DL | LCDR Stacker | "Questions, Not Answers"

Posted on Mon Oct 16th, 2017 @ 7:27pm by Commander James Stacker

Mission: The Round Table
Location: Chief Intelligence Officer's Office | Deck 678 | Cold Station Theta
Timeline: 1700hrs. station time, SD 241710.16.

"Sometimes we have to do a thing in order to find out the reason for it. Sometimes our actions are questions, not answers."
- John Le Carré, A Perfect Spy

=/\=

Stacker had only had the most fleeting brushes with Communications Intelligence Center, prior to being aboard Cold Station Theta. They were one of those sub-units within Starfleet Intelligence that one didn't go prying too deeply into, despite the natural human fascination with mysteries. Like most intelligence officers, when first commissioned he had naturally regarded them with a combination of awe, curiosity, and fascination. As he advanced in rank, position, and responsibility the curtain had been gradually pushed back. As it retreated, so did the mystery.

Now he sat at his desk, eyeing the report from the technical "witches," thinking to himself - as his right index finger rhythmically tap-tapped the back of the PADD - that it was good to have their technical expertise at his disposal. Even if they had done nothing but raise a giant stink of questions, rather than unshrouding hoped-for answers.

His eyes moved between lines of blurry text, reading everything and yet seeing nothing. There was only so much he could glean from it, and as a resource its utility had been exhausted hours ago. Instead he sat there, thinking to himself yet externally appearing to be re-reading the screen one more time. His thumb unconsciously turn it to a new page.

It was clear that Commander Valeese was fascinated with humanity. He readily agreed with the helpful summary, which had pointed out that such a concentration of files on one species was typically found in the personal libraries of anthropologists. Except Commander Valeese was no anthropologist. Stacker might have found this more believable had she been a field supervisor ... except she did not wear a Dominion uniform. And there was nothing in her file suggesting a past in anthropology.

Learning about a new species might have been more believable, but even this explanation did not fit. Her personal files had proved to be chock-full of human recipes and historical documents dating from the 20th through 24th centuries. References to a BLT co-existed with a mid-20th century song named "Monster Mash." There were so many that Chief Warrant Officer Parsuv had appended a personal notation questioning whether Valeese had a more-than-passing interest in becoming a librarian - a job that had died a slow death as automated computer filing systems became ever-more-efficient.

Another theory was that she was an electronic 'hoarder' of sorts. Again, Stacker was inclined to dismiss this theory. He thought it highly unlikely that such traits had escaped the selective genetic pruning that the Founders had carefully wielded, much like a surgeon wields a scalpel, for centuries.

Distantly, he became aware that the human body was not meant to remain seated in the same position for - a quick check of the clock now mounted on one bulkhead showed two hours had passed. Like most MACOs had had both training and a great deal of experience in being able to remain the most uncomfortable of positions, poses, et cetera for extended periods of time yet that did not make him superhuman. Regretting it most heavily, he slid the PADD onto the desk and attended to his discomfort.

It took some time to get over the protestations from various muscles. His eyes were blurry and felt heavy, his shoulders were stiff, and he almost landed on one knee when it rebelled and refused to (momentarily) support his weight. Adding to this, it was only when he was standing at the replicator tucked away in the alcove that he became aware of the buzzing feeling in one leg that came from circulation having been interrupted and since restored.

He re-emerged holding a squat handled mug, walking stiffly to a window with a commanding view of the stars. It wasn't the same as being back in the arboretum, or standing in operations, or even in a hangar bay, but for better or worse it was 'his' window, and that made it the perfect place to stand and think. Steam and heat rippled up from the mug to caress his face. The mixing smells of raktajino, whipped cream, and almond helped to stimulate his mind.

It was clear at this point, to him, that Valeese was playing a game of sorts. Some of the files were clearly innocuous, or lent themselves in some small degree to suspicion. The cat videos, for example, or the texts on yoga. Others, not-so-much: the human-written romance novels with a notation, by Valeese, of being for "research." The corners of Stacker's mouth flicked in amusement.

He could almost feel the leaf teasing his face again. Yes, the commander seemed and adept study at the romance novels. A sudden thought brought with it the report from Communication Intelligence Center, who'd noted that she had apparently well-read certain scenes. In the aftermath, standing here now, he felt vaguely dirty and voyeuristic. The amusement lingering in the corners of his mouth died as quickly as it had appeared. There were parts of this job he did not like to do. Prying into people's private lives was not one of them. Not like this.

The mug unconsciously moved in his hand as he swirled the contents, looking down and examining them dispassionately. That warm and teasing feeling in his cheek stubbornly refused to die, instead pricking at his memory. It reminded him of other places and a better life. One not spent wrapped in shadows. Was this Valeese's game? Seduction? Distraction? Scientific curiosity? All of the above?

Well, he decided with an exhalation of breath, there was nothing more to be done about it now. He looked up, saw the time in the reflection in the window, and decided he had had just enough chasing of his tail and furtive memories for today. Leaving the half-full mug in the replicator, on the way out he saws the duty lieutenant, passed word of his whereabouts - to the armory for some weapons-proficiency training, then to his quarters; a thoroughly-normal evening for him - and was gone from Deck 678 just after that.

=/\= End Log =/\=

Lieutenant Commander James Stacker
Chief Intelligence Officer
Cold Station Theta, SB-1170