Ensign Theridion Grallator - Hello Mudduh, Hello Fadduh!
Boris Stefanovski
(( Grallators Room, Deck 12, USS Valkyrie-A ))
Grallator managed—through a combination of luck, stubbornness, and a suspiciously unhelpful turbolift—to get to Deck 12 and finally locate his quarters. It had taken him months to achieve this feat the first time, and he sincerely hoped the universe wouldn’t demand a repeat performance. Starfleet ships were designed to be navigable, but the Valkyrie’s corridors had a tendency to rearrange themselves whenever someone looked confident, as if the architecture itself enjoyed watching officers second-guess their own sense of direction.
His door slid open with the kind of sigh usually reserved for bureaucrats at the end of a very long day. Inside, the room looked exactly as he remembered: slightly too metallic, faintly humming, and with the distinct aura of a place that had once been designed by someone who thought “comfort” was a theoretical concept best left unexplored.
Bob, his Bichon dog, padded behind him with the weary resignation of a creature who had seen far too much antimatter containment for one lifetime. Halfway down the corridor, Bob had already begun sighing—long, theatrical sighs that suggested he was auditioning for the role of “Melancholy Ghost Dog” in some interstellar opera. By the time they reached the quarters, the sighs had evolved into a kind of commentary, each one perfectly timed to express disapproval of Grallator’s choices, Starfleet’s interior design, and possibly the very concept of heavy cruisers.
Grallator dropped his toolkit on the desk, which immediately beeped in protest, as if offended at being mistaken for furniture. He ignored it. He was too tired to argue with furniture tonight. Bob leapt onto the bunk, circled three times in the traditional canine ritual of “pretending to be a small hurricane,” and flopped down with the air of someone who had just completed a HALO jump without a parachute.
Grallator looked around the room, sighed himself, and muttered, “Well, here we are again. Deck 12. Home sweet… metallic hum.”
Bob responded with another sigh, deeper this time, the kind of sigh that implied: Yes, and I’m still waiting for the replicator to learn how to make soup without forks.
Barely half an hour had staggered past—like a drunk time traveler trying to remember which century it belonged to—before Grallator’s computer decided to announce itself. The sound it made was not a beep, nor a buzz, nor even the dignified ping of a machine that knows its place in the universe. No, it churmed. A churm is a noise best described as halfway between a polite cough and a small starship attempting to clear its throat after swallowing a moon. Nobody has ever successfully defined a churm, but everyone instinctively recognizes it as the herald of impending inconvenience, the kind of noise that suggests paperwork is about to happen in three dimensions at once.
Grallator sighed, rose from his bunk, and shuffled to the console with the weary resignation of a man who already suspected the universe was about to ask him for forms in triplicate. He pressed the button, which responded with the smug enthusiasm of a device that knew it had something dreadful to say. All of a sudden too blue bold heads appeared.
Vessari: Theridion, why does the background look… metallic? And why is there a bulkhead where your window should be? You haven’t redecorated again, have you?
He hadn’t heard from his parents since his last shore leave, which was either a few weeks ago or several geological epochs depending on how one measured time aboard a starship. Their calls were never ordinary—never the polite, “How are you, son?” variety. No, they were the kind of conversations that began with botanical lectures, detoured through engineering complaints, and usually ended with someone filing a form in triplicate. In short, they were always interesting, in the same way that sudden gravitational anomalies are “interesting.”
Grallator: ::trying to look casual while a plasma conduit hums ominously behind him:: Redecorated? No, no, just… upgraded. Think of it as feng shui, but with antimatter containment fields.
Torven: ::narrowing his eyes:: That’s not the Chin’toka. The acoustics are wrong. The Chin’toka had a charming hum, like a polite kettle. This ship sounds like a disgruntled badger trapped in a ventilation shaft.
Grallator: ::sweating slightly:: Well, funny story. The crew and I… moved. Entirely. To the Valkyrie. Achilles-class. Heavy cruiser. Very heavy. You can feel the heaviness in the carpets.
He immediately regretted saying it, in the same way one regrets pressing a mysterious button labeled “Do Not Press” or ordering soup on a ship where forks are standard issue. The words had barely escaped his mouth before circling back, tapping him on the shoulder, and whispering, “Really? That’s the best you could do?”
