Banshee Pre Launch 1

[Banshee Farrell 0]

Note: the Excalibur recently had a security breach with a stowaway who impersonated a Starfleet officer. The following log emphasizes how the backbone of the Starfleet - the Enlisted Officers – would deal with new orders regarding the situation aftermath, and is but one possibility within this new Excalibur: Lower Decks message board based offshoot of the main sim.

 

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Below Decks: Hanger Bay, First Shift

Mechanic and Deck Hand Enlisted

Senior Chief Petty Officer Margaret “Banshee” Farrell

 

Chief Petty Officer Farrell pursed her upper lip over her lower lip and proceeded to blow out an ear splitting whistle that carried across the hanger bay and almost reverberated off the bulkheads. Her father did the whistle all the time, especially when Farrell and her siblings had been younger and he wanted to get the rambunctious clans attention. Although, her father still claimed that Banshee had way more whistle volume then he did.

 

Anyway, the calling all hands attention whistle had the intended effect, and her gathered deckhands and mechanics all stopped their private conversations and turned their full attention to her from where they sat or lounged about on cargo containers or anti-gravity flitters.

 

The Irish woman moved her tall and lanky frame easily, keeping up a steady pace to match her speaking voice as she walked back and forth in front of the gathered monkey grunts.

 

“Here’s the deal ya grease monkeys. The Excalibur had a recent incident with a stowaway. The rumors claim that this Pakled - yep, I said Pakled - got themselves on board anywhere from inside a cargo crate to an attachment on one o’ the work pods th’ last time we put in for hull repairs. Whatever, it‘s not our concern. What is our concern are the back draft orders comin’ down from the Captain and the Commander so’s it don’ happen again.”

 

“Let me guess that this is gonna be more work for us eh Banshee?” The reedy voice of one of the middle aged deck hands wafted out from the back of the group. He was an average built male with a sad face and steel gray hair just beginning to grown in at his temples.

 

The spiky blond haired Farrell offered a lopsided grin to the shorter man before she answered. “Isn’t it always more work for us Henshaw?”

 

One of the younger hands, a female second year deck recruit by the name of Jorecht Tara, grabbed the conversation ball and ran with it. “So what’s the damage sir?” Her crinkled Bajoran nose scrunched up in distaste at the new decree coming down from on high Excal command.

 

A new voice entered the conversation from behind the gathered mechanics. “The damage is that any Lancelot fighter, Gwen Bomber, Work Bee, or gravity flitter that needs to be repaired is to be checked over thoroughly for anything suspicious. All the on board compartments are to be pulled and checked. Any work tools you employ are to be signed out prior to the job and then returned to the office lockers. The clamp down has begun.”

 

Commander Left Ear JoNs stopped speaking for a moment as she walked around to the front of the group from where she had crept up behind them using the various starfighters and shuttles parked across the main hanger deck. Once the brown furred feline was facing the assembled grease grunts, she continued her little speech.

 

“We aren’t picking on the deck crews; myself and Captain Corizon are streamlining all the shipboard operations and departmental procedures – and yes, this is also known as head hunting so as long as you keep your noses clean and do what we say you won’t get your rear ends kicked into the Romulan Empire. We do not want a repeat of our little security breach again.”

 

The silence was momentarily deafening and the purred tone died on the air. Multi-directional looks passed between all the gathered deckhands. A few eyebrows launched toward the hairline. Some jaws went south.

 

Left Ear flipped an ear back and her muzzle quirked in mild amusement; her tail lashed playfully.

 

Farrell cleared her throat and spoke to her first shift crew. “Ex Oh on the Deck ya grease monkeys, close yer dropped jaws and show some respect. And for the love o’ Mary don’t break any wind or drop a silent but deadly.”

 

Then, the Irish aviation mechanic turned her attention to the feline. “Sir, beggin’ ya pardon, but I think I speak for everyone here when I ask … just what in the hell are ya doin’ in a deck jumpsuit?”

 

The work jumpsuits were all of the same Starfleet design, but the coloring indicated what job each individual was responsible for or in some cases what their rank was; Banshee Farrell wore the bright yellow Demented Tweety Bird coveralls, indicating that she was the senior shift lead petty officer. Other deckhands such as Jorecht wore gray coveralls indicating that they were a junior level deck grunt. The Orange or Blue jumpsuits were an indication of a specialty, and so on and so forth. To use an old fashioned Earth phrase, the hanger deck at any one time looked like a crayon factory had exploded.

 

Left Ear JoNs wore a greasy and stained pair of gray coveralls, and her smile took on a hard case command edge. “I’m going to work with your crew for the next three hours or so, then I head to the bridge for my shift. I’ll be working for a time as the interim security chief and what that translates too is that I’ll be sticking my muzzle into every established procedure, protocol and bathroom until the command team is satisfied with our preventive security results to avoid any more pirate breaches and stowaways.”

 

An excited, curious and equal parts annoyed murmuring started to roll through the first shift deck hands as they talked amongst themselves.

 

Farrell piped up again. “Cut out the chatter. I need a volunteer to partner up with the Commander and show her what we do here and what our protocols are.”

 

Crickets.

 

“Don’ everyone be rushin’ at once now.”

 

Deer in Headlights.

 

“People, don’ make me choose volunteers like some flippin’ kiddy class.”

 

The reedy voiced drifted out from the back of the group again. “I’ll take her.” Henshaw walked out from the back of the group, his steps measured but his gait and hands in the pockets posture giving him a perpetually slouched and bored appearance. He wore an orange jumpsuit and his rank specialty insignia identified him as a diagnostics expert and mechanic. The human male was a few inches taller then the Ex Oh panther cat. He looked down at her through hooded eyes. “You had better not shed in my equipment sir.”

 

The feline senior officer flipped an ear back and matched his tone and look. “I won’t … as long as you don’t drop a silent but deadly Crewman Specialist. If you do then the fur flies right in your meter reader.”

 

There were a few seconds of silence and then a few barks of laughter and chuckles from the group. Henshaws perpetually tired face broke into a big grin and he fixed his now sparkling brown eyes on Farrell. “Chief Petty Officer, I’d be happy to take the Commander on for the partial shift.”

 

Banshee just smiled and then turned her attention to the rest of the crew, clapping her dirty hands together “Alright ya grease monkeys, lets start hauling some rear end and get the scheduled repairs and checks done; we ain’t here for a friggin’ social call. Grab yer coffee and let’s move!”

Edited October 13, 2008 by Banshee Farrell