Log Entry 160211.168

Urgh! Why do dress uniforms have to be so uncomfortable? They're starchy and suffocating, with thick, unyielding fabrics and collars that are smaller than your neck. With the proliferation of modern cloths that are available today, I just don't understand why they have to be made this way. I can't say I like the cut either. Is it a long jacket or a short dress that you wear with trousers? I feel sorry for the fellers especially. I'm not a dress person myself, so I can imagine how the blokes must feel.
Having fought my way into my newly acquired uniform, I made my way to the transporter room where I found T'Roc waiting for me. She was standing near the platform with her back to me. Jarrod and Gideon were also there at the operations panel. I greeted my captain, still tugging at my collar, and she turned, her fingers similarly jammed down her neckband. She chuckled, "Welcome to the joys of the Starfleet dress uniform."
Jarrod ushered us onto the platform and we prepared to transport. Jarrod gave the command to energise, but Gideon faltered.
"Problem Ensign?" Jarrod asked.
His fingers hovered over the controls, playing with the air.
"I'm just wondering," he said. "Will they be expecting a gift?"
A gift! My mind raced. In many cultures, even Terran ones, when invited to a prestigious event, it was customary to take something by way of thanks. The same thought was passing through T'Roc's mind and I could feel her eyes boring into me. I bit down on my lip thoughtfully.
"Well?" prompted T'Roc.
"I don't know," I had to admit. "But I'd suggest it's better to play safe and take something."
"Okay ... Any suggestions?"
I hadn't got a clue.
"Come on, Terran. You know the Dirrians best."
"I appreciate that but as they say ... In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."
At least it got me a laugh, but it didn't stop me feeling helpless.
"I always take my mother flowers," suggested Jarrod. "I don't think you can go wrong with flowers."
"Okay. Quick trip to the nearest replicator!" declared T'Roc. "Follow me!"
Jarrod and I fell in behind as we marched off to the nearest replicator. At T'Roc's command, a beautiful bunch of flowers materialised from a range of different worlds, but something wasn't right. Something itched at the back of my mind.
"Aye up!" declared Jarrod. "What's up, Terran?"
I stared at the flowers desperately trying to bring it to mind. There was something about them ... something ... alarming, but I couldn't recall. T'Roc smiled.
"I don't know. I just ..." My words trailed off. "And we're going to be late."
"Fashionably late," said T'Roc. "And this could be important. I suspect it is, otherwise you wouldn't be hanging back."
The moments passed as I stared at the flowers, but nothing materialised.
"Okay," Jarrod finally said. "Let's think about this sensibly." She reached over and plucked a little white flower from the display. "Do you know what this one is?" she asked.
I shook my head. It was a very pretty flower with a purple centre that bled along its petals, but I'd never seen the like of it before.
"So which flowers do you know?" she asked.
I could name the gypsophila, various lilies, Orion bellflowers and a good number of others, but as I named each one, there was no flash of enlightenment.
"And what about this one? Have you seen this one before?" asked Jarrod.
It was a large, white, bell-shaped flower that I was familiar with but didn't know its name.
"And where do you know it from?" she asked.
"The park. There was a park near the home that Traeth and I were staying at and—" Suddenly the memory hit me; it was like a dream being broken. "That's it!" I cried. "We were in the park and I picked a flower—one of these and Traeth was horrified!"
"Horrified? Why?"
"He said it was a shameful waste and extremely selfish. He said that if you had a one thousand-year-old tree growing in the garden, would you chop it down and put it in a vase in your front room?"
Jarrod and T'Roc exchanged glances.
"It'd have to be a very big vase," mocked Jarrod.
"Yes," I agreed. "It's not the best comparison in that respect, but what he was saying was that once you've cut the tree down, it's begun to die. The vase of water only prolongs the inevitable death. But cutting it down and removing it from its habitat not only kills it, it denies everybody else the enjoyment of it. The Dirrians love plants. They would never pick a bloom."
"Cut flowers are out then," sighed T'Roc.
"Ah-ha!" shouted Jarrod. It was obviously a eureka moment, and she held a finger up to herald her idea. "But this will be perfect," and she replicated a plain, white pot filled with soil. In the middle of it, a single bulb sat with a thumb of green poking out of the top. It didn't look very impressive.
"What is it?" asked T'Roc.
Jarrod was taken aback. "It's an amaryllis!" she declared.
"It's not exactly ... impressive," said T'Roc doubtfully.
"Not now, no, but it's a wonderful gift because with just a little love and care, they grow quickly to about thirty to sixty centimetres and then burst into bloom with a cluster of up to twelve gorgeous lily-like flowers. Trust me, he'll love it."
With our newly chosen gift, beautified with a luxurious bow, we made our way back to the transporter room. Minutes later, we materialised on Dirria.

