Previous Next

Long Distance

Posted on Mon Feb 20th, 2017 @ 11:25am by Lieutenant Amata Zan

Mission: Winter Shoreleave
Location: Betazed
Timeline: Shore Leave - 13:32 Local


"So next mornin', the four of us are crammed into one cell, Zan and Jommi are both sprawled on the cell floor, smellin' like rottin' fruit, when the Captain comes marchin' in with the station's brig officer, and she's mad, vein throbbin', knuckles white, jaw clenchin' mad. I mean, you ain't ever seen a Vulcan this mad. And she's just scanning each one of us with just contempt in her eyes," explained Grej, a stout Tellarite of nearly forty years, to the rest of the room, pausing only to take a mighty swig of his ale before wiping the spillage out of his unkempt beard, before continuing on, emphasizing every word by articulating with his free hand. He was sober, for the most part, alcohol having little to no effect on his species, and having long since learning to handle the high of the Mirachtian leaves he was chewing on. "So, when she finally speaks, she asks us why half her security department decided it was a good idea to drink a bottle of spring wine before smashin' a Klingon officer in the face with it. As if from dead, frackin' Zan sits up, looks at her and says..." Stopping, Grejk struck Amata in the shoulder, who till this point had been silently sitting next to him and chewing on the same leaves, "Come on Zan, tell 'em." Amata looked around the living room at the four other individuals at the table, a somewhat handsome Denobulan woman, a Bolian male, and a green Andorian whose gender didn't translate into the limited binary of Federation standard, and to his credit, looked at least a little bit embarrassed by his friend's story.

The entire group were Starfleet service members on leave, as were most of the patrons in the bar, a faux rustic hole in the wall with a reasonable walk of the planet's main fleet facilities and quiet off base rental rooms. All off them wore standard fleet garb, monochromatic duty shirts and black plants, with a black accented jacket on each of their chairs.

Grej hit him again, "Come on, I can't say it like you."

The Bajoran, in a factual deadpan, relented to his friend's request, "The bottle would have broken if there was liquid inside."

The Andorian snorted.

Grejk beamed, "Then the little shit rolled over and went back to being dead."

"How were you all not court-martialed, charged with assault?" asked the Denobulan woman, Lieutenant Meanix, Grejk's friend from his ship.

Grejk's smile deepened, his porcine features joyfully creased, all but announcing his pride, "The Klingons asked for the charges to be dropped and posted our bail."

After a few moments, the Andorian and the Bolian, both off of a third ship in orbit, gave each other a look and almost asked together, "Why would they do that?"

Amata, still embarrassed, and more than a little intoxicated, couldn't help but give a small smile himself, he took another drink of his stout. It was a local stout from made Betazoid, Bajoran, and Trill cereal, and too filling to binge on, he was still on his first tankard of the stuff. Mostly he was feeling Grejk's leaves.

"They wanted us to keep drinking with them."


By its third, ear irritating beep, Amata finally began too stir, spilling out of the unfamiliar bed and onto the unfamiliar floor between a second, empty, unfamiliar bed, this was his first attempt at finding his combadge. Betazed's bright, unforgiving, afternoon sun casting its harsh judgement through an unfamiliar window.

"Computer, lower illumination to zero lumins..."

There was no computer.

The badge beep again and it was enough for the Bajorans senses to find it, awaiting high on the side table were he had left it some time in the early morning. This time it was within his grasp. Still on his hand and knees, he opened the channel and spoke as sternly as always did.

"Amata here."

"Lieutenant, this is Tranquility comm, we have a subspace transmission from a Commander Torr, audio/visual; should I forward her to you."

Badge still in hand, Amata found a way to his feet and began to calmly search the room for his clothing, "I can do audio."

"I believe she would prefer audio/visual."

Amata caught something in the comm officer's voice, and groaned as he relented, doubling his efforts in find something to make himself decent.


Grabbing a pair of standard issue briefs that had somehow found their way to the foot of the bed, Amata quickly donned them as he calmly."


"Put her through," finally answered Amata, in no way ready to take all call, "You should be reading a display in the room."

"Got it, putting her through."

The rented rooms main display, a large screen countersunk into the wall opposing the bed came to life, going from black to bright and blazing with the emblem of the United Federation Starfleet, as well as the contact information of the person making the call, indicating, that dispite the caller's rank, that this was indeed a personal communication. Amata signaled the system to accept the transfer, "Pharrelz."

"Zan," answered the Starfleet Commander on the other end of subspace, who was now visible relaxing, letting the practiced professional sternness that had no doubt had been the cause of Tranquility's young comm officer's eagerness. Instead, it was now replaced with a look of amused judgment Amata was familiar with as she visually scanned around the image of his room, "All alone?"

Showing no surprising at the question, the under dressed Bajoran sat at the end of the made bed and began to rub the dryness from his eyes, "Met up with Grejk and his shipmate," he quickly glanced at the chronometre, realizing how little sleep he'd gotten, "They'll be out-system soon."

"It's a shame I missed him, he was always a good friend," Relaxing more, Pharrelz briefly undid her collar, revealing the short haired woman's spots. She still seemed amused, her mind filling in the blanks of what she was seeing, "He did mention his friend didn't really need to sleep, sounds convenient."

"How's Gwymn?"

The woman's smile briefly flared, "He won the station's velocity tournament last week."

Amata's attention piqued, "His tournament was two, three tendays ago..."

"That was the youth tournament, this was a qualifier in the young adult division, sixteen to eighteen mostly, they needed to fill the bracket."

Amata beamed before his head began to fill with skepticism, "But he's only..." He did some quick numbers using his fingers,"Eleven standard."

Pharrelz smiled changed slightly, "Twelve... Zan, the conversion is, basic math."

Amata responded with a frustrated look a lieutenant did not give to a commander.

Pharrelz only continued, "He's tall now, big, gets mistaken for crew sometimes, with this permanent scowl on his. It's adorable; you should contact him."

Turning away from the screen and seeming to want to hide behind his own shoulders as he hunched into himself, "I'm on a shuttle heading to Bajor tonight, was going to call him when I had the girls with me..." his hand went to the right side of his neck and began to move around anxiously, "He will not want to talk to just me." His hand dropped from his head and landed on its twin. He actually kind of pouted for a moment.

Sighing heavily, the short haired woman rested her face in her palm before straightening up in her chair. With a breath, she sat like a commander again, and spoke like one, "Zan, get a pair and comm your kid, he's just being the same kind of ass as you, navigate it, ask about the tournament."

Amata showed no confidence.

"Wear pants, tell 'em how you got shot, he'll like that."

Snapping to attention, Amata tilted his head in confusion and stared curiously at the familiar image, his confusion held for a full moment.

"There's on your hole on your chest... and I keep up on the news," she seemed amused again.

Amata's face darkened, but it was just his pout again.

"Clean up, his lesson are over in an hour."

The transmission ended.


Amata Zan
Chief of Security
Lieutenant, USS Tranquility


Previous Next