Just call me Tackleberry

Posted on 18 Oct 2016 @ 4:01pm by Commander Paul Toddman & Captain Nathan Cowell MD

Mission: Prelude; Breakfast at Curmudgeon's
Location: Cargo Bay 15
Timeline: MD -1: 1900 hours

Cargo bay 15 wasn’t really big enough to qualify as a bay at all. It was a small 15 foot square room on the bottom most deck of the ship with barely 6 foot of headroom. The ceiling was higher, but conduits, pipes and EPS trunks occupied much of the upper head room. It was here that Paul found himself checking on a few extra supplied he had had shipped over pre-packed in a cargo buffer. Flicking through the content, Paul found the items he was looking for and commanded the buffer to materialise them. They shimmered into form on the floor as requested. Paul set the buffer back to sleep mode and locked it to avoid unwanted intrusion. He grabbed the items, put them into a waiting crate and headed off to look for a turbolift, carrying the crate.

==Operations country Deck 13, Toddman’s Office==

Paul put the crate on his desk and unpacked it. The items were personal effects and weapons.

One of the weapons was a sgian-dubh, a smooth bladed, 5 inch blade with a real antler hilt he had inherited from his father, who had inherited it from his father before him, and he from his. It was an old item, but perfectly serviceable and had saved Toddman and a few of his colleagues on more than one occasion. After checking it was still clean and sharp, Paul stuffed it down his left boot. The hilt was still visible, but was then hidden when Paul pulled his trouser leg back down over the boot. With talk of the Borg, this small weapon would always by on his person from here on in.

Next, he pulled out a projectile weapon from the mid 21st Century. An SA80-A4 the last model released before the line was replaced with early phased energy weapons. It was essentially the same as the SA80-A2 which the British Armed Forces had used in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, but it was modified to fire larger projectiles, 8mm explosive tip, caseless rounds to be exact, an ammunition that was the standard for the time. This too was something of an heirloom but was functional and ready to go. With it, Paul had shipped 3000 rounds more than enough magazines and several cleaning and maintenance kits to make sure he would be ready for anything. He heard talk of using AK47s. He preferred the bull-pup configuration of the SA80. It allows for a shorter more compact rifle but did not sacrifice barrel length or accuracy. It was perfect for the sort of fighting Paul expected might soon be upon the crew.

The third weapon was a pistol, known as a Glock 17. Once the special reserve of law enforcement and armed forces, it was a fine pistol that was extremely reliable and was an excellent backup to the SA80.

Paul then pulled out the last weapon. His Bat'leth. This was a fine weapon that needed no introduction wherever you went. It had been given to him by a Klingon Warrior as a display of respect. During the short Klingon – Federation war that preceded the Dominion war. Some warriors had thought they could take the U.S.S. Lancelot, Paul’s assignment at the time, as a prize but were quickly shown the error of their ways. Paul had managed to defeat the sword’s original owner bare handed and non fatally. When the hostilities ended, the Klingon Warrior had sought Paul out and presented the blade in recognition of his skill in vanquishing him and his boarding party.

This would be Paul’s last resort weapon and when in danger he would make sure he was never too far from it. The Bat’leth was placed alongside the pistol and rifle on the desk. Paul would return to clean them later. For now, he had more work to do.

The door to Toddman's office suddenly swooshed open and deposited the form of Captain Nathan Cowell smack in the center of the space. By the looks of him, the Captain seemed none too thrilled, though it was anyone's guess as to why. When his eyes fell on the man with various weapons laying on his desk, it seemed to soften his glare... but only slightly.

"You know how to use all that or is it just for show?" Nathan asked, not bothering to say anything else in greeting.

"Absolutely!" Paul replied confidently, "Fancy a go?"

"Maybe later," Nathan said, "After I make a suitable 'target' hologram..."

The Old Man sank down onto the top of the desk and stared down at Toddman, "How's things coming along? No hitches, no glitches?"

"None so far, Sir. That cargo solution I briefly spoke about this morning is working wonders. When I last checked we were at 245% cargo capacity with 60% of the total cargo storage still available" There was just a hint of pride in his voice, but he reined it in quickly. "I have my staff not on cargo duty crawling all over the ship making sure all lockers, emergency crates, and equipment rooms are full stocked. Once done no one should be more than 20 meters away from an EVA suit, emergency rations or repair equipment."

"Good," the Captain said, letting out a heavy sigh, "I'm going to level with you, Mister Toddman. I don't like our odds out there. We've got a Task Force stranded in the middle of no where, and we're the only ones that have a free ticket home if shit gets ugly. Sad to say, I know it will... I know exactly how it will go south in a big way. I've seen it with my own damn eyes just how fucked it's going to get out there if we don't go back. And it scare the hell out of me because I don't know when it will all fall around our ears or who's behind it. Only reason I'm telling you any of this is because you and her share some history and she was the best damn First Officer I've had. Couldn't listen for shit, but man did she get results..."

