Frontier
would be perfectly in character for him to make some sort of teasing comment about the "bunnies," or—
more appropriately—to offer even a cursory "well done" in regard to the way she had handled the conflict with the Redeemer war vessel that had wanted to blow them out of space.
But Calhoun said nothing. Instead he went back to studying his report, his legs comfortably crossed, his left foot waving in leisurely fashion.
She made a slow visual survey of the bridge. No one was looking at her. No one seemed particularly interested in welcoming her back other than with a quick, cursory nod. Otherwise, that was pretty much it.
She should have been happy about that; relieved even. Instead it left her feeling oddly discontent for some reason that she couldn't quite isolate.
The turbolift opened and Lieutenant Commander Burgoyne 172, chief engineer of the Excalibur, walked out. Shelby turned and looked at the Hermat.
If there was anyone who could be counted on for making an offbeat, uninhibited response, it was Burgoyne.
"Chief," Calhoun acknowledged hir entrance.
"Captain," Burgoyne replied with a tilt of hir head.
"I wanted to run some cross-checks on the energy transfer problems we've been having. Thought I'd use the station up here since the main one's being tied up for research."
"Be my guest," said Calhoun.
"Afternoon, Burgy," Shelby spoke up.
"Commander," replied Burgoyne by way of greeting, and then s/he went on about hir business.
That was it. That was all.
Shelby felt utterly crestfallen.
33
Peter David
There was no reason whatsoever that the bridge crew should make a big deal over Shelby's handling of the crisis earlier. In her heart, she knew that. At most, the captain would make a notation of it in his log and register a commendation. But that was all. Nothing further need be acknowledged, because really, when you got down to it, Shelby had simply done her job.
The fact that she had done it extremely well shouldn't really have factored into it.
Except . . .
Except that the Excalibur was unlike any other ship she'd served on.
She couldn't help but feel that part of it was that the crew took their cue from the captain. Calhoun was a cowboy, no question, who walked with a slight swagger, wore a look of weathered amusement, operated in unexpected and unorthodox manners, and seemed to delight in having little to no regard for the standard procedures under which other ships and commanding officers operated.
As for the situation that Shelby was in, the people she was surrounded by ...
An ambassador who had come aboard the ship as a stowaway in the science officer's luggage; a conn officer who was . . . what was McHenry doing now?
She glanced over at him and saw that he was moving his fingers in a manner that indicated he was making a cat's cradle with imaginary string. Okay, they had a conn officer who seemed barely there, except when he was needed. And he was having an affair with a multisexual chief engineer, who was in turn (according to the latest rumors, and since the entire vessel seemed to be powered not by dilithium crystals but by innuendo, it was probably accurate) serving to sate 34
Star Trek New Frontier
the mating lust of the normally staid chief medical officer. The head of security was relatively normal . . .
at least as normal as a walking land mass could be, but the night-side security head was different story. A large, shaggy story. It was as if Calhoun had gone out of his way to handpick a crew designed to appeal to his eclectic and rather offbeat tastes. It was less like serving on a starship than serving on a funhouse mirror version of one. The only one who seemed relatively normal was Lefler.
Shelby glanced over her duty log, which had been kept up to date by her yeoman so that she would be able to review it handily. She took one look at her, saw that the intended passenger from Momidium was Lefler's mother, who had been dead for a decade, and moaned softly to
would be perfectly in character for him to make some sort of teasing comment about the "bunnies," or—
more appropriately—to offer even a cursory "well done" in regard to the way she had handled the conflict with the Redeemer war vessel that had wanted to blow them out of space.
But Calhoun said nothing. Instead he went back to studying his report, his legs comfortably crossed, his left foot waving in leisurely fashion.
She made a slow visual survey of the bridge. No one was looking at her. No one seemed particularly interested in welcoming her back other than with a quick, cursory nod. Otherwise, that was pretty much it.
She should have been happy about that; relieved even. Instead it left her feeling oddly discontent for some reason that she couldn't quite isolate.
The turbolift opened and Lieutenant Commander Burgoyne 172, chief engineer of the Excalibur, walked out. Shelby turned and looked at the Hermat.
If there was anyone who could be counted on for making an offbeat, uninhibited response, it was Burgoyne.
"Chief," Calhoun acknowledged hir entrance.
"Captain," Burgoyne replied with a tilt of hir head.
"I wanted to run some cross-checks on the energy transfer problems we've been having. Thought I'd use the station up here since the main one's being tied up for research."
"Be my guest," said Calhoun.
"Afternoon, Burgy," Shelby spoke up.
"Commander," replied Burgoyne by way of greeting, and then s/he went on about hir business.
That was it. That was all.
Shelby felt utterly crestfallen.
33
Peter David
There was no reason whatsoever that the bridge crew should make a big deal over Shelby's handling of the crisis earlier. In her heart, she knew that. At most, the captain would make a notation of it in his log and register a commendation. But that was all. Nothing further need be acknowledged, because really, when you got down to it, Shelby had simply done her job.
The fact that she had done it extremely well shouldn't really have factored into it.
Except . . .
Except that the Excalibur was unlike any other ship she'd served on.
She couldn't help but feel that part of it was that the crew took their cue from the captain. Calhoun was a cowboy, no question, who walked with a slight swagger, wore a look of weathered amusement, operated in unexpected and unorthodox manners, and seemed to delight in having little to no regard for the standard procedures under which other ships and commanding officers operated.
As for the situation that Shelby was in, the people she was surrounded by ...
An ambassador who had come aboard the ship as a stowaway in the science officer's luggage; a conn officer who was . . . what was McHenry doing now?
She glanced over at him and saw that he was moving his fingers in a manner that indicated he was making a cat's cradle with imaginary string. Okay, they had a conn officer who seemed barely there, except when he was needed. And he was having an affair with a multisexual chief engineer, who was in turn (according to the latest rumors, and since the entire vessel seemed to be powered not by dilithium crystals but by innuendo, it was probably accurate) serving to sate 34
Star Trek New Frontier
the mating lust of the normally staid chief medical officer. The head of security was relatively normal . . .
at least as normal as a walking land mass could be, but the night-side security head was different story. A large, shaggy story. It was as if Calhoun had gone out of his way to handpick a crew designed to appeal to his eclectic and rather offbeat tastes. It was less like serving on a starship than serving on a funhouse mirror version of one. The only one who seemed relatively normal was Lefler.
Shelby glanced over her duty log, which had been kept up to date by her yeoman so that she would be able to review it handily. She took one look at her, saw that the intended passenger from Momidium was Lefler's mother, who had been dead for a decade, and moaned softly to
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