Reminders

By some strange quirk in design, it didn't seem as interested in informing her, ahead of time, that the captain was not in the ready room.  After a moment, the effeminate voice told her, + "Captain Gray is not in his ready room." +

Zakova threw a dirty look at the center of the ship, a few decks below, home of the main computer core.  She hated computers.

"So he is... where?"

+ "Captain Gray is... " +  The computer paused.  + "Captain Gray is now in..." +  Pause.  + "Is now... Is... Is... Is not..." +  Pause.  + "Please stand by." +

Making a face, Zakova reached for her com-badge to inform Lieutenant Fade: The computer was malfunctioning.

Unbeknownst to her, on the bridge-side of the ready room, Captain Gray was stepping through the door, first on one side, then the other... in, out, back and forth, movements triggering the sensor to open and close repeatedly.

The bridge crew stared — amused, baffled, or dismayed.  Lieutenant Fairchild, somewhere in between, was shaking her head.  Rather than whisper under her breath, like she felt an urge to do... conscious of the Axanar's sharp hearing... she thought to herself, ~Captain Goofball.~

At the watching faces and raised eyebrows, Gray chuckled.

"I've always wanted to do that."  He went into the ready room one more time, and stayed.

Zakova threaded around, through the port access corridor, in time to catch the act.  Did Fairchild—?... Yes, Fairchild saw (how could she not).  Stepping to the door once more, Zakova waited.

And, several seconds later, was still waiting... again.  ~Please... no.~  Ironically, she came from the bridge, starting out, and had ended up going in a circle.  "Captain?" she said.  The computer also automatically routed voice calls (when it worked properly).

Finally.  Entering the ready room, Zakova braced herself, walking to his desk, and pulled out a padd.

"Sir.  Communiqué from Starfleet Command."

The man looked up.  There was no need to deliver such a message by hand, except Starfleet perpetuated traditions of a naval variety, no matter how old-fashioned... even if (and because) those traditions were centuries old.

It suited Zakova's purpose.  Technically, she had another interest.

Physically, the captain appeared to be in his early forties – brown-haired, blue-eyed, with rugged average good looks.  Leaning back in his chair, a mug of coffee in one hand, he gave her a friendly smile, reaching out with the other to accept it.  Words were inscribed on the mug: When all else fails, drink coffee.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

Hopeful, and testing, Zakova said, "Mission orders, Sir?"

"Could be."  He gazed at the padd for a beat.

Zakova opened her mouth, and Gray said "Dismissed."

The duty officer hesitated, debating... then decided, perhaps now was not the time.  The man behind the desk seemed... preoccupied.  Not in the mood to talk.  Or maybe she was making excuses for being scared.  "Sir."  Her plan shot down, she pursed her lips, turned on a heel and left.  You poor, stupid, scared little girl, her conscience scolded.  The voice was that of her grandmother.

As the door slid shut behind her, Gray said, "Computer, activate message."

Zakova knew, before he finished the last syllable, the computer had autoscanned and verified his identity, in the span of a nanosecond.  He had a complant: A cochlear communications implant – more than a mere communicator – nestled inside his skull, standard issue for Starfleet officers.  Zakova had one too.  Whatever the message contained, it would register in his brain, aligned to his sight, for his eyes alone.

Computer security protocols were foolproof... impossible to deceive.  The computer believed him to be Christopher Dominic Gray.  Hence, for all practical purposes, he was Gray.

She started after meeting the mysterious Lieutenant Oberon, with his.  Text overlaid Zakova's view of her quarters, seated at a small dinner table.  Of course, she had a reason, and it was good enough for her.

The recently assigned security chief came after Gray gained captaincy.  In a way sensible only to Zakova, Oberon reminded her of Captain Gray... bearing a shroud of uncertainty, secrecy.  Unlike Gray – who said little even when speaking, but was fun and sociable, or tried to be – Oberon came as tight-lipped as they got.  He didn't make small talk.  Never greeted anyone, 'hi, how are you'; said nothing not absolutely necessary; didn't waste energy or effort.  He simply stared, with the warmth of inanimate rock.  But he had surprised her with lightning-quick reflexes, catching the padd she accidentally dropped, containing his transfer orders.  According to his file, he was unenhanced.

Zakova had no enhancements either: No cybernetics, no genetic alterations.  But she had a natural sixth sense.  She was psychic to an extent, often sensing events before they happened... and her intuition went beyond the normal intuition many women possessed.

She also browsed Gray's file.  Oberon asked about Gray, specifically, upon boarding.  When pressed, he gave the unconvincing, all-too-standard excuse of reporting to the captain personally.  To Zakova's knowledge, he had never reported to the captain afterwards.  A computer check placed Oberon on deck six, probably preparing the security department.

Though she couldn't put her finger on it, Zakova sensed a connection.  Even before finding Lieutenant Fairchild's notice (containing her own suspicions about Gray), red flags had popped up, comparing the current captain to the man who XOed Olympia and Arcadia, during the roughly fourteen months Arc spent in another galaxy — not so much what the file presented, but what it didn't.  Most Starfleet personnel files presented a psychological picture.  In-depth information remained confidential, for the eyes of medical personnel or counselors.

