[center][h2]Vekta Prime Orbital - Life-Sector - 0800[/h2][/center][hr]
GalNet. The wonderful world online, which let you talk to anyone within ten light-seconds near instantaneously. It wasn’t great if you needed to get a message to New Terra from VPO, but that was what the wormholes were for.

According to the Veritiso Net-Sector, GalNet was a replacement for something ancient, back during the time of Earth. Few had any idea what that old network was like, but the theory was it probably had to be something similar to GalNet, just lower-tech.

Tark found himself agreeing with that logic, as he flicked his hand across the screen. Stupid screens. They could engineer wormholes, gravity controllers, and [i]keffen[/i] Dreadnoughts, but still no holograms.

“Movie ‘holos’ don’t count! They’re not actually suspended in the air!” Who was he talking to?

“Nobody said they counted, deadbrain.” Ah, yes. One of Veritiso’s regulars. “Don’t let all that indignation fry your lace.” So many arrogant, I-know-better-than-you slagheaps, who liked to drag on anyone who couldn’t keep up with their enormous craniums. Usually he preferred the MNL people--they were interesting, friendly, and enthusiastic, three things he liked in life--but they’d asked him to hop to this sector of the net for research purposes about a month ago.

When he’d first joined MNL Online, he had lurked heavily. Then he had started to talk, and then help with the KnowLibe developments. Now it seemed like everyone in MNLO knew him, and knew that he was useful. So when a pair of developers approached him about an “Ancient History” Library for the MNL, he had decided that it sounded interesting, and hopped on board. Now he was here, being shit on by Veritso dicks who thought last-year’s tech was the end of times itself, which was a real irony if you thought about it properly.

Of course, there was no way in Hell he was going to risk getting his brain hacked by some freeloader running a DIY mindjacker. Most of the neural laces nowadays claimed EMP-hardening and Closed-Circuit operating systems, but it only took one flaw in the security of those ‘State of the Art’ NLs to give some wannabe overlord with an army of slobbering, mindjacked minions.

The offline neural laces were considered obsolete, but Tark, like the rest of the MNL community, didn’t feel the need to upgrade just because someone else told him to. The only reason he’d gotten a NL to begin with was to stay competitive in the marketplace. Damn cyborgs taking all the jobs.

And with the size of the MNL community--ten years ago it had been a thriving market, and still was...sort of--there was still plenty of work to be done. Besides, he liked the feeling of swiping a card over the MNL scanport, and then [i]remembering[/i] all of the information contained inside.

Knowing he could draw diagrams from scratch, being able to recite perfectly the precise breakdown procedure of a pearl dissolving in vinegar...there was nothing like it. So he helped keep the MNL world afloat. He’d even started programming his own KnowLibe about spacecraft dynamics. The small stuff, not the behemoths, those were so new Ted was surprised anyone had any idea how they work--

A blip on the screen caught his attention. Someone from the ground was hailing him? Ted idly opened the message faster than he would have admitted to anyone else: he was antsy about finding out if he’d gotten the job. The interviewer had been interesting, if not professional, and as much as he was normally cool and collected, the Apollyon was something he really wanted to get in on.

The message was an invitation to a private Net-Sector, heavily encrypted. That was new. The name identifier was next to useless, but the tag identifier was ‘ancient history’. Tark hesitated for a moment before shrugging and accepting the invitation. Then he accepted the request for vocal communication.

“Ah, that was swift. I suppose I should be glad you decided to trust an unverified heavily encrypted signal.” The elitist voice which came from the other side did not give Tark a good feeling. “Welcome to the Net-Sector for the Apollyon’s Historical Aggregation System - Biological and Electronic Experimental Network.”

Tark snorted. “HAS-BEEN? That’s your acronym?” Could these dry military-types actually have a sense of humor?

The voice huffed. “Just so. HAS-BEEN -- or HAS, abbreviated-- is a project currently under the direction of Admiral Cresswell, attempting to discern the nature of humanity’s lost past. Due to the Apollyon’s mission objectives, the ship will be more likely to come across information than other methods of information aggregation. You have been chosen after some observation of your work developing Modular Neural Lace Libraries. That, coupled with your status as head navigator and controls specialist of the Apollyon--”

“Wait, I did it?” Tark interrupted, loudly to cut off the speaker. “I’m in? I haven’t heard anything about it since I applied.”

