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Jameson Bardolph

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About Jameson Bardolph

  • Birthday 03/13/1989

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  • Gender
    Male
  • Location
    USS Republic
  1. “Whiskey? Is that you?” The signal from the Skoll was a little staticky, but Delia Harmon’s broad, good-natured face and piercing voice were unmistakable anyway. Whiskey grinned, leaning against the couch in the middle of his team’s quarters on the Orlando. “Yep, it’s me, Cap’n,” he said, tossing her a mock-salute, palm to the face and out as had been the habit on the Fenrir. “Hell, boy. You don’t have to call me captain; you’re wearing military brass now,” Delia said, laughing. “Unless they kicked you out -- in which case, you can blasted well take your mum’s place and make a schuttin’ honest man of yourself.” Her accent was a mix of a thousand cultures, all those she’d traded with in her long years in the civilian merchant fleet -- first on the Fenrir, the small, stocky cargo boat Whiskey had grown up on, and now on the more streamlined freighter that her successful career had finally bought her. “Ah, no, ma’am,” Whiskey said, amused. “Not while they’ll have me on the Republic.” “Well, can’t blame a woman for trying,” the freighter captain said cheerfully. “Ever since your parents scuttled off to retire, I’ve been achin’ for a good gun hand. But your business’s your business of course; Whiskey ain’t the little half-pint bottle anymore that I can order around, huh? How’s your sis?” “Neck-deep in grease as usual, I’m sure. Haven’t seen her in a good year now; her ship’s been doing lots of patrol work out on the fringe.” Whiskey was aching to move to the real subject of his call, but he could tell the older woman was glad to see him, and in truth, it was good to hear from her too. He so rarely had much contact with the freighter crew he’d grown up with -- thought now it seemed he was about to get a good close taste again, maybe more than he’d bargained for before. “Keeps her busy, what with raider scuffles and all.” “And she did take after your dad...put her head down and fixed things till they were fixed, no chit-chat. And they never get all fixed on a workin’ ship, do they?” Delia’s dark eyes sparked teasingly. “You on the other hand were always more good at chattering away and breaking things.” “I stick to what I know, ma’am.” Whiskey said with a smirk. Delia grinned, leaning forward to put her elbows on the table she was sitting at. “Anyway, boy, I know you didn’t call to chew the fat. What’s so important that you tossed that touch-and-go line on your message?” Good, she’d caught the end of his note. It had been relatively rare that the Fenrir had been caught up in less savory activities, but they’d always had their code words for the few times when it did happen. Whiskey’s phrase of choice for today had been one designed for really tense situations. “Low hum in the engines, but flying on all thrusters.” It was a catchphrase in more than one engine room, but on the Fenrir it had simply meant, Playing with fire a bit here -- but good reason for it. So he could tell she was watching him very closely even though he kept his tone light. “Nothing too crazy. Only I was wondering if your crowd’s anywhere near the Cardassian border.” “We do some trading with the colonies there...why?” She studied his expression. “Need a lift?” “Fleet Base two-one-four to Minos Korva, if you can manage it,” Whiskey said, after doing a quick doublecheck that his line was as heavily encrypted as possible. “We’ll be at the base in about three days.” “Minos Korva?” She looked sort of skeptical. “Why are you going there?” “See the sights...” he said carefully. “Just a bit of a blaze.” Another bit of argot, that. Delia’s old navigator used to use the term when they were on a fast run where time was critical in the delivery. “A paid blaze?” she asked, her lips twisting slightly in wry amusement. “We’re on a bit of a budget, cap’n. But I’ll hunt your rats for you,” Whiskey said, raising his eyebrows and smiling. “Mmm. Ship was never so clean as when you got your first pistol. Thought sure you were going to take one of my cargo crews out while you were at it. Well, fine, for old time’s sake, boy. But I can’t guarantee I can take you both ways; my route’s going back towards Luna soon, and that’s a bit of a way to come even for an old friend.” “Thanks, Delia,” Whiskey said, unconsciously relaxing in the shoulders. “Three days, you said?” “Three days. It’s me and two others. We may be going by different names though.” “Schut, boy...that’s a hell of a hum in those engines.” Delia didn’t look annoyed, per se, but a little bit puzzled -- and definitely cautious. Whiskey couldn’t blame her, and he appreciated that she was trusting him all the same. “We’ll keep an eye out for someone who looks nothing like you, then. Just say Whiskey sent you and we’ll take your word for it.” “Sounds good. I’ll owe you one.” “That you will, boy. And you can start by telling me all about it once we're face to face. Harmon out.”
