"Ensign Mical and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day"

[Col. C.E. Harper 0]

"Ensign Mical and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day"

Harper Log 03.21.07

August 6, 2397

Perseus Arm

 

Charlotte Harper spoke four languages fluently and possessed a smattering of useful phrases in several others.

 

This, in and of itself, was not unusual; the Academy's three-language requirement pretty well ensured that every officer would at least be able to stumble through a conversation in something that was neither their native tongue nor Federation Standard, and many entered with near-fluency in something or other, courtesy several years of primary school instruction. Many cadets actually picked up new languages rather than continue the old, exiting the Academy with four or five tongues under their belts.

 

What was unusual, as Ensign Mical was discovering, was that the colonel actually had a frightening fluency in at least a dozen languages -- provided that one was discussing the... bluer language. Upon awaking, she had worked through Federation Standard, peppered with good old-fashioned Anglish Anglo-Saxon vocabulary; gone on to a brisk summation of Shadow's honor, origins, and future disposition in Klingonese; followed that up with a long, winding series of epithets regarding Col. Day's probable parentage and proclivities in bitingly nuanced Rihan; then begun hurling imprecations at the brig, computer, and general situation in a truly multicultural tour through Vulcan, Bajoran, Tellarite, Cardassian, Trill, and several that Mical could not identify. She hadn't repeated herself yet, and some of the phrases were excruciatingly creative - to say nothing of anatomically impossible. There had even been a few in Mical's own native Andorian that were entirely new to the Ensign (she made a mental note of them), and several that the translator, in a squawk of electronic outrage, had frankly refused to render intoFedStand.

 

So when the stream of obscenities dropped away, the silence was loud indeed. Mical waited a few moments, but there was no hint of what the colonel might be up to. Tentatively she peered around the doorway into the cell area, antennae quivering. "Uh... Colonel?" Drawing the woman's attention was perhaps not the wisest course of action, but what was she supposed to do? Ignore the fact that she had her CO in her brig? Again, that is. It might be time to look into a duty rotation that didn't include brig watch.

 

"Brig officer." Harper's voice was low, purring, and frighteningly pleased. Red alert! Mical thought to herself, taking an involuntary step backwards. The colonel prowled towards the forcefield. "Lower this," she ordered calmly, motioning to the control pad.

 

"Uhm, colonel, I really -- that is," the ensign fumbled, wondering how the heck she was supposed to tell the de facto captain that she had to stay locked in her own brig. "I don't think I'm allowed to, sir."

 

"Nonsense, Ensign," Harper replied briskly, favoring Mical with a conspiratorial smile. "You've been ordered to by the ranking officer on the ship - how much more permission do you need?"

 

Definitely she changed rotations. "Ah, well, seeing as the ranking officer is in the brig, sir, I think I need Col. Day's..."

 

The colonel's smile went a few degrees colder. "Let me put this a different way, Ensign. Does the term 'mutiny' mean anything to you?"

 

"Something in which I definitely do not want to be involved, sir!" Mical replied promptly. "But Colonel Day's orders --"

 

"See this rank tab?" Harper asked, tapping the winged emblem on the right side of her chest. "What color is it, Ensign?"

 

"Silver, Colonel." Uncertain where this was going, Mical brushed nervously at an errant lock of her white hair.

 

"Very good. And what color is the one on Day's uniform?"

 

"Uhm. Gold, sir." Mical swallowed. "Point taken, Colonel, really. The thing is, what with all the trouble we've been having... and, uhm, completely rational commanders don't usually wind up in the brig, and..." The colonel's smile vanished, replaced with a dark scowl. Oh, good, insult the superior officer... "Not that you're not rational," she added hastily. "I mean -- At the moment you're -- That is... I think I'll go back to the desk now." She gestured vaguely behind her, taking a step backwards.

 

Harper sighed. "I really didn't want to have to do this," she said. "It will look so bad on your record." Pitching her voice a little louder to engage the vocal pickups set into the ceiling, she said, "Computer, deactivate brig forcefields. Authorization Harper, pi-four-nine-gamma-three-eta." There was an obedient chirp from the computer, and a hum, while all Mical could think was 'uh-oh.' Then, blessedly, the dry female voice of the computer said neutrally, "Those command codes have been suspended by order of the first and second officers and the acting chief medical officer." Thank all the winged gods, Mical thought, and ducked out of the cell area before the rage building in Harper's eyes could find a target.

 

A second spate of profanity drifted out in her wake. The ensign resumed her place at the desk and thought very, very hard about her future in security. Or possible lack thereof.

 

She had just about decided that she was likely to survive this incident with rank and career -- if not sanity -- intact, when she realized that the colonel had gone ominously silent again. Dreading what she might find, but driven by a combination of duty and morbid curiosity, she tiptoed back to the doorway and peeked into the cell-block . She could only see Harper's elbow, and now and then a bit of hip, knee, or foot; the colonel was crouched by the near side of the forcefield-frame. Mical tipped her head, wondering what the woman was up to now, and slowly became aware of an odd scraping sound punctuated by the occasional soft clunk.

 

That sinking feeling was back. Mical hurried forward, stepping in front of the colonel's cell...

 

Harper was prying at one of the wall panels. It was already popping loose at one corner; a second seemed likely to surrender to the marine's determined assault at any moment. Her tool of choice was... Oh, no. Bad, very bad! Mical thought frantically. In the colonel's hand was a standard-issue marine utility knife. Frisk the prisoners! Always frisk the prisoners!

 

While her mind attempted to wrap itself around the concept of commander-as-prisoner, one thought stood out clearly: There was absolutely no way this would end well.