Return to Part One
“Now, if any o' you are lookin' at this badass hunk o' metal an' wondering why our employer, Star Fleet, does not do us the courtesy o' supplyin' each o' us wit' a go-bot of our own,” Noel DelMonde began, gesturing to one of the nearby three-dimensional graphic representations of the Calumbrian battle droids with a pointer, “let me remind you, that many o' the basic ideas behind such a design are actually as stupid as hell.”
In response to the First Officer’s cleared throat and some titters from the junior officers, the engineer raised a hand. “I can be as prim an' prissy right now as you want me t' be, Mr. Courtland, but that not gonna change th' truth o' what these youngun’s is gonna hafta face when they crawl up into th' bellies o' these shamblin’ shitcans…”
The addition of Sulu’s top choices for test pilots – Tristan Vale, Zel, and Yin Tsing (who were elbowing each other at the notion of being referred to as “these youngun’s”), Dylan Paine’s team of tactical experts who would be paired with them in each craft’s gunnery position, and Beth Arista’s coterie of scientific experts had expanded the Sargron IV working group beyond the capacity of the Briefing Room to seat comfortably. Courtland had commandeered an empty working bay in Engineering for this meeting. Even the captain’s yeoman had recruited two additional crewman to help her drag in enough table and chairs to seat everyone and then keep them all supplied with beverages and note-taking supplies as well as help stage manage the plethora of audio-visual aides being deployed by each of the presenters.
“To your point, Mr. DelMonde?” the Drake’s captain prompted evenly, from his position on the slightly elevated second tier of seating.
“My point, Captain,” the engineer continued, gesturing for his assistant, Crewman Wilkins, to push forward a screen that was currently blank as he once more turned to the row of test pilots, “is that ya’ll might be th' hottest stick jockeys currently mannin' a console in the Fleet – an' if you workin' fo' this sharp fella—“ The Cajun flicked a finger towards their commander. “-- my guess gonna be that you is – but if you assume your skills jus' gonna transfer over an' let you hop into one o' these t'ings an' take off – well, you gonna land right on your clever li'l ass 'cause an anthropomorphic design is based on an entirely different set o' assumptions 'bout balance an' propulsion… Some of which, as I said, are stupid.”
“Don’t you think you’re engaging in a little cultural condescension?” Beth Arista asked from her perch on the top row.
“Yes, ma’am,” the Cajun replied readily. “I am indulgin' in quite a bit o' jus' that – an' if one o' them Ancient Calumbrians who jacked up their civilization so bad they 'bout junked the whole joint wanna come back an' argue th' point wit' me, I am open t' debate, but ‘til then, let me run down th' primary design flaws y'all gonna need t' be aware of…” When he tapped the empty screen, the word “Flaws” appeared in boldface with a series of bulletpoints bellow. “First – despite th' fact we all get along fine when we reasonably sober, two legs do not provide optimal structural stability. Should th' vehicle suddenly lose power – not all positions balance equally well. You can easily wind up on your ass a multitude o' different ways.”
The Cajun’s assistant obligingly froze several of the flickering 3d replicas in awkward positions
“Should you tangle in some undergrowth while in motion,” the engineer speculated pointing to the that immediately resulted in undignified falls. “dangers from obstacles” bullet point. “Gravity is not your friend, mes amis – an' you wind up on your ass.”
A web of snake-like simulated vines rose up out of thin air to menace the vulnerable representations of the droids.
“If you bang your metal head,” the Cajun warned. “The damn t'ing’s top-heavy, an' encore, you on your ass.”
Sulu’s “youngun’s” shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Crewman Wilkins once more virtually toppled a half dozen versions of the craft they were charged to pilot.
“If somet'ing bite off all or part o' one leg… well, I gonna grant that maybe some o' you smart 'nough to figure out how to make it hop fo' a li'l while… but sooner or later…” The Cajun paused dramatically until the last of Wilkins’ representations pathetically teetered and fell. “You on your ass.”
“And when the craft is on the ground…?” Lieutenant Tsing asked hopefully.
The engineer shook his head. “It wallow like a pig. Let’s jus' say it not no great big mystery why th' knowledge 'bout how to pilot these t'ings died out, cher.”
“However…” Dylan Paine prompted, sensing his lover was losing his audience.
“However,” DelMonde conceded, clearing his board. “The Calumbrians seem to have made their peace wit' this vessel’s inherent instability an' even found some creative ways to embrace it. For example, let me preview how we get th' t'ing airborne…”
The engineer’s whiteboard converted to a view of a cliff overlooking crashing waves. A gleaming representation of one of the droids stood at its summit.
