H.G. Reed

The wait was interminable. Use of a direct route would have been much more expedient. Obviously, the Klingons were playing some type of game. Challenger and the other ships in their contingent well knew their way to Qo’noS, this route was an attempt at artifice on the part of the Klingons. They were trying to provoke a confrontation, as was their usual wont. Reed might have been given to like their former enemies, these brusque warriors who acted rashly and lived by a very interesting code of honour. Very much akin to the Spartans of ancient earth. That code however, was somewhat subverted by their almost animalistic antagonism and ruthless determination to cow and dominate anyone they came into contact with. Klingons lacked compassion and an artful cunning to both temper and complement their warmongering tendencies. As a result, they did not mix well with the more sagacious and empathetic species of the federation. This was not be the navigator’s first jaunt into this sector and she knew quite well what to expect. Expected the unexpected. Following a Klingon cruiser on a circuitous route to their home world was unexpected, if only they would get on with it. Kal shifted slightly in his seat beside her. Reed turned her attention towards the helmsman, treating him to a wry grin. His posture suggested a certain edginess in the normally congenial marine. Perhaps he was also irritated with their guides? Matheson was a skilled pilot and expert sharpshooter. She very much appreciated his cleverness on the range. Under his skilled tutelage her own marksmanship had increased significantly. Their growing camaraderie was significant to the lieutenant, a sign of acceptance amongst those she saw as her peers. She glanced back at her console, determined to remain focused on her duties. The Klingon cruiser continued to plod along before them; the petite navigator stifled the urge to drum her fingers against the console. Taking a deep breath, she centred herself. She was a proficient line officer, not a green ensign on her first cruise. It would not do to allow the Klingons to affect her equanimity. No matter how irksome their daft behaviour was. A Reed was never one to shirk their duty. Even when the wait was interminable.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, not knowing who one was. To wake up in a strange place, albeit one that seemed vaguely familiar, and to be unaware of who she was or her purpose for being there was disturbing to her composure. It was utterly preposterous to realize that she didn’t even know what to call herself, and being unable to describe what she looked like, such an integral part of individual uniqueness, was an entirely separate cause for alarm. She supposed that she was on a ship, as all indications lead to that being the case, but even though she understood what a ship was, it was impractical to think of it as such; further inquiry into that line of thought would merely produce more questions than answers, leading to additional sources of frustration. At first it had been somewhat comforting to know that there were others on board, who might be able to explain matters. When she had first entered the command centre via the service conduit, it had been under the assumption that her condition was an isolated one and could somehow be reversed in very short order. However, it had quickly become apparent that any others who were awake were in the same state as she; a worrisome thought indeed. She had assessed the situation with the two men who were awake within the command centre when she arrived, and it was easy to come to the conclusion that the ship was in trouble. Consoles reporting “hull breach” and “failing structural integrity” indicated at least that much. She knew these words, could piece together their meaning and understand the seriousness of their predicament, yet the deeper implications they presented, and how to address them, eluded her understanding. Instinctively, she knew that the knowledge required to set things right was somewhere within her, but like a shimmering oasis beckoning desert travellers, it was just beyond her present reach. In order to avoid succumbing to the rising hysteria within her, she had done what seemed to come naturally: make suggestions and give directions. She wondered if this was an indication of her personality when she was quite herself, but let that thought pass in favour of more pressing concerns. Her suggestions, in conjunction with input from the two men, had allowed them to form a plan of action, given them something to do rather than merely await whatever type of rescue might or might not have been coming. She had found she couldn’t abide idleness; it merely led her down paths best left unexplored. So, after logically deducing the person likely to be in charge, the slightly older man who with an accent (although given that the other man sounded different as well, perhaps she had an accent herself) she had agreed that it would be best to go down to Engineering at once to see what might be done to improve their situation. Following the other man (who had yet to introduce himself, an understandable oversight in this case) back down the service conduit, she tried to assimilate all that she knew or could piece together, while still fighting the feeling of being trapped within the constraints of her own mind.

Reed exited the quartermaster's office and started briskly down the corridor, heading towards the turbolift, making notations on her PADD for Commander Ba'alyo. Her solution for reconfiguring the Captain's quarters in order to adjoin the adjacent cabin appeared as though it would work. The result should be suitable for Seiben and his new wife, allocating the right amount of privacy to each, but also providing a shared living space. The quartermaster had assured her that they could begin making the modifications once Commander Ba'alyo gave his final approval, which would be taken care of when she delivered the PADD to him on the bridge. Slowing her pace to stop in front of the turbolift doors, H.G. pressed the call button and waited for the lift to arrive with a thoughtful expression. The idea of the Captain remarrying so quickly gave her pause and made her wonder how much of his motivation was to give his ex-wife hell for what she had done to him. Truth be told, Reed would be lying to if she didn't admit that she understood some of his feelings. Relationships were never easy and uncomplicated; opening yourself up to someone had the potential to end in being seriously hurt. The lift opened and the navigation officer stepped in, sighing as the doors closed. These changes taking place aboard Challenger only made her reflect more on her own situation. She wasn't unhappy by any means, but she couldn't help but feel restless from time to time, more so recently than ever before. It really made no rational sense, but she still had a feeling that she was looking for something more, looking for a reason to shake out her wings and really soar. She was a good officer, or at least she tried to be one. She was confident in her abilities as a navigator and as a pilot, but the urge to stretch herself, the drive to be better than she was, lingered. Major Johnson's suggestion that H.G. needed to relax had again brought the restlessness back. She thought she got on well with most of the crew, but did they really see her as some type of stiff cardboard caricature who was only good for citing regulations? She required discipline and structure in her life. Unlike many of her crewmates, she wasn't inherently brilliant or gifted, nothing came naturally to her. All of the accomplishments in her life were the result of hard work and determination, tempered with discipline to keep her focused. That type of focus required restraint, but now she wondered what she was giving up as a result of exercising that restraint. While she no longer dreamed Quixote's impossible dream, she had never given up the hope that something was out there waiting for her, some quest for the greater good to make up for what had passed, some purpose for her to hold onto. If it required patience and tenacity to find that purpose, she would hold to them, she would not give up. She would not allow this restlessness to guide her away from the path she was on; she would find a way to squelch it. The turbolift slowed, preparing to halt. Exhaling, she pasted a smile on her face and stepped out onto the bridge and headed toward Ba'alyo, PADD in hand, ready to do her duty.

