Master Sergeant Jim Hume, Old Guy to just about everybody who knew him shook a fist at his reflection. Away from the poker table the stogie wedged in the right corner of his mouth could be used as a fairly accurate barometer of his feelings; right now it jutted out at a disgusted angle; he’d stayed in one place too long, and the past had caught up with him.

One of his tricks for survival was to be exactly where the Military wanted him; since he owned markers from just about every personnel department in the Human sphere of influence, he made damned sure that he was wanted in transit for most of his career. That way, orders which may send him to places he explicitly didn’t want to be never caught up with him; Old Guy’s orders followed him in a paper chain which circumnavigated the globe several times and looped to other worlds occasionally. But The Master Sergeant’s path had led him to the Bahamas deep-space array, and a chance meeting with a cute little fox on the beach had led him to delay “asking” the personnel officer to move him on. He’d wakened totally relaxed beside the dark skinned honey, showered, shaved and headed to the kitchen to make coffee, when there was a knock on the door.

Old Guy opened the door to a specialist who should have been bored with the job of delivering mail. “Master Sergeant James Hume?”

“Yes?”

“Sign here, please.”

With some trepidation Old Guy put his signature onto the outstretched pad, then recoiled in surprise as the spec hauled out what looked like a small potato sack and dumped it at his feet. It was the first time he’d ever seen one of the packages following him. “What’s in it?” asked the specialist curiously.

“Classified,” answered Old Guy automatically. That was usually enough to shut people up. Worked in this case, too. The mailman departed, and the bemused Master Sergeant dragged the package over the threshold and closed the door before examining it.

It had started as a standard government correspondence, but as it followed Old Guy across the human universe, the number of stamps it had collected had made the original package almost illegible; so some clerk somewhere had dutifully copied the address to a new, slightly larger envelope and sent it on its way. When that was filled it had happened again.

And again,

And…

There were fully forty layers until Old Guy, with mounting alarm reached the centre.

His worst fears were confirmed; He was to report to the U.S.S. Enterprise, wherever she were currently located, for cross-training.

Not good. He’d signed for the delivery. He would have to go along with it or questions would be asked.

Beer and popcorn at the ready.

Let's see how things work out.

“Not yet.”

“Pulse Cannon?”

“None fitted. We get Phase cannon instead.”

“Marvellous! What’s their status?”

“Crated.”

“Bloody hell! Do we at least have missiles?”

“Yes sir, full compliment.”

“Any problem with them?”

“None at all, Sir. Mind you, The targeting array-“

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Malcolm Reid, new Armaments Officer for the U.S.S. Enterprise, (NX-01) looked around the compartment, apparently for a means of escape. “We’re going into the heart of a potentially hostile warrior empire to take back a courier we almost killed which is bad enough, but reading the files that the Vulcan’s supplied on this culture, the Klingons would actually prefer us to finish the job. So one insult for shooting in the first place, another for not doing it right, and we can’t even fling them any harsh language!”

“You’re right there, boss.” Stag agreed. “I think the translation matrix is down too.”

Reid shook his head in disbelief. “Is there anything on this bloody ship that works?”

“I hear the transporter is fine, Sir.”

Reid was underwhelmed. “Super. After you, Specialist Stag, after you!”

“Rather not, Sir!”

The Armaments Officer’s reply was cut short by Bilko’s head sticking through the hatch. “Sir, plasma coils are on the way up, you need to sign for them at the transporter platform.”

“Alright.Try to keep busy while I’m away. Sweep the floor or-“

Stag held up the brush. The bristles were worn down to about a millimetre. “Seen a lot of use recently, Boss.”

Ried left the compartment, muttering something about “Deathtrap.” Bilko entered, closed the hatch and grabbed a mug while Stag increased compartment air pressure a notch and produced a flask of tea and a comic.

Old Guy boarded Enterprise and quickly headed for the forward torpedo room. It had been a long time since he’d actually been in an active unit, but one thing he knew from experience was that there was always at least one compartment on the ship with the right people inside. He would get his kit squared away and go looking immediately. The plus side of this posting was Space Pay, and nowhere to get rid of it…

He reached the forward torpedo room and pressed the panel to open the door.

Inside, Stag and Bilko looked up as their ears popped.