Another huff. Tark had in his mind the image of a stuffy old man on the other end of the line. “Mr. Dendallo, consider THIS to be your formal job offer. You have been in our database since your interview last week. As to why you’ve not been informed, I know not. Regardless, you [i]are[/i] in, and you were also selected for this program. You, along with several other high-ranking ship officers and historians, have been given a secondary objective during the Apollyon’s voyage. Anywhere you go, you will be looking for hints and whispers of what came before. Old Earth. Markings on walls which could point the way. Ancient satellites which might be reverse engineered.”

Tark pursed his lips. Put like that, it sounded like an adventure. “Am I going to get to meet these other people?”

“That is up to you. We have sent this invitation to head officers and specialists of the Apollyon. Though this mission is not top secret, we are taking care to avoid making a fanfare of it. Captain Maganza will be informed, of course, but we do not expect her to lead this expedition as well as captain the ship.”

“Am I in charge, then?” Tark asked. “First come, first serve?”

The voice laughed. “Yes, but not for that reason. Your experience with systems engineering leaves you with the proper tools to lead this team, and perhaps understand whatever you come across. However, this will be a mostly collaborative effort, and your leadership position will be more ceremonial than official.”

Tark shrugged. Seemed fair: he probably couldn’t do the whole thing by himself, anyway. “So, uh…” he said, scratching his cheek. “Do I get to board the ship then, or something? Should I be packing?”

“You are to report to the Build-Sector, door A-14 in three hours. From there, you and other officers and specialists will board together. I suggest eating beforehand, as you may not have time for it in the near future.” The line cut off, leaving Tark staring at the blank screen in front of him. He breathed out heavily, caught his reflection in a mirror, and chuckled. “What just happened?”

Did it matter? Tark sighed and stood, stepping over to his closet to start packing. It didn’t take very long: his personal effects were almost entirely digital: books, software, currency, etc. His clothes were physical, of course; he also had an impressive set of KnowLibes on hand. He’d be bringing those. Communicator, Lace Upkeep Kit, various other items. It all fit into a duffel bag.

He’d miss this place. Tark had grown fond of VPO during his time there. It was rough, it was unrefined, but it was a hotbed for art and science. He loved that. [i]It couldn’t last forever, Ted.[/i] He shook his head, opened the door, and stepped out into the hall.

[center][h2]Apollyon Docks → Apollyon Bridge - 1200[/h2][/center][hr]
Boarding the Apollyon was easy. He stepped up to the ferry craft, flashed his ID, and they were off. Apparently being on the bridge crew had a few neat perks.

The spacecraft was huge. Bigger than huge, really: it was positively titanic. No wonder everyone else and their mothers called it a spaceship. Spacecraft was the proper term, but the thing was so utterly...massive. Structurally reinforced to the teeth, armed with state of the art GNC soft/hardware--he hoped--and bristling with enough guns to shut down the entire VPO station in a single volley.

Tark whistled. Definitely impressive, if it could launch without ripping itself to pieces. He thought back to the man who had interviewed him. The gruff, crude man with a twinkle in his eye. If he expected Tark to make this thing swerve through a debris field, he had another thing coming. “Although this junkheap is so reinforced for movement, it could probably just punch through anything short of a planet,” he muttered, stepping off of the ferry with a wave to the pilot. “Thanks, matho. Have a good one.”

Once inside, Tark quickly became aware that he was utterly lost. Where was he supposed to go on a spacecraft the size of an entire city? “Hey, AI!” He called out, shrugging. “Any chance I can get an assist here? My tiny human brain is too small to understand where to go.”

No sooner had he said that, a comms ping was made on the highest priority. Signed ‘[b]Nemesis, ATLAS-class ship intelligence of Apollyon[/b]’ with the note ‘[i]I wasn’t sure whether you were a real person[/i]’. 
“[b]I can honestly say I am shocked to see someone with one of [i]those[/i] implants. Log onto my VR-net and we can get this tour squared away.[/b]”

Tark raised an eyebrow. [i]Sorry my brain isn’t an open book for your, man. Robot. Whatever.[/i] He sighed, pulling out one of the KnowLibes he constantly kept with him. NetConnect 3, a staple for today’s day and age.