  2. Whiskey had never had a younger brother. He had Magnet, but she was neither a brother nor younger -- she was two years older than him and though she sure sometimes liked to act like a kid (God knew he'd gotten her out of a few scrapes in their time), she had never been one to him; she still knew how to thump him hard enough to make him pay attention when the fit struck. He'd never looked down at her, and he'd sure as hell never had to take care of her. Which, he reflected, was probably a good thing. If all kids had a vise grip on them like Gunner Robinson had, he'd have died from a lack of oxygen to the brain a long time ago. But he couldn't help a certain protective feeling over the kid who was now holding onto him. That was what he did, after all, or what he was supposed to do. Protect. Not that he'd done a very good job of it so far on this ship, whatever it was. He had no idea where the doctor or Captain Kwai had gone while he was unconscious. All he had was the kid, in all his potentially-already-tortured glory, and Whiskey did not intend to let him out of his sight again. Not to mention the fact that coming back without his chief's son would give Commander Robinson yet another reason to have it in for him, but surprisingly, this didn't weigh too heavily in his estimation of the situation. He honestly had no quarrel with Will Robinson, and honestly liked his wife -- yes, in that way, of course, he couldn't help it, it was his nature to look for it, but she also had the respect for the ship she cared for that brought out the sort of legitimate liking which was harder to earn from him. And he had no wish to come back to either of them and say that he had allowed their son to be any further harmed by these...people. The poor kid was probably terrified and Whiskey didn't blame him; neither of them had the faintest idea what was going on. So far the furthest they'd gotten was discovering that the white salty glop was actually more than palatable, a fact Whiskey had not glommed onto until after Gunner had eaten most of it, leaving Whiskey himself with the bowl of live bugs. This had proved a moot point however, as Whiskey hadn't had a free hand to eat them since Gunner had decided that he was the closest thing to the mother he kept asking for and had latched himself around Whiskey's neck like a lamprey. "You're doing me a favor, kid," he mumbled in Gunner's ear as the little boy huddled his face against Whiskey's shoulder. "Keeping me away from that nasty stuff." If Gunner heard him or cared, he didn't show it. Whiskey wondered if the glop was working some evil change inside the kid, if he ought to do one of those medico things like burp him or induce vomiting or something like that. He sighed. He was rambling now; he'd stopped making sense even to himself. Blast it, he was hungry, and the fact that the bugs were starting to almost look appetizing worried him a little. "Don't suppose you could provide something else, while you're at it?" he said, ostensibly to Gunner but more to the situation in general. "A nice bowl of oatmeal, maybe? Ham sandwich? Enchilada? Hasperat? Hell, I'd take gagh with a slug steak chaser. At least I know for sure that's meant to be ate!" His voice had risen in pitch and he collared it now as Gunner gave a whimper at the noise. "Sorry, kid...shhh...it's ok..." Of course, it wasn't ok. It was more or less the opposite. When Whiskey'd been a kid, he'd loved his mother and father for always talking straight to him, telling him how it was; when a job went south they told him why and what was gonna be done about it. Part of him now said that he should talk straight to Gunner, even if the kid couldn't understand it all -- maybe that'd help them both get a handle on the situation. But he couldn't. He had to protect him from whatever was going on, as far and as long as he could. That was, after all, what he was here for. "It's gonna be ok..." he said after a minute, putting a little more solidity into his voice. Well, I don't know if that's true either. But it's a little less of a lie.