Not Gray's.  Straight facts and figures filled his file: Not unheard-of, but unusual, for a captain... as if he was devoid of personality.  Gray plainly displayed an excess of personality.

Lost in reading, she almost didn't hear the question:

"Why do you do that?"

"Not now, please."

Across the table, Frisk... the ensign she'd brusquely addressed while dealing with the new diplomatic officer... set his fork on his plate with a bang.

Zakova's vision shifted, interrupted, regarding him between the lines of copy.  Only she could see the text, oriented to her optic nerves through her complant.

Beneath his ordinarily casual, easygoing demeanor, Marc Frisk had a temper.  Not that Zakova blamed him: If anyone could test another's patience, she could – not that she tried.  "I'm sorry," she said quickly, realizing she was ignoring him.

Everyone had their secrets.  They managed to hide theirs... or, Zakova attempted, at least.  She outranked Frisk.  Regulations were touchy about personal relationships between officers of different rank.

"Dree."  He fingered his fork on the other side of the table, with forced composure.  "We're off duty.  This is our time."

"I know.  I'm sorry," she said again.

"What are you reading?"

"You can tell I was reading?"

"Well, yeah," Frisk said, as if it was obvious.  "Your eyes don't move, and you're staring off into space.  We haven't been together long, but I do know you a little.  What's so interesting?"

She didn't want to tell him... but for some reason, though she outranked him, couldn't tell Marc Frisk no.  "It's not a book," she said, her usual diversion.  "It's... a personnel file."  She omitted mentioning Captain Gray's.  "That new security chief, Lieutenant Oberon.  Have you met him?"  Frisk shook his head.  "He's very..."

"What?"

"Odd.  Quiet.  My grandma had a saying: 'Don't...'"  She paused, thought, then gave up.  "I forgot how she put it."

"You have a complant... and you don't remember."

"E-ninety.  Selective memory."

"You should upgrade."

She bowed her head and continued reading, the text now floating over her plate of half-eaten food.

"Don't want to?" Frisk said, at her silence.  "Scared?"

Zakova ignored the comment.  Frisk knew things about her; where she came from.  He also knew things not in her own file... things she shared with few, or nobody.

"You're a duty officer.  But you forget people's names," Frisk said.  "You think you're psychic.  Guess what: So am I."  Dramatically, he spread his hands.  "I see upgrading in your future.  Seriously, Dree, you should.  Make your job easier."  He picked up his fork.  "I didn't think you found anyone suspicious."

Zakova stared at the fork.  "Gram said if you have a reason, it's a good one."

"Should you rely on your grandma's advice?  Or snoop in other people's files?"

"It's not classified information.  I don't know why, but I feel I was meant to discover this."

"This isn't the Danube Republic," Frisk said.  "And, I'm sorry hun, but your grandmother is dead."

Zakova shot him a glance, hands limp under the table.  Every time that got brought up, she felt weak.  Powerless.  Helpless.  The discussion provided a diversion, but not nearly enough of one.  "You ever get the feeling, when you look at someone, like something is odd... out of place?  When I look at him, I don't know who I'm looking at."  It occurred to her that she could be talking about Captain Gray, or Lieutenant Oberon.  Both.  But she said of Oberon, "He's quiet.  Too quiet.  Not just that.  There's something about him... as if he's not really there, not really a person.  Or, someone else, in the wrong body."  She bit her lip, studying the text in her eyes.  "Remember Sam?"

A forkful of food stopped halfway to Frisk's mouth.  "Reminders."

Reminders: People who had their minds wiped and reprogrammed.  Brain science was more advanced than it used to be.  New engrams could be inserted, added to previous memories and personalities, or completely replace them.  Usual wipes were successful, with no lingering complications: Escape, for those who wanted or needed to forget their pasts.

Too many wipes had an effect.  Subjects got a blank or a deep, soulful look in their eyes, as if missing parts of themselves.  Staring into such eyes felt like staring into an abyss.  They could function... yet they could be frightening.

They served as 'reminders' to take care, altering minds... especially one's own... and not callously discard life's most precious gift.  Life culminated in memories.  Experiences.  They had emotions attached.  Sometimes the emotions stayed.  Latent memories could linger.  Subjects known for 'flashes' ranked number one on any psychotherapist's clientele list.

"Lieutenant Oberon... He's been through it," Zakova said.  "I'm sure.  He— Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Maybe you have, too," Frisk said.  "Might explain why you're forgetful."

"It takes me a few times to remember names.  That's all.  After a while it's no problem."

"If he's been reminded... so what?  He's here.  He must be able to do his job, or he wouldn't be, right?"

"That captain gives me the same impression.  That Betazoid didn't see it.  I could tell.  He hides it good.  But, like Gray... see, I remember his name... that Oberon – his too – is not who he seems."