“First the legs combine to monopod form,” the Cajun narrated. “Then we swandive… Comme ca…” The assembled officers gasped as the droid they had been watching succumb in the most ungainly possible manner to vines, branches, and even its own weight, spread its arms and converted before their eyes into a graceful, falcon-like airglider.
“…Which I hope will convince you t' carefully peruse th' reading material Crewman Wilkins is distributin' to you,” DelMonde said, signaling his assistant, “an' attentively give ear t' th' information I will be deliverin' to you over th' course o' th' next few days.”
“Doesn’t an anthropomorphic design have advantages in certain types of rough terrain?” one of the environmental scientists asked.
“Yes, definitely,” the engineer agreed easily. “Versatility in rough terrain had t' be one o' the t'ings at th' tiptop of theiy wishlist when they put this t'ing together. Also, we not step out a shuttlecraft wishin' we had a pair o' long-legged metal drawers pulled on t' help us make it t' th' hangar bay doors wit'out gettin' our ankles bit off.”
“And the missile guidance control issues…” Dylan Paine tried to begin.
DelMonde cut him off with a belaying gesture. “An' our Weaponry expert has developed a quite involved theory that he is gonna share wit' you -- at length -- after I wrap up here right now in jus' a few seconds.”
“Down, boy!” Zoe Elif quietly translated to her friend Beth Arista – but not so quietly that she didn’t earn an evil side-eye from the Cajun. In return for which she gave a cute “locking my lips and throwing away the key” gesture – which read as a three-people-who-are-in-the-same-off-duty-band-heckling-each-other scene to some and two-of-these-people-are-screwing-around-on-the-third to others but not yes-Svengali-your-will-is-my-command to those who had an eye out for such things.
“The last thought I wanna give you today t' be chewin' on as you look through some o' our preliminary findin's,” the engineer continued turning back to his audio-visual aids, “is 'bout th' most surprisin' design choice the Calumbrian engineers incorporated. This is th' one t'ing that we t'ink was the real determinin' factor in why, once th' chain of knowledge was broken, their descendants not able t' pick t'ings back up an' get these babies back on their feet jus' extrapolatin' from other tech they still usin'.”
The Cajun switched to an internal view of the droid’s cockpit. “This is a two-person craft. If any o' you ever been to a minin' colony, you may have seen anthro-designs. In the Federation, they always built as protective exoskeletons fo' one person. The Calumbrians built these crafts fo' two…” DelMonde nodded towards Paine who was biting his thumb with barely contained excitement and drumming his fingers against his pile of waiting statboards anxiously. “Our Weaponry expert is brimmin' over wit' brilliant theories as t' why they went this route, but th' upshot is that you pilots is gonna have t' learn how t' run a complicated three-legged race wit' your Tactical officers.” The engineer took a deep breath and gave a very ironic smile before advising, “It gonna be all 'bout perfect harmony an' complete cooperation…” The Cajun’s eyes didn’t quite make it all the way up to where the Drake’s captain was listening to his speech with crossed arms. He sighed before finishing with, “I promise you, there is much, much, much more t' come, but this conclude my openin' remarks. I turn it over t' th' next speaker.”
“Thanks, Del.” Paine bounded up to the front of the room accompanied by his phalanx of assistants who helped the stolid Wilkins clear DelMonde’s display as the engineer sank into an end seat on the front row. “Twenty-seven is the number I want you to remember,” the lieutenant announced, his blue eyes gleaming. “Each and every one of these vehicles has a total of twenty-seven different types of weapons incorporated into its body.”
The three-d representations Del had used blossomed bristles of spiny missiles at Paine’s command.
“Seventeen offensive and ten defensive. If you fall down, yes, you wallow like a pig, but you’re an armor-plated pig with seven long-range weapons and three close range weapons,” the ensign reassured his peers.
“And hopefully a working comm system,” Tristan Vale added skeptically.
“That too,” Paine granted generously, before turning to his charts with weaponry zones delineated in garishly contrasting colors so as to be easily located. “If we start at the head of this baby -- right from the helmet missiles on down -- ergonomics is the key…”
Del, Sulu reflected, looked tired. The engineer sat with his head propped on one hand and his eyes lowered to the statboard on the tabletop before him. His shoulders looked as thin and hunched like those of a man twice his age from this angle...
Maybe he should just pick one lover instead of trying to juggle two, the captain thought uncharitably. Maybe being a selfish, greedy prick is finally starting to wear him out.