  3. This just ain't bloody fair. It had just felt like a paper cut when he'd first brushed his fingers against it. A bit of shaved skin behind his ear and a little slice into the flesh, almost too small to be noticed except that it stung like all hell when he touched it. Kidnapped and dumped into a room he didn't recognize, with a few people he barely knew, it had been the least of his worries, particularly once he got tazered into unconsciousness by one of his captors. He'd woken up alone. Fair enough, he supposed. He was a prisoner; being locked away kind of went along with the deal. But it didn't make it any less unnerving or puzzling, and between the salty-smelling bowl of...stuff...next to his bed and the unconscious engineer visible outside of the room's only available door, Whiskey was starting to get a distinctly bad feeling about the whole business. So when one of his captors -- pale, silent, admirably direct if not the world's best conversationalist -- appeared in the doorway and squeezed some kind of bracelet device and knocked him to his knees, it almost wasn't surprising. It sucked, of course. It hurt like hell. But he almost wasn't surprised. The feeling began at that small cut, a stinging pain that quickly grew into a searing heat spreading from his neck to his entire body. He'd once, in his younger and more vulnerable days back on the Fenrir, taken an accidental hit with a Klingon painstick from an annoyed customer -- the impact had sent a shockwave up and down his spine like every vertebrae had fused together simultaneously. This...was nothing like that. It just hurt, a confident pain that settled into every centimeter of his body and made itself at home as if it had always been there. It crawled behind his eyes and into his brain and he yelled aloud... And then it stopped. He found himself curled into a ball on the decking, breathing raggedly, and managed only a delayed lurch towards the door as it slid shut behind his captor. He was alone again...only this time he was minus one bowl of suspicious white paste and plus one bowl of...bug. Live bug. "Gross..." It was all kind of surreal. Through the window behind him, he could see the engineer still being worked on; his captor had inserted something into the man's back, and it occurred to Whiskey to be scared, to wonder if he was next on the list, or perhaps had already undergone whatever procedure was taking place. However, since his chutzpah was all that was left to him at the moment, he clung to it, shouting through the door. At first he thought he was being ignored altogether. Then the pain came again, radiating out from his neck like the heat of a brand in his skin, as the silent pale alien made his way back through the door. Then nothing, silence again as Whiskey rasped for breath and watched helplessly as his engineering compatriot found insult added to injury as one of the bugs was stuffed into his mouth. A parasite? Whiskey wondered absently. A poison? Their idea of a meal? He didn't know. He knew he didn't like it. Curling his legs under him, he began to scoot backwards, pressing himself up against the wall, a vague idea in his mind to escape, as if he could soak backwards through the strange white surroundings. No dice. Before he could do anything, before he could even yell, the pain was in his neck and his back again and the alien captor had their fingers in his mouth and something was moving and wriggling and crawling down his throat and he choked and swore and swallowed and the pain knocked his head backwards against the wall and then he was alone again, facedown on the floor and covered in sweat. "Gross..." he rasped weakly, touching his neck gingerly and rolling over to stare at the ceiling. This just ain't bloody fair...
  4. Kania stepped aboard the yacht behind Robinson and took a seat in the back, not wishing to do any piloting in this area after what had transpired. She sat down in one of the back seats and buckled up getting ready to head back to the ship as Robinson finished his preflight checklist. She nodded as Bardolph followed her. Whiskey let himself drop into a seat across from the captain, shooting a glance in Robinson's direction up in the cockpit area. They'd been scooped up out of the prison a few minutes earlier; he wasn't entirely sure what was happening to the others but he couldn't say he'd been sorry to leave that bloody place behind. It was a bit of a dump, even as prisons went. Settling himself into his seat and strapping in, he ran a hand through his short hair, puffing out a slow breath. "Well. That was interesting," he muttered, to no one in particular, leaning his head back against the headrest. Kania looked to Bardolph. "Care to elaborate on what you mean by that comment? Don't worry about Mr. Robinson; he can handle getting us back just fine." Whiskey blinked and raised his head again, then looked towards Robinson. "Oh, I'm quite sure he can," he said blithely, reflecting that he doubted his own help would be accepted by Robinson right now even if it were offered. "And, well, I mean it was interesting, Cap'n. Not exactly what I was expecting from my first Fleet shore leave." He cocked his head sideways, looking a bit thoughtful, then shrugged. "I have to agree. Of course it was an unusual circumstance altogether. Now if we can get the remainder of our team back in one piece...I'd feel a lot better if they would have allowed them to come with us." Whiskey nodded slowly. "In my experience, if you're not trusted in a place, you're not so liable to get a lot of leeway." He folded his arms across his chest and the thoughtful look deepened. "Seems to me that this was all honest mistakes, though...if they've got any sense at all down there, they'll realize that." "Let's hope that's the case," Kania answered. "You've had some bad experiences like this before...you spoke of one, would you care to elaborate on others?" she then asked. Whiskey glanced at her sideways and then raised his eyebrows and laughed quietly. "I hope you don't have the impression I was a jailbird, or anything, sir. I've just seen a couple of jobs go bad here and there in the freight business; it can