SD242101.13 - Duty Log - CO - "Sandwiches"

Posted on Wed Jan 13th, 2021 @ 3:41pm by Brigadier General Jonathan Grey

935 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Escape Velocity
Location: Versailles
Timeline: Current

=^= Grey's Office =^=

Peering down at the padds arrayed in front of him, the General was dismayed to find that there was a quiet satisfaction in large quantities of paperwork. It felt like he was changing from the Colonel he once was, into some kind of over-muscled filing clerk.

At that thought, he watched his own arm as he flexed it a little. It was definitely smaller than it used to be. While far from being a skeleton, there were only so many hours in a day, and he knew he didn't spend nearly as much time in the gym as he used to.

More than once, he'd debated bringing some weights into his office and working out with one arm while holding padds with the other. Up until recently his argument against it had revolved around being sweaty and tired in the office. As a CO, he needed to be strong, and he needed to be seen. Being knackered and worn out was no way to project power and control.

That said, not having the muscles he once had was definitely affecting his energy levels and self image. Perhaps some sort of anti-sweat suit to absorb smells and cool him down? If it didn't exist, he could always put the folks in R&D onto it.

As if reading his mind, the next padd was, in fact, from R&D. Previously a branch of the Science department, these days the gap between them was much clearer. The mandate from Starfleet HQ had been clear regarding the adjustment there. While Science would be the overall depatment, R&D would go from being a class of activity to being its own group. Something about the separation enabling enhanced Security measures.

He'd asked is he would still have awareness of their side projects, and the reassurances were, uh...less than encouraging. The padd in front of him, for example, was full of requisitions and very little actual detail.

The General set the padd aside, and pursed his lips. No doubt he'd find out more when whatever they were working on broke free and started munching on the station's population.

A growl came from beneath the desk, but this one was no monster. The General placed a hand on his stomach, feeling it continue to rumble with the aftershocks. This, he decided, called for immediate measures.

Two strong hands pushed down against the desk as he rose from the swivel chair and tottered over to the replicator. It sat off to one side of his office, but was free-standing; the edges still bore the melty scorch marks from where he's used a phaser to cut it out of his old, ruined office.

"The General's Lunch." he told the replicator, which hummed to itself, sparked a little, and eventually churned out a mixed plate of different foods. Ham and cheese sandwiches, cocktail sausages, nachos, about eight hundred grams of lean chicken, and a couple of chocolate protein shakes with a single, shared handle joining them.

Lifting the food from the replicator, he took the supplied back to his desk and quickly speared a fillet of chicken with the fork supplied. Experience had taught him the best way to find time for exercise *and* leadership was to avoid spending time on anything else.

So while one hand held the fork, his other hand snatched up one of the unread padds and toggled the power button to activate it. This one was about requests for leave.

Blah blah blah, granted. Next padd.

This one was a demand for an apology, blah blah bah, etc etc, too much shaking, business affected, profits minimal, yadda yadda. Picking up an often-used padd from the side, he tapped the two together to copy the standard "Zero-liability sympathy" message into a reply, and fired it off to the business owner.

The next one was about water usage irregularities, and the General frowned. Surely his yeoman was meant tile filter out stuff like this. Looking back at his desk, he studied the piles for a moment, and finally realied what had happened.

One of his Yeoman's "unfiltered" piles had spilled over onto the General's half of the desk. With all that'd been going on recently, nobody had had time to ferry another desk up to Main Ops. When the General's office had been trashed, he'd simply usurped one side of his subordinate's desk.

Thinking of his surbordinate, the General frowned again. The man had been conspicuously silent for a few minutes.

Standing up, he peered over the mountainous piles that marked the edge of the Yeoman's half of the desk, and saw that the shortest pile had lost a few padds on the General's side of the desk because the base had been knocked by the Yeoman's hand.

A consequence of the man having passed out on his desk, probably from exhaustion.

"Dammit Lieutenant, I ordered you to go to bed yesterday." the General groused. "You fuss over me like a mother hen, and then you pull this? Bloody hypocrite."

Glaring at the sleeping form, he looked up the door to his office slid open.

"Sir," announced Sergeant Banes, the head of his close protection team, "Beta team has arrived. We're going off duty."

"Good man. Hmm."

"Sir?"

"If you're off to the barracks, mind tossing this guy into a spare bunk?"

"I'm not, but one of the others probably will. We'll see it done, sir."

"Thank you Sergeant, rest well."

"Yes sir." Banes replies, tossing the Yeoman over one shoulder and marching out of the office.


=^= End of Log =^=


Brigadier General Jonathan Grey
Commanding Officer
Starbase Versailles

 

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