“…And the targeting display is right next to the forward thrust controls as you’ll see,” Paine was enthusing.
Sulu looked down to confirm the point in the notes provided but what seemed more apparent this particular morning was that the ensign by himself was enough to age a man as he chattered excitedly on and on and on about missile arrays and optimal turret placements.
It seemed liked just yesterday that Sulu could get that excited about laser trajectories and electromagnetic signal radiance. Today, he just wasn’t feeling it.
The Drake’s captain had spent an unpleasant night with only some very, very, very bad memories for company, memories awoken by Dr. Rendell’s comments about Indiian forgiveness. Those memories, he reminded himself firmly, were in the past. This was the present.
He glanced down at the slumped shoulders of his former friend with a frown. After Del wrote that apology, they could all start to put this behind them. And if he didn’t write the apology…
“…in my opinion, it does turn on the issue of stabilization…” Paine was saying.
If Del didn’t write that apology, he could burn in hell…
“…Forty-three percent of the craft’s power usage goes towards weaponry so you can clearly see that…”
If Del didn’t write that apology he could wallow on his back like an armored pig, shooting off all ten types of defensive and seventeen types of offensive weapons at once, but his comm. line was just going to stay dead for all Sulu cared any more...
“…that major of a priority. And the gunnery officer literally and metaphorically has to keep one foot on the ground to maintain the intended balance. Right, Del?” Paine blinked when his partner didn’t pick up his cue. “Del?”
“Mr. DelMonde?” Wilkins ventured to tap his superior’s shoulder. “Sir?”
Accompanied by a loud-ish half-snore, the engineer’s head toppled from where it was propped on his hand in a fall that was very reminiscent of those of his unstable model demos. “Huh? Wha..?” the Cajun asked, blinking.
“And with that… we break for lunch,” the Captain of the Drake announced with a pleasantness that he did not feel as he pretended to consult the chronometer in front of him.
Sulu had not put forward his speculations about potential Haven involvement in Calumbrian development in this initial meeting. It was better, he’d decided, to let his people come up with their own theories. At this point, he’d rather see if a certain pattern of question marks came up in their speculations than poison the well with his suspicions.
He had lingered behind after the meeting and was over going through the reams of documentation his people had generated, looking for that telling trail of Haven-shaped breadcrumbs. Only Yeoman Elif and her two assistants remained, clearing away the debris from the day and setting up for tomorrow.
“Thank you, Zoe.” He looked up and smiled as his yeoman thoughtfully topped off his coffee cup. “You seem in a really good mood.”
“Yes sir.” She smiled as she paused in gathering empty cups to stretch. “I got such a good night’s sleep last night.”
“You did?” the captain asked, opening up an “evidence” file in his brain.
“Yes,” the yeoman replied. “I guess I was really tired.”
“Have you been tired a lot recently?” he inquired, careful not to sound too interested.
“Yeah,” she admitted without hesitation.
Sulu frowned. “And you’re not sure why?”
Elif gave a little laugh. “Oh, I know why.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” The yeoman got a quizzical look on her face. “You know -- this mission. The working group. This meeting. All the extra hours…. Are you getting enough sleep, Captain?”
Sulu drew in a deep breath and admitted, “I’m a little tired today.”
“My friend from Hydroponics does this thing I thought you might like, it’s called 'coffee naps' where you combine a big dose of caffeine and a power nap...”
“Thank you, Yeoman,” Sulu replied, dismissing her with a smile and a nod. “That does sound… intriguing.”
The outward blandness of the whole situation was starting to bother him, Sulu decided as he watched the yeoman help her assistants get the bottom row of tables back into alignment. The lack of obvious red flags was starting to turn into a giant red flag…
Then there was the yeoman herself… Zoe Elif was a nice enough girl. However when one compared her to the way Del’s tastes usually ran… It might all look reassuringly normal to anyone else, but he wasn’t fooled. Something was going badly wrong with the Cajun.
He hadn’t come to her for sex at all the first time. Sex, in fact, could not have been further from his mind. He’d come to her for help. It was the middle of the night for him when he’d come lurching, red-eyed and desperate into Rec Room Five. It was only lunch time for her.
Since she was Sulu’s personal yeoman, it was a late lunch. Like the good work wife she was, she’d waited until her man was fed, supplied with cool water and hot coffee, and an ample enough stream of input and output to keep him humming along contentedly while she enjoyed her ginger tea and watercress salad.
