Log Entry 160305.172

As we crossed the lawns to meet the High Emperor, I was making a mental note to research Terry Pratchett. I have no idea who he is, but I imagine he's some great warrior or philosopher or somebody equally commanding. Meanwhile, the cacophony of birdsong filled the air with squawking and squealing that was about as harmonious as claws being dragged down a blackboard. I could tell that T'Roc found it equally unpleasant (if not more so) by the intense frown that deeply furrowed her brow. As the Emperor turned to greet us, though, she wiped it aside replacing it with an easy, friendly face.

"Ah! Good morning!" beamed the Emperor, happily. "Please take a seat. Isn't it a most glorious morning? Tea?" he proffered.

T'Roc and I sat down and I couldn't help but let my fingers play over the fabric of the chair to see what it was made of. I was expecting some toughened, plastic derived material, but it was painted metal, just like an old Edwardian garden set.

A servant stepped forward and laid out cups and saucers, white with a little pink floral design dancing around the rim, and poured two cups of golden-green liquid from a tall pot. The chink of the cups reminded me of bone china and as I picked the cup up, its weight and feel only served to strengthen that suspicion. I wondered if bone china was purely a Terran thing. I hoped so. Bone china is all very lovely but is quite revolting when you know how it's made.

The soft porcelain of bone china is manufactured from bone ash, which makes up about half of the porcelain's mass. Bone ash is made from animal bones that are cleaned and heated to over 1000ºC. Then the bone is ground down with water to produce a fine paste that is then added to the porcelain to make the china. So it's a bit like drinking tea out of a cadaver!

"Don't you think so, Ms Terran?" asked the Emperor.

I blushed, not having heard a word he had said.

"Oh, please forgive me," I quipped. "I was distracted by the lovely melody of the birds. Do they sing as beautifully as this every morning?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see T'Roc's disapproval, but it seems I had pulled off my deception.

"They are particularly tuneful this morning," agreed the Emperor with glee. "I think they knew you were coming and sought to serenade you," and he laughed. I feigned a laugh too.

"Now, what was it you were asking me?" I prompted with a smug smile.

"I was saying that while some of us are curious, not all of us are explorers."

I had to think about that one. The only reason I could immediately think of that a curious person would not naturally want to explore was laziness, but it probably wasn't best to share that thought.

"I suppose that must be true. For me, though, the two tend to go hand in hand. If I'm curious about something, I explore it."

"Excellent!" squealed the Emperor with dignified excitement. "So you'll do it! That's wonderful news! Thank you. Thank you so much. When would you like to depart?"

My eyes widened in horror at the realisation that I'd just volunteered us for something. What though? I hardly dared to look at T'Roc, but I knew I couldn't ignore her. Warily, my eyes moved to meet hers, anxious at what they might find. T'Roc's head was tipped to one side and her eyes were wide in disapproval and annoyance.

Our morning tea with the Emperor wound up very quickly after that and I found myself alone in the garden with my garden. We sat in silence for a while and I tried to ignore her gaze. I've come to realise that it's very hard to ignore a Klingon's gaze, especially when they are staring at you.

"Don't you want to know what you have volunteered us for?" she finally asked. Her voice was riddled with irritation.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to—"

"You never do, but the lesson is simple. Don't try to blag your way out of things. It'll get you into trouble. You weren't paying attention so you bumbled your way right into this mess."

"Sorry," I repeated. "Is it bad?"

"Fortunately for you, no. Although you will be scrubbing the exhaust manifolds for a fortnight when we get back—just to remind you of who the captain is here."

What the heck had I volunteered us for? But I'd have to wait to find out as T'Roc got up and strode off towards the palace. I followed like a scolded puppy, struggling to keep up with her long strides.

Log Entry 160229.171

I was expecting to sleep very badly. After all, it's not every day that you have to share a room with your captain. Strangely, though, I slept like a log!

The sun was high in the sky when I awoke, and birds were singing outside in the garden. At least, I think they were birds ... and I think they were singing. It sounded more like someone was strangling cats than birdsong, but the little yellow feathered, winged, lizardy thing that was sitting on the balcony's rail, screeching its little heart out in toneless notes told me that it was the Dirrian equivalent of the dawn chorous.

"Morning, sleepyhead."

I sat up and found T'Roc sitting on one of the sofas. She lounged leisurely on the settee, a piece of toast in one hand and a mug of something hot in the other. Steam rose from the beaker carrying a melange of fragrances. I detected notes of coffee and hot chocolate.

"Want a cup? Not sure what it is, but it's very good," she said and leaned forward to pour me a cup.

I climbed out of bed, tugging at the hem of my pyjama top and ran my fingers through my tangled hair to smooth it. They got stuck on the way, which made T'Roc laugh.

As I freed them from the mass, T'Roc said, "Thank your lucky stars you don't have Klingon hair. It may look glorious but one restless night is more than enough to make you consider a crew-cut."

I remembered the time when she had appeared at my door with Beastie in her arms. Her fuscia pink and lime green pyjamas had been startling enough, but her hair was evil! A thick, tangled mass of ebony tresses topped her head like a hapless bird's nest.

I took the mug from T'Roc, thanking her, and took a sip. She was right. It was very pleasant. I could detect some subtle vanilla undertones among the coffee and chocolate flavours too.

"Come on," she said. "You should get dressed. His Highness is waiting for us in the garden."

Indeed, as I looked out of the window, I could see the High Emperor sitting at a most peculiar scene, one more suited to an English Edwardian garden than an alien landscape. On the lush, green lawn stood a garden table and four chairs. It looked like they were made from wrought iron, painted white, but was more likely to be made of something lighter and more durable. Sitting on one of the chairs was the High Emperor. In front of him, upon the table, was laid out a tea set complete with teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug. He sipped a cup of tea—well, probably not tea, but that's what it looked like, with his pinkie finger outstretched, and was reading a newspaper—not a datapad, but a newspaper made of real paper!

"Surreal, isn't it?"

"What?" I turned, startled by T'Roc's voice.

"It's like something out of an Emily Brönte novel. Have you read Brönte?"

I had to admit that I hadn't. T'Roc tutted. "Shame on you. It's a Terran classic, isn't it?"

"Yes, but—"

"No buts! I had to read both the Klingon and Vulcan classics. Doesn't seem fair that you've got away without reading any at all."

I grinned.

"They sound a bit heavy—Klingon and Vulcan classics I mean."

T'Roc laughed.

"Klingon classics have lots of gusto and are filled with the brave deeds of warriors seeking a noble death." Her voice lowered to accentuate the magnificence of the stories. "But once you've read one, you've read them all; while Vulcan literature is a little ... dry."

"So who's your favourite author?" I asked.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the answer I got.

T'Roc beamed a mischievous smile at me and whispered, "Terry Pratchett."

Log Entry 160220.170

The room we were given was beautiful, luxurious even. A string of French windows lined one wall, opening onto the gardens to let in the fragrant, cool, night air. There were no curtains but the other soft furnishings were lovely. There were a number of chairs and sofas, all upholstered with large, soft cushions and sculpted rugs on the floor. Their muted colours provided welcome relief to those of Dirrian's nature.

A little disturbing, though, was the fact that T'Roc and I would be sharing the room. There were two beds, amply big enough, even for T'Roc, but both next to each other, separated only by a nightstand. Nightwear had also been provided. A pair of silky, white pyjamas lay neatly folded on each bed, and in the adjoining bathroom, all the appropriate accoutrements that one could possibly need.

"Very nice," said T'Roc, "but I hope you don't snore."

So did I.