Log Entry 160109.164

COMMANDER KATHERINE JARROD: FIRST OFFICER

If you asked Katherine Jarrod to describe herself in one word, that word would be 'middle' or 'mediocre' or 'average'.

She is the middle child of three girls born to the middle-class Jenny family, who lived in the Midlands, which are located (not surprisingly) in the middle of England. As a child, she was average—always middle in her class regardless of whether it was science, mathematics, English or sport.

Physically, she is of average height, but perhaps a little more portly than she was in her youth, and averagely pretty. She wears little make-up and tends to be rather quiet.

In every way, one would describe Katherine Jarrod as ... average. But personally, I think it's all a front. I think that Jarrod is a woman of exceptional intelligence, but one who hides it behind a cloak of mediocrity. Indeed, at the Academy, she appeared to be little more than average during her four years there. Yet, when it came to her final exams, she passed everything with honours!

Aboard the Drakonia, she was the Head of Maintenance, a rather humble post upon which she was wasted in my opinion. She sat in her office with the mechanism of her department functioning around her like a well-oiled machine. When things needed to be done, they got done. The system for reporting and orchestrating repairs was faultless thanks to the procedures she had implemented. Everybody knew what their function was and did it, so Jarrod spent much of her time in her little office reading up on the latest developments in the worlds of science and medicine or doing puzzles. She likes puzzles.

But she did not remain on the Drakonia. She was promoted to First Officer of the Earhart overnight, and that wouldn't have happened unless she was a lot more than 'average'.

As you already know, Jarrod's maiden name was Jenny, and she was the officer that found me as a baby. Don't get sentimental, though. That's as far as our relationship goes. Although she did size me up as Academy material quite early on ... but that's another story that you'll find in my earlier log entries.

Jarrod is married to Professor Jarrod who teaches at the Academy in San Francisco but she has no children, freely admitting that she is not the maternal type.

She is a bright, cheery woman with a dry, playful sense of humour that compliments T'Roc's, but has a scowl as vicious as a cat-o-nine-tails. She and T'Roc are very good friends and have been since their cadet days.

Log Entry 160102.163

It has suddenly struck me that I'm always talking about my peers—Al, Rutter, Midas, Luke, Gideon and suchlike, but never about the command crew. It makes it sound like the Earhart is run by mere cadets and ensigns but nothing could be further from the truth. So while we are making our way to Dirria, and as I look around the bridge, let me tell you a little bit more about the Earhart and her senior officers.

The USS Earhart, registry number NCC-7766, is a Pioneer-class ship designed for deep-space exploration. With a mere fifteen decks and accommodation for 168 personnel, she measures 345 meters long, 144 meters wide and 57 meters high. That makes her about the same size as an Intrepid-class starship (the USS Voyager is probably the most famous example of an Intrepid-class ship), but is recognisably sleeker in design.

The layout of her decks differ somewhat to the Intrepid-class, but the bridge is almost identical with stations along the rear wall for science (two), propulsion and environmental.

In the centre of the bridge is seating for the Captain, First Officer and, traditionally, the Ship's Counsellor but we don't have a counsellor. What we do have is a Cultural Officer—that's me, so that's where I sit when on the bridge. I feel quite privileged to do so, but T'Roc demands that I fill those boots well so I don't feel too guilty about it.

Behind us stretches the tactical station and ahead of us, on the right is the helm (sometimes called the conn) and on the left, ops, which includes internal systems control, communications and sensors.

As to our senior command crew, many of them have stations on the bridge, but not all, but I'll start with the bridge crew.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In command is Captain T'Roc—half Vulcan and half Klingon and a most fascinating individual.

Although as slender as a Vulcan, she carries herself as a Klingon, tall and strong, with pride and presence, yet composed. She has the fine facial features and pixie ears of a Vulcan, but the dark skin and brow ridges of her mother's species. I find it very human that her eyebrows, traditionally thick and bushy in Klingon women, are neatly trimmed to compliment her Vulcan features. I detect a little bit of vanity there.

She has a very dry, sometimes wicked sense of humour that has developed through her childhood, a result of being raised by her Klingon mother up until her death, and then her Vulcan father.

Her mother, Silara, was not a warrior—in fact, the concept that the Klingons are a warrior race is somewhat misplaced. While the warrior ethos has been important to the Klingons since the time of Kahless, Klingon culture was very much balanced across the castes for eons before that. It was only over time that the warrior caste became more prominent and earned them their reputation, as well as developing their culture into what we see today. But no race can be entirely 'warrior'. Every race needs those that nurture, cook, clean, teach, study or invent.