Vessari: You moved ships? Without telling us? Do you know what you have done? You know the amount of forms you need to fill? At least seventeen. And one of them has to be signed in triplicate by a Bolian with a rare pigmentation. Oh wait, that’s you.
Torven: ::grumbling:: Achilles-class, eh? Overcompensating, are we? The Chin’toka was perfectly fine. Reliable. Sturdy. Only occasionally exploded.
Now he truly regretted saying it—regretted it in the way one regrets poking a sleeping dragon, or casually mentioning paperwork in front of an auditor. The words hadn’t just left his mouth; they had marched out proudly, set up camp, and were now waving banners that read: “Consequences Incoming.”
Grallator: ::brightly, in the way one does when trying to distract auditors:: Yes, but the Valkyrie has cup holders. And a torpedo bay that doubles as a yoga studio. Very versatile.
Vessari: ::sighing in the way only a xenobotanist can:: Theridion, you can’t just move entire crews without telling your parents. It’s irresponsible. What if the ship develops root rot?
Torven: Ships don’t get root rot.
Vessari: They do if you don’t water the hydroponics properly.
It was never what anyone would call a normal conversation with his parents. At least, that’s what Grallator thought. He had no real basis for comparison—he’d never bothered to eavesdrop on other people talking to theirs—but he suspected those exchanges involved things like polite inquiries, mild encouragement, and perhaps the occasional casserole recipe. His own calls, by contrast, tended to spiral into debates about hydroponic ethics, warp coil etiquette, and whether dogs should be allowed to file paperwork. He could only imagine what “normal” must look like, and frankly, it sounded suspiciously dull.
Grallator: ::muttering:: Note to self: requisition watering can for warp core.
Torven: ::folding his arms:: And what about the crew? Did they all agree to this move, or did you lure them aboard with promises of cup holders and yoga mats?
Grallator: ::defensive:: They were enthusiastic. Well, one of them was enthusiastic. The rest were… politely bewildered. But bewilderment counts as consent in Starfleet, doesn’t it?
Vessari: ::raising an eyebrow:: Only if you file Form 88-B: ‘Consent Through Bewilderment.’ Did you file it?
Grallator: ::hesitates:: …I stapled something. Does that count?
Torven: ::groaning:: Stapling is not filing, Theridion. Stapling is what you do when you’ve lost the will to live but still have paperwork.
He never truly understood his father’s obsession with paperwork. To Grallator, forms were just flat little traps designed to catch the unwary officer in a lifetime of signatures and staplers. But his father treated them like sacred relics, each one a holy artifact of bureaucracy. Was it Starfleet that had done this to him—slowly transforming a brilliant engineer into a man who measured life in triplicate? And, more worryingly, was Grallator destined to follow the same path, one day waking up to find himself passionately debating the correct ink color for Form 27-B/6?
Vessari: ::leaning closer to the screen:: And what exactly is an Achilles-class heavy cruiser doing with you in engineering? Those ships are notorious for sulking if you don’t compliment their warp coils daily.
Grallator: ::brightly:: Oh, I’ve been complimenting them! Every morning I say, ‘Warp coils, you’re looking radiant today.’ Sometimes they hum back at me. Sometimes they hiss. It’s a relationship.
Torven: ::deadpan:: You’re flirting with the warp core.
Grallator: ::spluttering:: I am not! It’s just… professional encouragement.
Vessari: ::whispering:: He’s definitely flirting with the warp core.
Torven: ::sighing:: Next thing you know, he’ll be bringing it flowers. Hydroponic flowers. Which will die. And then we’ll have root rot and a broken hearted warp core.
That was their way of saying, in the most roundabout parental fashion imaginable, that he ought to acquire a couple of “somebodies” for himself—companions, partners, or at the very least people who could remind him to eat something other than replicated soup. In other words: he was getting old. Not ancient, not fossilized, but old enough that his parents had begun to treat his social life like a neglected houseplant—something that needed watering before it wilted entirely.