"The Key to Change is to Let Go of Fear" - Roseanne Cash *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~ Sighing, H.G. set down the latest edition of The Journal of Stellar Cartographic Perspectives and leaned back against the lounge chair. Despite the peacefulness of the Pacifican shore and the intriguing nature of a paper on the newest ellipsoid model of the Milky Way Galaxy (with its specialized datum constructed to fit the ellipsoid's coordinate system), she was unable to concentrate. A vague sense of irritation still lingered from her earlier confrontation with M'Guire. Somehow, despite all her vows that she would not let him bait her, her temper always managed to get the better of her when she was in M’Guire’s presence. The Irish tosser was insufferably rude and bloody arrogant, which she felt justified the contempt she felt for him. However, it frustrated her that she allowed him to turn her into a veritable shrew every time they argued. On top of all his other aggravating attributes, M'Guire somehow had the uncanny capability to hit the mark in his cutting insults. For some reason – and she refused to believe that it was any great cunning on his part – he easily lit upon things that were particularly painful to her. His reproofs stung her pride and caused her to lash out, but a grain of potential truth always existed within his scathing remarks, insinuating that she was judgmental, haughty, and condescending, causing her to fear quietly that others viewed her in the same way he described. Her proper British upbringing, coupled with a natural reserve, made her very reticent to discuss personal matters with anyone; instead, she tended to be introspective and uncomfortable with speaking about herself, which at times made her terse and uncommunicative. This could easily be mistaken for snobbishness and disdain for the feelings of others, such as her crewmates, though in fact she admired and respected most of Challenger's crew, would give her life for them if need be. They were brilliant and talented individuals who represented a diverse assortment of cultures and outlooks and served the ship and its crew with great passion and dedication. H.G. had learned much from this crew and hoped to continue to allow them to teach her. Before he had departed for his next assignment, Brady had advised that she stop internalizing so much, and start opening herself up to people. Undoubtedly, she needed to be seen as something other than the stiff, by-the-book navigation officer, and shore leave was an ideal time to find that balance. The time for some changes was at hand. Smiling, she stood, packing up the journal and her towel before starting down the beach.

The stars whirled around her, their tiny pinpricks of light bending and distorting fluidly through the vacuum of space. The universe spun around her, continuing to move, flow, making her feel as small and insignificant. Sighing, she watched the stars, some of which were long dead, yet their wavering light still persevered, travelling out in all directions as a testament to their once greatness. The brightest ones, the tiniest pinpricks in the distance, which flickered and beckoned, appeared truly unreachable; something only a fool would seek. "Doesn't this make your head ache?" A voice drawled in the darkness from somewhere close by. Startled, H.G. turned towards the source, tapping her hand against the console in front of her to turn off the holographic imagery and bring the lights back up. "Ahhh!" the voice moaned, coming from the mouth of a dark haired man, standing just inside the door of the stellar cartography lab. H.G. gaped at him, surprised, unable to speak. "You ought to have at least warned me that you were going to turn on the lights," he complained, squinting as he moved towards her. "How long have you been here?" H.G. queried, recovering her powers of speech and inflecting a wealth of meaning into her question. "Long enough to know that my baby sister has developed some odd habits since I last saw her." The man reached H.G. and pulled her into his arms, clasping her to him in a tight embrace. "It is lovely to see you Hannah." Pulling back, she glared at him. "I prefer H.G., as you well know, Brady." He smirked, looking down at her, a twinkle in his eye. "Still trying to be one of the Reed brothers I see, ever the little tomboy. Although, you aren't chopping that hair of yours quite so short," Brady commented, pushing a wayward strand of long red hair behind her ear. "I still remember the time you took a pair of scissors to your head after mum wouldn't let you crop it short. I believe that you spent the next month mucking Uncle Iain's stable, although that might not have been such a punishment, as I reflect on it." H.G. smiled for a moment. "Not so much of a punishment really, I was only six or seven at the time and Uncle Iain had stable boys to do all the heavy work. He had me helping him train and running small errands." "Just as I suspected, he had a soft spot for you, just like every other man in this family. Although I must admit, I still can't believe that my little sister has grown up and joined Starfleet, in my mind you are still the annoying brat who used to tag along after us. Now you are the navigator on a starship," he leaned forward and looked at the insignia pins on her uniform, "and a Lieutenant, well done, I always knew you would be an excellent officer." Turning so that he would not see her grimace, H.G. checked to see that the astronomical data she had received from Starfleet had uploaded correctly. "What are you doing here Brady? Last I heard from Malcolm you were on assignment in the Kriosian sector." "What, I need an excuse to stop by and say hello?" he asked with an easy smile. "Just happened to be in the neighbourhood." H.G. raised in