T'Roc's father, Turak (which means 'way of hope') was a Vulcan scientist aboard a Starfleet vessel. Fate brought them together on a mission which went badly wrong. After the destruction of their vessel, the two were the only survivors and found themselves marooned on a remote moon for three years. It was during that time that Turak entered his pon-farr, and rather than let her companion die, Silara yielded to Turak's needs. When the couple were rescued barely a year later, T'Roc was just a babe in arms. Both parents, though, opted not to bond for a number of reasons.

The first was that they were friends, not lovers and Silara had no desire to live on Vulcan, and Turak, none to live on Kronos. Also, Turak already had a wife and family so he could not take another. It was therefore agreed, that they would go their separate ways but remain in contact to raise T'Roc jointly as their child.

Each summer, T'Roc would spend a number of months on Vulcan with her father and his family whom she found most welcoming. Nurren, Turak's wife took the little girl in hand, which was no mean feat bearing in mind she was a Klingon the rest of the year and had all the temperament of one, until Nurren began her instruction in the Vulcan ways, even giving T'Roc her first pleenok (a Vulcan puzzle used to train children in logic).

T'Roc, fully aware of the circumstances of her birth and torn between two very different cultures, was not shy to ask Nurren why she didn't resent her as her husband's bastard. Nurren simply explained that without Silara's 'sacrifice', Turak would have died and that she was therefore indebted to Silara. That her husband had blessed her with a child partially repaid that debt and logically, as T'Roc was her husband's child, she was also hers.

T'Roc very much enjoyed her times on Vulcan. She was able to study Vulcan logic and learn the art of meditation, both of which enabled her embrace and harness her Klingon temperament, and how to 'wield it wisely rather than blundering through life like a vandal'. This was fortunate because when she was ten, her mother died 'a brave and noble death' and she went to live with her father full-time on Vulcan.

What could have been, potentially, a very traumatic upbringing torn between two cultures, was in fact a very happy childhood in which T'Roc was able to nurture both her heritages. She could be very composed and logical but she could equally be moody, demonstrating humour, silliness, aggression, passion, et cetera. Nurren chastised her for it often, but this was usually answered with a tongue showing and crossed eyes.

Reaching adulthood, T'Roc joined the Academy where she studied astrometrics and graduated as an officer. She entered Starfleet where she found her cross-culture was not only tolerated but virtually ignored. She was no longer the weird Vulcan kid that the Klingon children teased, or the unusual Klingon child that Vulcans tolerated.

Log Entry 151226.162

Strangely, after our meeting, the Dirrians weren't foremost on my mind; Al was. Why was she at a science station? I was itching to know. Much to my annoyance, though, I had to wait until lunchtime before I could ask her.

"Ah, now there's a tale," she said as we sat down, grinning broadly and then she began her story ...

Al arrived at the Academy in Marseille and immediately fell into a routine of lectures, tests and exercises, all centred around security.

"All pretty dull stuff," she reported, "even the scenarios. I thought they'd be fun, but one role play situation is very much like another after a while. Assess, address, overwhelm, overpower."

It was at one such exercise where she and a group of students were tasked with the protection of a cargo of extremely powerful weapon fuels that would be of more than passing interest to the Romulans. They were to assume that there was a Romulan delegation on board to complicate the issue, at least one of whom had significant connections to the Tal Shiar. They needed to secure the load and protect it during transit by both electronic and physical means, all the while remaining diplomatically polite.

For the scenario, their tutor, Colonel Stutgard, had taken them onto the USS Ulysses, an old Excelsior type starship docked at a nearby starbase. The group were quite far into their session. They had secured their cargo and were deciding upon their protocols when Al's attention was caught by a couple of donkeys—crewman—who were loading actual cargo on the far side of the bay.

They were known as donkeys because they conveyed cargo from A to B and often weren't much brighter than your average equus asinus. As Al once said, if they had brains in their heads, they would be doing more than just shifting boxes. Strange really, when you remember that Al was a donkey herself at the time, although she was unlike your average donkey. She had an amazing spatial awareness that enabled her to pack a cargo bay to perfection, and she also knew all the substances and materials, understanding exactly what could be placed next to what, all the associated risks and any other requirements of carrying those materials.

It was with professional interest then that she watched as the crewman brought in four large barrels of hydrochlaripane distophate and set them down next to some duroplast containers filled with metabaric alvarium-D. She was used to having to keep an eye on the donkeys from her previous assignments, so her eyes scanned the location they had chosen for them, and her face screwed in dissatisfaction. She was now completely oblivious to her assigned exercise.