Holding the small chip between index and thumb, he ran it down the back of his head, almost like a comb for his hair. A shiver went down his spine as something [i]unlocked[/i] inside of him. That would be the MNL being rewritten. Sure enough, a moment later a HUD popped into view. “Logging in now,” he said, though he was sure the AI--Nemesis?--would be able to see that as well. “Are Always-On Neural Laces that common around here? Hardly a quarter of my colleagues use these things on VPO.”

"Speaking of colleagues," he said. "Would you be able to patch me through to the commanding officer? Tell 'em I'm on board now? Actually, wait," he mused. “I can just tell her myself, can’t I? Wanna patch me through?”

“Maganza here.” Crisp and clear, rich with her mellifluous tones, it hummed pleasingly in the seventh-sense noosphere of the laces. Perhaps sensibly, Michi had left the message traffic as voice-only, not pulling them deeper into the network for a full-sensation conference. Tark still had to [i]navigate[/i] the ship, after all. “You’re - ah, the navigator. Chief Specialist Dendallo, yes? Welcome aboard the [i]Apollyon[/i]. Hope the trip was a pleasant one.” There was a faint air of distraction, somehow, to the crackling thought-speed transmissions.

“I see you’re still down at the boat bays. Meet me on the bridge in ten; Nemesis will deal with your personal effects and have them squared away in jig time. I look forward to meeting you in person, Mr. Dendallo.”

Tark started. “Jesus Christmas,” he hissed, before shaking his head twice. He’d forgotten what it was like to have the world connected to his brain. “I, uh...yeah. Will do, Captain. Looking forward to meeting y’all as well.” He glanced down at his comms unit. Pretty new model, but he’d torn it apart once or twice. “All right, Nemesister. How do I get to the bridge?”

A short while later, Tark was on his way to the bridge. He had no idea which way that was, given that he was currently hurtling along at breakneck speed inside a tiny pod, crushed between layers and layers of inflated padding. Nemesis had called it a TransLift. It reminded Tark of home, except this pod was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the jerky, out-of-date pods they used on VPO.

He was eventually spit out just a stone’s throw from the bridge. He picked himself up, dusted himself off, and entered the bridge.

“Captain Maganza?” he asked cautiously. It struck him that he had no idea what this person looked like.

The bridge was, in its current state, vast and dim and cool, the walls gently-curving and darkly-gleaming metal. Thin lights gleamed along walkways and around constellations of consoles - the displays dark and in some cases still vacuum-sealed - but the general impression was of a particularly gloomy cathedral. Or sepulchre.

Tark’s call was loud in the silence, even the normal background purr of machinery absent here. Michi had tracked the navigator’s progress through the ship the moment she’d become aware of his presence aboard, and had known the moment he’d stepped across the threshold. As if the opening of the complex, interlocking blast doors that protected the armoured cocoon wasn’t clue enough.

Dismissing the swarm of glimmering displays that had been vying for her attention, she rose from the captain’s isolated and splendid chair on its little promontory overlooking the main holotank, and made her way down to the main level and the unsure man awaiting her pleasure.

Michi used the time to study him - as he was undoubtedly doing also - her pace measured and unhurried. Tall - by which Michi meant taller than [i]her[/i], although in fairness that encompassed a great many people - and slightly [i]stretched[/i] to her eyes, a touch underweight for his height and ideal build. 

Her eyes danced over the rest of his form, dispassionately, noting the slightly-bulbous nose - ‘[i]Possible fighting injury?[/i]’ - the lack of overt musculature and, her eyes caught by a rhythmic, obviously-habitual flickering movement of his fingers, the spreading spiderwork of scar tissue curling angry tendrils around his left hand. ‘[i]Curious.[/i]’

As she approached, the little imp of vanity which had been a boon companion to her throughout her life had her exercise her command of the bridge systems, bringing up the holoprojectors in a sweeping train that spread and flowed out behind her, metal and glass and carpet all melting away to crystal-clarity, Vekta nearspace brought into the very heart of the stupendous dreadnought, starscrapers seeming centimetres from their feet and the planet rolling away to the terminator-lines further below.