eyebrow, "Brady, you are rarely ever just in the neighbourhood, but I won't pry. Heaven knows that I am used to it." She looked back down at the console for a moment. "I am finished here; shall I make us some tea?" Gathering up her data PADDS, she moved towards the door, her brother falling into step behind her. "Let me take those," Brady said cheerfully, moving up next to her as they passed through the door. Reaching over, he plucked the PADDs from his sister's arms. Stacking them into a neat pile, he glanced down at the one on top, expecting to see some streams of data of the astrometric variety that she had just been working with. What he saw instead made him pause and blink, startled. Then he raised the PADD and gesticulated at her with it. "What is this?" Looking down at the data PADD in his hands and then back up at her brother's face, H.G. suddenly went rigid, her features going blank and her eyes becoming cold. "I don't wish to speak about it." "You're resigning? Why?" Brady's sharp tone was mixed with an air of concern as he looked at her. "What happened?" "I told you, I don't wish to speak about it, especially as it is none of your concern. Suffice it to say that I have come to the conclusion that I do not have all the necessary skills required to be a good officer and leave it at that." H.G. turned to head down the corridor, hoping that he wouldn't press. "I don't care if you don't wish to speak about it – I want to know. What happened? Is this about that incident with the Romulans? All reports said you performed admirably!" Pausing, she turned to look back at her brother, not even bothering to be surprised that he knew about Challenger's mission to the Tellun sector. Her pensive expression revealing much more than she would have cared, she attempted to explain. "Brady, you of all people should know that Starfleet reports do not always cover every aspect of a mission, nor do they always tell the unbiased truth." "Alright, so what is the unbiased truth?" Brady asked, his eyes focused on her expression, trying to read it as well as listen to what she was saying. H.G. hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to explain. "The report was accurate; Challenger and her crew did what they needed to do under the circumstances, I won't dispute that. But lives were lost, people died, and they died because of me!" There was a short silence. Brady's expression took on some sympathy as he absorbed this revelation of his sister's feelings about the situation. "Yes, that's true," he finally said slowly. Not the first mission where such a thing has happened or, I imagine will it be the last. You're not alone in this -- hell, you're not even alone on this ship in it. We've had this talk before, Hannah...you can't take everything onto your own shoulders all the time." Her eyes taking on a pained looke, H.G. stepped closer to her brother, hervoice taking on a much quieter tone. "I can't be a good officer if I break down every time I am faced with a similar situation. It could put the crew in danger, or worse get someone else killed. No, it is better that I resign and return to earth." She gave him a tremulous smile. "I am quite handy at mucking stalls, I can always find work." Brady raised an eyebrow. "Of course, you should resign...because you are certainly the first person to ever be in Starfleet and find it a tough road. Do you really intend to run away, Hannah?" His words and tone immediately set her on edge. "Are you suggesting that I am a coward? Because I am not! I am trying to protect people. Challenger can't have a navigation officer who is unable to perform her duties properly. No one else should die because of me." "Tell me, when you took your oaths joining Starfleet, to do your duty, what did you expect that duty to entail?" Brady's voice was honestly curious, though he kept her pinned with his eyes, not letting her squirm away. "To uphold the honour and ideals of the United Federation of Planets and work toward the betterment of the universe as a whole, for everyone!" she muttered. "I am not naive, I knew that there was a possibility that I would face danger or be forced to make difficult decisions, however, I didn't realize that those decisions would bring me to this." Brady stepped closer to her, cupping her face in his palms so she couldn't move. "Listen...I know for a fact you are absolutely not the first person to feel this way about the sorts of situations that Starfleet can run into – and I also know for a fact that you are far stronger than you give yourself credit for. I am here for you; you can talk to me. Don't just turn your back on your work because it's startled you a bit." Moments passed as she stared at her brother, assimilating what he was saying, using his words to realign, once again, her moral compass, his faith in her helping to rebuild her foundations. After several moments she sighed, a smiled playing at the corners of her lips. "A Reed never leaves a job unfinished." "No, they bloody well don't," he said, with a tone of satisfaction, before smiling. "And neither does my baby sister, because I know as well as anyone that she can be stubborn as a mule when she puts her mind to it." Giving him a disparaging look, she pushed by him, once again heading back down the corridor. "Come along, I shall get you some tea, and perhaps another uniform. No offense, but the one you have on looks a bit worse for the wear." Brady chuckled, falling into step beside her. "Tea sounds lovely, thank you. And what is this I hear about you wearing the uniform skirt, Hannah?" he queried, evading the question of his appearance and shooting her a teasing look. "It's H.G.!" She snapped tartly in reply, rolling her eyes and frowning at him once more. *~*~*~*~*~*~* A very special thanks to STSF Kent for her contribution to this log.