"Excuse me," she shouted after the donkeys and broke away from her group. "I take it you're not going to leave those there," she said, pointing to the barrels.

The two men turned and grinned at each other before replying to the cadet.

"Yes, love," which was a mistake to start with. Al wasn't anybody's love, especially theirs. "You stick to playing with toy cargo and we'll shift the real stuff," one of them jeered.

As Al stepped forward, the Colonel placed a hand on her shoulder to draw her back, but she pushed him aside rudely and approached the crewmen.

"Yes, well, when your real cargo is in danger of blowing up for real, it sort of becomes my concern."

The man forced a mocking laugh. "Do your science, love. Both of those substances are perfectly stable."

"Under certain conditions, yes, but open your eyes, man!"

An audience had started to gather, not just her classmates but other donkeys and officers too.

"Just go back to playing at becoming an officer, sweetheart, and leave the real stuff to us, okay?"

"I would, if you were competent that is, but I'm starting to question that."

It was becoming a showdown. The chap strode over and folded his arms as he stood before her.

"Look love—"

"I'm not your love."

"Okay, cadet, " he emphasised the word 'cadet'. "I've been doing this job for five years and I've not blown anything up yet."

"Then let's not break that record. Hydrochlaripane distophate is stable as long as it's not exposed to radiuum CB3. Then it becomes highly volatile."

"And there is no radiuum-CB3 here."

Al ignored him.

"Metabaric alvarium-D is stable unless it reacts with celiuum."

"There's no celiuum here either."

"Celiuum can be formed, in minute quantities, by the irradiation of garvium ore by warp plasma emissions. This is an Excelsior class starship. The plasma waste manifolds run behind that wall," she pointed. "This is a very old ship. It's highly likely that plasma emissions, well below normal safety standards but above the one part per trillion required to irradiate garvium ore, are being emitted. If so, your garvium ore will become celiuum. Your celiuum will contaminate your metabaric alvarium-D making radiuum CB3 and your radiuum CB3 will react with your hydrochlaripane distophate making a bloody big boom!"

The man rolled his eyes.

"That may be but—"

"No buts! Move your hooves and shift it!" boomed Al angrily, as though it was her cargo bay. "These are people's lives you're playing with!"

The man baulked and it took him a few moments to find his voice. Then he shouted back angrily, "I have worked for the Academy for five years, and in all that time, I've never had an incident!"

"More luck than judgement. You might not care that you're endangering lives, but I do. These people—this crew—deserve better. This ship carries families as well as Starfleet personnel! That includes children. You want to be responsible for their deaths?"

"The chances of that happening—"

"—ARE TOO BLOODY LARGE!"

I can assure you that Al's voice has all the power of her Klingon heritage. When she bawls, the world shakes.

"Is there a problem?" asked a soft voice with a Scottish brogue. Al turned to find a small man had emerged from the audience. Barely five feet tall and slightly built, he was in his sixties. He had a pale complexion and short, grey hair neatly slicked back. His features were sharp, and his eyes a piercing pale blue.

Before Al could answer, the crewman explained the problem from his point of view. The Scotsman listened intently before commenting.

"Yes, that is a problem," he agreed. The crewman smiled, sure the Scotsman was about to put Al in her place, but then he added, "I'd move them if I were you."

The man's jaw cropped, but the Scotsman didn't care. He had taken Al by the arm and was leading her away. "And in the meantime, chicken, I think you should come with me." His whole manner was warm and friendly, which threw Al.

Colonel Stutgard, meanwhile, stepped forward, blocking their way.

"Hamish McAdam, what do you think you're doing with my student?" he asked.

He grinned, but held onto Al's arm, refusing to relinquish his prize.

"I'm stealing her Henry. Isn't that obvious?" and he pushed past the colonel. As soon as they were out of earshot, Hamish leaned into Al and said, "You're wasted on security. I think we should have a little chat. "

And that was how Al was transferred into the sciences, and she was delighted.

"I didn't choose security. It was thrust upon me," explained Al. "And the best bit is that I know so much of it already—when it comes to the physics and chemistry side of things. I just didn't know I knew it."

I sucked in my bottom lip and I studied her. She frowned hard back at me.

"Oh grief! You've got that disapproving look on you. What's up?"

"Nothing. It's just ..."

"Yes!" she snapped impatiently.

"If you're in the science department now, why are you still wearing operations yellow?"

"What? Aye?" Al pulled at her top. "Oh, nuts!"