Log Entry 160131.167

As Dirria came into view, I was startled by how small the planet was—beautiful, but about half the size of Earth. It was also very green, verdantly so.
"Captain, I have an incoming message from Dirria ... on a secure channel," reported Gideon.
"On screen," ordered T'Roc.
Gideon hesitated. "It's a secure channel," he reminded her.
T'Roc looked at him and smiled, "I know. On screen please, Mr Flavell."
The image of Dirria dissipated and a Dirrian appeared. It wasn't anyone I knew. He looked cross.
"I had asked for a secure channel," he snapped, looking directly at me.
Oh crikey! I thought. Here we go again. Why can't these people respect the chain of command? I'm just an ensign!
But I didn't have to say anything. T'Roc's hand brushed momentarily, but reassuringly, over mine. It was an odd gesture for an officer to give another, but I was inexperienced. It served to tell me that she understood, that I could relax and that she would take it from here.
"Indeed, and you have a secure channel ... just not a private one. Now, how can we assist you?"
The Dirrian pushed his shoulders back and sniffed indignantly. "We wish to talk with Jenny Terran."
T'Roc waved her hand indicating my presence.
"Alone!" he barked.
The corner of T'Roc's mouth rose as she smiled, and then she spoke politely but firmly.
"And if Ensign Jenny Terran was your officer to command, or if this was a personal matter between you and her, then you could speak with her alone ... but this isn't a personal matter. If it were, you wouldn't require a secure channel. You have business you wish to conduct with Ensign Terran, and Ensign Terran is my officer. That means that you go through me."
The Dirrian opened his mouth to speak, but T'Roc raised her hand and silenced him before she continued.
"At your last meeting with Starfleet on the Drakonia, our people went to great lengths to make you feel welcome, and to respect your customs and traditions. Jenny was particularly instrumental in extending this comfort to you, but she was not alone. Her captain was very accommodating too. More recently, you summoned the Drakonia to Dirria—and it came ... but you sent it away. Your people were very rude to Captain Burrows and to Starfleet—"
"You are demanding an apology!" interrupted the Dirrian.
T'Roc smiled again. "I would not dream of asking for an apology. Unless an apology is given freely, it is worthless. No, all I am asking is that you now show some respect to us, as we continue to show respect to you ... especially under these circumstances."
There was a pause.
"What do you know of the circumstances?"
T'Roc shrugged. "Nothing, but if you have need of a Starfleet vessel, well, let's just agree that you should be charming her captain, not her yeoman."
The screen blanked as the communication was paused by the Dirrian. T'Roc leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs as she turned to me.
"I assume you don't mind if I take the lead on this one?" she asked. There was a note of sarcasm in her voice. Fortunately for me, it was edged with humour, but she wasn't going to be upstaged by an ensign, and I don't blame her. The screen flashed back into life and the Dirrian reappeared.
"The High Emperor requests the presence of the captain of the USS Earhart and her yeoman to dinner this evening. Formal dress is required."
T'Roc tipped her head in acknowledgement.

"We are honoured and will be delighted to attend."

Log Entry 160123.166

Our helm and navigation stations are usually manned by Rutter and/or Arcaran. Rutter, you know all about, but Arcaran, he's a bit of an enigma!

ENSIGN ARCARAN

Arcaran is Andorian and was just a crewman. That was because he trained with the Andorian National Guard and there was some discussion as to whether or not his Andorian training was sufficient to allow him entry into Starfleet as an Ensign. It turns out that it is, so now he has been assigned that rank.
Arcaran can be quite a serious chap, but he does have a very dry sense of humour hidden away. It can often be very difficult to read his mood despite his antennae which, for Andorians, are usually far more expressive than their faces. However, Arcaran has developed some very strange antennae movements that make him very difficult to read.
For instance, when an Andorian is interested in something, his antennae usually curve towards the object in question. When fearful or excited, their antennae will stand rigid, sometimes quivering. When tired or saddened, they droop. When distressed, they flay about quite wildly, and when drunk, they wobble unsteadily in different directions.
Arcaran, though, prefers to keep us all on our toes. His antennae move completely independently of each other, seeming to express two completely different emotions at the same time. I find watching his antennae quite mesmeric!

ENSIGN GIDEON FLAVELL

Gideon is sometimes on the bridge too. He's part of the maintenance team and a real Mr Fixit. The general consensus of opinion is that if he can't put it right, no one can! He's also the Transporter Chief.


DR BERTRAM ROOSEVELT: CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER

Lastly, although not a bridge officer, I think I should mention the doctor. Known affectionately as Rosie during his Academy days, he had managed to throw off that nickname for over thirty years, until I came along that is. Somehow, I knew he was known as Rosie and re-saddled him with it. In fact, now I come to think about it, I've never managed to get to the bottom of that—how I knew his nickname from the Academy. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to mind it. Rather, he seems to embrace it.
He's a tall man with pale blue eyes and platinum white hair that makes him look older than his years. Put aside that white hair and he looks about fifty. He's a lithe man who can be found jogging through the corridors each morning before work. He's quite proud of his fitness. He also works far harder than he should, often late into the night.
When he speaks, he does so with a gentle, yet gravelly voice, and his bedside manner is impeccable.
Rosie has been married for over twenty-five years to Lulu, an astral chemist who serves aboard the Interplanetary Science Centre on Empathos IV. These are all facts Luke and I uncovered by means I'd rather forget.
And we are now approaching Dirria, so I'd better put this datapad down and pay attention!