The doors of her quarters slid shut, providing sanctuary from the rest of the ship. Sighing, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes and attempting to centre herself, focusing on the ambient hum of the warp engines. Several moments passed, but the peace she sought could not be found. Frustrated, she pushed away from the wall and moved into the centre of the room, stopping before the bookshelf. Reaching up, she retrieved her sextant from its display case. Mariners from ancient earth had used this tool to navigate their way across uncharted waters, through storms and tempests, into the brave new worlds awaiting discovery. This sextant was her talisman, a reminder of why she was here, a guide to help her navigate. It was something she had clung to through her training at the Academy, something that symbolized the lofty principles of the Federation. Now, mere months out of training, on her first assignment, those principles suddenly seemed hollow, well-meaning but idealistic, like the praise offered by her crewmates for discovering the means by which to track the Romulan ship. Clutching the sextant, she began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, her actions mirroring the circling thoughts spinning in her mind. Although the rational part of her brain recited meaningless platitudes about duty, honour, and being a Starfleet Officer, it did not change the fact that lives had been lost because of her. The crew of that ship was gone, never to return, and they were gone because of her actions, because of her. Intellectually she understood that a war had been averted, and countless lives had been saved, but did the ends really justify the means? She had only been performing her duties, but was that a justification in and of itself? She would never even know whom it was that she had killed, and did not want to even think about the possibility of all the innocent people aboard who were also only doing their duty. She had blood on her hands and the matter weighed heavily on her conscience. Although she had thought her training had prepared her for the responsibility of life and death decisions, she was finding no fortitude or resolve to strengthen her against a sudden feeling of despair. She was not using her career to explore brave new worlds; people were dead because of her actions. She was a failure as a Starfleet officer, and more importantly as a person of conscience. The sextant, which she now gripped tightly in her hand, was cutting into her skin, yet the feeling of pain did not even register. Her moral compass was spinning out of control and she did not know how to stop it. She needed guidance, the kind her sextant could not provide, and now she had no idea where to find it. Somehow, she had gone from the idealistic realm of Don Quixote to the darkened domain of Lady Macbeth; her world had changed in blink of an eye. The unreachable star had disappeared. She had taken lives and now she would have to live with that. Silently, H.G. slumped to the floor, hugging her legs to her chest in an effort control the anguished sobs wracking her body. Pressing her face to her knees, she wept, the sextant discarded, forgotten on the floor beside her.

A dull ache emanated from a point between her shoulder blades, moving up through the tense muscles in her neck and settling in her head. Sitting hunched over the navigation console as she was, intently studying the data before her and attempting to locate the rogue Romulan vessels, was taking its toll, both mentally and physically; it was only a matter of time before this headache became a fully fledged migraine, but it could not be helped. H.G. inclined her head slightly to relieve some of the tension and noticed M’Guire smirking at her for the umpteenth time. She wished he wouldn’t, given how things stood; she didn’t need him to bait her into yet another argument, as her current mood would likely shorten her patience and tempt her to do something rash, like break his nose again. She didn’t need to spend the night in the brig, nor another reprimand on her record. Life had been much simpler when John was at the helm. Sighing, she looked away and focused once more on the sensor data they had been able to gather on the Romulan ship. It still irked her that they had lost any advantage over the Romulans by alerting the Elasians and the Troyians to the presence of the rogue ship in the sector. However, she was not going to argue with the Captain or Commander Ba’alyo. With three older brothers she had learned early on to carefully pick her battles, although, she mused, it was funny that she had yet to use that knowledge when dealing with M’Guire. Mentally she grimaced in disgust at that errant thought. She needed to find that ship and quickly, before the situation escalated out of control. Days ago, prior to the attack on the Cepheus, she had suspected Klingon and/or Romulan involvement in the hostilities between the Elasians and the Troyians, yet she had hesitated to voice her suspicions for fear of being labeled paranoid. The evidence supporting her theory had been circumstantial at best, yet now, because of her neglect, Challenger and her crew were in a tenuous position. Guilt and self-recriminations plagued her, strengthening her resolve and focus; she would find a way to absolve herself. It was difficult, even in the best circumstances, to isolate the engine signature of a cloaked ship. However, in a dilithium-rich sector such as Tellun, it was nearly impossible. Thanks to Lieutenant Poldara’s brilliance and the sensor modifications made by the science team, they knew the warp signature of the cloaked ship, but it was now hidden by the surrounding crystal deposits. The primary engine component of most warp capable vessels was dilithium and although configuration, concentration, and elemental composition differed according to design, the use was still the same. With so many natural sources of dilithium in this sector, trying to isolate a distinct signature was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Given John’s assessment of the Romulan vessel and its capabilities, H.G. doubted that it had any obvious weakness that could be easily exploited without considerable effort. Clearing her monitor, she started anew, trying to approach the problem from another perspective. She brought up the specifications for Federation ships, then Elasian and Troyian, and added Klingon specs for good measure. Finally, she brought up the data on the Romulan ship and requested that the computer run a comparison on warp signatures, looking for the fundamental differences, especially those that might suggest the mechanics behind their cloaking technology. Irritated at having to wait, she drummed her fingers against the console as the computer ran its analysis. M’Guire was eyeing her once more, paying particular attention to her legs, thankfully covered in uniform pants, so she scowled at him, her eyes daring him to provoke her into a confrontation. Before he could speak, however, the computer chimed, indicating that the process was complete. Quickly she scanned through the results. Halfway through her report, a small, apparently innocuous bit of information caught her eye, causing her to pause. The dilithium…the dilithium of course! As she checked the Troyian data to confirm what she suspected, a smile began to play at the corners of her lips. The Romulans were using dilithium that came from a Troyian source…and thanks to the scans she and Poldara had made of the sector, she knew exactly where to look. Spinning in her chair, she turned to face the command center. “Commander, I believe I have found something.”