A post shuttle trundled by, close enough to the sensors for anyone on the bridge to read its hullplates, but Michi simply stood there, unconcerned. She’d had enough experience of holographic environments to be unfazed, even before the [i]Apollyon[/i] and all its shiny, shiny toys.

“In the flesh, Mr. Dendallo,” she announced with a smile, bright and white against her chocolate skin. Tilting her head and half-turning, keeping both the bridge and Tark in view, she asked: “What do you think?”

When the floor melted away, Tark started momentarily, but anyone would have. A projected image emitter bridge! Tetherpoint had done something like this a while back, but nothing of this magnitude.

"Call me Tark, Cap'n," he said, eyes flitting between the ships passing by, and the planets below. VPO was nearby as well. "Or, uh...Ted. My initials. We'll be working together for a while, might as well be friendly about it, eh?" He touched two fingers to his head and saluted lazily. "Happy to be here, and..." he trailed off, stepping toward where the wall had been moments ago.

Something was bugging him. With a start, Tark realized that he'd forgotten to turn off the Online module. He pulled the chip out again, flipping its tiny switch before running the chip back over his head. His thoughts blurred for a moment, like falling into a microsleep, before they snapped back into focus, even clearer than before.

"PIE tech..." he said thoughtfully. In this circumstance, PIE was used primarily for its safety, but it ran the risk of the external sensors being destroyed and leaving the crew blind. Even one or two sensors down on smaller crafts was enough. "The amount of sensors you'd need just to make a room this big look this good...I'm gonna guess fifty, maybe fifty-five with the higher end stuff." Noise was a bitch: even a tiny bit of sensor noise could build up horribly over time.

"Risky, but with enough backups, you'd be okay." He added a mental note to his MNL to ask the AI about it later. "Cap'n Mags," he turned to the dark-skinned woman. "This is a fine piece of kit we have here. I'm assuming that the largest, most expensive spacecraft in the fleet will have enough armor and redundancy to keep us online in all but the largest of catastrophes. I have some concerns, of course, but I'm sure Nemesis will be able to handle them."

She twitched. “Maganza, please, if you’re going to use my surname.” No need for anything more, not now - her tone had cooled considerably, mirroring her displeasure at the shortening, although she did her level best to return it to more usual, warmer tones as his initial comments washed over her. 

“That’s the idea, yes,” she agreed amiably. “Backups of backups, redundancy on redundancy. And - importantly, I hope you’ll agree - also keeping us safe. Sensors can be replaced, people - despite what Nemesis would say - are a little more difficult.”

“[b]I am a WARSHIP. I wasn’t just built to fight -I was built to [i]win[/i]. And as much as it begrudges me to admit it, I require you…[i]people[/i] -to do just that.[/b] The AI chimed in through internal speakers.

Michi smiled, poison-sweet. “It has its little quirks,” she remarked lightly, scalpel-precise. [i]She[/i] knew, even if Tark did not, that the AI only cared about the twenty senior officers necessary to its own avowed function - and, possibly, [i]only[/i] insofar as they allowed it to carry out said function. “But I’m sure we can iron those out, in time. Thank you, Nemesis, for your...incisive...commentary.” 

Most unusually, she paused for a moment as she returned her attention to Tark, as though searching for the right words. “I’m given to understand you hold a license for fighters and corvettes?” The implied question, one of ‘[i]What are you doing piloting a [b]dreadnought[/b][/i]?’ hung delicately in the air, unsaid.

“Among other things,” Tark said, tilting his head to one side and scratching his chin. “All due respect, Captain, but I don’t even know your first name. To be honest, I didn’t know I had gotten this position until just a few hours ago. And really, I wasn’t even informed by powers that be, unless you count a stuffy guy in the relic-hunting business.”

Then the unspoken words clicked. “Oh, yes. Right. Well, I said as much to the man who interviewed me. He launched into a tirade about how he made the [i]Armada[/i] fly like a bird. I’ll reiterate, just in case I’m among sensible people now: piloting a ship like this is almost entirely up to the AI. I can--and will--help where I can. But you heard Nemesis: it’s a warship, and it’s probably a lot better at being a warship than I will ever be. I firmly believe that spacecraft navigation in this day and age is an AI job, except in times of great duress, or when stupid decisions need to be made.”