There was a slight hiss as the door opened and Old Guy grinned. The trick was almost as old as he was. He wouldn’t have to hunt for home, he was already there.

Inside, it was as he expected. One guy was running over a checklist with a pad, while the other seemed to be cleaning a warhead with a toothbrush. They apparently noticed him, and snapped to attention.

“At ease,” grated Old Guy. “I’ve only got one question for you jokers.” He headed for the environmental console and returned the settings to slight overpressure.

That's it?

TQM

--------------------

Don't disturb the artist at work. Go get a fresh beer and more popcorn.

I think I'll go grill a hamburger.

quote:

---

Originally posted by Old Guy:
Calm down, folks!

Don't disturb the artist at work. Go get a fresh beer and more popcorn.

I think I'll go grill a hamburger.

Jim

---

LOL!! I think you'll have plenty of time.

Z

--------------------

Some weeks later…

Enterprise cruised complacently into the unknown at warp 4.5. On the bridge, Captain Johnathan Archer relaxed, letting his staff do their jobs. The turbolift swished open and Reid entered. Frowning, he took his place at the tactical console. Archer noticed his mood. “Problem, Malcolm?”

“Not sure, Sir,” replied the weapons officer. “I suspect that Hume is up to something in the forward torpedo room.”

“Hume?”

“Came aboard at the last minute, one of those Non-Coms that’s been in the service for ever. Every time I try to catch them, though…

"Hmmm." Archer considered for a moment. “How’s the compartment running?”

“Like a well-oiled machine. Perfect. In fact, I’ve never once caught any of them skyving…”

Archer grinned. “Pressure differential?”

“That’s the thing. While crewmen Bilko and Stag were in there alone, yes, there was. I could tell when those sods had been up to something. But it’s stopped now.”

“Maybe he just works them hard? You said that section’s running fine.”

“Yes, but I’ve never even caught them when Old Guy, that’s his nickname by the way, is outside the compartment.”

“If things are going well, would they have time for, well, whatever you suspect?”

Reid began to answer, but he saw the Captain’s eyes flick towards T’Pol’s station. The Vulcan Science Officer sat almost motionless when not actually responding to the information her sensors brought her, now she moved swiftly to an eyepiece rising from a console behind her. “Captain, I can now confirm that the fourth planet of the system ahead is indeed a Menshaa class. Five point eight billion bio signs, and extensive neutrino activity.”

“High tech, then?”

“Without doubt, though I detected no signs of warp capability. I recommend extreme caution, Captain. Even though they appear to be a non-starfaring race, they may still have the capability to threaten us. I remind you of the Vulcan protocol of non-contact with a pre-warp culture-”

“And I remind you again, that this is a Starfleet vessel, T’Pol. Vulcan protocols don’t apply.”

“Captain,” replied the Science Officer quietly. “Those protocols have been in place for thousands of years, and came about due to our own experiences with other races. You would do well to consider them.”

“After a few thousand years, you’d think you would be ready to try alternatives.” Before T’Pol could reply, Archer continued. “Begin scanning the highband frequencies, see if you can find any images of these people. If they are sufficiently close to humanoid, pass the data down to Doctor Phlox, so he can begin working on disguises immediately.

“Yes, Captain.”

“You ready, Old Guy?”

“Yeah, be right there.” Old Guy quickly disassembled the trench gun and lay the components out neatly on the sheet, then began putting the ancient weapon back together again. He dropped it after replacing a couple of parts, and left the cleaning kit artfully disarrayed before carefully covering all over with a “hurredly” thrown blanket. He’d grown careless, and Lieutenant Reid had grown suspicious, so it was time to give the officer what he was looking for. Stag and Bilko had likewise dropped crumbs; a couple of wood shavings lay beneath Bilko’s bunk, and a whittling blade and a fine piece of real hickory lay under the mattress. Stag, in a superb flash of mis-direction had nestled a copy of “Captain Atom, Champion of the Alpha Quadrant” within the pages of the much weightier, but no less ficticious “Time and Motion Practices for Engineering, Environmental and Armament Sections of the Ships of the Starfleet” (4th Edn. Utopia Planetia Publishing House).