Well into the night watch, the ship’s corridors were quiet and mostly deserted as H.G. silently made her way through them. Although she had planned on having a swim earlier in the watch, she had been detained in dealing with a mistake made by the laundry personnel: uniforms belonging to Petty Officer Reezes, who worked as a field coil specialist in the engineering, had been mistakenly delivered to her quarters. The error had been somewhat amusing, as, although she was shorter than average for a human, she was not by any means comparable in stature to the diminutive Tellarites. She nodded politely to a pair of crewmen working on an open EPS conduit, who had moved to allow her to pass by, as her thoughts shifted to their current mission. Something was bothering her, but she could not yet articulate what it was. There seemed to be quite a few variables floating around in this equation, so many that solving it, she feared, could eventually end in disaster. Perhaps it would help if she focused on the outliers once more, endeavouring to determine how they factored in? Although Commander Ba’alyo had stated that the Klingons did not currently have a presence in the Tellun Systems, there had been reports of Klingon vessels on long range sensors at several different junctures during this mission, which was disconcerting. H.G. also found it curious that the ship the Challenger had pursued into the Lantaru Sector was Klingon in origin, but had been operated by a Romulan crew. Was it possible that the other Klingon vessels they had detected might also be under the control of the Romulans? Could the Romulans be attempting to incite conflict between the Elasians and the Troyians for some nefarious purpose? While the probability of Romulan involvement was unknown, given the circumstances, it ought not be totally discounted. Another interesting factor was the sudden illness of the Vulcan Ambassador who had come aboard while the Challenger was docked at Epsilon 7. While H.G. had not been fully briefed regarding the matter, she had heard enough to know that foul play was suspected. The Ambassador had immediately fallen ill upon his return from a state dinner hosted by the Elasians. If he had been poisoned, she wondered who had done so, and why. Given the relationship between Vulcans and Romulans, this was yet another indication that the Romulans might somehow be involved. While H.G. had had limited interaction with Romulans, she knew that aside from a few cosmetic differences, they physically resembled Vulcans. Culturally and temperamentally, however, the differences between the two were immense in both number and significance. Sighing, she entered the gym, wondering if perhaps she wasn’t just being fanciful again. Currently, she had no tangible evidence that Romulans had any involvement in these matters. She was most likely allowing her overactive imagination to get the better of her good sense. All the tension and stress of this mission, and everything currently taking place aboard ship, could be making her paranoid, seeing plots where they did not exist. As she wandered into the changing room, her thoughts moved to the tetryon signature which Lieutenant Poldara had discovered. That was another variable that needed to be investigated, as it could potentially pose a threat. At the very least, they ought to discover the origin and source of those readings. She headed towards the pool, beginning to muse over the possible ways they might scrutinize the phenomena. Their sensors were already tasked with keeping track of ship movements in the region, but if she worked with Poldara and Ensign Freeman, they could possibly come up with some way to look into the matter.

The darkened room was illuminated only by the dim light emanating from the computer terminal on the desk. H.G. blinked at the screen several times to clear her blurred vision before leaning back in her chair and rubbing her temples. She hated nights like these, prevented from sleeping by something on her mind despite her exhaustion. Resting her right elbow on the edge of the desk and her chin in her palm, she closed her eyes for a moment, sighing. There had to be a solution to this problem; she just wasn’t seeing it. Thinking over it once more, she tried looking at their predicament in a different light. Lieutenant Lessard’s suggestion of tying the Challenger’s sensor array to that of the Cepheus had been a good one, but the practicalities of implementing such a plan had proved to be difficult. Working with Lieutenant Poldara, H.G. had repurposed the navigational wide-angle IR-UV gamma ray imager and the high-energy charged particle detection sensors in the arrays on the forward, upper port, and upper starboard sections of the hull, which allowed those arrays to have a direct pathway to the main computer. She had also created a sensor filter which would screen out the dilithium deposits within the Prosperity Asteroid Belt and instead detect anything else that might be hiding amongst the small asteroids and other space detritus gathered there. However, that very debris was the cause of her current problem. Challenger’s main deflector dish was working overtime to keep anything from impacting with the ship. The dish radiated significant amounts of both subspace and EM radiation, which caused havoc with sensor readings. This was not usually a problem, because the long-range sensor array was located directly behind the main deflector so that the primary axes of both systems were nearly coincident. However, the tie to the Cepheus was proving to be more detrimental than beneficial to both ships. Challenger’s long range sensors were not coincident with Cepheus’ main deflector dish, and therefore they were picking up significant radiation and feedback from each other, creating unrelated noise on the sensor readings and gaps in the sensor net. The problem would be solved if they turned off their deflector dishes, but without the protection provided by the deflectors, both ships would suffer from hull damage or possibly breaches. While the deflector dish was operable without the shields, the shields could not be raised without the deflector dish being operational, which wouldn’t allow them the option of merely raising the shields to safeguard the ship while they conducted the scans. There had to be some way to make this work, but right now, late into gamma shift, the only viable solution seemed to be to disengage from the Cepheus and run their scans independently from one another via search grids. Exhaling in frustration, she began to tap the fingers of her left hand against the desk in a staccato pattern. The sound of her nails striking the desk reminded her of active sonar reverberations, part of the archaic sound navigation and ranging method used in underwater exploration centuries ago on earth. It suddenly occurred to H.G. as she stared at her hand that they could use a similar technique to scan the asteroid belt. Mid-infrared caused hot-body, or warm, objects to radiate strongly which is in turn absorbed by molecular vibrations, where the different atoms in a molecule vibrate around their equilibrium positions. Because the mid-infrared absorption spectrum of a compound is very specific for that compound, they could easily isolate anything in the region that was not a dilithium-rich asteroid, as the reverberation would be much different. Using the Cepheus as the “wall” by which to judge the farthest extents of the belt, they could still coordinate their search efforts. It would be easy to bypass the interference caused by the deflectors if they narrowed the scans to a small band of the electromagnetic spectrum. This would also provide them with a reasonable justification for what they were doing. They could easily claim they were merely testing the viability of an alternative method of navigation in a region where the matter was all of a similar molecular makeup for calibration purposes. Calling for the lights, H.G. checked her chronometer; she needed to speak to Poldara right away.