“Girl, you gotta help me,” he’d demanded, thrusting the statboard with all its error messages flashing manically under her prim nose. “I just' not able to…to..”
“Mr. DelMonde?” she had blinked and asked, addressing him in the very proper way that she always did when she was on duty – despite the fact that they had known each other for quite some time now… and were in a band together… and had once had sex with each other on the deck of this very room.
“I doin’ ever't'ing right,” Del asserted brokenly, despite the insistent counter-argument of the blinking device in his hand. “I doin’ ever’t'ing I know to do… an' this damn t'ing jus' won’t take it… I not know what to do… You gotta help me…”
“Let me see.” The yeoman lifted the demon-possessed pain-giver from his tortured hands as if it were only an ordinary statboard and ran her slim finger down its ominously flickering surface.
“Hmmm… we don’t usually have section heads fill out this kind of requisition form…”
DelMonde remained silent.
Elif gave a disbelieving little half-laugh. “This is kinda complicated… If I didn’t know better… I mean it’s almost like someone is trying to punish… Oh…” The yeoman carefully closed her mouth. “Mmmm…. Well, you actually have done everything right, it’s just that the computer’s rejecting it because you haven’t done a Security counter-sign yet.”
“Well, who th' hell gonna give me that?” the engineer demanded exasperatedly.
“No,” Elif explained patiently. “You’re a Lieutenant Commander, right? You just have to input an ID code.”
“Where th' hell I gonna get one o' them?” the Cajun wailed.
“Sir,” the yeoman said slowly and carefully. “An ID code. You know? You have your rank, your name, and your ID code. Type in your ID code.”
DelMonde sank wearily into the seat opposite her, completely undone by the utter obviousness of the answer that had been eluding him for hours. “Sweet Mary...”
“Would you like me to put it in for you?” Elif offered as kindly as she would have to any other old derelict.
“No, I can…” The engineer tried to pull himself together. “Shit... You mean I gotta write this damned number in fifty-‘leven thousand times… all over the damned…”
“No, sir,” the yeoman corrected gently. “Just at the top and the form will auto-fill… No, that’s not the top, sir... That’s not the top yet either.. Scroll… Scroll… And… No.. Not yet.. Now… That’s the top…. Top left. Top left…. Your left, sir… No, the other left. Good…. Now enter… And there we go… Great!”
The engineer crumbled into a pile over the suddenly placid computer screen. “Oh, Jesus God, save me, please…” he prayed to any kindly force who happened to be listening.
“Would you like some coffee, sir?” the yeoman asked in a voice that was still kind, but held the tiniest suggestion that she was going to be ready to get back to her watercress salad pretty soon.
“No, that all right, darlin’” The engineer ran a hand through his hair and tried to pull himself together. “I not know how t' thank you for this, darlin’. This t'ing jus' got the better o' me. I jus' no good wit' forms. They mess wit' my mind. I literally do not know my own name an' can not tell up from down… So, I really appreciate you helpin' me so, so much. It might be not'ing to you, but I swear I could just kiss you right now.”
“Well..” she demurred with an uncomfortable little laugh. “Maybe not right now…”
“Uh….Yeah,” he agreed, belatedly realizing that he probably did look and smell like something a particularly nasty cat had thrown up after a hard night of hardcore catting around… and that there was still a lot of awkwardness between the two of them because of that sex on the floor thing that would not be helped one bit by him laying a big ol’ sloppy smooch on her right in front of the rest of the late-lunch watercress salad crowd. “I do appreciate it, though.”
“Any time.”
“Cher, 'bout that…” he began hesitantly. “I am gonna need more help.”
The yeoman’s eyes strayed significantly to the statboard. “Yeah.”
“Oh, hell.” The engineer’s stomach sank to his boots. “What you mean?”
“Well,” she began gently. “One reason we don’t usually ask division heads to complete this particular requisition form is because it automatically generates a work report form…”
“Oh, holy shit…” the Cajun breathed.
“…For each individual crewperson under your command,” she continued apologetically. “And unique to each task that person has completed each shift rota.”
The engineer buried his face in arms and made a small groaning noise like a wounded animal. Elif sighed. “Okay, I’ll help you,” she said, moved by his abject misery. “but you have to promise me something, okay?”
The Cajun did not raise his head, but simply nodded his assent to any demand she might make. “You have to find out what you did that made Mr. Courtland mad at you…”
There was a pause and a nod.
“…And never do it again.”
Another nod.
Elif drew in a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll stop by your quarters after my shift is over and help you set up some grids and templates. Okay?”
