"Dirty Business"

[STSF Jumper 0]

USS Excalibur NCC-2004 C

Main Hanger Deck

Ensign Honor-Scar, Support Pilot

Senior Chief Petty Officer Farrell, Aviation Mechanic

 

It was about midway through the morning ships time, and the layover at the Miriamano home world had afforded both the flight deck crews and trainee pilots the opportunity to engage in some flight exercises. Jumper had no idea if the Miriamadano (or whatever the fvadt planet was called) data transfer was finished or not; she was a lower decks officer, and wasn’t “in the know” for that sort of upper decks information.

 

Ensign Jagrissa “Jumper” Honor-Scar stood in a small office set just off the main hanger deck, and observed the new batch of enlisted pilots as they went through their landing paces with the search and rescue shuttles and runabouts. The wide oblong shaped office window that looked out onto the deck offered a great view in order to take notes and note the general progress of the junior grade newbie pilots. As one of the junior line officer pilots who usually took part in the utility support operations, the Caitian feline had been tapped to grade this current batch of hopefuls.

 

Crossing the ranks and departments was a rare, but definitely not an unheard of, occurrance. Any ship or star base had its fair share of both enlisted, commissioned, and line officer pilots, with each pilot or squad performing certain duties as they were needed: ambulance transport, Runabout pilot, SAR or recon, and about half a dozen other assignments. The Excalibur was no exception, and the resident command team had authorized cross training or transfers among the enlisted crew for anyone who wanted to pull some duty time in a cockpit of the support vehicles.

 

Overall, she was pleased with six of the eight newbies, but two of the trainee pilots would be rotated out of the training process. It wasn’t as if they were bad pilots, but they just didn’t have a feel for it, and that could make them a danger if they were to ever be released into the general piloting population. The Klingon Hull Technician was all thumbs, which sort of scared Jumper considering he handled equipment and tools day in and day out that were necessary to keep the ship intact, and the female Human Deckhand was way too twitchy to pull cockpit duty on a regular basis. Either the girl snorted stims or drank too much caffeine daily, or something.

 

But while the young tawny furred feline was generally well pleased with the trainee performances, her office companion didn’t share that opinion.

 

Senior Chief Petty Officer Margaret “Banshee” Farrell kept making little tsking noises whenever one of the shuttles came bouncing (or in some cases going sideways) in for a final landing run. As the senior aviation mechanic on board the ship, Farrell tended to be a bit protective of her equipment, so Honor-Scar could pretty much guess that these training exercises drove her half nuts with the dings and dents that invariably popped up as the pilot hopefuls were tested and run through their paces with the flight vehicles.

 

Jumper was being pretty quiet, not making much commentary on either the trainees or Farrell’s little noises. The Irish deckhand and Caitian pilot had never really gotten on very well, and Fate had conspired to kick both women clear in the ass when they were both re-assigned from the Camelot Station to the USS Excalibur. But, Farrell had recently been injured when the Blood Cult raiding party had boarded certain decks of the ship, and Jumper had heard the scuttlebutt that the Human was recovering, slowly, and wasn’t totally up to part yet according to her deck crews.

 

So, the feline was being nice and behaving - and really, her behaving generally sucked and was just plain boring but let’s not dwell on this – and not picking on Farrell or generally antagonizing the woman. Banshee was there to observe the overall handling of the SAR shuttles and flight equipment, and she also seemed content to let sleeping dogs lie and at least attempt to be civil if Honor-Scar was being civil. Or sleeping cats lie, as the case may be.

 

“Good Lord Ensign – this batch’s kinda rough, aye?”

 

“Well, they aren’t the prettiest landings I’ve seen in my short career Petty Officer. Most of them have the potential though to be support pilots.” Jumper purred and ticked off another name as the trainee came in for a landing without devoting the decking too badly. “These deck pounders of yours have some serious piloting balls, if you’ll excuse the crude Human terminology.”

 

Farrell practically beamed with pride. “Aye! My kids deserve the chance to go beyond a life o’ deck grease and inhaling plasma exhaust fumes all the time. Right dirty business it can be.”

 

Jumper couldn’t help herself, and took the opening and ran with it. “So, that brings me to my next point: why don’t you apply to be an enlisted pilot Farrell? I know what I saw during that transfer and repair mission back in Camelot space. You helmed that Runabout like a pro.”

 

“You ain’t gonna give up on tha’ are ya?”

 

“Nope. We’ve both established that I can be a royal pain in the ass.”

 

Farrell just snorted in agreement, but made no further verbal comment.

 

The next few minutes passed in assignment, as the last couple of candidates flew in and taxied to a stop on their designated post flight hydraulic decking mounts. Honor-Scar respected the silence and Farrell’s privacy, but only to a point, and then tried another questioning tactic: the direct approach.

 

Jumper had really never been one for the whole subtlety thing.

 

“What happened Margaret? Let’s drop the rank and your answer won’t go beyond this room. You have my word on that.” The tawny furred feline line officer had turned to face the enlisted officer, arms crossed over her chest with one paw gripping her personal data Padd. But, her stance was devoid of aggression, and she was just being a nosy cat.

 

Farrell considered her response for a moment, her gaze staying fixed on a point somewhere out on the hanger deck. She briefly considered telling Honor-Scar to eff off, but then her maturity kicked in and that conduct really wouldn’t be conduct becoming an enlisted officer.

 

So instead, she opted for a simple question to the question. “How’d you guess?”

 

“It’s more of an educated guess. Your tone when you talk about piloting, that look you get in those blue eyes of yours.”

 

“It was my second year out on the decks. I was twenty, a recruit trainee. One o’ the pilots came in hot, lost control. When they pulled ‘im from the wreck, his face was half melted … “

 

To be fair, Honor-Scar decided to share as well when the conversation faltered. “I’ve only been flying professionally about four years or so. In that time, I have yet to witness any accident of that sort or be involved in one. But, I’ll be honest about that sort of incidents and say that for every one that is tragic, there are one thousand flight jumps and landings that go off without a hitch. It’s just that I think with your untapped skills, you can contribute to the flight battalion is all.”

 

“Thank ye Jagrissa, and do I know that service is a risk. And I know that any day, a fighter can come screaming in and loose control and take out me or my crew just as easily on the deck. I’d just rather remain a grease monkey ‘tis all. I been doing it for twenty years, and I’m good at it. The job is all I know.”

 

Jumper just offered a little fanged smile, not a smirk and not a derisive sneer, just a regular smile. “Well, I tried. Thanks for your assistance Petty Officer, and I’ll cc you in on my report. Now, I need to get going and draw up this said training report for the CAG. Lieutenant Commander Ramson is a competent boss, but totally stiff, and I want to get the report to her in time before she blows a vein out.”

 

Banshee turned towards the feline and offered an accommodating nod, choosing to ignore the minor jibe directed at the Lieutenant Commander, but not forgetting it either. Young cub still needs to learn some manners. “Aye Ensign and good day to ya.”

 

The support pilot touched a paw to her forehead, and then quietly slinked out of the office.

 

Farrell stayed behind in the office, her faraway gaze again going out on the deck, content to stay in the relatively quiet office for a few more minutes and mentally pondering the conversation she had had with the feline line officer.

 

“Strange one, that Honor-Scar. Hot and cold she runs. Next week I’d prolly just as soon punch her out as look at her.”

 

With a shake of her head, Banshee finally exited the office area and immediately started barking out orders to the new mechanic shift that was just coming on for the duty cycle, intent on putting in her time and then calling it a day.