Guess Who's Coming to Dinner - Part II

Posted on Fri Oct 24th, 2025 @ 9:58pm by Captain Robert Burke & Commander Vincent 'Vin' Salvatore & Lieutenant Marques Hunt & Lieutenant Juno Jones & Lieutenant Kyra sh'Herhrisst & Lieutenant Nelar & Lieutenant Ryssa Dari & Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard & Lieutenant JG Gianna De Luca & Ensign Shanice Winters

2,248 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: EPISODE 1: SHAKEDOWN
Location: USS Hecate
Timeline: MD036

Lieutenant Marques Hunt and Ensign Shanice Winters arrived to the transporter room side by side. The helm officer clearly wasn't too excited about attending dinner the Klingons. Everything about this scenario didn't seem to end with a happy ending in his mind. Shanice on the other hand, had quite the eager and excited look on her face. The Ensign never endured being in battle with the Klingons and to be honest, she never really encountered one up close.

"Don't look too excited," Hunt spoke. "Unless their talking about killing or actually killing. Klingons don't do all that smiling."

Straightening up, Winters nodded. "Less smiling, check."

Ryssa decided this was an occasion for her dress uniform. She wanted to look her best and dress formally as a show of respect for their hosts--even though she knew most of them would rather not have the Federation in their space. When she was satisfied with her appearance, she left her quarters and went to meet the others.

As he stepped into the Transport Room, Burke was tugging at the sleeves of his dress uniform. I swear to everything they make these tighter than I ask, he thought irritably. He was sure the cuffs were sitting at least a centimeter short of where they should. Still, the dress uniform was a handsome one with gold piping along the chest flap alongside the black. In addition to his Starfleet delta, protocol demanded he wear his medals and ribbons.

The Titanian had had doubts about whether to include his ribbons, most of them being the product of the long cold war between the Klingons and Federation, and one or two the results of the hot flashes that had flared up in some years. In the end though he had decided not to deny the history of their peoples, and had worn them along with the Starfleet Medal of Honor he had been awarded in the past. Truthfully, he felt awkward sporting them, never really wanting to talk about the events leading to their awarding.

Nelar arrived at the transporter room as ordered, also in her dress uniform. While she shared the same sentiments as her colleagues about the awkward fit and stiff fabric, neither her face nor her posture gave any indication of discomfort. She noted the Captain's presence first and bowed her head slightly in respect. "Captain Burke," she stated a simple greeting.

'Lieutenant,' Burke nodded in her direction. 'It is agreeable to see you.' He made a mental note to make an appointment in the diary to chase up her history for his own interest.

"Indeed, Captain," Nelar replied. Her voice carried a hint of warmth, subtle by Human standards, unusual for a Vulcan. "I believe we will all be grateful that the Klingons permitted so many of us to attend this dinner. We shall find one another's presence grounding during this event that is most likely to be unsettling."

'You're right, Doctor,' Burke replied, missing the Vulcan warmth in her tone. 'I hadn't considered that. I know we're fairly early in our assignment, and the crew has rather been thrown together in recent days, but I hope our commonalities will see us through this evening ... Especially if the Klingons are less than agreeable.'

"I have faith that the crew will put forth a full effort to bridge any cultural divide, Captain." Nelar spoke with confidence, as she did have full faith in Starfleet. Her thoughts on the Klingons and how they might behave this evening remained uncertain.

Nodding, Burke acknowledged the sentiment. 'I'm sure we'll do our best.'

The doors parted once again, admitting a young man pawing at his collar like it was trying to strangle him. Gideon wore the crisp black-and-gold dress uniform that clung in all the wrong places, stiff as a hull strut and twice as unforgiving. He tugged at the tunic hem, then the cuffs, then gave a low mutter under his breath that carried just loud enough to be heard.

"Don't know who designed these things, but I'd bet good credits they never had to wear one through a whole damn dinner."