"Who do you think he is?  Or was?  Secret service?"  Federation Secret Service agents were known for repeated mind-wipes.

"I don't know.  Maybe."

"And you would know this how?  You're not Betazoid."

Zakova glared at him.  "I'm human, thank you.  We don't have to be aliens to be special.  I've said before, it's a gift."  Her grandma had 'the gift' too – a fact Zakova kept to herself.

"We could spy on him.  Find out what he's up to."

"Don't be ridiculous.  This is a Federation starship.  You can't spy on anyone without them knowing about it."

"Joking, Dree."  He grinned.  She didn't feel it.  "Why the interest?  You didn't assign them."

"Because.  Look at our history, everything Starfleet's encountered... aliens taking over, spies, infiltrators, saboteurs... Too many people are always saying 'It's not my problem', 'It doesn't concern me'.  We should be more concerned.  What if I'm the only one who sees it?"

Frisk sighed.  "Even if you're right, I wish you'd drop this.  Turn off your complant.  Let's enjoy our dinner."

"I can't."

"Just for now," he insisted, clutching his fork.

A passing Ensign Brown, also back on duty, joined her alongside, following her eyes.

"Lieutenant?  Is something wrong?"

Fairchild gestured at the sleek new interface.  Just a few short weeks ago, a singular console stood there, for the helmsman.

"No pilot," Fairchild said.

Flight control was a largely automated process: An organic put in commands to a flight computer, which itself moved a starship.  Computers were smarter than in the old days, and voice recognition technology allowed direct commands from command personnel.  There was really no point in having a helmsman.  Though understanding of spaceflight mechanics was still requisite, the position had been removed.

It was now incumbent on the captain and XO to understand those mechanics, and flight patterns... what starships could do, where they could go, and how they could or could not move.  Through complants, neural/visual and voice commands, they could tell the ship to go where desired.

"Oh, wait a sec.  Wait, wait, wait."  A new officer appeared on your monitor.  "No, no, this is all wrong."  Blonde with green eyes, in a brown and black uniform variant... sporting insignia unseen in Starfleet... he slapped himself on the forehead.  "Damn.  I keep forgetting why we have a helmsman."

"Captain?"  Fairchild balked, recognizing Topaz, who'd commanded Arcadia for the better part of the last two years, and served on board a long time before that.  He had mysteriously vanished, about when former first officer Gray took over.

"Actually, more like god-emperor."  The enigmatic persona rolled his eyes.  "Jeez, that sounds awful, doesn't it.  Like I'm full of myself.  I'm not, honestly; I just... Well.  Anyway.  'Captain' doesn't really fit, so... I made my own insignia.  A little creative indulgence.  Like it?"  He touched the decoration on his duty collar.  "Eh, why am I asking you.  You're not even real."

"Uh... beg your pardon, Sir?"

"Remember this."  Topaz looked at the people reading this post.  "In case I forget.  And believe me, with my memory... Okay: We have a helmsman, because... It's more work for the captain and XO to essentially fly the ship, and still watch everything else.  Not a lot more, but...  Sometimes we have to turn that task over to someone else, so we can concentrate on other things.  Plus, this is a Star Trek sim.  Some folks like to play helmsmen.  One more opening to join the party.  Okay?  Got that?  Good."  Note to self, he typed.  Come back and read this post when you forget why we have helmsmen.  He turned to Fairchild.  "There.  Happy?"

She looked.  The pretty new consoles were gone, and the helmsman's position had returned.  She felt a pang of regret.  Still, this was a new bridge module, altogether.  "Dang.  It looked nice."

"That it did," Topaz agreed.  "Ah, well.  Good thing, considering you're the helmsman."  (And fitting for Fairchild, with a name like 'Galaxy'.)

"I am?"  She blinked.  "Thank you, Sir."

Topaz nodded.  "I was wondering what to do with you.  Now you have a job."  Pausing, he grumbled, "More than I can say for myself... damn [expletive] Bush to [expletive] hell...."  He spat a string of colorful language, too abrasive for this sim – adding insults to Obama (who wasn't even an American citizen), politicians in general... and [more cussing] tearing a sock on his [cuss word] chair.

Fairchild affected a sugary smile.  "Can I get flames painted on the sides?"

"Uh... no.  Just feel lucky I don't turn you back into a man, like I envisioned you.  Thank Shuzo's player for that.  Well, gotta go."

Topaz disappeared from this post, letting Fairchild take her place at the helm.  She sat down, studying the controls.  Ensign Brown, still standing there, shrugged and walked off.

Captain Gray and Commander Winters entered, taking their seats.  Other shift personnel arrived, manning their stations.  Time to head out.

Without getting up, Fairchild found the stalwart Shuzo Nakencha, across the bridge.  His Axanar ears picked up her words: "Thank you for making me a woman."  At his look, she refocused on her panel.

Beyond operational details, a starship launching from dock was nothing new.  It happened every day.  But Dante Winters was a rather new kid on the Starfleet block.  Without ado, Gray handed the op to Winters.

"XO, take us out please."