female on the left has ear extensions." One Vulcan murmured to his colleague, stroking his chin.

"Fascinating." the other replied, raising an eyebrow.

Further along the extra-wide corridor were a series of stalls, lining both walls. The first few were piled high with blankets, which were being handed out by civilians to other civilians. a careful eye would note the ones doing the handing all had matching arm-bands, marked with the symbol of Fro-Yo; a disaster-aid group staffed by volunteers.

Further along were some food stalls with plastic tables, followed by an assortment of medical stalls (complete with pop-up privacy tents). Most bore signs like "YaDallans Welcome!", or "Versailles Welcomes YaDallan Refugees".

The torn and dirt-stained nature of some of the outfits marked most of the crowd using these stalls as YaDallans fresh off the ship. Some of the children ran around and made noise, as children were wont to do, but most were keyed into the emotions of their parents, and remained silent; though there was a constant background noise of screaming babies, the youngest generation not being the type to suffer in silence.

The most grief could be found around the resettlement and information stalls. The former was a result of too many people and not enough good homes. People who lived in a spacious apartment or a large house on YaDalla were adjusting to the idea that their choice was between an insect-infested scumpit on a half-terraformed moon, or possibly a tent in a field formerly occupied by livestock.

The information stalls were arguably worse. People went there to find out what had happened to their spouses or children, and though there were enough tearful reunions to make it worthwhile, the tears were equally likely to be that of sorrow. Too many people had died before they could evacuate, and even more had passed due to pirate attacks on the ships in transit.

=^= Meanwhile, in the General's Temporary Office =^=

Images of the stalls were displayed in the wall monitor opposite the man's desk. The whole event was seemingly very popular, not that the refugees really had any choice. Starfleet was great when you could get their time, but ultimately there thousands of refugees now, and more were still arriving by the hour. There simply wasn't enough manpower to go around.

Fortunately, the aid groups nearby (such as Fro-Yo, with the blankets) had figured out Versailles was being used as the staging point for evacuation and resettlement efforts. For once, he hadn't been inundated with calls. They all worked through Starfleet using approved channels, and his only involvement had been rubber-stamping a single document for use of the spaces.

It had been a pleasant surprise.

Peering at the monitors again, he debated making a personal appearance. It might help morale, or somesuch. Then again, he mused, maybe it wasn't such a good idea. The various aid groups, coupled with assistance from the various departments, seemed to have things well in hand. The last thing they needed was some bigwig ruffling feathers.

After all, some of the evacuees were upset that Starfleet hadn't sent more ships. The General had done what he could, borrowing ships from nonvital missions and such, but ultimately his authority was being overridden more and more as the Admirals further up the chain had spread word about his little evacuation project.

Unfortunately, the sudden decrease in assigned ships wasn't his fault, but "It's not my fault" doesn't play well in front of any audience. Especially since he represented the organisation whose fault it was. The Starfleet officers and enlisted men helping out at the Refugee Market weren't being hassled much, but then they weren't flag officers.

Better to stay away, at least for now.

=^= End of Log =^=

Brigadier General Jonathan Grey
Commanding Officer
Starbase Versailles




Previous Next