get sticky, you know?" Kania nodded. "Sticky, yes -- but sometimes these so-called sticky situations can prove to have circumstances that can be of help in other situations." "Well, I'd like to think it's taught me how to keep my cool at any rate," Whiskey said, with another slight shrug. "Yes, situations can do that as well. What type of situations have you seen? I would like to know about my crew. Please tell me of others." Kania sat back in her chair to listen as Will began the flight back to the Republic. Whiskey gave her a look as if to check if she was making fun of him with her apparent interest, but the captain seemed sincere enough. He supposed even listening to rambling from a LtJG freighter brat was preferable to fretting about her people planetside; fair enough. "Ah...well...we put in all over, trading stations, planet stops, even a few Fleet bases. We didn't have too much trouble most of the time -- my parents worked a good business. But...well, you've got reasons to have security on a ship like I grew up on; half the time people are trying to steal your goods, and the other half con you out of them." "First time I ever really had to deal with the law was when I was barely more'n a kid -- we picked up a stowaway belowdecks on the ship...he lived down there a good four days before we caught him; he'd been eating through a comestibles cargo we were carrying. Took quite some doing to figure out what planet he belonged to and who we could turn him over to..." Whiskey grinned to himself, thinking back on the chaos that had resulted from that incident. "Well, Mr. Bardolph, there is exactly why I like to know about my crew. If we ever have that type of situation, I know I can count on you to be in the forefront of getting to the bottom of the problem. Is there anything else I should know about you? You never know I may just find a special assignment for you or something." Whiskey laughed. "Ah, good, so I'm to be the Republic's expert on hull-rats, am I?" he asked, using his mother's slang term for stowaways. "Good to know. Other things to know about me..." He made a thoughtful face. "Well, I can shoot, run a stake-out, swear like a devil or buy you a drink in five languages, and make a passable fettucine alfredo, but I doubt any of those skills are particularly useful at the moment." Kania gave him an odd look, none of those things anything she would expect from a Starfleet officer. "What is a Fuchini Fredeto? I have never heard of it." The look on her face became very much puzzled. Whiskey had to resist the urge to laugh at the confusion he saw in the captain's face, though he knew that, as a Bajoran, she had no particular reason to know what he was talking about. "I wish I could say it was something highly impressive but it's just a meal. Terran -- a pasta dish." Kania nodded and turned to look out the front viewer, seeing the Republic coming into view. "I see. Well, one of these days you will have to cook it for me. Thank you for being honest with me, Bardolph. I like a crew that I can trust and count on. Also, do remember that I have an open-door policy on this ship. If you have a problem, do not hesitate to come speak to me about it." Kania smiled trying to show the LtJG that she was sincere in what she was saying. "And don't worry about Mr. Robinson there. His bark is worse than his bite but watch out he swings a mighty phaser." Whiskey chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind, Cap'n...all of it." He glanced past her to see the ship hovering into view through the window, and puffed out a sigh, running a hand through his hair again as he stood up. Time would tell what would happen to the group still belowground, but that was in the hand of the diplomatic types now, and for the moment he couldn't resist admitting to himself that it was good to be going home. Good to be calling a ship home again, too.
  5. Oy... Whiskey Bardolph trotted along behind Captain Kawalas and Tirean Bell through the Portalis security offices with an expression of vague interest. It occurred to him to be nervous, but he didn't really know what was going to happen yet, and he was not the sort to panic before there was a reason. He hadn't really done anything, after all. There'd been some sort of craziness with two of the other officers from the ship -- he'd seen them get picked up. At the time he'd figured on normal shore leave hijinks, bit of a headache for someone higher up than him, and had more or less ignored it, though he had gotten a weird warning from one of the locals that he should stay out of the way. Then he had ended up, in his wanderings, over in the direction of what had turned out to be the security offices and prison, and he had found a large crowd gathering and Captain Kawalas in the middle of it. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on or why there was so much animosity present, but the crowd seemed about ready to tear Kawalas limb from limb about something. Commander Robinson had, just at that point, called for all crew to beamup and Whiskey (and this was the part he could potentially get a boot up his rear for) had hesitated for a moment. And then he had commed the Captain. Kawalas had told him to back her up and so he had begun making his way through the crowd, along with Bell, who had been coming in from the other side and had, apparently, knocked over a small child. Then Robinson's orders had kicked in and they had all disappeared before Bell could apologize, Kawalas could explain, or anyone had really had a chance to figure out what was going on. If it hadn't been so serious, Whiskey might have laughed as he stood in the TR with the rest of the returned officers and listened as comm reports from below quickly turned the three of them into wanted fugitives. They were back down on the planet now, following some fellow named Needly and going somewhere or other, but Whiskey had the sneaking suspicion that the damage was already done. He didn't think they were in danger of beheading or anything along those lines, but he also wasn't familiar with this area's legal protocols. Well, we can't say we didn't have a memorable visit, I suppose...
