Errors in Judgment

[H.G. Reed 0]

Ensign Kul-ah-deep waited patiently while H.G. transferred the queue of outstanding transmissions, reports, and communiqués to a data PADD and logged out of the navigation console. After verifying one last time that her duties for this shift were complete, she somewhat reluctantly relinquished the station to her relief.

 

“Everything you will need to know should be in my status report, Mathur,” she stated, smiling somewhat apologetically. “We are enroute to rendezvous with the Cepheus in the Obalarin system. I have already notified Commander Ba’alyo that we have reached Federation space and given him the ETA for our current destination. Unless we encounter something unexpected, your shift should be pretty uneventful.”

 

“Eeesss good,” the Acturian navigator responded in an amused tone. “Yew looks tired, long duty, off now,” he instructed, politely dismissing her.

 

“Alright, I shall be on my way then,” H.G. acquiesced, and she turned away, still clutching the data PADD. Slowly she moved across the bridge towards the lift, noticing that she was the last of her watch to go off duty and that the members of the beta shift had already settled in. Entering the turbolift, she grabbed a handhold before commanding, “Officer’s Mess.”

 

The lift jolted slightly, but she paid it no heed, already perusing the data on her PADD. Recent events had left her somewhat behind in responding to noncritical operations requests and the inquiries that Communications sent to the helm and navigation stations. The comm officer who had been filling in for Lessard had routed another batch of requests and transmissions to her during his shift, and in the interest of being efficient, H.G. planned on working through supper to respond to them all. Scrolling through the list, she saw there were 36 in the queue, only a couple of hours worth of work.

 

As she entered the Officer’s Mess, she was surprised to see Quintin M’Guire holding court at one of the larger tables and regaling a captivated audience with a story of daring heroics and near-misses. Amongst his listeners were several of the auxiliary pilots, a few of the assistant engineering specialists, and even Ben Willis, from her department. Two of the female yeomen assigned to the galley were also standing nearby and listening.

 

Shaking her head with repugnance and scowling at the lot of them, H.G. made her way to the serving area. She poured herself a glass of water and procured a bowl of stew, which she took to an empty table at the far corner of the room, away from M’Guire and his court. It was enough that his presence grated on her nerves while on duty; she certainly shouldn’t have to put up with him and his antics while off.

 

She stretched for a moment to alleviate some of the tension in her neck and shoulders, which had been present for several days now and made her stiff and uneasy, before sitting down and beginning to review the data on her PADD. She was halfway through both the queue of work and the stew before she noticed that the room had grown silent. Looking up, she found that M’Guire and his chums had dispersed, along with most of the crewmembers had been eating when she arrived; only a few individuals remained, all occupied with their own business or meals. The relatively deserted mess was now quiet and peaceful, a much better working atmosphere that helped to relieve some of her tension.

 

Pushing away her bowl, H.G. returned her attention to the task at hand, slowly ploughing through the remaining requests, dispatching one after another until a single communiqué remained. She paused and placed the PADD on the table, reaching up to rub her temples soothingly. Although she could not figure out their cause, she needed a few laps in the pool or a good run to ease her stress levels and relieve the tension in her muscles. Idly picking up the PADD once more she began to peruse the final communiqué while wondering why she seemed to be exhibiting classic signs of nervous stress of late.

 

She shook her head to dismiss her wandering, errant thoughts, and focused on the words on the screen in front of her.

 

She started as she reread the line she had just skimmed over.

 

Your Aunt Catherine and Uncle Calvin were flying over Cork in one of those god-forsaken gas-powered aeroplanes when the engine gave out. Your aunt has died from the injuries she sustained, but your uncle is in critical condition at the regional medical centre. This is irksome as it has changed the entire face of my campaign; instead of working the election circuit, I am forced to stay at hospital in order to keep up appearances.

 

Her eyes darted to the top of the screen and she cursed silently. It was a letter for M’Guire; the addled relief comm officer had placed the helm officer’s personal correspondence within this batch of official reports and communiqués instead of routing it to his quarters as they ought.

 

From the looks of the letter on her screen, it appeared that all was not well at home for M’Guire and that she was now privy to the new helmsman’s personal business. She stared at the screen for a moment before curiosity overruled her common sense and she quickly began to read the letter in full. She was shaking her head in disgust by the time she reached the end. If she had thought M’Guire to be a disagreeable sort, his father seemed even more so, and bloody unpleasant and unfeeling besides. While she found the helmsman’s behaviour to be somewhat lacking in many respects, his father’s appeared to be deplorable.

 

As she pushed back her chair and gathered her dirty dishes to place in the wash receptacle, she began to feel a bit guilty for prying into the Irishman’s personal affairs. She would never want him to do the same to her. Remorse began to cloud her conscience; she ought not to have read the letter, because now the only honourable course of action would be to admit having done so to M’Guire, although she loathed the very idea. She would also have to be responsible for passing the letter on to him, as it wouldn’t do to complain to Lessard about the mistake. The relief comm officer had been quite nervous and H.G. could easily cover for his mistake while atoning for her own.

 

She left the mess hall, resolving to give M’Guire the letter and apologise when she saw him again before their next duty shift began, though she loathed the thought of being in the wrong in this situation, as it only gave the pompous prat leave to mock and ridicule her. Turning the corner to head towards the turbolift, she was brought up short by the sight of the Irishman leaning casually up against the bulkhead in the corridor just ahead, obviously enjoying a very private moment with one of the female yeomen who had been so attentive to him earlier in the mess.

 

Her jaw tightened as she exhaled nosily, annoyed that M’Guire obviously had no respect for decorum or protocol. Clenching her hand into a fist, she resisted the urge to shove her way in between them as they started off down the corridor and remind the couple that this was a starship and not some pleasure cruise on the love boat. Of course, what he did on his off time was not her business and the fact that she allowed it to disturb her was annoying in and of itself. Turning, she stomped off in the opposite direction, muttering under her breath as she went.