Grallator: ::muttering again:: Note to self: requisition bouquet for warp core. Possibly roses. Or antimatter-resistant tulips.
Vessari: ::straightening:: Theridion, you must promise us one thing: no matter how heavy the carpets, how versatile the torpedo bays, or how radiant the warp coils, you will not elope with this ship.
Torven: ::grumbling:: And if you do, at least file the proper forms. In triplicate.
Grallator: ::grins sheepishly:: …Would it help if I told you the Valkyrie also has a self-service replicator that makes soup without forks?
Most of the time, their conversations inevitably drifted toward soup. It was less a topic than a gravitational force, pulling every discussion into its steaming orbit. This was largely because his mother adored water in all its forms—boiled, seasoned, and ladled into bowls—and considered soup the highest expression of civilization. To her, soup wasn’t just food; it was philosophy, diplomacy, and occasionally a weapon when served too hot.
Vessari: ::pauses, intrigued:: …Soup without forks? That’s… actually responsible.
Torven: ::reluctantly impressed:: Hmm. Maybe this ship isn’t entirely overcompensating.
Vessari: ::peering suspiciously at the screen:: Theridion… where’s Bob? Don’t tell me you dragged that poor Bichon onto a heavy cruiser. Dogs don’t belong on Achilles-class ships. They get nervous around torpedo bays.
Grallator: ::trying to look casual while Bob is audibly sighing off-screen:: Dragged? No, no, Bob volunteered. He insisted. Said something about wanting to broaden his horizons and chase warp plasma.
Generally speaking, Bob approved of the change in scenery. Dogs rarely express approval in words, but Bob managed it through a complex system of sighs, tail wags, and the occasional look of dignified resignation. To him, the corridors of the Valkyrie were simply a new landscape to conquer—an endless parade of smells, suspicious bulkheads, and doors that opened with the kind of dramatic whoosh usually reserved for stage entrances. Compared to the Chin’toka, this was a whole new theatre, and Bob was determined to play the lead.
Torven: ::incredulous:: Dogs don’t volunteer. Dogs eat paperwork and stare at walls. Did you file the proper forms for canine crew transfer?”
Grallator: ::hesitant:: …I filed something. It had paw prints. That counts, doesn’t it?
Vessari: ::sternly:: Paw prints are not signatures, Theridion. They’re… decorative smudges. And besides, Bichons are allergic to antimatter containment fields.
Grallator: ::defensive:: Bob’s fine! He’s thriving. He’s already claimed Deck 12 as his territory. The crew calls him ‘Lieutenant Fluff.’ He’s very popular.
It wasn’t as though anybody had actually met Bob, and Grallator intended to keep it that way. The dog was his secret weapon, his fluffy co‑conspirator, and he wasn’t about to let the wider universe discover just how much authority a Bichon could wield with a single sigh. Allowing Bob to be properly introduced would only invite questions—awkward ones, the sort that led to paperwork—and Grallator had enough of that already.
Torven: ::grumbling:: Popular until he chews through a plasma conduit. Then he’ll be ‘Lieutenant Boom.’
Bob: ::sighed indignantly in the background::
Vessari: ::leaning closer, whispering:: Did the dog just talk?
Grallator: ::panicking:: No! That was… a bark. A very articulate bark. He’s… practicing diplomacy.
Torven: ::sighing:: First you flirt with warp cores, now you’re raising a diplomat dog. What’s next? A hamster in command of tactical?”
Vessari: ::to Torven:: Don’t give him ideas.
Grallator: ::brightly, desperate to change the subject:: Anyway, Bob’s adjusted wonderfully. He even has his own replicator setting: ‘Chicken Surprise.’ Though the surprise is usually that it’s soup.
Bob: ::wagging tail:: Sigh!
Vessari: ::throwing up her hands:: Theridion, you’ve turned the dog into a soup enthusiast. This is worse than root rot.
Torven: ::deadpan:: At least he won’t need a fork.
Vessari: ::narrowing her eyes:: Theridion, your father and I heard rumors. Something about you being on a derelict ship, talking to ghosts, and then leaping out of a perfectly good derelict ship like a lunatic. Care to explain?