Paul was a little taken aback with Nathan's openness. He had not expected that at all. What's more, the illustrious Nathan Cowell, the Lord of all Curmudgeondom was scared. He had not heard such an admission from a commanding officer in as long as he could remember. Paul tucked that emotion deep inside and cleared his mind.

“I hear you, Sir, but I have the utmost confidence in you. Anna spoke very highly of you in our infrequent but in depth subspace chats. After Sebastien, you were the only person she trusted to get her back alive. If you're good enough for her, you are sure as hell good enough for me.” The Scotsman said with a soft but confident tone.

Nathan scoffed, no so much at the words but the fact that there had been so many other who had been counting on him for the same thing, and yet they hadn't made it home, "Can't help the fact that we're walking in with only half the pieces of a puzzle that's way bigger than all of us put together. And that wife of mine ain't no damn help either..."

Wait, what was that? Did he just say wife?

“S... Sir, you're married? I didn't take you for the type to get, attached?”

"Yeah... thought she was dead centuries ago... only to find out the woman was a damn Q... death do we part my ass..." the El-Aurian fumed, "Didn't even have the goddamn common courtesy to tell me to my face when I married her back in... what was it... 1922... maybe '23. Thought she was a native... I mean an Earth native. So anyway, she and I shack up for about 19 years, then WWII hits and she wants my old ass to join the Army... again. I told that woman she was crazy, I'd already done that horseshit twice and I wasn't about to go fight in another damn war. So she fucks off and leaves me. Flash forward about three hundred years and she comes popping back on my bridge like the last couple hundred years didn't happen... And before you ask, no, she's not the reason we played hell trying to get home. I'm pretty sure she'd have stopped it if she was able to, but something about messing with the flow of events that have to occur no matter the local impact or some other bullshit..."

Paul didn't know what to say. What do you say to that? Especially to someone who passed their 500th birthday long before you were born.

“Well that is a sack of fuck you wrapped in shit, if I may be blunt” Paul blurted without thinking too much.

Nathan didn't seem to notice the change in candor at all, "I've had bullet wounds that hurt less than that kick in the balls, I'll say that much..."

"Sorry, Sir, no disrespect intended. It's just not very good." Paul offered with a softer tone.

"I knew what you meant, son," the Old Man grunted, "Anyway, I just figured I'd stop down here for a minute, clear some contention between us, that sort of thing. I'm going to head up the the Gulch and have me something to eat. I'll see you tomorrow."

"You want a drink? I may have something you'd like if you would indulge me for a moment." offered the Toddman, gesturing at a settee that stood at one side of his office.

"I'll never disrespect a good drink by not imbibing it," the Captain nodded to the man, remaining propped on the desk.

Paul nodded and quickly disappeared into a side room. There he activated his own personal buffer and selected a very special bottle. Something he had acquired a long time ago from his first commanding officer. The bottle shimmered into view. Paul grabbed it and two glasses then returned to the waiting El-Aurian

"Chances are Sir, you were there when they made this stuff." Paul said as he showed Nathan the bottle. The label on it read 'The Balvenie - 50 Year Old Single Malt Scotch Whisky, Speyside. 1963'

"This is quite possibly the very last bottle in existence. I have no idea how the person who gave me it came about it. But, care for a snort?"

"Does a Ferengi want latinum?" came Nathan's curt reply.

Paul smiled and unsealed the 400 year old bottle. He gently poured the Captain a measure and handed the glass to the man who was practically salivating at the image of the golden brown liquid.

The drink lasted just as long as was proper for a drink of that age... which meant it was gone in about the time it took the glass to hit his hand. The look of nostalgia on Nathan's face spoke volumes of his appreciation of it. "Damn good stuff," the man declared before setting the glass down. He let the flavors settle in his tongue and the after burn run its course.

"Damn good year, but I've got older stuff I think even you would wouldn't pass up. I brought up with me from Alaska," Nathan mused, "My father bought a 1781 bottle of whiskey from a distiller that went under during the Civil War. Only one bottle of it left in existence and I've only ever opened it once, at my wedding. That's a flavor experience I'm sure you'd like."

"I don't usually go for those pretend whiskeys, but a malt of that age cannot be passed up!" Paul said as he poured another measure into Cowell's glass.

"To absent friends," Paul toasted.

Nathan muttered something the Universal Translator had no ability to approximate before he raised his own glass in toast. The tone he used, and the look on his face made it rather obvious it had been in his native El-Aurian, a language that his people pretty much never spoke around others and so remained a mystery to even the best linguistical programs.

The two glasses clinked and the men downed their drinks.

"Oh yes, that's the good stuff" Paul remarked as he savoured the moment.

Nathan set the glass down, "Well, thanks for the hootch, it'll get my buzz started at least. Appreciate the ear, too. Mine got a little sore over the last 600 odd years." Before Toddman had a chance to say anything else, the Old Man pushed himself off the desk and headed back out the door with a speed that didn't seem to match his years. Paul cracked a smile and took another glass of the rare whiskey, this time savouring it slowly.
He then returned the bottle to his buffer and thought for a moment. What was he about to do before Cowell arrived? He couldn't remember. He decided to take a stroll and see what tasks would avail themselves to him.