He shifted his shoulders, his medium frame working uncomfortably against the seams. The material scratched at his neck, coarser than the usual duty wear, and the high collar made him feel like some poor dog done up in a Sunday bowtie. He worked his jaw and gave the transporter room a perfunctory glance--Hunt with his wary stare, Winters trying a little too hard to look eager, Nelar standing as still as some marble statue, and Cap decked-out in more ribbons than a Mardi Gras float.

Gideon grinned devilishly and gave his tunic one last near-destructive tug. "Gods help me if I sneeze," he said to no one. He then caught Nelar's eye as she turned her head, and tipped her the faintest nod. "Evenin', doc. Don't you look just about ready to die of heatstroke for the honour of Starfleet."

Nelar turned to the Chief Operations officer with a hint of recognition on her face. While she found him to be unprofessional and too cavalier, she had come to appreciate that his behavior was predictable, however illogical. "I recognize that you are speaking hyperbolically, but you do realize that my species evolved on a planet with average daytime temperatures that range from 43 to 51 degrees," she responded dryly. "It would take rather extreme conditions for a Vulcan to succumb to heatstroke."

"Huh," was all Gideon could manage, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes.

He glanced over at Shanice, seeing the smile on her lips and a light in her eyes. "Never seen someone so chipper to break bread with Klingons before..."

Looking over to the operations officer, Winters smiled widen even more. "I'm a diplomat and reporter. This is a dream for anyone in my position. Regardless of how the night goes, this will be an experience to remember."

Gideon let out a short chuckle. "Reckon you'll get your fill of stories tonight. Klingons don't much care for small talk--so when they say somethin', you can bet it'll be worth rememberin'." He scratched at his stiff collar again, muttering, "One way or another."

He leaned back on his heels, eyeing Hunt. "Lieutenant, you look like a man walkin' to his own execution."

"It almost feels like that," Hunt replied with a slight chuckle.

"Reckon you'll have somethin' to tell the grandkids," he said with a slight grin. "You think they'll be wearin' their Sunday best for us?"

Marques looked around at the group in the transporter. Taking a look down at his own dress uniform, he checked to ensure that his ribbons were all still in place. Deep down, he wondered if showing up to a possible fight in dress uniform was the wisest choice. Hell, he wondered if Klingons even had a version of a dress uniform.

Vincent finally walked through the doors, always feeling like he was the last person to show up, trying to make an entrance. When really, he was just trying to make sure everything was taken care of before leaving his quarters, only to remember, one more thing and having to go back. He was dressed in his official dress whites, which seemed to look exceptionally cleaned and pressed, as he tended to keep a majority of his clothes. Official or casual. It was just how he was raised and he wasn't about to let that go.

As he stopped in front of the closing Transporter room door's, he tapped the left side of his Uniform Jacket, before continuing on. He gave those who saw him enter a quick nod before stopping by Burke. "Captain..." He said with a slight smile, before asking. "Are you prepared for you first taste of fresh gagh?" He placed his hands behind is back before adding softly. "The trick is to just swallow and let them do their thing. If you resist, you'll just end up gagging, or worse, which will make you look weak in front of the Klingons. They may not take you seriously. We want them to take us seriously, so keep a strong head and stomach."

Flashing a smile Burke leaned across to his Executive Officer, 'don't you worry, Commander, I took a crash course. In order to familiarise myself with more exotic cuisine, I spent a few weeks eating some of Earth's more exotic foods. Campfire tarantula. Rocky Mountain oysters.' He continued in a low voice, 'my favourite was Casu Martzu, Sardinian maggot cheese.' His stomach turned slightly at the memory, 'the secret is to eat it on bread with the maggots still alive. I'm sure the gagh will be quite similar. If less pungent as they're fresh.'