The Cajun sighed raggedly. “Bless you, darlin’”
And that had been the way that it started.
“All right, y'all,” Del warned his charges through the comm. system. “This ain’t gonna be funny when you got a pack o' mutant lizards snappin' at your heels.”
Privately, however, he would have had to admit that there was a certain amount of humor to be found in watching the normally reserved and confident Yin Tsing spin around on metal legs like a crazed flamingo crying “Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!”
The real Calumbrian droids wouldn’t be available until the Drake arrived on the planet, however DelMonde and his crew had rigged some “training pants” for the test pilot/gunner teams to start working out with. These preliminary modules were only bare-bones, best-guess re-creations of the legs and primary drive module. They lacked any attempt at the actual craft’s torso structure, arms, or (much to Dylan Paine’s howls of frustration) weaponry.
The Engineering team had set up a simple practice run and obstacle course for the pilot teams to train on in the Drake’s primary hangar bay. They’d installed protective flooring to protect the deck and attached each set of legs with a set sturdy suspension cords attached to a flying crane to minimize the impact of any falls on trainee and equipment. This turned out to be much needed precaution for this initial tryout had taken on something of the air of a pre-schoolers’ field day.
“Owww!” Tsing wailed plaintively through her headset as she finally once more lost her battle to maintain her precarious balance.
“Don’t fall on me, girl!” Tara Ryan shriek/laughed, wobbling crazily out of her way. “I will kick you!”
“Right on my ass!” the navigator pouted comically as she dangled helplessly in the protective web of suspension cords.
“One side, piggie!” Dylan Paine teased as he and Zel came tromping by. S
So far, only two pairs – Paine and Zel and Sulu and Vale – had graduated to trying the two-man version of the exoskeleton in which each partner controlled the movement of one leg.
Tsing made derisive pig snorts at her fellow officer as the engineering crew carefully hauled her back up to standing.
Paine, seated in what would be the gunner’s position above and behind his partner, turned and put his thumb to his nose to make a pig face at her – which, of course, put him out of rhythm and off balance with his partner.
“Oh, squeakers...” Zel pronounced as they too ended up bouncing from their suspension cords. Having never seen or even heard a pig, he had somehow decided that this was a sufficient imitation of one.
“Y'all had best be gettin' serious now,” DelMonde warned once more over the howls of laughter echoing over the intercom. He had taken shelter in the control room overlooking the hangar, preferring to get a birds-eye view of the teams as they interacted with his re-creations. His attention was not so focused, however that he did not notice that he had company. “What?” he asked his visitor without turning around. “You got more questions 'bout how stupid I am?
"No,” the doctor said, crossing to the large window in the front of the observation bay so she could look down on the chaos below. “This visit is to ascertain how stupid you think I am.”
“Lian, now we can agree that I might be dumb as a rock,” the engineer replied, jotting down a series of shorthand notes about the way the left leg on Tara Ryan’s suit was making turns, “but I know you smart, girl.”
Rendell perched on the edge of the console and faced him. “Then you know that I’m aware that you’re not eating.”
The Cajun scowled. “Some day I gonna teach that damned computer that snitches get stitches,” he muttered. “Look, I’m doin’ nutrient shots…”
The Haven crossed her arms. “Which are supposed to be temporary and are supposed to be done under a physician’s supervision.”
“I jus' kinda worked up over some stuff an' not able to keep not'ing down.” The engineer shrugged uncomfortably and shuffled his notes. “I gonna get over it here pretty soon.”
Rendell smiled and nodded. “You sound rather confident of your diagnosis, Dr. DelMonde.”
The engineer sighed and looked towards the shuttlebay floor. “Slow down, Kam,” he ordered, suddenly switching on the comm. unit. “Take it easy on them ankle servos.”
“Go to hell, Cajun,” came back the crackling reply.
“Then again,” the doctor commented. “It might not take an expert diagnostician to figure this one out…”
The engineer blew out a long breath and shook his head. ‘He got him one hell of a mad on at me.”
“And not just at you,” Rendell observed, looking down at the hangar bay floor.
The Cajun raised both eyebrows at the astuteness of this insight. “There, now, you see? I did say you was a smart one, non?”
“Someone…” The Haven turned back towards him. “… is going to need to find a way to explain that to him.”
“Not me,” the engineer replied adamantly. “He ain’t never gonna wanna hear not'ing like that outta my mouth an' I ain’t got no place to sayin’ not'ing to him after what I done.”