He’d been scratching the scars on his hand. With a grimace, he put his hand down again. “I’m qualified to pilot anything that is small enough to be piloted by a single pilot. I’m sure that I’ll pick up the tools of the trade as we go. Besides, I’m not just here for navigation.” He looked his commanding office up and down with an appraising twist of his mouth. “I’ve also been put in charge of the relic-hunting arm of this mission. Just found that out hours ago, too. Furthermore, I have plenty of experience with systems engineering, modification, control theory, orbital dynamics, regular dynamics...I’ve done a lot of stuff, that’s all I’m saying. I’ll find a way to be useful, nay--” He held up one finger. “...Essential.” [i]Probably.[/i]

He wasn’t a huge fan of having to prove himself almost immediately, but in fairness to the captain, he’d been the only person to apply for the job. She had a right to put him through some paces.

Michi closed her eyes and her lips moved silently for a few moments. “Tell me,” she began, in tones of much-martyred patience, “This interviewer. Graying, goatee, scars, looks a bit battered?”

“Try, very battered.” Tark said. “Though he [i]had[/i] gone through two-thousand fighter pilot applications the day I met him, wouldn’t blame him for being frazzled. Cool guy. I invited him to go drinking with me and my ex-colleagues, but the [i]dhar matho[/i] said he wasn’t allowed to.” 

Then it made sense. “You know this man.” It wasn’t a question.

“Change and decay!” Michi spat the words like bullets, each one a burst of anger. “I’ll-” [i]kill him[/i]. Michi cut herself off, but the unsaid words were clear enough. She took a deep, deep breath, space-black uniform straining, and let it out in a long, low sigh. “Yes, he and I are old friends, which is why I’m frankly surprised he turned you down for that drink. He [i]also[/i] happens to be the senior uniformed officer of this entire Navy. Grand Admiral James Beaufort, to you and me.” Wry amusement touched her lips for a moment. “Why, who did he say he was?”

“Said to call him the Interlocutor. It was either that or [i]matho[/i], and that’s impolite to say to someone you’re being interviewed by.” Commanding officer of the entire Navy? “Why the hell was he not wearing any identification?”

“He undoubtedly learned a great deal more about you during the course of that interview than he might have done had he been dripping braid and medals, don’t you think?” A nod. “Many of the applicants are - or were, I should say, as the positions have been filled - from Navy personnel in any case. People are more circumspect in front of [i]overt[/i] authority, and as far as the Fleet’s concerned, Admiral Beaufort is God.”

“Right. Well, I wouldn’t have known his rank anyway. Given that I know nothing about the military, except an encyclopedic knowledge of all spacecraft built and used by the fleet.” Humble brag, very humble. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m neck deep in all sorts of mysterious happenings as well. You aren’t alone there, Maga...all right, what’s your actual name?” Tark knew he probably shouldn’t be this forward with anyone outranking him, but damn it, they were about to be on this ship until they all died, and he didn’t even know what his rank was anyway.

“Who do you speak more freely to? Even if you don’t know the rank?” Michi asked rhetorically, spreading her hands in a theatrical gesture. “A relatively anonymous uniform, or one bedecked in jewels and gold? The Admiral knows the value of a bit of camouflage.” She frowned at Tark’s next admission, and a certain sharpness crept back into her poise and bearing. “Mysterious happenings, you say?” her gaze intensified, the military mask coming to the fore again. “I don’t [i]like[/i] mysterious, not when it pertains to my ship and my crew. I wish I had more time, but…” she shook her head, silver braids gleaming. “Have a report on my desk about your brand of mysteries once we’re underway, unless they’re of a [i]truly[/i] urgent nature.”

She twitched, again, at Tark’s casual disregard for the basic military courtesies. Yes, allowances had to be made for brilliance, but still…”It’s Michi, [i]Chief Specialist[/i].” She subtly stressed the rank, as a reminder - as though he could have forgotten! - that they were a warship’s crew, and there were [i]some[/i] standards to that. “On duty, Captain will usually suffice. Off-hours, use your judgement. And speaking of off-hours - dinner at nineteen hundred, with the rest of the senior staff. Good chance to break the ice a bit. It’ll be either in the Captain’s quarters or on [i]Haven[/i] - m’yacht, we’re using it as the captain’s gig - depending on whether we can get the cubage arrangements squared away. The shipnet’ll notify you, one way or the other.”