Eighty years of peace had taken its toll on the personnel of Starfleet. The history of those decades was success after success, and complacency had set in at every level, even with Old Guy; He’d been in transit for so long he’d forgotten basic precautions; Officer’s needed to find something amiss or they would keep looking, meaning more and more inspections, and increasing the chance of them finding out what he was actually up to, not to mention playing hell with the eardums. Fate had supplied an alternative warning system, but it wouldn’t do to overuse that asset, so it was time to set up a minor victory for Lieutenant Reid. As luck would have it, Reid was a weapons buff hailing from a nation where weapons were highly restricted. Out in space and free of constraint he was never happier than when he was playing with devices which blew things up or punched neat holes through obstacles, so the gun which was one of Old Guy’s oldest companions seemed to be a perfect way to limit the damage of misdemeanours revealed.

Suddenly, Porthos gave a gentle bark, trotted over to Old Guy, and waited expectantly. The Master sergeant flicked a small cube of cheese at the terrier who snapped it out of mid air without taking his eyes off his employer.

“Good work, Porthos, now scram!” The Captain’s dog dutifully bounded into the waiting ventilation duct and closed the cover after himself. In the meantime, the torpedo room crew had all found “jobs” to do. Reid entered the compartment, eyes darting around suspiciously. Old Guy, Bilko and Stag all straightened up in surprise.

“As you were,” commanded Reid.

Everyone went back to work, and the Lieutenant went over to the command panel and removed an inventory pad from its slot. All weapons accounted for; two stripped down for maintainance, which was proceeding according to the schedule. Launch tube two inspected for microfracures; finished five minutes early. Interesting; Old Guy hadn’t reported that. Reids eye’s flickered to the Master Sergeant’s bunk and narrowed. What was that? The atmosphere in the compartment changed subtley as The Weapons Officer crossed over to the bunk and threw aside the cover.

“Would you mind explaining this, Master Sergeant?” Reid’s voice edged between excited curiosity and official dismay.

“No excuses, Sir.” Old Guy sounded genuinely embarrassed. It was a voice he’d carefully cultivated for a long time.

“Put it back together.” Reid was well and truly hooked, but he still had a job to do. He crossed over to Bilko’s bunk. “Specialist, would you mind telling me what you were up to while...”

Reid’s voice trailed off as Old Guy had re-assembled the trench gun and worked the pump action. To the Armaments Officer, the comfortable clicks sounded as musical as any well worked piece of machinery possibly could. In the meantime, Bilko had produced a stick and a whittling blade and held them up hesitantly. Reid’s gaze reluctantly moved over to Stag, who shamefacedly pulled Captain Atom from the clutches of the time and motion study.

“Right, now I could have the three of you up on charges for this, or we can keep it in here. Those missiles which are due to be returned to active status at 20.00, I now want them completed by no later than 18.00, and you WILL report completion of the job to me, Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Sir!” chorused the trio. Reid almost wasn’t listening. He crossed over to where Old Guy stood to attention.

"May I see that?"

Old Guy brought the weapon smartly to present and pumped open the chamber. Reid took the gun, checked the breech and slid the action smoothly forward. It felt like velvet. He brought it to his shoulder and sighted over the cooling jacket. “This is a fine old weapon Sergeant. It’s a shame the ammo isn’t made any more!”

“That does make it hard to find, Sir.” Old Guy kept eyes front. The little play was a success, but Reid had to think the day was his. “I was hoping to get some out of the molecular resequencer.”

“I doubt Commander Tucker would go for it. Mind you, I may just have a word with him myself.” The Lieutenant handed the gun reverently back to Old Guy. “Look after it, Sergeant, but just do it in your own time!”

“Yes Sir! Thank you Sir!”

“Bilko, clean up those wood shavings. Stag… Captain Atom?”

“Yes sir.”

“Those missiles, finished by 18.00. Got that?”

“SIR!”

Reid left the room, and Bilko sagged, grinning. “I can’t believe that worked out so well. I was expecting a couple of demerits, at least!”

Old Guy produced his stogie, and smiled knowingly. “It’s a matter of figuring out which buttons to push. Once you know a guy’s interests…” he watched as Porthos climbed out of the vent and took up station again at the door. Stag had thrown aside the “Captain Atom” comic and was again reading “Time and Motion Practices for Engineering, Environmental and Armament Sections of the Ships of the Starfleet” (4th Edn. Utopia Planetia Publishing House). “You know, I’m really glad that the officers learn this by rote. I think perhaps we should report them finished by seventeen fifty-five?