“Are you sure?” Rendell tilted her head to one side. “Or do you think your perspective might be clouded by the fact that you’re supplementing those nutrient shots with a steady diet of self-pity?”
“Self-pity?” The Cajun snorted derisively. “Try self-preservation. He’d beat th' livin' shit outta me.”
The doctor shrugged. “I’m not saying he wouldn’t.”
DelMonde shook his head. “I t'ink I rather starve.”
At that moment, any further discussion was forestalled by the sudden entrance of Dylan Paine, flushed and bright-eyed, into the control room.
“C’mon Del!” he urged, grabbing the engineer by the shoulder. “These guys are amateurs! They don’t know anything about the two-man. Let’s show them how to run!”
“Go on, Cajun,” Rendell seconded, as his lover dragged him from his seat. “Show ‘em how it’s done.”
Noel DelMonde might be hell on wheels in many other aspects of life, but he still raced like a Japanese granny with a bug up her ass – which, Sulu reflected, was a type of hell on wheels of an entirely different sort.
He didn’t know what Dylan Paine thought he was getting when he netted the Great and Infamous Cajun as his racing partner, but he’d bet the young man never dreamed it was going to mean stopping a race they were winning because the ex-Maker didn’t like the sound he thought was coming from one of their competitors’ torso assemblies.
Yep, Sulu thought sourly, as his fingers impatiently drummed the still mostly un-filled gunnery console surrounding him as the engineer fussed over Tara Ryan and Yin Tsing’s walker. Son, you’ve got trouble when your lover is worried about someone else’s hip joint overheating…
Of course, these weren’t races, he reminded himself. They were training exercises. Now when they got to Sagron and got these babies airborne… The Clavist part of Sulu’s brain set his mouth to salivating in anticipation… Now those were going to be races…
These obstacle course runs were just the introductory segment of Dr. Del’s Seminar Series. The Cajun had correctly intuited that instead of reading specs and listening to briefings, the pilot/gunner teams would be brought up to speed more quickly by engaging their competitive spirit. Although he constantly nagged them all about paying scrupulous attention to the care and upkeep of his semi-completed approximations of the Calumbrian droids, he simultaneously did a number of things that encouraged them to push the limits of the mechanisms such as organizing the runs into heats that pitted two or more teams against each other, and posting a “leader board” that reported and ranked each team members’ performance stats at the end of each session.
“Can we get on with it?” Dylan Paine asked, flexing the upper arm stumps of his exoskeleton impatiently as the Cajun stood back critically observing Ryan and Tsing’s vehicle. The lower arms and complex hand structures had yet to be added to any of the exos.
The engineer waved him off and motioned Tsing to flex the knee structure she controlled.
DelMonde had been fussing over flexors all morning. However he had also been allowing Paine to set a bone-rattling pace as they practically ran the walker through the course each time, crushing all their previous best speed records.
Sulu tapped the control on his intercom that would allow him to speak to his teammate privately. “We’re about to see the rabbit come out of the hat, aren’t we, Tristan?”
Vale activated his comm. in time for his captain to hear the little sigh he gave for having to wade through a weird Earth metaphor about magic tricks before he could answer, “I believe so, sir.”
This was Professor DelMonde’s favorite teaching technique. Instead of sitting them all down for a lecture, he’d succumb to Paine’s constant entreaties, climb into an exoskeleton and trounce them all in the races that day using whatever new innovation he and his team had come up with. Then he’d either let them work it out for themselves or explain it to anyone who begged hard enough…
The part of Sulu’s brain that was a good captain had to concede that once these new techniques or mechanical additions to the exoskeleton had been demonstrated, they were usually easy to work out. And it could not be denied that DelMonde had come up with a fiendishly effective way of keeping the team engaged without stifling innovation in what could have been a grinding slog through some pretty deadly dull training exercises. Last week he would not have predicted he’d be so fired up about the prospect of suiting up to walk up and down the shuttlebay floor dodging packing crates. But when it involved the prospect of wiping that damned half-smile off the Cajun’s face…
Of course the engineer was not smiling right now.
When Paine impatiently queried, “Satisfied?” as DelMonde finally headed back to their exo, no one had a problem believing his reply of “Seldom, if ever” was anything other than the gospel truth.
“Okay, everybody back to the start line,” the engineer ordered after climbing back into the pilot’s position of his vehicle and strapping himself in.
From his spot on the sidelines, Sulu thought he could see Paine’s lips continuing to move although no further communication from the pair was audible.