  6. Whiskey Bardolph took his ID from the attractive young woman manning the Polaris customs desk and gave her a wink and a smile as he turned away to look at the city where he and some of the rest of the crew had been deposited. Lt. Commander Robinson had not spoken to him during the whole process, though he and Lt. Commander Jax had been only a few feet from him through most of it. This was fine with Whiskey and as soon as he reasonably could he took pains to maneuver the heck away from him, taking to his heels and plotting a course into the heart of the city at which they had been deposited. It was, as near as he could figure, a pretty general sort of resort area. The area was swarming with people moving in all directions; the air was warm and dry and a light breeze ruffled his hair as he turned a corner, trotting along the slightly spongy concrete. Voices echoed on that breeze, the majority seeming to come from some sort of central point slightly to the east, and as he drew closer to it, a smile grew on his face. Those sort of shouts sounded familiar. Sure enough, he rounded another bend in the street to find a sprawling street-market set up around the outer edges of a large square. "Well, good mornin', there," he said cheerfully to no one in particular, approaching the nearest vendors on his left with a grin. Most of the wares were tourist-trap items -- cheap musical instruments, articles of clothing. Whiskey wasn't really interested, but the atmosphere drew him like a magnet, reminding him of the trading stations and market stops the Fenrir had often stopped at. These sorts of places had energy, they were fun. Whiskey approved of fun. "What'll you have, sir, what'll you have?" one of the vendors bawled at him and he stopped, turning slightly to face the dark-haired man in his stall. Folding his arms, he raised his eyebrows casually. "What'll you give?" The man grinned. "Well, you don't mean to go about in that getup, do you, now? No style at all!" Whiskey looked down at the uniform jacket which was hanging loosely off his shoulders, and smirked. "Don't know...always felt yellow suited me." "Come on then, boy, a good sharp jacket that'll suit you a good deal farther," the vendor said cheerfully, brandishing an article of clothing. It was a dark navy blue, almost black, of some sort of vaguely leathery material, with cobalt-blue accents along the arms and across the chest. It was, Whiskey had to admit as he surveyed it with a trader's analytical eye, quite well-made, and probably worth forty slips of latinum on any reasonable market -- not to mention the fact that the vendor was a salesman worth his salt; it was an excellent jacket of a fit and style that would indeed suit the young security officer. "Not bad...you'll take ten slips?" he offered, ambling slowly across the space separating him from the stall. "Ten?" the vendor gave the mock-offended look which acknowledged an opening trading bid. "Nothing less than fifty -- look at the detailing." Whiskey looked, and shrugged casually. "Twenty." "Forty." "Twenty-five. Maybe. If you'll throw in a bag to carry it." A grin started twitching at his lips and his casual demeanor slipped. Maybe he was a Starfleet man now, but he had cut his teeth on this sort of thing. The vendor shook his head. "Thirty-five." "Twenty-five," Whiskey repeated, and his eyes twinkled mischievously as the vendor gave him a frustrated look. "Thirty-two." "Twenty-five." "Thirty." Whiskey said nothing, just looked at him patiently. The vendor raised both eyebrows at him and then sighed. "And a bag." Whiskey laughed aloud. "Done!" he said, stretching out a hand to shake on the bargain. "I'll need some money sent down from my ship; I'll be back in an hour to pick it up. And I'll throw in an extra slip if you can tell me -- are there any good bars in the neighborhood?" "Up the street and around the corner, you'll find a good spot -- drink, and good food if you've a mind for it." "Excellent; see you in an hour."
