Innogen Belo

The following LT Belo & CPT Calestorm joint log takes place prior to the 01.23.12 Sim... Innogen rapped her fingers against the console as she studied the equation before her. She knew it was a nervous tick, one that probably annoyed other members of the crew, but it was not something she could help. The puzzle that lay before her was particularly fascinating and complex and coming to the incorrect conclusion could mean the end for the entire crew. The answer was starring her in the face, she just needed to acknowledge it. The safety of the crew was her first and foremost concern, yet this did not stop her from contemplating the magnitude of where she was, or how she had gotten there. An argument had formed in that back of her mind, one that was slowly building momentum, attempting to push itself to the forefront and be given prompt attention. Her fingers abruptly stopped, as she focused on this idea, considered it, considered the ramifications. She did not mind being alone, isolated from everyone she knew, for she had lived most of her life that way. Her family was a non-issue; she had yet to establish anything more than casual friendships with the crew of the Comanche Creek. No, the fact remained that those she truly considered her family, her friends were dead, and they had died, like so many others, at Vulcan. Her own life had been spared by a lucky coincidence, being in the decon lab one of the few, self-contained areas aboard the ship, when the Tesla encountered the Narada. It was truly ironic that she was now facing another deadly situation that was very much related. No, she could bear the solitude and the things she would receive in exchange would more than compensate for leaving behind all that she had ever known. It was time, she decided; time to follow the road not taken. The time to act was now. Her window of opportunity was small and if she meant to use it, it must be at once. Sighing, Innogen pushed away from her station on the bridge and stood. She needed to speak with Captain Calestorm immediately. = = = Calestorm had retired to her Ready Room, nose buried in a data slate. The reading material consisted of theories and cold hard facts. Would they get back? Would the engines and computer systems be up to the task? Would the time Rift tear them apart, scattering their atoms? She took a grateful sip of hot tea from a mug - she was trying to cut back on the coffee - that some godsend of a yeoman had brought. The door chimed, signaling the presence of someone outside, waiting to come in. “Come on in.” = = = The conversation had definitely not gone down the way Cale had imagined. She’d been expecting more head ‘sploding theories, numbers, and time travel techno-babble that would make her head spin. She had not expected this sort of request from her Chief of Science. “Wait, what? You want to....stay here Lieutenant? I don’t understand. Your home is back in our time. This,” the Captain waved a hand towards the observation window, taking in space, “is not your home.” Taking a deep breath, Belo began to explain herself, sounding confident of her decision. “Captain, to be perfectly honest, I don’t truly have a home, or a place I wish to call home. Opportunities like this are so rare and I would be a fool to not take this one.” Crash slowly unfolded her lanky frame from the chair and walked over to stand at the little observation port. Their ‘watchdog’ vessel, the USS Missouri, remained in a holding pattern, shadowing them. The design of the future ship vaguely reminded Cale of the old NX-class starships...and Captain d’Ka was there to make sure the ‘2259ers’ didn’t stay. Can’t be having an antique Kelvin-class Destroyer floating around now can we? That’d be embarrassing... Embarrassing for whom? The crew of the Comanche Creek or this modern-era Starfleet Command? She dismissed these darker thoughts, turning her focus back to her CSCI. “Belo, it ever occur to you that we’re not supposed to be here? We left 2259 and wound up smack dab in 2387. And I’m not talking about the usual concerns: one hundred twenty six years of catch up learning, to name one.” The science officer sighed, not ready to concede the battle. “I have no illusions regarding how much of a fish out of water I would be at first, but there is so much that I could learn from the scientists of this time. I would be doing the very thing I joined Starfleet to do. Despite what quantum physicists would have us believe, the effect on our timeline, would be little, if any. I have considered all the ramifications and wish to remain here.” She turned to face Innogen, trying the reasonable tact. “I don’t have science training, but...we’re not supposed to be here Lieutenant. We might be able to work through this mentally, but physically it’s another matter. Hell of a case of jet lag; your body doesn’t adjust as well as your mind. We just don’t belong this far in the future.” “How is anyone to make the determination of where they truly belong? If we were not meant to be here, how is it that we are here now? Everyone speaks of paradoxes and distorting timelines, yet we know time travel is possible and have yet to cause any lasting damage,” Innogen exhaled roughly, shifting in place. “I don’t belong here Captain, I never have. I don’t fit it and Starfleet has now made my position somewhat untenable. I need to move on and this is the perfect opportunity to do so.” Crash’s face creased into a gentle frown, her few age lines showing. “I do not wish to discuss personal matters; they should have no bearing on my duties as an officer or my request to stay. However, my status as a Federation citizen will soon be called into question due to diplomatic negotiations between the Federation and the Kriosians. Should the Kriosian government request it, the Federation may wish to offer me up to them on a silver platter, to cement diplomatic ties. Given the circumstances, staying here is my best option at this time.” Calestorm moved to lean against the desk, bracing herself as she faced Belo. She leaned forward and really talked to the science officer. “I don’t claim to be an expert on family situations, and it sure sounds like you have some issues floatin’ in yours. I can understand how...staying here and losing yourself in a completely different era holds appeal...” Innogen opened her mouth, wishing to interject, but shut it again, waiting to hear what the Captain had to say. “But, I can’t leave you here. I’m sorry, that’s all there is to it. And we’ll deal with the question of citizenship after we get back, ‘kay?” Crash squinted one eye. “And I hope you aren’t thinking of taking off in one of my shuttles. If you get the bright idea to jump ship, I’m gonna have to go chasin’ you and I’m sure that would tick off our future comrades...don’t make me confine you to quarters Innogen.” Frowning, the science officer paused for a moment before dropping her iComanche onto the Captain’s desk, letting it clatter against the surface. “That is the information you will need to insure our return to 2259. If you have no further need of me, I will be in my quarters,” her tone was clipped and measured, her words precise. Turning on her heel, she strode out of the ready room. Calestorm called after her. “Lieutenant, you are not dismissed.” The words were spoken plainly, but with an undertone of warning. She waited until Belo was back in her line of sight before speaking again, and tossed the iComanche in a gentle arc towards the SCI officer. “You forgot that. You will be on the bridge when we re-enter the Rift. I need your expertise, and quite frankly, we’ll need all the luck we can get so I want my top people on deck. I trust you Innogen.” Frowning, Innogen looked down at the iComanche she had caught as a reflex. “I will do my best to live up to that trust, but I don’t agree with your decision. Hopefully, you do not come to regret it.” “So say we all, Innogen. Dismissed...”