Ensign Kul-ah-deep waited patiently while H.G. transferred the queue of outstanding transmissions, reports, and communiqués to a data PADD and logged out of the navigation console. After verifying one last time that her duties for this shift were complete, she somewhat reluctantly relinquished the station to her relief. “Everything you will need to know should be in my status report, Mathur,” she stated, smiling somewhat apologetically. “We are enroute to rendezvous with the Cepheus in the Obalarin system. I have already notified Commander Ba’alyo that we have reached Federation space and given him the ETA for our current destination. Unless we encounter something unexpected, your shift should be pretty uneventful.” “Eeesss good,” the Acturian navigator responded in an amused tone. “Yew looks tired, long duty, off now,” he instructed, politely dismissing her. “Alright, I shall be on my way then,” H.G. acquiesced, and she turned away, still clutching the data PADD. Slowly she moved across the bridge towards the lift, noticing that she was the last of her watch to go off duty and that the members of the beta shift had already settled in. Entering the turbolift, she grabbed a handhold before commanding, “Officer’s Mess.” The lift jolted slightly, but she paid it no heed, already perusing the data on her PADD. Recent events had left her somewhat behind in responding to noncritical operations requests and the inquiries that Communications sent to the helm and navigation stations. The comm officer who had been filling in for Lessard had routed another batch of requests and transmissions to her during his shift, and in the interest of being efficient, H.G. planned on working through supper to respond to them all. Scrolling through the list, she saw there were 36 in the queue, only a couple of hours worth of work. As she entered the Officer’s Mess, she was surprised to see Quintin M’Guire holding court at one of the larger tables and regaling a captivated audience with a story of daring heroics and near-misses. Amongst his listeners were several of the auxiliary pilots, a few of the assistant engineering specialists, and even Ben Willis, from her department. Two of the female yeomen assigned to the galley were also standing nearby and listening. Shaking her head with repugnance and scowling at the lot of them, H.G. made her way to the serving area. She poured herself a glass of water and procured a bowl of stew, which she took to an empty table at the far corner of the room, away from M’Guire and his court. It was enough that his presence grated on her nerves while on duty; she certainly shouldn’t have to put up with him and his antics while off. She stretched for a moment to alleviate some of the tension in her neck and shoulders, which had been present for several days now and made her stiff and uneasy, before sitting down and beginning to review the data on her PADD. She was halfway through both the queue of work and the stew before she noticed that the room had grown silent. Looking up, she found that M’Guire and his chums had dispersed, along with most of the crewmembers had been eating when she arrived; only a few individuals remained, all occupied with their own business or meals. The relatively deserted mess was now quiet and peaceful, a much better working atmosphere that helped to relieve some of her tension. Pushing away her bowl, H.G. returned her attention to the task at hand, slowly ploughing through the remaining requests, dispatching one after another until a single communiqué remained. She paused and placed the PADD on the table, reaching up to rub her temples soothingly. Although she could not figure out their cause, she needed a few laps in the pool or a good run to ease her stress levels and relieve the tension in her muscles. Idly picking up the PADD once more she began to peruse the final communiqué while wondering why she seemed to be exhibiting classic signs of nervous stress of late. She shook her head to dismiss her wandering, errant thoughts, and focused on the words on the screen in front of her. She started as she reread the line she had just skimmed over. Your Aunt Catherine and Uncle Calvin were flying over Cork in one of those god-forsaken gas-powered aeroplanes when the engine gave out. Your aunt has died from the injuries she sustained, but your uncle is in critical condition at the regional medical centre. This is irksome as it has changed the entire face of my campaign; instead of working the election circuit, I am forced to stay at hospital in order to keep up appearances. Her eyes darted to the top of the screen and she cursed silently. It was a letter for M’Guire; the addled relief comm officer had placed the helm officer’s personal correspondence within this batch of official reports and communiqués instead of routing it to his quarters as they ought. From the looks of the letter on her screen, it appeared that all was not well at home for M’Guire and that she was now privy to the new helmsman’s personal business. She stared at the screen for a moment before curiosity overruled her common sense and she quickly began to read the letter in full. She was shaking her head in disgust by the time she reached the end. If she had thought M’Guire to be a disagreeable sort, his father seemed even more so, and bloody unpleasant and unfeeling besides. While she found the helmsman’s behaviour to be somewhat lacking in many respects, his father’s appeared to be deplorable. As she pushed back her chair and gathered her dirty dishes to place in the wash receptacle, she began to feel a bit guilty for prying into the Irishman’s personal affairs. She would never want him to do the same to her. Remorse began to cloud her conscience; she ought not to have read the letter, because now the only honourable course of action would be to admit having done so to M’Guire, although she loathed the very idea. She would also have to be responsible for passing the letter on to him, as it wouldn’t do to complain to Lessard about the mistake. The relief comm officer had been quite nervous and H.G. could easily cover for his mistake while atoning for her own. She left the mess hall, resolving to give M’Guire the letter and apologise when she saw him again before their next duty shift began, though she loathed the thought of being in the wrong in this situation, as it only gave the pompous prat leave to mock and ridicule her. Turning the corner to head towards the turbolift, she was brought up short by the sight of the Irishman leaning casually up against the bulkhead in the corridor just ahead, obviously enjoying a very private moment with one of the female yeomen who had been so attentive to him earlier in the mess. Her jaw tightened as she exhaled nosily, annoyed that M’Guire obviously had no respect for decorum or protocol. Clenching her hand into a fist, she resisted the urge to shove her way in between them as they started off down the corridor and remind the couple that this was a starship and not some pleasure cruise on the love boat. Of course, what he did on his off time was not her business and the fact that she allowed it to disturb her was annoying in and of itself. Turning, she stomped off in the opposite direction, muttering under her breath as she went.