“No, you haven’t quite got it yet,” replied Old Guy, setting the table up for fleecing the catering section. Steak dinner again tonight.“We will very apologetically report the work done at eighteen-twenty. Reid will see that we made a genuine effort, and be appeased.”

“Those missiles were ready to be returned to service yesterday,” said Bilko thoughtfully. “I mean, these Tee and Em types got things ‘way out of whack. What kind of idiots were they?”

“Bilko, they were all fine and respected members of Starfleet. Very few idiots make it as far as a book like this.” Old Guy produced a bottle of “Rolling Rock,” and eased the top off, savouring the gentle hiss of released gasses before taking a slow, satisfied sip.

“Go Away,” said the beacon distinctly.

Archer was unconvinced.

“That thing is over two centuries old,” He reasoned. “A lot can happen in that amount of time.”

“The whole planet is covered by a field which disrupts visual scans,” responded T’Pol patiently. “They appear to value their privacy.”

“Have they responded to our hails?”

“No.”

“Then they haven’t actually told us to leave in person.”

“I have detected no high band emissions from the surface. It is possible that the technology to send or receive such messages simply does not exist.”

“Even so, they must know we’re here. High band or not, that’s a highly advanced society down there. We should try to make contact.”

“I don’t believe they desire that, Sir, nor does it follow that they know of our presence. The visual disruption field may render us as invisible to casual observation as they are to us. No active scans have been detected. We would not know of them at all were it not for their heavy neutrino signature.”

Archer considered. He was almost convinced. But to come so far and just move on…

Trip Tucker entered the bridge and grinned at the image on the screen. “So that’s it, huh? When we going down?”

“I’m not sure we should,” replied Captain Archer thoughtfully. “Visiting seems to be discouraged.”

“Ah, c’mon, Cap’n. Can’t we at least take a peek? See what these folks look like?”

The Engineer’s enthusiasm was infectious. Archer looked enquiringly at T’Pol. She checked her instruments. “The field seems to originate from several generators on the main continents. It is possible that it could be penetrated if we examine one of the smaller islands…”

The Vulcan Science Officer got to work, and Archer brooded. Commander Tucker noticed his brown mood. “Problems, Skip?”

“Probably nothing. Porthos isn’t eating like he used to. This morning, he puked up cheese all over the floor. I gave him some last night, he loves it, but he’s never reacted like that before.”

“Maybe you should have Phloxx give him the once over?”

“I will, later. For now-“

“Captain,” reported T’Pol. “I have visual on the surface.”

“Main screen.”

The first view was disappointing. Poor quality views of the cloud layer. The Science Officer skilfully piloted the view to a break in the clouds and zoomed in. Below was a blue-green meadow filled with people, apparently taking part in some outdoor event. Humanoid males, females and children. T’Pol tried to enhance the image, but almost lost it. She very carefully restored the view.

“Take a snapshot, quick!” rapped Archer, and the scene froze. Amazed, He, Tucker, Reid and Hoshi moved closer. “Can you use the computer to enhance the image?”

Too slowly, the image was refined, pixel by pixel. Old Guy entered the bridge and handed a pad to Lieutenant Reid. “Sir, the maintainance program is complete. I’m afraid we couldn’t manage 18.00."

Reid looked at the pad, impressed. Old Guy, Stag and Bilko had almost set a new Starfleet record. “Alright, Sergeant. Get your lads down to the mess.”

“Sir.” Old Guy looked at the screen and frowned.

“Wow,” said Tucker, quietly. “The cranial ridges and the noses should be easy to reproduce, but that skin pigmentation…”

“Captain,” interjected T’Pol. “Surely you are still not considering going down there?”

“Quick look?” said Trip invitingly. “We don’t even have to make contact, I just want a quick look at those power plants. They must be massive, given the amount of neutrinos they kick out?”

“I’ll have a word with Doctor Phlox. If he’s confident he can reproduce those skin tones-“

“Captain,” said T’Pol. “This is incredibly reckless.”

Captain Archer straightened up. “It’s why we were sent out here.”

Old Guy glanced quickly over at T’Pol. As usual, the science officer’s exquisite features looked as if they were sculpted from olive marble. The same look had made the Master Sergeant long ago resolve never to even consider asking a Vulcan to play poker, but right now he didn’t need human expression to read what was going through her mind.