  7. Personal log -- Ensign Jameson Bardolph, Security, USS Republic. Begin recording. ::BEEP:: You know, usually it's pretty clear when you've made a mistake. Things get tense, someone starts giving you nasty looks, you start wanting to be somewhere other than where you are. Yeah...it's usually pretty clear. But sometimes, people'll still manage to make it a bit difficult to figure out. I really haven't a clue what's going on with Commander Robinson. Well, alright, that's a lie -- I have a clue. He was mad clear through a day or so ago, that much is obvious enough. Magnet'll just kill herself laughing when I tell her -- it turns out the pretty lady riding herd on Engineering is not only an L-T-Commander and department head, but none other than my chief's wife. And it seems that she felt I was getting too big for my britches because the next time I went into the Security office, he was there, and she was there, and if that man's eyes coulda shot phaser beams, I wouldn't be telling this story right now. But I kept it cool and so, eventually, did he and I went out on shift. And then today he saw me and didn't say a word except, 'Good day, Bardolph,' and just walked on like nothing happened. Call me strange but I find that a little unnerving. I have a feeling the other shoe's gonna drop at some point. I don't get the impression he's a type to suffer in silence. This is gonna be quite a long ride if my chief hates me from the first week...I think that might be a record even for me, not that I go out of my way for it. Honestly though -- who's the one at fault here? It's not like I did anything -- a friendly word or two to break up the monotony, a compliment; it's hardly a proposition. Might not have even gone on. I sure wasn't making long-term plans. And did she act uncomfortable? No. Did she ask me to leave? No. Did she happen to mention, "By the way, I'm married and this (mostly) innocuous conversation would be enough to make my husband spit daggers?" No. But she did go and tell the dagger-spitter, and here we all are. So really...this isn't my fault. ::short, thoughtful pause:: Well...mostly.
  8. Ensign Jameson "Whiskey" Bardolph trotted down the corridor of the USS Republic, running a hand along the bulkheads, his light eyes narrowed at the corners in a contented grin. He'd only been aboard the Galaxy-class ship a few weeks, only on the Alpha shift a few days, and already he felt very comfortable with her; the low, almost imperceptible hum of the deck plating was like a heartbeat vibrating gently under his feet. And he hadn't realized how much, during the two years of station duty, he'd missed that undefinable sensation of forward motion peculiar to shipboard life; growing up on the Fenrir, it had been something so prevalent as not even to be thought about, something not to be missed until it was gone. But there was no question that this transfer felt, in a small way, like coming home. He turned the corner into his quarters and noticed at once that a light was blinking lazily on the console near the far wall. Quickly he jogged over and flopped down into the seat, calling up the message and scrolling to see who had sent it. A wide smile spread across his face and he tapped open a communications line. There was a short silence as the UFP symbol spun on the screen over the words, "Establishing connection." Then the console beeped again and displayed an image of another set of quarters, with a short, stocky dark-haired woman just sliding into a seat at her own console. She caught his eyes and grinned mischievously before he could say anything in greeting. "You have reached the office of the USS Adelphi engineering department, Casey Bardolph speaking. Please hold for the next available attendant." Her wrist flicked out and the screen went dark, then displayed the words, "Connection terminated." Whiskey burst out laughing. "Blast you..." he murmured with a tone of affectionate aggravation, and tapped the console to reopen the line again. The screen flashed on, again revealing the woman tipped back in her chair with her hands behind her head, looking pleased with herself. "Hi there, little brother, and what may I do for you this evening?" she asked him, as if nothing had happened. Whiskey stuck out his tongue at her. "Dunno why I call back, Magnet, if you just want t' be a waste of my time," he said dryly. "Well, I have a busy social schedule," his sister drawled. Casey had been nicknamed "Magnet" in their youth (by the same rowdy helmsman who had given Whiskey his own moniker) for the affinity and care, just short of maniacal, she displayed for all things metallic and mechanical, but her laconic tone now would hardly have indicated she was capable of such enthusiasm. Leaning back in her seat, she put her feet up on the desk with a low thud and lounged before the video receiver. "Even you've got to wait in line on occasion. Got my call, then?" "Aye. It's about time you got in touch with me; you've been out of contact for ages. The Adelphi keeping you busy?" "Border patrol, mostly; it's slow and steady for the most part but not the best for getting calls home," Magnet said cheerfully. "But what about you, kid? Finally got yourself on the move again?" Whiskey's chest puffed a little with pride in spite of the casual tone of his voice. "Yes, ma'am -- you are speaking to the newest alpha shift security officer for the USS Republic." "Galaxy-class." Magnet whistled, her eyebrows raising somewhat. "And you not even an engineer to appreciate her properly." "Hey!" Whiskey retorted, folding his arms across his chest. "I grew up in the same hull you did; I know a good ship when I see her." "Shiny, is she?" "Ah, she's beautiful. 