The last few steps were the most painful. Collapsing on the cot in her quarters, she kicked off the offending stilettos and peered down at her pitifully abused feet. While it was a mystery to Innogen why anyone would wear something so ridiculous, they were the trademark footwear of her infamous third cousin Maris Bilton. It would have been impossible for Innogen to impersonate Maris wearing more comfortable shoes or an outfit that had enough fabric to adequately cover a person. Innogen just thanked her lucky stars that she looked enough like Maris that it only took a new hairstyle and heavy cosmetics to finish up her disguise. As complicated as her relationship with her family was, the association did come in handy at times. Unfortunately all her hard work had been for naught. Schrute was merely a grandstanding egotist, an idiot sycophant who wished to raise his status in the sector by claiming affiliation with the Black Kris. In a vain attempt to gather intel, she had been forced to spend the evening being regaled with harrowing and obviously embellished tales of his martial arts conquests, as well as a very dry account of his beta vulgaris ranch, which was tedious enough to put even the avid agricultural enthusiast in her to sleep. Schrute was nothing more than a bragging flunky and, in Innogen’s opinion, the perfect match for the real Maris. The only real information she had been able to glean from the encounter consisted of incoherently ominous warnings about how those who crossed the Kris had either disappeared to some mysterious place or ended up brutally murdered as a warning to others. All in all, the entire exercise had been a failure, and Innogen needed to return to the drawing board and see what other leads she could glean from the cyberchatter floating around out in the ‘verse. Retrieving her iCommanche from the knockoff Booney & Durke handbag replicated as part of her disguise, Innogen checked her inbox, noticing that she had missed an encrypted communiqué sent from Starfleet’s JAG offices. She opened the message, frowning, aware that anything sent this early could not be good. Lieutenant Belo, We have completed a preliminary review of your situation and found that there is no sufficient evidence at this time to substantiate further investigation. Given the delicate negotiations currently in progress with the Kriosian Empire, Starfleet is opting not to take action at this time. Should the situation change so that our assistance is required, we shall be glad to review the situation again. Thank you, and have a pleasant day. Commander Tam Reynolds Starfleet Judge Advocate General Innogen exhaled sharply, making a sound of disgust. Things were just getting better and better.

This log take places a few hours after the sim of 8.22.11 A faint tone sounded, followed by the flash of an indicator light, illuminating the darkened room, and casting an odd greenish glow across the ceiling and furniture. Awakened by this slight disturbance, Innogen raised her head from its perch upon her arms and moved to sit up, wincing in pain as her sore muscles protested the movement. She stretched slightly, trying to clear the fog of sleep from her mind, only to cringe at the sudden onslaught as a wave of disconnected impressions and feelings broke across her perceptional awareness. Reaching up to massage her temples, she slowly tried to construct a wall, shutting her mind off to the emotional buffetings of the Imperious’ crew. Her empathic abilities had become much more pronounced since the crash of the shuttlecraft Hobbes, necessitating a jungle expedition on the planet Wei. These changes had more than once caused Innogen to wonder if her abilities were in evolving somehow. It was becoming more and more difficult to construct mental blocks and pretend that her empathic talents did not exist; something she had done since childhood. It also appeared that stress was a natural trigger that pushed her heightened senses into overdrive. Sighing, she reached down to open the drawer on her left and extract a hypospray. She paused for a moment before selecting a vial from the rack on her desk and fitting it tightly into the dispensor. Dialing up the proper dosage, she injected the natural corticosteroid into the side of her neck and waited the few moments it took for the effects to set in. Then tension eased significantly from her neck, shoulders, and back. She sighed again before tucking the hypospray back into her desk drawer. One benefit of her agricultural experiments back aboard the Comanche Creek was the freedom to concoct various natural remedies for days like these. While she would rather not medicate herself, but preferred allowing her body to regain control of the situation, she still required a little extra help every so often. The adrenaline rush from hacking the wireless station’s computer and impersonating a clueless listener had helped, but coming down from it had brought her much lower than she had been before. Luckily she had been able to replicate additional admission tickets using the encoding from those she had won, and put out some subtle inquiries into the whereabouts of the mysterious Schrute, before passing out on her office desk. The flashing of the green light drew her attention once more and she tapped on the console to retrieve her messages. The first was for one of her various cyberaliases, a persona she used for clandestine investigations. It contained five simple words, yet a wealth of information: He is at the Palace. Ignoring the other messages in her queue, she logged out of the console and stood up, pacing within the confines of her small office. If the scuttlebutt was true, Schrute knew something about the Black Kris and her operations. Since Kvar and Calestorm would be attending as Sally Sugarsweet and the mother, this left Innogen free to follow-up on the lead. The counterfeit tickets would get her into the Palace disguised as a club girl. In her experience, men were always willing to brag to pretty girls, if they thought it would get them somewhere. The chronometer indicated she had less than three hours to plan a disguise and enlist some help as it would be ill advised to attempt such an operation without backup. Sighing a final time, she left her office, a vague sense of foreboding filling the void left by her emotional detachment from the rest of the crew.