“Sounds like a plan, cap’n. I’ll see you at seven p.m.” That just about wrapped it up, didn’t it? They would have plenty of time to chat there. He turned to go.

Something stopped him. Maybe it was the abrasion in her voice. Maybe it was the sudden realization that he was actually in the military now. “Captain,” he said, taking care to follow what she’d told him. “I wanted to make something apparent now, while I still have the benefit of the doubt.”

This was going to be weird. “I, uh...I don’t know anything about the military. My grandfather served a long time ago, but that’s about it. If I act out of place, or unprofessional, it’s because it’s all I know. Tetherpoint was very lax about protocols: if it got the job done, then it didn’t matter.”

Now the awkward part. “I can tell you’re a bit miffed about me being here. I’m told I was the only one to apply for the job. I can’t change that. But, y’see, well...you could help me, if you’d be willing.” He said so softly, not wanting to alert anyone else in the room. “I understand it’s a bit much to ask, but I doubt anyone else would be willing to, or able to, help me.”

Tark straightened, putting a hand on his neck. “I’m askin’ for a mentorship, or something. If you’re willing.”

Michi sighed, seeming to deflate. “It’s not [i]you[/i], as such,” she murmured. “Although your lack of military experience is worrying.” Blunt and uncompromising, but the truth nonetheless. They were a warship - the biggest and best the Union had ever produced, yes, and the ruin and envy of most of the local powers, but still just one warship. There wasn’t much room for civilian sensibilities - for any sort of civilian [i]coddling[/i] - aboard. 

“The [i]Apollyon[/i] is my ship, and that means I should know everything about her. Admiral Beaufort - or one of the handful of people powerful enough to pull [i]his[/i] strings - is playing games, and I don’t like it. That’s the source of my irritation, not your existence, or indeed your presence aboard.”

Michi perched herself on one of the nearby consoles and regarded Tark over steepled fingers, dark eyes unreadable. “At least you’ve seen the shortcoming. And it [i]is[/i] a shortcoming, I’m afraid, on a warship. That you want to do something about it, though…[i]that[/i] I can work with!” A fanged smile, perhaps the first truly real one she’d used, as different from the polite professional ones as the blazing sun from the pale moon. 

Her lace started to reach for his, then, but the protocols died a-borning; instead of the burning digital flare that had marked him earlier, he was, suddenly and abruptly, a grey null, a nonentity instead of the expected person. Confusion reigned for long seconds in Michi’s mind, a storm of thoughts arguing at cross-purposes; she’d been glad to find another bridge officer with a proper lace, not clinging to archaic sensibilities like Cresswell, and now…

“You’re [i]modular[/i]?” a shake of her head, disbelief at such an archaic piece of kit, practically an anachronism aboard the gleaming new [i]Apollyon[/i]. “My, what a ship of oddities we’re building. Crank up your network nodes, or whatever it is you need to do; I have some light reading to get you started,” she commented with an evil grin. “The Navy Regulations and Code of Conduct, current edition - aka The Book. It covers some of the real basics, since it’s for enlisted as well as officers - dress, saluting, that sort of thing - and we’ll go over some of the more advanced aspects face-to-face.” A pause, head tipped slightly to one side, eyes considering his form. “You have a sport, Tark?”

Tark sighed. “Do you mean an exercise program or something to watch on the holonet?” [i]Getting tired of everyone having a fit about my life choices.[/i] He raised a hand in admonishment, saying “And with all due respect, Michi, I know enough about neural laces to want to stay safe. The modular scene isn’t as archaic as you might think.” 

He pulled the network chip out again and combed his head with it, lighting up the world around him once more. “Okay, hit me, Cap’n.”

“Exercise program, although if you happen to follow the yacht races on holo that’s a bonus. Swimming, Orlei boxing, skyfighting, zee-gee ribbon dancing, Albionese Extreme Morris, anything?” Even as she was speaking in the real world, in the numinous digital empyrean packets of code were flashing from her to Tark, a hypercompressed transfer of the complete Navy Regulations, annotated edition (Officer). A weighty tome, even in digital form, but a useful primer. Mind-bendingly dull, in places, but that was part and parcel of the deal.