'Course, after fattening my rear sitting around on a station for two years, I'd have hopped a shuttlepod and called it a cruiser," Whiskey said dryly. "But she's a powerful ship. My chief's got me on a patrol that takes me through engineering and...well, the whole place is a sight, I'll say that for certain." His eyes sparked in a gleeful smile. Magnet laughed. "Just don't touch anything and break it; you know we don't take kindly to that." Whiskey smirked, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Trust me, I mean to watch my footing. Let's just say I have no intention of gettin' the CENG mad at me." "Mmmm...a girl?" Magnet asked, smiling tauntingly. "Or just a guy who could whip you?" Whiskey rolled his eyes. "The former -- and a pretty one too, I might add." "Lord...you do like aiming high, don't you? How many pips?" Magnet asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Three." "Mother of...I hope only two are gold, or you're really asking her to rob the cradle...Ensign," Magnet quipped. "Been chatting her up, have you, on that patrol route of yours?" Whiskey chuckled. "Maybe a little; didn't seem to bother her. She's nice enough; clearly loves shipboard duty -- her dad's an engineer like ours, only he apparently runs Planitia stem to stern." He paused to ensure that Magnet looked suitably impressed, then shook his head. "Not expecting it to go anywhere, a' course. Though..." he added with an impish grin "...word on the grapevine is we may be taking shore leave soon...so who knows?" Magnet groaned. "I hope you're joking, little brother." "Always am," Whiskey replied with a laugh. "Don't worry, Magnet; I don't intend to get myself into trouble. Whatever else I might be, am I stupid?" "Well..." "Don't answer that," Whiskey said, giving her a dirty look. Magnet chuckled and shook her head. "Look, I need to get some sleep, Whiskey; got some early work before shift tomorrow. I'll comm you again when I've got a free minute. Meantime, you stay safe, alright?" Whiskey smiled. "Aye, that's the plan. Take care, Magnet. Bardolph out."
  9. JAMESON G. BARDOLPH Currently Assigned: USS Republic Current Position: Assistant Security Officer Current Rank: Lieutenant, Junior Grade Full Name: Jameson "Whiskey" Gordon Bardolph Race: Human. Sex: Male POB: Private trading vessel SS Fenrir. APPEARANCE: Height: 1.68 m (5 ft., 6 in.) Weight: 63.50 kg (140 lbs) Hair: Dark brown, short. Eyes: Hazel. Retinal scan on file: Yes. FAMILY: Adam Spencer Bardolph -- Father; born in New York City, Earth. Occupation: Ship's engineer, private trading vessel SS Fenrir. Theresa Bridget Bardolph -- Mother; born in San Francisco, Earth. Occupation: Security specialist, private trading vessel SS Fenrir. Casey Allison "Magnet" Bardolph -- Sister, born aboard SS Fenrir. Occupation: Assistant Engineer, USS Marburg (NCC-63102-A, Akira-class). PERSONAL HISTORY: The SS Fenrir is a private cargo freighter captained by Delia Harmon, a native of Tycho City, Luna; Harmon was an intelligent, good-humored commander and extremely shrewd negotiator, one who took pains to surround herself with the most intelligent and accomplished crew that she could find. Adam Bardolph and Theresa Gordon were among that crew -- the former a cheerful and unorthodox engineer, the latter a strong and quick-witted security chief -- and Harmon worked with both of them for many years; the three of them, along with the large crew who served with them aboard the Fenrir, quickly became known as one of the most successful private trading ventures in the Alpha Quadrant. No one was more pleased than Harmon when she learned that her two friends and subordinates had fallen in love and were interested in getting married, and rather than lose the assets they provided, she allowed them to marry, live, and raise a family on board the Fenrir. Casey and Jameson Bardolph, their children, therefore had the unmatched opportunity to grow up in the bowels of a cargo freighter. They were inseparable for most of their young lives -- their jungle gyms were service crawlways, their toys hyperspanners and discarded warp coils. They spent their days exploring the ship, helping their father with repair work and getting to know the language of security, piloting, and trade from their mother and Captain Harmon, who was their godmother. While his older sister discovered an affinity for the engineering work of their father, Jameson (nicknamed "Whiskey" by a crew member with a penchant for wordplay and a glass of Jameson's Irish) took more after their mother, following her on her security rounds of the ship as a youngster and, when he was old enough, accompanying trading teams from the ship as part of