Innogen waited until T'Aral had left the bridge before turning back to her console and letting a smirk spread across her face. So authoritative, so dictatorial, so stereotypically Vulcan. It was amusing really, the doctor's inflexibility and inability to see anything beyond black and white; it indicated a cold and colorless existence. Of all the Vulcans she knew, the doctor seemed more of a marionette than most. One thing was certain, however, all was not as it seemed with T'Aral's calm demeanor and seemingly impassive attitude. Innogen was not well acquainted with the chief medical officer, but she had been able to detect a slight hint of something during their exchange. It could have been impatience, or annoyance, but it was something that indicated that the Vulcan's cage had been rattled, albeit ever so slightly. Empathy, unlike telepathy, didn't provide an exact reading of other people; it gave the reader impressions and perceptions. It was up to them to interpret what they were feeling, and that task was much easier if they were more familiar with the individual. Innogen's empathic ability was only really effective in close proximity, however, she was always looking for ways in which to hone her skills and if the doctor was any indication of the rest of the crew, Commanche Creek would be an interesting place. Grinning even more widely, Innogen returned to the task of refining the sensor specs. She would let the good doctor stew for a couple of hours before gracing sickbay with her presence.

Innogen turned from her station and blinked up at the chief medical officer, highly-amused, by the tableaux unfolding before her. Here was the good doctor, storming the castle and imperiously confronting an evil enemy for treacherous crimes against the ship's populace. It would do Innogen no good but to rise to the occasion and perform her role. Schooling her features Innogen steadily held the Vulcan's gaze, letting the silence stretch between them for a moment. Apparently, everyone had mistaken her comment regarding Innogen's beliefs preventing her from reporting to sickbay as some type of religious dogma, rather than just common sense and pragmatisms. She was currently exhibiting no symptoms of ailment or disease and therefore saw little point in pandering to the nonsensical tradition of reporting for a physical examination upon reporting for duty at a new post. Obviously she was healthy; otherwise Starfleet would not have given her the assignment in the first place. As a newly appointed chief, there were many tasks that needed to be completed before the science department would be running at acceptable standards of efficiency. She was also attempting to acclimate to a new ship, duties, and crew. She obviously did not have time to humor such an antiquated notion as reporting to sickbay when one was neither sick nor injured. However, it was entirely possible that Innogen might also waste valuable time arguing with the imitable chief medical officer over the matter. Given that the medical officer was a Vulcan, a race known for their stubbornness, inflexibility, and tenacity; it might also be prudent to acquiesce to the doctor's demands in order to get the inevitable argument over with. Yet, Kriosians were also known for being obstinate and unyielding and it wouldn't due to capitulate and submit to the Vulcan's wishes. It was the principle of the matter, and Innogen's innate and somewhat dark sense of humor would not allow her to let it drop. Rising slowly from her seat, she stood, making sure to look her inquisitor squarely in the eye, refusing to cede any ground. "Dr. T'Aral, I presume? I must confess that your entrance onto the bridge in high dungeon to demand my presence in sickbay was quiet unnecessary," Innogen said, biting her lip in an effort not to laugh. "I am not familiar with Scientology or auditing, however, if it is a religious belief, it would be highly illogical of you to discount its precepts, given that Vulcan's firmly adhere to Surak's teachings of infinite diversity in infinite combinations." It had been her experience that the only way to out argue a Vulcan was to use their own logic against them. "As for the matter at hand, it is against my beliefs to report to sickbay when I am not physically or mentally, ill or injured. If you require my medical records, you can request them from Dr. Sandusky, aboard the USS Tesla. His records should current as of 25 standard days ago." Innogen stifled a grin, she was almost certain that Varian Sandusky would find this situation as amusing as she.