“Sir…” Vale alerted him, the Indiian’s empathy confirming his suspicions that the two were using their private channel to scheme.
“Yeah,” the Captain acknowledged. “Keep your eyes open.”
They had a bye this round and so were in perfect position to observe as Paine and DelMonde lined up against the Tsing/Ryan and Dowd/Zel teams.
The race began with the usual ear-splitting whoop of an air-horn signal from the computer. The three exo teams pounded forward. It was hard to believe that less than a week ago, they’d been struggling to get these things to remain upright. Now, the teams marched forward at a near run, with the pilot controlling the left leg and the gunner controlling the right in perfect harmony as they nimbly rounded barrels and crates.
“Here we go,” Sulu said as the DelMonde/Paine team entered the portion of the obstacle course known as the Brake-down. Everyone tried to make as much time as they could in this straight portion of the course. However, you knew that you had to slow near the end because it was adjacent to the part of the course called the “Pop-up” that featured obstacles that made sudden, insidious appearances from under the decking. Right now, though, DelMonde and Paine weren’t slowing down at all.
“What’s he doing with his arms?” Vale asked as Paine rowed the upper arm stumps in rhythm with their deck-shaking steps.
Sulu’s mouth dropped open. “They’re going to…”
The exoskeleton leapt into an almost impossible-seeming broadjump that narrowly cleared the Pop-up area. The suspension cords supporting them helped them nail a wobbly landing.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Paine whooped victoriously as they straightened the exo to standing and turned to face their comrades, windmilling the stump-arms.
The Cajun was shaking his head. “I gonna hafta cut down the gravity in here or y'all gonna tear the deck to shit…”
“What the hell was that?” Tara Ryan asked, she and her teammate not even bothering to attempt to cross the finish line.
“That was cheating,” Tsing concluded. “You said we couldn’t avoid the pop-ups.”
“I said y'all couldn’t go around the pop-ups,” DelMonde corrected as Dowd and Zel slowly finished the course. “I jus' not say not'ing 'bout goin' over 'em.”
“Stop lying,” Ryan warned, shaking the stump arms of her exo at him, as she and her partner reluctantly resumed picking their way through the field of obstacles so as not to completely ruin their stats for the day.
“I ain’t lyin',” the Cajun insisted. “I jus' being unusually stingy wit' the truth.”
“Sugar will get you more flies than vinegar, child,” Sulu could hear Jeremy Paget’s voice saying inside his head. As a kid, he’d been puzzled by the saying – Why would anyone want to attract flies in the first place? – until Jer had explained that it was philosophy of persuasion being passed on by Paget’s grandmother from Atlanta. As he watched exoskeleton practice for the day break up, something told him he was about to see the two contrasting approaches from this old Southern proverb in action.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Eddie Dowd complimented him, holding out a hand in silent offer to return the captain’s comm. headset to the equipment locker. “You were really hitting the marks today.”
“Thanks.” Sulu smiled as he deactivated the unit and handed it over to the burly Transporter Tech. Glancing over to the far end the bay, he was glad that Paine had apparently also turned off his headset before heading over to where DelMonde had one of the exos flat on its back for repairs. Although he didn’t think the ensign was capable of going completely vinegar on the engineer, he had a feeling this exchange was about to get quite salty…
“And when you paired with me for the dash and duck round this morning...” Dowd took in a long breath of satisfied reminiscence. “We were in the zone. I could feel it.”
Sulu nodded as he unfastened the wrist bands of the padded gloves he was wearing. The test pilots had, after some experimentation, decided to switch over to wearing a form-fitting, moisture-wicking, short-sleeved bodysuit originally provided by the rec department for the ship’s racketball team. Everyone was suiting up in these outfits except for DelMonde whose appearances on the hangarbay floor were becoming increasingly fewer and further between.
Down the bay with his back to them, Paine had his hands on his hips and his head tilted to one side as he argued some point with the Cajun.
“Well, you want me t' get a pair o' hands on these shitcans or not?” the engineer demanded in return to the ensign’s inaudible demands, his voice ringing out clearly.
The exoskeletons did still lack workable digits -- which had to be a source of great frustration for the Weaponry Officer… among other sources of frustration he had to be dealing with these days…
“Then get th' hell from up out my face an' let me get th' hell on wit' it!” the Cajun blasted in reply to whatever counter-argument he supplied.
Dylan Paine did not seem like he was ever going to learn how to take “no” for an answer. However it did seem like Noel DelMonde was teaching him about being able to accept the necessity of knowing when to beat a temporary strategic retreat, for after a few more exchanges that resulted only in his being pointed firmly towards the bay’s exits, he did finally hang his head and turn sadly away.
