Pressure Cooker

[Cmdr JFarrington 0]

Pressure Cooker

 

Second Officer's Log

Stardate 510710.21

An Alan Shore Production

 

It was becoming more and more obvious to Manticore’s counselor Jami Farrington that the mental state of Manticore’s crew was not unlike one of those quaint modes de cuisine popular on 20th century earth. A pressure cooker.

 

Now, the basic premise in pressure cooking is that uncooked food, when put under pressure in a tightly sealed container in combination with steam, cooks more quickly than with normal methods. Basic scientific laws dictate that the higher the temperature the higher the pressure, and the higher the pressure the more quickly the food will cook.

 

The danger, of course, is that in the hands of an inexperienced or – heaven forbid – an incompetent cook, pressure cooking can be dangerous, especially if the recommended temperature is exceeded, causing the pressure to increase beyond the capability of the container to contain it. In short, under uncontrolled conditions the container explodes sending food – and heat, steam, et cetera – throughout the kitchen and adjoining rooms, and usually splattering on the cook, the cook’s assistants, and anyone else unlucky enough to be in the vicinity, sometimes burning them severely, thereby discouraging said cook et al from ever using a pressure cooker again.

 

Now, it was an established fact that the crew of Manticore had, of late, been under a lot of pressure, and Cmdr Jami Farrington, functioning not only as counselor but as second officer, was in the midst of the pressure, and it seemed to be getting quickly out of control and about to explode, sending all manner of emotional contents splattering throughout the ship and threatening to severely burn the cook . . . er . . . counselor.

 

The most recent situation (one of many) had begun with the debacle surrounding a certain command meeting and one Lt. Cmdr. Malcolm Escher. That issue, having been neatly disposed of, Cmdr Farrington mistakenly believed that most of her problems, especially concerning her position as second officer, had been disposed of as well.

 

She could not have been more mistaken.

 

It seems that a security officer by the name of Kansas Kenickie delighted in needling her fellow crewmates beyond their capacity to cope, or to contain the pressure. Moreover, she especially delighted in needling one Malcolm Escher, probably because he made himself vulnerable by showing his agitation, which, of course, delighted Ms. Kenickie to no end.

 

And it just so happened that Ms. Kenickie, finding herself bored and in need of cooking something – or perhaps overcooking something – found herself on the bridge at the exact moment that Mr. Escher exited the admiral’s ready room with a look that instantly drew Ms. Kenickie to him like a fly to fresh meat.

 

“Hey, there, Squint,” she said, using the preferred epithet of her copious list most likely to aggravate Mr. Escher.

 

“I refuse to allow you to make my day any worse,” he replied, knowing Ms. Kenickie’s penchant for upping the ante and determined to avoid further confrontation. But his reply had the exact opposite effect, which, had Mr. Escher been in his right mind, he would have realized.

 

What followed was a t i t-for-tat exchange that would have made any sadist proud.

 

“Who peed in your test tubes?”

 

“Look, I'm just asking you to back off. Please - please - just leave me alone.” Flies to fresh meat.

 

“Since you asked so nicely . . . no,” said she, a vicious grin playing across her face as Mr. Escher gripped the console and began a series of deep-breathing exercises, which was an attempt to alleviate his anxiety but which, instead, contributed to Kenickie’s next comment, “Getting ready for a dirty com call?”

 

“That’s it,” said Escher, preparing to engage the enemy. And he no doubt would have had Cmdr Farrington not intervened.

 

Now, under normal circumstances and in another venue – possibly the officers’ lounge or a bat’leth sparring ring in the holodeck – this exchange may have been an acceptable venting of emotional baggage between two crewmen of equal rank brokering mutual enmity. But Manticore had just been attacked during a battle simulation by an unknown ship using unknown weapons, and had sustained considerable damage leaving crew dead and injured. Circumstances were therefore anything but normal.

 

And the chosen venue was the bridge.

 

Counselor/second officer Cmdr Farrington, who was beginning to feel more and more like a babysitter, eyed chief instigator Kenickie, then put her on report and dismissed her from the bridge. Is the pressure of deep space getting to the crew? she wondered. Perhaps remnants of chroniton radiation from their time-shifts during the dark matter manipulation remained on the ship, driving everyone batty. She glanced through the overhead viewport in the vain hope of finding a full moon.

 

Then, in the midst of her befuddled cerebral wanderings, came an answer, a voice from above. “Admiral, aside from taking the Griffyn on a test flight, security is in normal operations mode.”

 

Oh, there is a god in the heavens, she thought, clasping her hands together in joy. He has answered me in the form of a Bolian Chief Security Officer and who just happens to be Lt Cmdr Kenickie’s superior. He shall be my knight in shining armor and shall deliver me from this dilemma.

Well, perhaps her thoughts were not that extreme nor her actions so melodramatic, but you get the point. A quick note to Cmdr Mitar Precip concerning recent events on the bridge and a poignant suggestion that he rein in one Lt Cmdr Kansas Kenickie at his earliest convenience (preferably neither before nor during the next simulated drill), and Cmdr Farrington settled back in her chair with hope in her heart that peace would reign supreme aboard the Manticore.

 

At least for the next hour or two.