is fun," he said. "Blaine said he's going to take me outside. We're going on a tour of the city."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Exiting FTL in two minutes, Captain."
"Mmm," said Dillon around his pen. "Thank you." He poked again at his datapad, tapping to advance the pages of the document. Tremblay's survey reports for the worlds they visited were exhaustive. They were highly detailed, with maps and lists and links to reams of additional data in the form of sensor logs and analytical results. The reports went on for page after page; it reminded him of the work Lieutenant Cho used to produce, back when he was with the Borealis . Dillon wondered if Tremblay had slept at all in the past few days. The data was expertly compiled, and was ready to be sent to Fleet as it was. But Dillon felt compelled to double-check anything being filed, at least when it was being done in the ship's name. One of Tremblay's comments struck him as overly speculative, and he decided to edit it out. Highlighting things on the datapad interface was always such a pain in the ass.
Before long, he was hunched over the device on his lap, using both hands, his fingers trying to drag across the display in different directions. He became acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look, and wasn't surprised to hear the familiar footsteps of Chief Black approaching his chair.
"Ah," she said, quiet enough that the rest of the bridge couldn't hear. "The quiet dignity of the officer corps. I am inspired, sir."
Still hunched over, he shot a withering glance at her before returning his attention to the datapad. "So help me," he muttered. This machine was not going to get the better of him. Apparently, they were developed by ambidextrous polydactyls.
"Sir," offered the Chief, "Perhaps you should delegate. You know, being the Captain and all…"
"Outstanding idea," breathed Dillon. Leaning back to crack his neck, Dillon sat upright in the captain's chair. He held out the datapad. "Chief of the ship, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."
She solemnly accepted the datapad, giving a nod of her head. "Aye aye, sir." She turned toward the crewmembers at the helm. "Pakinova, come here a sec."
The seaman stood from her seat, manoeuvring past the consoles to stand in front of Black. "Aye, Chief?"
Black handed her the datapad. "Leading Seaman Pakinova, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."
"Aye aye Chief," said Pakinova. She hesitantly accepted the datapad, her brow furrowing as she studied the screen. Even as Dillon began to roll his eyes, he saw the flash of confusion on Pakinova's face. The young helmsman poked twice at the datapad, and handed it back to Chief Black. "Was there anything else, Chief?"
Dillon leaned over in his chair, trying to see the datapad the Chief held in her hand. "That was it?" he asked. "How on Earth did you do that, Pakinova?"
Pakinova smiled at him. "Witchcraft, sir," she said.
Chief Black handed the datapad to Dillon, and he made a face. "Witchcraft, huh? I see the Chief has been teaching you."
"Aye, sir."
Dillon sighed. "Thank you both. Carry on."
He gave his pen a few good nibbles as Pakinova returned to her console at the helm. The Chief was wearing her usual 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' smirk. Actually, she smirked a lot, he thought. Might be one of those things they teach new chiefs: how to always know more than everyone else, and how to look smug about it.
"Out with it, Chief."
The smirk turned into a smile. "Tremblay has done it, Captain."
"Come again? Has he finally snapped? Do I need to order him restrained?"
"No, no. Not yet, sir." She leaned in closer, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. "At oh three hundred this morning, all hell broke loose in my cabin."
"But Atwell isn't even aboard. You were by yourself." Dillon pursed his lips.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Exiting FTL in two minutes, Captain."
"Mmm," said Dillon around his pen. "Thank you." He poked again at his datapad, tapping to advance the pages of the document. Tremblay's survey reports for the worlds they visited were exhaustive. They were highly detailed, with maps and lists and links to reams of additional data in the form of sensor logs and analytical results. The reports went on for page after page; it reminded him of the work Lieutenant Cho used to produce, back when he was with the Borealis . Dillon wondered if Tremblay had slept at all in the past few days. The data was expertly compiled, and was ready to be sent to Fleet as it was. But Dillon felt compelled to double-check anything being filed, at least when it was being done in the ship's name. One of Tremblay's comments struck him as overly speculative, and he decided to edit it out. Highlighting things on the datapad interface was always such a pain in the ass.
Before long, he was hunched over the device on his lap, using both hands, his fingers trying to drag across the display in different directions. He became acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look, and wasn't surprised to hear the familiar footsteps of Chief Black approaching his chair.
"Ah," she said, quiet enough that the rest of the bridge couldn't hear. "The quiet dignity of the officer corps. I am inspired, sir."
Still hunched over, he shot a withering glance at her before returning his attention to the datapad. "So help me," he muttered. This machine was not going to get the better of him. Apparently, they were developed by ambidextrous polydactyls.
"Sir," offered the Chief, "Perhaps you should delegate. You know, being the Captain and all…"
"Outstanding idea," breathed Dillon. Leaning back to crack his neck, Dillon sat upright in the captain's chair. He held out the datapad. "Chief of the ship, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."
She solemnly accepted the datapad, giving a nod of her head. "Aye aye, sir." She turned toward the crewmembers at the helm. "Pakinova, come here a sec."
The seaman stood from her seat, manoeuvring past the consoles to stand in front of Black. "Aye, Chief?"
Black handed her the datapad. "Leading Seaman Pakinova, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."
"Aye aye Chief," said Pakinova. She hesitantly accepted the datapad, her brow furrowing as she studied the screen. Even as Dillon began to roll his eyes, he saw the flash of confusion on Pakinova's face. The young helmsman poked twice at the datapad, and handed it back to Chief Black. "Was there anything else, Chief?"
Dillon leaned over in his chair, trying to see the datapad the Chief held in her hand. "That was it?" he asked. "How on Earth did you do that, Pakinova?"
Pakinova smiled at him. "Witchcraft, sir," she said.
Chief Black handed the datapad to Dillon, and he made a face. "Witchcraft, huh? I see the Chief has been teaching you."
"Aye, sir."
Dillon sighed. "Thank you both. Carry on."
He gave his pen a few good nibbles as Pakinova returned to her console at the helm. The Chief was wearing her usual 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' smirk. Actually, she smirked a lot, he thought. Might be one of those things they teach new chiefs: how to always know more than everyone else, and how to look smug about it.
"Out with it, Chief."
The smirk turned into a smile. "Tremblay has done it, Captain."
"Come again? Has he finally snapped? Do I need to order him restrained?"
"No, no. Not yet, sir." She leaned in closer, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. "At oh three hundred this morning, all hell broke loose in my cabin."
"But Atwell isn't even aboard. You were by yourself." Dillon pursed his lips.
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