Slightly bent over the navigation station, H.G. continued to work on the dynamic map of the Tellun system which she had constructed, carefully verifying the position every Elasian ship. Although it was it was a time-consuming task to precisely plot and calculate course and trajectory for each vessel, she did so with meticulous care. Truth be told, though she had always enjoyed any opportunity she was given to work on her skills as a cartographer, she was also extremely grateful at the moment to occupy her time with a useful task that required her full attention, rather than busy work, as it helped to keep her mind from wandering to the more insignificant and distasteful subjects it had been centred on of late. Lieutenant Poldara’s idea to conceal their sensor sweep from the Elasians had been a brilliant one, and she and Ensign Freeman had each executed their tasks flawlessly, allowing H.G. to integrate the modifications to her sensors. By boosting the range strength of her sensor signals, while fine-tuning their output to specifically look for Elasian warp signatures, she had accumulated a massive amount comprehensive data in the short time they had. Exploiting the stellar cartography utilities to work in conjunction with that data was producing some very satisfying results. H.G. looked up at the main viewer, where the results of her work were being displayed alongside the internal scans taken by Poldara. The data centred on the Tellun primary, but prominently displayed its inner planet Elas, along with the outer counterpart Troyius, illustrating a very complete and precise rendering of the system. Scattered throughout the cartographic extent and represented by golden icons bearing the symbol of the Dolhan, were the locations of all the Elasian ships their sensor sweep had located. Pleased with what she saw, H.G. went back to working on the data layer that would detail the probable flight path and trajectory of each of the vessels; she wanted to complete the task as soon as possible, in case something happened that would make the information critical to their mission.

You are a blithering idiot...H.G. thought to herself, surreptitiously glancing at the new helmsman out of the corner of her eye. Usually she was quite cordial, if not somewhat friendly, with those with whom she worked, but something about this particular officer put her on the defensive. He made her feel off-balance and out of control, a feeling she disliked immensely. Being a good officer meant being in control at all times, but something about Quintin M’Guire pushed her out of her comfort zone and into uncharted territory, and she seemed to respond by turning into a veritable shrew, losing her composure and her temper in favor of sarcasm and hostility.. She attempted to study the situation analytically but couldn’t quite articulate how he made her feel, or why he inspired such bad behaviour from her. Slowly taking a few calming breaths, she checked her station once more to ensure that the diagnostics she was cycling through were running properly. Although system diagnostics were routine and could easily be performed by her relief of the next shift, she had needed something to keep her busy in order to avoid having to attend the diplomatic function on the Elasian ship. She had given Commander Ba’aylo a somewhat reasonable excuse regarding fraternizing with superior officers, an excuse which was of course well within Starfleet regulations; however, it would also be wise to attend to her duties, lest he should decide that a ship in station keeping did not really require a navigation officer on the bridge and send her to join the others. She was an officer first and above all her duty was to the ship. The very thought of the conventions observed at such functions brought to mind memories from her childhood, reminding her of the etiquette lessons her mother had insisted on. They would not have been so terrible, as her childish mind made them out to be, had she not been aware that her older brothers were out riding and earning merit badges while she was being instructed on the proper way to pour tea. However, the etiquette lessons had not deterred her from learning to shoot, tie knots, read a starchart, and ride, just as well as, if not better than, Drew, Brady, and Nate. While she adored and idolized her brothers, that didn’t stop her from having a good-natured rivalry with them. The thought of her brothers made her smile slightly. All of them were now respected and successful Starfleet officers who upheld the family tradition and honour. H.G. aspired to follow in their footsteps, but would not be able to do so unless she could stop behaving in such a manner with M’Guire. Although they had had a brief run-in back in the Academy (a run-in she was unlikely to forget, as it was the only blemish on her otherwise pristine service record) she ought not to allow it to affect her. Perhaps the way he regarded her, as if she was a challenge of some sort, dredged up those old feelings of sibling rivalry from so long ago. However, she was fully capable of seeing to her own behaviour and treating him with courteousness and politeness, as regulation dictated, even if it killed her.

The hustle and bustle of activity all around her was just another indication of an active duty shift. Until she had begun her tour aboard the Challenger, H.G. had never truly realized how much the bridge functioned, not only as the command centre of a starship, but also as the coordination hub and monitoring station for all of the ship’s activities, both official and unofficial. From her vantage point at the navigation console in the centre of the command circle, she was able to observe the comings and goings of the officers and crewmembers that were reporting for duty or checking various stations, hear the shipwide communiqués being dispatched and routed, and listen to the conversations taking place between the command crew and visiting dignitaries. Making her thus privy to all of the current happenings aboard ship. Focusing her attention on her station, not wishing to appear to be daydreaming or eavesdropping while on duty, she began checking the array of sensors and controls in front of her, carefully checking that everything was functioning properly. Somewhere behind her Commander Ba’alyo and Lieutenants Lessard and Savros were discussing the current situation of the new tactical officer Lieutenant Teros, which caused H.G. to shake her head slightly in disgust. Public intoxication, in her opinion, had always been conduct unbecoming of a Starfleet officer. However, it was not her place to pass judgement on the matter. Covering her mouth, she stifled a cough. This was why she usually made it a practice not to frequent the dives that masqueraded as nightclubs or pubs in the retail sections of starbases, not because she was some type of teetotaller or prude, but because their sanitary practices always left something to be desired. She had obviously picked up some type of virus while off ship. A persistent cough and congestion had been plaguing her since she had returned. However, she saw no reason to report to sickbay because of a trifling cold. One did not importune the doctors merely because they felt slightly under the weather. As a Reed, she was made of sterner fibre than that, the symptoms would clear soon and she would be feeling ship shape. She manipulated the helm controls marginally to adjust the ship’s yaw and pitch, then made a brief note in the log and recalculated their ETA for Elyasia. The abrupt departure and reassignment of John McGee while they were docked at Epsilon 7 left her pulling double duty as both helm and navigation. While she did not mind the extra duty, she knew it was only a matter of time before John was replaced. She had only just started to become fond of him and establish a good working rhythm, so the thought of adjusting to another helmsman seemed a bit distasteful. The ship depended upon the navigator and the helmsman understanding one another and being attuned to each other’s capabilities and responses in order to fly properly. Abstractly, she wondered who would be chosen to fill that role and how they would fit into the dynamics of the crew.