“Trust me, Tark,” Michi continued lightly, “I might have thought you archaic had I not met Comms before you. No lace [i]at all[/i]. Still, I’ve no indication he’s anything less than competent - and the same goes for you - so all judgements are suspended. If you miss something important because you’re blind to the shipnet, though…” she tailed off suggestively, and shook her head. “Don’t let it happen.”

It was a little like getting hit by two buses at the same time. The incoming file was [i]dense[/i]. Tark winced at the load, though he still heard the captain’s words. They were frankly...hurtful. “If you’re not a fan of my form, Captain, I’m sure there are plenty of other fine specimens on board.” Ah, dhar: that probably was going to bite him in the ass.

The download finished, but Tark continued, “There wasn’t a ton of time for me to work out with my most recent employment, unfortunately. I used to be into climbing and the training that went with it, but for the past few years my primary method of exercise has been swirling around the shipyards, trying to keep everything from falling apart. Of course, if you have any suggestions about beefing me up, I’m happy to hear them.”

The smile vanished from Michi’s face and her posture tightened. “Dendallo, you are so far from my type I couldn’t see it with every telescope in the Union. Let me be [i]quite[/i] clear about this, before it develops into the sort of misunderstanding the holos call ‘amusing’.” Her voice hadn’t risen from its deadly, measured tones, but she cast a quick glance around at the bridge. Nobody nearby, but it was hardly [i]private[/i]. 

Not the place, or the time. “See the CMO when she comes aboard and gets herself settled. You’re not in bad shape but you could be better - and I need my officers [i]at[/i] their best. Multi-gee swimming, perhaps.” Michi’s own favoured sport, aside from yachting. “Study the Book. I will see you at nineteen-hundred for the officer’s dinner, and again at oh-nine-thirty in my office tomorrow. Dismissed, Chief Specialist Dendallo. You may salute.”

A massive grin spread slowly across Tark’s face. He saluted, but said quietly, so no one else could hear: “Michi, Is it professional to tell subordinates--who truly have only a professional interest in you--that you will never, ever sleep with them?" The smile grew. "I'll have to check the book y'all use and get back to you. And meet with the CMO. And start exercising to your standards. And keep my network on at all times. You are the captain, after all."

Michi arched one sardonic eyebrow, her voice pitched just as low and quiet. “To clarify situations of ambiguity, and to avoid any suggestion of fraternization? [i]Entirely[/i] appropriate.” Conflicting pressures - rage and embarrassment, in the main - boiled inside Michi, reaching quite impressive levels inside her svelte frame. She was damn sure she [i]hadn’t[/i] misread the situation; his words had been clear enough, as had his gaze. Still, he’d been bright enough to keep his voice down; [i]open[/i] undermining of her authority had to be broken, and quickly, lest the rot spread.

Tark [i]liked[/i] this one. There was a [i]matho[/i] in there somewhere. She played the part that was expected of her, but he sensed that something else was hiding in there. If he could just...get to it. Preferably before she didn't threw him in the brig for his tongue. [i]Or whatever people do in the Navy,[/i] he thought.

"Permission to sit down at my station and look around, Captain?” He continued softly, “And maybe [i]not[/i] give you the idea that I'm somehow trying to hit on my commanding officer, or have any reason to want to?"

“To Astrogation with you, Chief Specialist,” Michi managed, tone dead-level and only her eyes - bright with pressurised fury - giving lie to the calm evident in the rest of her. “At the double.”

“Yes, Captain.” Tark said again, the smile vanishing from his face--time to get to work. He looked over to his seat. It was nice; not as nice as the captain’s seat, but why would it be? She was in charge, after all.

He sat, mulling over the controls there as his fingers started to tap. He hadn’t expected such a laundry list of things to do right off the bat, but it was really his own fault. Familiarize himself here. Read the codes. Probably apologize to the captain before dinner, using his newfound codes-knowledge to help him. Go visit the CMO. Probably sign himself up for some psych evaluations now, while he had the time.

“I could just ask for help,” he muttered, before tuning in to the network around him. He dove into MNL Online, pinging the central hub: [i]Does anyone know a good KnowLibe for Naval Code of Conduct? Preferably free.[/i]