his mother's guard teams. He was an energetic young man, short, wiry, and agile. A childhood spent crawling through the bowels of the Fenrir gave him the ability to agilely slip through tiny spaces, find cover in unorthodox places, and maintain a comfortable position in uncomfortably situated stakeouts. Equally comfortable in silence or vivacity, he had an easy manner that was eminently adaptable to every situation. He was a good listener and paid attention on the trading runs he accompanied, learning a smattering of a wide number of languages, and could handle himself in a trade negotiation or barfight by the time he was eighteen. He followed three years behind his sister into Starfleet Academy, and graduated with good grades, majors in shipboard security and weapons training and a minor in damage-control triage engineering. As both Bardolphs were able to coast through with less than the average amount of work, given their "field" experience, they both had active social lives. Jameson had a wide circle of friends; when it came to women he tended to circulate, his mindset too energetic to hold onto the permanent relationships he attempted. He was often mischievous, definitely cocky and confident that his experience aboard the Fenrir had prepared him for all situations. Generally his professors passed him without liking him a great deal -- his cockiness never quite passed into insubordination but often hovered right on the line -- but they could not deny that he was solid security officer material; he could analyze a situation quickly and had the patience for stakeouts combined with the energy and skill for combat. Upon graduating the Academy, he was, to his disappointment, assigned to station duty for two years at Starbase 42; he disliked its stability intensely and put in repeatedly for a transfer to shipboard duty. Nevertheless, he did his job well and received commendations from his commanding officers for his participation in the bust of a criminal ring, in which he further honed and proved his abilities at stealth operations and stakeouts. He finally received the transfer he had been requesting soon afterwards, when he was assigned to the Galaxy-class USS Republic as an assistant security officer. MEDICAL RECORDS: //MEDICAL PROFILE// //Lieutenant Commander Jeremy Samuels, Starfleet Medical// Ensign Bardolph edges onto the lower side of the healthy weight range for his height; he has an extremely fast metabolism and exercises regularly. His stature is small but his body mass index is almost entirely muscle, and he has an extremely fast reaction time and high agility ratios, all advantages for his profession. He has been lucky enough so far to avoid particularly dire injury in the course of his work; mainly bumps and bruises, and nothing which would threaten the soundness of his body for further security work. I endorse Mr. Bardolph's transfer to the USS Republic and certify him with a clean bill of health. //PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE// //Commander Rebecca Lowery, Starfleet Medical-Psychology// //Staff Psychologist/Counselor, Starbase 42// It comes as something of a relief to me that Jameson Bardolph is being transferred off this station, not because he has not been an asset to it but because he has been exhibiting increasing frustration with his posting here. He has desired a shipboard posting ever since he arrived; having grown up on ships he feels more comfortable there and feels he can do the most good there. The Republic will hopefully provide him with a good fit. Jameson (or "Whiskey," as he is known to his friends; someone in his past clearly had a sense of humor) is a very affable type, difficult to rattle or anger, preferring mischievousness to outright conflict even when provoked. He is extremely confident in his own abilities (to the point of cockiness but never insubordination -- he respects the chain of command) and has a strong sense of the importance of justice and his place as a lawkeeper. To speak to him one wouldn't at once get the impression that he was interested in anything other than food, drink, a workout, a joke, the occasional woman. However, behind that face lies a mind that is constantly taking in the world around it and remembering everything. His cocky lightheartedness hides a surprising depth; though he enjoys his social life, his workouts take him into the Jeffries tubes and the bowels of the station each day, providing him with an hour or so of solitude and time, I think, to commune with the machine as well as the people on her. His childhood's work in engineering and trade has stayed with him; he enjoys tinkering with broken phasers and other damaged equipment in his spare time, and he has a prodigious memory and has retained much of his childhood's knowledge of the world of civilian economics. To the actual business of security he brings the patience of a lesser saint combined with determination, boundless energy, and an eye for detail that has given him an edge in stakeout and tracking. He has received commendations from his chief aboard the station which I thoroughly support, and recommend Jameson Bardolph for posting to the USS Republic at once.