From riffraff@erinet.com Sun Jun 28 00:29:42 1998 Date: Mon, 15 Jun 1998 14:28:39 -0600 From: RiffRaff To: INDIGO FLEET List Serve Subject: USS PROMETHEUS: "Sir, go fetch, _SIR!_" ---OFFICIAL INDIGO FLEET TRANSMISSION--- Date: Mon, 15 Jun 1998 16:20:48 -0400 (EDT) From: riffraff@erinet.com (RiffRaff) Subject: USS PROMETHEUS: "Sir, go fetch, _SIR!_" FMD 7.1023 USS PROMETHEUS, Deck 27 repairs The Special Forces squad of 7th Division, 2nd Regiment, 1st Battalion (which has a sassy and exciting colloquial team-name, as soon as I can think of a good one), was hard at work assisting in the repairs to the USS PROMETHEUS. Scalpel was busily scavenging extra supplies from around OMEGA. Heinz was working heavy-lifting duty, morphed into an enormously-muscular dwarf for the occasion. Tiajuana was reprogramming computer terminals and data nodes as quickly as they could be brought on-line. SSGT Nigel "Rigger" Dennison was crouching at an open maintenance panel, push-pulling the input/output ports and shuffling the muffler bearings. He was wearing a torn black t-shirt underneath a black work-vest that was absolutely covered with pockets, holsters, and assorted tool-loops. Two tool-belts criss-crossed his waist, plus the extra-heavy-duty belt required to keep his pants up - necessary because of the additional pockets he had added all the way down both legs of the torn black jeans. His bristle-length mohawk haircut was electric blue. One hand groped for a holster on his vest, but grasped only air. He frowned, looked up from his work, and glanced around the floor, patting his many pockets. "Bloody 'ell. What'd I do wiv me three-eighths? I know I had... Oh, right." He stood up, took a deep breath, and shouted "HASTUR HASTUR HASTUR!!" at the top of his lungs. There was an "erk!" and a muffled thump nearby as a repair tech banged his head inside a maintenance panel in surprise. "Sorry mate," Rigger said to the man, helping him to his feet. The tech rubbed his head, more out of puzzlement than pain. "What was that all about?" "'Ang about, and ye'll see..." A fast, rhythmic thumping sound became audible on the edge of hearing, and gradually grew louder and louder in volume... The repair tech thought it sounded like a horse was about to gallop around the bend in the hallway... ....When one actually _did_, he jumped back in utter surprise, and banged his head a second time. Well okay, it wasn't a horse, it was a _dog_, but goddamn it was a _big_ dog! Some kind of massive alsatian/husky/st. bernard/_hellhound_ sort of a dog, the tech thought in wonderment. Three feet tall at the shoulder if it was an inch, and wearing saddlebags besides. And what's more, it was obviously cybernetically enhanced - even if you ignored the fact that the right foreleg and the adjoining shoulder were made of bare, gleaming metal. The implanted eyeballs sort of gave it away too, what with the glowing red crosshair and all. And then there were the short antennas protruding from behind each ear... The techie pointed a trembling finger at the... dog... and wavered, "What _is_ that?" "Hm? Oh, this is PFC Hastur. 'Astur, you got me three-eighths Gripley?" Hastur barked: a very deep, slightly tinny "Woof!" It sounded like an affirmative. Rigger grinned. "Thot so." He started to rummage through the saddlebags. The techie was staring at Rigger like he expected him to grow another head. "Er..." "Aha! Found it!" Rigger held up a short wrench-like device. "Cheers, 'Astur." Hastur barked again. "Er, hang on..." "Now, 'Astur, run to the storage bins and fetch me two Thurman sprockets. The five-pronged ones. Priority two." Hastur 'woof!'ed again, and trotted away. "Wait a minute, did you just say..." "Beautiful dog, innit? Tiajuana's 'ad 'im since 'e was a pup. Some kind of monorail accident, and they had to wire 'im some new bits on. And then when Tia joined the Corps, they made some extra modifications, right, and Bob's yer uncle." "But, but... did you say... _PFC_ Hastur?" "Er, yeh, listen mate, try not to think too much about that one." Rigger put an arm around the tech's shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Y'see, Tiajuana joined Special Forces through, y'know, _channels_. They needed a real hacker, elite, right? An' she's all that an' more. But they won't let her bring the dog. So, when she reports to the launch shuttle, she brings these docs with 'er, wot say the dog got _'is_ marching papers too! A bloody PFC, even! Crazy, right? But it's too late to do anything about it then, they gotta launch, so they take the dog wiv 'em. But the _funny_ thing is, every time someone makes a data-query about it, or tries to look up authorization details, not only does the request get so mucked-about with bureaucratic red tape that it's impossible to _read_ anymore, but the nosy parker just _coincidentally_ gets transferred to some outer colony somewhere over in BFE." Rigger nudged the techie in the ribs. "What d'ye think've that, eh?" "Uh..." "Now there's some what thinks Tia hacked it all 'erself, but I dunno... Tia's elite, sure, but the Starfleet _Bureaucracy_ Servers? Nah, no way. Person'lly, _I_ think she's got something sneaky up with someone near the top, what's doin' the tricksy bits for 'er..." Rigger grinned toothily, "But, that makes it even worse, dunnit? _No_ way of gettin' round _that_ one." Rigger shrugged, and crouched back to his maintenance hatch. "All I know is, last one asked too many questions 'bout it ended up CSO of a tungsten mine on the arse-end of the quadrant..." The techie considered this for a moment, then returned to his work. Six minutes later, when PFC Hastur barked to alert his arrival with the Thurman sprockets, the tech banged his head a third time and knocked himself momentarily unconscious. NRPG FMD 7.1023 Intro SSGT Rigger & PFC Hastur Riff Sorry it took me so long to get a post up, I'm adjusting to a new work schedule. Not much to post about at the mo' anyways, most of my chars being on labor-crews. This post just leaves me two more SF NPC's to introduce, one of them being the elusive team leader. If I can't think of anything good for them soon, I guess they get assigned cannon-fodder duty... --Riff "My briefcase - nice, isn't it? Department issue. 100 percent human babyhide." --Phillip K. Dick, _Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?_ ***This message sent by an official member of Indigo Fleet*** Are you also posting your message to the newsgroup?!!! ---END TRANSMISSION---