"Thank you again," H.G. called to the departing quartermaster, as the doors slid closed behind him. She turned, taking in her newly assigned quarters; they were small and sparse (as expected, given her rank), but she knew that they would do quite well for her. She moved from the living area into the bedroom, where her cargo trunk sat, and knelt beside it, running her hand over the lid. It was Starfleet standard-issue, emblazoned with a large United Federation of Planets logo across the top and her name underneath, but the sight of it evoked childhood memories of a similar trunk that would sit in the hallway while her family took tea in the parlour to celebrate father's homecoming. Sighing, she lifted the lid and stared down at the neatly folded stacks of uniform jackets, turtlenecks, and pants. Silently, she began to unpack, stowing her gear in the chest of drawers. Near the bottom of a pile she found a tiny black skirt which made her wince. It was a standard uniform variation offered to the female personnel; she had worn it once, but once was enough to tell her that it was uncomfortable and made modesty difficult to maintain. She placed it in a drawer with the few articles of off-duty clothing she had packed. Next, she retrieved the wooden box containing the various straps, ribbons, and Starfleet insignias for her uniforms and placed it on the nightstand. Retrieving two smaller cases from inside the trunk, she moved into the outer living area, placing them on the table before opening the first. A pouch containing two isolinear chips sat on top, a picture of her father and brothers underneath, her only concession to sentimentality. The picture had been taken at her graduation from the academy; all four of them conveying that distinct air of austerity, combined with spit and polish, typical of Reed men in uniform. The family had a long and distinguished history as military officers, beginning with service in the British Royal Navy and continuing on in Starfleet. Her great-grandfather had been considered a black sheep for eschewing the navy and instead choosing the infant Starfleet, but his distinguished career had paved the way for the generations that followed. H.G. had vague memories of visiting him as a little girl, eating pineapple while listening to fascinating stories about numerous first contact missions and other heroic acts during humanity's first steps into space. Beneath the picture, she was surprised to find a display case, the top containing a portrait of her astride Aeolus and the bottom displaying her Olympic medals for grand prix show jumping, dressage, and endurance riding. Attached to the back was a note, written in her Uncle Iain's careless and ungainly scrawl that matched the coarse brogue with which he spoke. Hannah, me wee lass, jus' because ye canna take yer horse with ye, doesna mean ye should leave him behind. Safe journeys in yer new adventures, an' be a good darlin' an' drop yer ol' uncle a line or two when ye have the time. A bittersweet expression graced her features as she stared at the plaque for a few moments longer, before placing it back in the case and closing the lid with a snap. Opening a storage locker, she removed her emergency decompression suit and pushed the case to the back, then replaced the suit. Opening the second container, she removed the small stack of books inside, placing them on the desk. One was out of place, although it was a favourite of hers; an old-fashioned, first-edition, leather-bound copy of In the Days of the Comet, something she did not recall placing there herself. As she gently thumbed through it, an inscription written on the fly page in her father's neat and precise copperplate script caught her eye. *Fortitudine et labore, in sublime. H.G. bit her lip, grateful that her father would present her with such a gift, inscribed with the family motto to remind her of who she was. Placing the book on the desk with the rest of her collection, she straightened her uniform and turned towards the door, ready for duty. ———————————————————————————————— * Latin translation: By Fortitude and Exertion, Upwards

Starfleet Personnel File Starfleet Service Number: ST-537-2080-NV Name: Reed, Hannah Grace Species: Human Sex: Female Rank: Lieutenant Current Assignment: USS Challenger, NCC-2457, Helm/Navigation Officer Birthdate: 26 April 2270 Birthplace: Newmarket, England, European Alliance, Earth Height: 1.55 m Weight: 43.09 kg Hair: Red Eyes: Green Family Father: Jonathan Henry Reed (S-607-1995-31, Current Status: Classified) Mother: Lindsay Jane Reed nee Buchanan, deceased February 28, 2286 Siblings: Malcolm Andrew Reed, (SQ-804-5013-LU, Lieutenant Commander, Tactical Officer, USS Balboa) Brady Iain Reed, (SF-245-0632-76, Current Status: Classified) Nathan Christopher Reed, (SJ-103-7468-C2, Lieutenant Commander, Assistant Engineer/Weapons Specialist, USS Pensacola) Curriculum Vitae 2288 – 2292 Starfleet Academy, Areas of Emphasis: Stellar Cartography, Astrophysics, and Computer Science 2292 – 2294 Starfleet Command School, Areas of Emphasis: Starship Operations & Manoeuvring, Systems Programming, and Crisis Management Medical Record Allergic to bromelin, pollen, and dust mites. Treated for a boxer's fracture and compound fractures of the metacarpals and scaphoid of the left hand at Starfleet Medical, October 10, 2288. Personnel Record 2288: Subject to disciplinary action, 602 Presido Avenue, Mill Valley, October 10. 2294: Assigned as Navigation Officer to the USS Challenger 2295: Promoted to rank of Lieutenant, Junior Grade 2295: Promoted to rank of Lieutenant 2296: Departs Challenger on special assignment from Starfleet. 2297: Reassigned to Challenger as helm/navigation officer. No other information pertaining to this subject is currently available.