“I’ll admit, I’m trying to get out of the pig trough,” Dowd confessed.
This was the point of both officers’ post-session appeals. “Pig-trough” had become their shared slang for being at the bottom of the chart for the performance statistics DelMonde posted on the training exercises he designed for them. Everyone quickly came to recognize that securing an optimal partner was as important as individual effort to improving their standing in the rankings.
“But a run just feels better when you’re paired with somebody where you’re… I dunno… in simpatico, I guess…” Dowd continued, as Paine left the bay without lifting his eyes in their direction. “Do you know what I mean, sir?”
Glancing back over at DelMonde, Sulu saw the engineer look up towards the bay overlooking the hangar floor. From this distance, it was almost impossible to tell, but he thought he caught a glimpse of a woman in a red uniform turning away from the windowed front of the bay.
“Yeah,” the captain agreed. “Yes, Dowd. I do.”
“Making progress, sir?” Jerel Courtland asked, falling into step with Sulu as he traveled down the corridor.
“Perhaps,” he said, unfastening the neck of his bodysuit and toweling off his forehead. “I want you to run some numbers for me.”
“Certainly.”
“DelMonde is keeping detailed performance statistics on each of the pilots and gunners…”
“…And posting them each week by the entrance to the observation bay,” Courtland finished, nodding down the hallway. “Which, I believe, is where we are headed.”
“Yes,” the captain confirmed. “I’d like you to look up the psi ratings for each team member and give me a readout on any impact each category of ability has on performance stats in conjunction with various pairings.”
The Equian inclined his head. “My guess is that psi rating will have a significant and marked impact in such tightly coordinated work.”
“Yes,” Sulu admitted with a laugh. “We may be able to turn this into an article for the Journal of the Blatantly Obvious…”
“The Calumbrians,” Courtland continued, “if I am remembering correctly, as a whole, skew towards the low end of the psi scale.”
“I believe you are remembering correctly.”
“In fact there are several varieties of psi abilities that are quite rare or seem to be absent completely from this species that are rather common among other representatives of the Federation…” The Equian turned his head so that both his large eyes were facing his captain. “…Quite common among the Havens -- to draw a completely random example…”
Sulu smiled. “Jerel, apparently you’re skewing towards the high end of the psi scale today.”
Courtland made a self-deprecating gesture with one hand. “Sagron IV was an HTE protectorate. And this isn’t the first set of data you’ve asked me to cross-check. You have a hypothesis, sir?”
“No, Jerel.” The captain frowned and sighed as they approached a group clustered around a blank board outside the entrance to the observation deck entrance. “If it grows up to be a hypothesis, I’ll bring it to you, but right now, it’s just a bratty little underdeveloped suspicion that’s not doing anything to help this project along…”
The chatter among the test pilots came to an abrupt halt as a list of names and numbers suddenly populated the board.
“Bastard!” Dylan Paine exclaimed in dismay when reading the name once more topping the list. Belatedly, he turned, shame-faced, to his captain. “Sorry, sir.”
From the doorway of the observation bay, DelMonde shook his head. “You ain’t never gonna beat th' king, boy.”
Sulu crossed his arms. “Why don’t we ever see any numbers from you, Engineer?”
The captain could feel Courtland’s presence shielding him from a whole range of poisonous responses from the Cajun’s evil tongue as surely as if he were protected by unicorn magic. Sulu was sure, though, that the engineer’s silence had more to do with powers the Equian shared with other First Officers to assign extra paperwork than thaumaturgic qualities of Courtland’s race.
DelMonde shrugged. “Mais, sir, I not rackin' up 'nough hours to make no nevermind.”
“You’re going to be part of a pilot team when we get to Sagron IV, though, right?” Sulu pressed.
Again, there was a pause while the Cajun had to discard a half-dozen venomously smart-assed responses he currently did not feel empowered to unleash before having to settle for mumbling, “I guess I gonna be doin' what the captain say I gonna be doin', Captain, sir.”
“Then I guess you better get some numbers on the board, Mister,” his commander ordered before turning heel to exit.
“Shit,” he could hear his old friend groan in his wake.
“No, Del,” Paine encouraged his lover. “This is great!”
“This the big difference 'tween you an' me, boy,” Sulu could hear the Cajun reply sourly. “What is pure music to one o' our ears, to th' other has th' distinct an' definite sound o' th' shit hittin' th' fan…”