SD242101.05 - Duty Log - CO - "Old Digs"

Posted on Tue Jan 5th, 2021 @ 6:38pm by Brigadier General Jonathan Grey

915 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Escape Velocity
Location: Versailles
Timeline: Current

=^= Main Ops =^=

Twin turbolift doors slid aside, and a trio of junior officers stepped out onto the marked carpet. Two shared a fist-bump before the three split apart and made their way into the room. Quietly swapping places with their counterparts, they logged into their consoles with deft, alert taps.

As more and more people arrived for the start of the C shift, the B shift staff dragged their weary bones out of their seats and made for the turbolift.

Some planned to search out their favourite haunts, as a number of bars and lounges had managed to clear out the debris and re-open (though more than a few suffered a lack of staff from injuries and transfers).

Others marshalled their strength and readied themselves for an evening of supporting their families. A few had adult children depending on them, while others had elderly relatives who needed their help to get around. The younger children were still off-station, having evacuated back during the approach of the black hole. Many of the kids were onboard the towing fleet, which continued to grow out beyond the reach of the event horizon. A few were even enjoying "Klingon day-care" aboard the birds-of-prey, with the Federation observers surprised at the Klingon ability to provide emotional support to the more fragile species.

The latest reports from the observers passed under the General's eye as he lifted the next padd from the stack. He'd brought his work out of his office and into Main Ops to keep an eye on the gathering tow fleet, whose blips accumulated on the flight control console before him. The Flight Control Officer occasionally had to nudge a pile of padds away from a control surface on the console, but otherwise kept her thoughts to herself.

"General." came a voice from behind him, which he recognised as that of his ponytailed yeoman.

"Report." replied the General without turning around, stifling a yawn.

"The quartermaster says your old quarters have been cleared of the fallen roof-beam, and the bed has been replaced. The defences are still operational, and still have days left on their internal power cells."

"Good thing I set them up that way."

"You predicted a drawn-out battle with no power supply? In your quarters?"

"Have I told you about the time I was nearly ambushed by midget assassins hiding in corridor wall panels?"

"With respect, General, the story can wait. It's been 43 hours. You need rest."

"Nonsense, I'm good for another five hours."

"Sir-"

"I'm. Fine." stated the General, sighing and placing the padd down.

"....Yes, sir."

All of a sudden, the low murmur of background chatter faded to nothing, and the hairs on the back of the General's neck pricked up. Turning to look at the room behind him, a dozen pairs of eyes quickly flicked down and concentrated on their work.

Realising that his last comment had come out a little more aggressively than intended, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed again.

"Very well. Take those padds back to my...our office, and then grab some rest yourself. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day."

"Yes sir." the Yeoman replied, heading over to the cluttered Flight Control console.

As the Yeoman gathered up the stacks of padds, the General passed the conn over to the next senior officer, and walked into the turbolift.

"My Quarters." he announced, fatigue reducing the barked command to something more like a grunt. He didn't want to admit it, but his yeoman was right. While he was still able to walk and talk, it was a leader's job to do more than just tough it out. Nobody was served by him getting grouchy at folks who didn't deserve it.

Eventually, the lift dropped him off at a corridor different from the others. The walls were the gunmetal of armour plate, lumps protruding from the ceiling were micro-turrets, and every step of carpet concealed some manner of unpleasantness designed to give an attacker the mother of all bad days.

The other way this corridor was special was that there were only two doors; the turbolift, and the entrance to the General's old quarters.

Having moved into his dome office only a few short weeks ago, the destruction of said office had deprived him of a place to hang his hat.

Though perhaps the black hole had done him a favour there. Sleeping and working in the same space had done strange things to his perception of time, and it had been too easy to forget he was a General, and not just a jumped up filing clerk.

The doors to his quarters took their sweet time deciding it was him, and not just a Ferengi mercenary dressed up to look like him, and eventually slid open to reveal a big, empty space.

There was a bed inside, as the quartermaster had promised, and scrape marks where the fallen ceiling beams had been dragged out; the defences making beam-outs impossible. Glancing up, he spied a tidy patchwork of replacement beams, and made a note to send a thank-you gift basket to the engineering crews.

With no further ado, the highest-ranking person for several light years in every direction plodded over to his bed, shedding clothing as he went, and flopped down on top of the sheets.

The thick doors lumbered shut, and the defences kept watch as their master slept; dead to the world.


=^= End of Log =^=

Brigadier General Jonathan Grey
Commanding Officer
Starbase Versailles

 

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