"Did you eat any of them while they were still moving?" Vincent replied. "Because gagh is always served live, Captain. It's their custom and their preference." He smiled back. He admired the Captain's preparation for the event, so much so he wished he thought of it when it was his first time eating it, but it wasn't exactly the same. Live maggots are much smaller than the gagh worms which were larger and sometimes served in a sauce that was a bit strong. Provided they didn't add Bloodwine like they tended to do. Regardless, he placed his hand on the Captain's shoulder, as he added softly. "I meant no disrespect, Captain. As your Executive Officer, it's my job to watch out for you. Even in times like this. I've grown a custom to all this. For you, I believe, it's still pretty new and might caught you off guard."

Gideon's grin stretched out crookedly, a little too wide. "Reckon the Captain's taken no disrespect, Commander." He tugged again at his stiff collar, muttering a curse.

'No offence taken,' Burke confirmed with a smile. He turned to Gideon, 'though you may be taking offence at the collar?'

"This collar," he said, tugging at it again, "ain't made for breathin', that's for sure. Feels like someone stitched a straightjacket with pride."

Gia arrived to see everyone gathered and mentally cursed herself for being the last one there. It wasn't like her at all to be late, if anything she was usually one of the first ones to arrived. Immediately, she gave her apologies to those nearest, including the Captain himself, "My apologies, sir. I let time get away from me by being too engrossed in my work."

The Operations Chief shifted on his feet, scanning the others in the transporter room. The Vulcan doctor was still poised in the way her people always seemed to be--silent, watchful, immune to panic. "Doc," he whispered, leaning in to Nelar. "You got any idea what in the stars a Rocky Mountain Oyster might be?"

Nelar tipped her head curiously at Gideon's question. "I do not. Judging by Human trends in nomenclature, I would surmise a particular type of freshwater mussel located in the Rocky Mountain region on Earth."

Gideon blinked. "Freshwater mussel," he echoed slowly, as he pondered the idea. He nodded once, then squinted toward the ceiling.

"Right, right... rocky mountain oyster," he muttered. "So that'd be--uh--Colorado way, I reckon? Big ol' lake... maybe glacier runoff with trout swimmin' around..." His brow furrowed deeper with each word. "Oyster, though... now that's a saltwater critter. So a freshwater oyster's--hell, I dunno--a mountain clam? Some kinda alpine shellfish?"

He glanced toward Burke, then back to Nelar. "You think they harvest 'em outta snowmelt streams or somethin'? Bunch o' guys in parkas up to their knees in icy water, pryin' bivalves off rocks?" He rubbed his chin, looking oddly proud of himself for connecting that many dots. Nelar watched with pursed lips and an unamused expression as Gideon vocalized his thought process in what seemed to Nelar to be a rather muddled stream-of-consciousness.

"Always wondered how they got oysters up there anyhow," he went on, mostly to himself. "Ain't exactly ocean country. Maybe that's why they call 'em exotic."

"Perhaps," she stated simply before looking around impatiently at the transporter control panel then at the Captain.

Glancing at the Transporter Room's chrono, Burke nodded at his officers. 'Right, we're all here, and on time too,' he noted, pleased with their punctuality. 'The communique stated we beam down at eighteen-hundred sharp,' he said, taking his place on the transporter, and waited for the Hecate's officers to do the same.

As they assembled, and he waited, Burke wondered what reception was in store for them. It was a brave new world for both the Klingons and the Federation, and these first steps had to be careful ones to keep any peace they had newly-forged. The transporter technician raised a hand to indicate he was beginning to transport them. Burke felt the familiar feeling of the transporter pad ripping him apart at the cellular level, a hollowing out of his body from its core to its extremity.

[To be Continued ...]

Captain Robert Burke
Commanding Officer
USS Hecate

Commander Vincent Salvatore
Executive & Chief Intelligence Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Kyra sh'Herhrisst
Chief Security Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Marquis Hunt
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Juno Jones
Chief Engineer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Ryssa Dari
Chief Science Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Nelar
Chief Medical Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Gianna De Luca
Chief Counsellor
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard
Chief Operations Officer
USS Hecate

 

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