And now, inevitably, came the naggings about his last mission. Grallator had long since given up trying to understand how his parents always seemed to know the details—whether it was the derelict ship, the ghosts, or the HALO jump. He suspected his father’s friends in Starfleet were to blame, a clandestine network of retired officers who treated gossip like classified intelligence and passed it along with the solemnity of a warp core diagnostic. To Grallator, it was less like parental concern and more like being audited by family.
Grallator: ::trying to look casual while Bob snores dramatically in the background:: Oh, that. Yes. Routine mission. Very ordinary. Just a derelict drifting in the void, haunted by ghosts that refused to die. The ghosts were mostly auditors. Very polite, really. They only wanted signatures.
Torven: ::horrified:: You talked to ghost ghosts? That’s worse than root rot. Did they ask for Form 12-D: ‘Posthumous Filing for the Recently Deceased’?
Grallator: ::brightly:: They did! And I signed it. Twice. One ghost insisted on blue ink, the other on ectoplasmic slime. Very particular. ::he smiled::
Vessari: ::clutching her head:: And then the jump? The HALO jump? Out of the hull? Into vacuum? What were you thinking?
Grallator: ::grinning sheepishly:: Well, the derelict didn’t have docking ports. So I thought: why not jump? Tactical insertion. Very dramatic. The crew said it looked like a soap bubble falling into infinity. I stuck the landing. Mostly.
Torven: ::groaning:: Mostly? What does ‘mostly’ mean?
He had absolutely no intention of mentioning the part where his ribs had been thoroughly bruised and he’d come within a hair’s breadth of being electrocuted on that derelict ship. Some details, he decided, were best left unspoken—like the precise number of volts involved, or the way the ghosts had applauded politely when he managed not to die. Parents, after all, had a way of turning near‑death experiences into lectures about sensible footwear and proper paperwork.
Grallator: ::shrugs:: It means I landed like a hero. Bob thought it was hilarious. He barked encouragement all the way down.
Bob: ::perking up:: sight! :: that sounded like a HALO::
Vessari: ::whispering:: He’s teaching the dog military acronyms now. This is spiraling.
Torven: ::sternly:: Theridion, you cannot just leap into haunted derelicts, chat with ghosts, and improvise paperwork. That’s not engineering. That’s… cosmic lunacy.
Grallator: ::defensive:: Actually, it’s adaptive engineering. The ghosts were impressed. One even offered me a promotion in the afterlife. Very flattering.
Vessari: ::sighing:: Theridion, if you keep this up, you’ll end up married to a warp core, haunted by auditors, and raising a soup-obsessed dog who thinks HALO jumps are fetch.
Torven: ::deadpan:: And you’ll still forget to file the proper forms.
Grallator: ::muttering:: Note to self: requisition parachute for dog. And ghost-proof ink.
Vessari: We need to talk to you about your bro…..
He could already see the direction this conversation was taking, and he had no desire to follow it. The road ahead was clearly marked with flashing signs that read “Family Matters—Next Exit,” and he wasn’t in the mood to pull over. It was about that particular branch of the family tree he had no intention of discussing, not now, not ever, and certainly not while the universe was already busy throwing paperwork at him.
Grallator: ::Looked at the side of the screen and cut off his mother mid sentence:: Ah—would you look at that! I’m being urgently requested in Engineering. Need to go right now.
Torven: Call us afterwards, we really need to talk.
Grallator: Alright. Will do.
He pressed the button and the screen obediently went blank, as though relieved to be excused from further parental duty. Well then. What he needed now was a drink. Unfortunately, the replicator only dispensed synthehol—a beverage that looked like alcohol, smelled like alcohol, and tasted like the ghost of alcohol, but stubbornly refused to behave like it. Grallator found himself wondering if somewhere aboard this ship there might be a hidden stash of the real stuff, tucked away by a crew member with more imagination than regulations. With that thought, he decided to take a walk to the place he vaguely suspected was a bar. Bob padded along beside him, tail swishing with the solemn dignity of a dog who knew he was being taken on a quest. Grallator wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but at least Bob never asked questions.
Ensign Theridion Grallator
Engineering Officer
USS Valkyrie NCC-76418-A
C240207TG3