“Xenophobia, Old Guy?” gasped Stag in surprise. He and Bilko had met Old Guy in the mess hall. After the feast the catering staff had ruefully provided, none of them could really manage any more, but hey, free time is free time.

“Hell, no! I don’t care what folks look like, or where they’re from. It’s just… rubber masks!”

“Excuse me?”

“Here we are, the first starship to come out this far, and what do we find? A bit of rubber, some greasepaint, and hey presto! We too can be aliens!” Old guy took another sip of his coffee. “Just once, I’d like to meet something really alien.”

“Theory of anthro- er, We all look alike because evolution has to solve the same problems everywhere?” Stag paused in thought then added “Well, at least on Menshaa class planets?”

“You buy that?” sneered Old Guy. “Can I sell you a bridge?” Stag stiffened, and Old Guy continued “Forget I said that. It’s just that I know for a fact that during the 1940’s there was contact between the North American OSS, British SOE, Russian NKVD, and a totally alien, non humanoid life form.”

“How do you know?” chipped in Bilko, wavering between scepticism and curiosity.

“Never mind.” Old guy sipped again reflectively. “I just wonder where they’re all hiding now.”

“Ah, I get it,” Bilko grinned “ Not so much disapproval of the aliens we’ve met so far, as disappointment?”

“That’s about it.”

“Patience, Old guy. We’ve only been out here a few weeks.”

Silence stretched. Stag began again. “I still don’t understand how the Time and Mime manual actually works.”

“Easy enough, but you also have to read some of my earlier stuff to understand fully. A lot of it is suggestion; the manual says a job should take this long. All you need to do is put in a few procedures to stretch it out. Perhaps you’ve read the instructions I had put on the wrappers of toothpicks?”

Bilko and Stag looked at each other. “They’ve been there for hundreds of years. How-“

“No need to be too elaborate, Doctor,” Archer knew too well of the Doctor’s runaway enthusiasm.

“On the contrary, Captain! If you look closely, you will see that no two examples of this beautifully elaborate pigmentation are alike! This brings to mind your earth zebras, but the differences here are far more pronounced.”

“So you can’t just run off a template?”

“Absolutely not! A group of people moving together with identical markings would be sure to draw attention. Lie back Captain, this may take some time…”

Old Guy, Stag and Bilko were back in the torpedo room doing not much of anything for the end of a somewhat profitable day. Out of curiosity, Bilko had brought up the image from the planet below and was examining it. Old Guy was wrong, he mused. The skin colouring looked far more alien than anything he’d ever seen in his travels. It tended to draw the eye. After a while he tired of looking at the colour variations and noticed other details. Signs were dotted around, adorned with flowing alien script.

“Anyone know what these signs say?” enquired Bilko.

“Dunno, replied Stag. “I think Ensign Hoshi is concentrating on the spoken language. Why don’t you give it a crack?”

“Why not?” Bilko punched up the translation matrix as the ship clunked slightly; a shuttlepod carrying Archer, T’Pol (under protest), Tucker, Reid and Hoshi dropped serenely towards the planet below.

It took a couple of minutes for the translator to find the underlying logic of the script, but it soon declared stalls selling fast food or offering prizes. One big sign remained; the angle was bad, so Bilko had the computer extrapolate the translation from known data.

Shuttlepod One began atmospheric insertion.

“SHlT!” gasped Bilko.

“Bilko, you’re in Starfleet,” reminded Old Guy with a grin. “You can’t use language like that.”

“Old Guy, You’d better see this!”

…

…

“Oh F-“

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Ningdwa Poon, High Mandarin of the committee for anti-alien affairs was disturbed from lunch by a knock on the door. “What is it?” He asked testily.

“You had the doctor alter my skin pigmentation, and dress me as a clown,” she elaborated.

“And then you put me in a shuttlepod with four members of a species with body odour issues.”

“And dropped me onto a hostile planet.”

“Yeah,” said Archer resignedly.

“Dressed as a clown.”

“The crew will do something about it,” said Tucker hopefully.

“The fact that we are prisoners, or the fact that we are dressed as clowns?”

“Just hang in there,” Said Archer reassuringly. “The crew will think of something.”

“Yes, Captain.”