Post by Seven of Nine on Dec 28, 2008 22:59:58 GMT -5
((OOC: I have no wish to step on Mae's toes, since she's clearly a superior officer and roleplayer, so, um...
Oh god, I'm like a green cadet trying to make a good impression.
Mae, if she's rightly yours I'll gladly accept that fact and get out of the way. No harm intended! I don't want to take anybody from you by any means. I'm so nervous. -hyperventilating.- I'm happy to try someone else if this totally bombs. -faints.-))
BIC:
In the muted light of the Astrometrics department, a holographic representation of an ionic storm tumbled over and over in place. Quicksilver electricity seemed to dart through the cloud at random intervals; a streak of blue through lilac, lavender, purple and an altogether different cool color spectrum. Behaving according to the simple algorithm of its program, it rolled upon itself like a wave trapped in a glass bottle. The comparison (and indeed, the aesthetic appeal) was lost on the phenomenon's solitary observer.
Seven of Nine, former Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix 01, appraised the fast-moving ionically charged particles dispassionately.
Her polarized, black-and-white thought processes required her to see it as a threat to the vessel. She was capable of reaching more creative conclusions, but usually only when another individual had instigated the unorthodox contemplation. This time, it was purely the necessity of acquiring precise readings that had prompted her to recreate the storm. However, now that the electromagnetic phenomenon had formed in miniature directly in front of her, she gave herself leeway to indulge in a certain scientific curiosity.
She recorded the information in order of its pertinence in a subsequent report: detailing its speed, diameter and intensity. Her right hand would occasionally still over the console, or rest against it, while the left -- braced by a metal mesh exoskeleton -- was tireless. Her remaining implants, external and otherwise, were not the only indications of her erstwhile existence as Borg. The assumed arrogance of her immaculate posture was somehow telling in that respect. Her trademark clipped tones erased all doubt.
The astrometrics lab retained the sense of a communal workspace, even during the night shift; as now. That was a comfort to Seven, who worked best when she was not cognizant of being alone.
The ionic storm hologram vanished at a touch of the console the instant she concluded her analysis. Almost simultaneously, the larger view screen ahead began to display the Intrepid-class vessel's trajectory. Voyager seemed small and irrelevant represented as a blip on a course. Seven had discovered that the opposite was true. The crew refused to accept their own vulnerability, maintaining the ideals and morals of Starfleet without the support of the Federation's might. Most everyone aboard seemed assured of their continued survival, remaining optimistic about each new encounter. Seven had yet to completely understand why.
She had also observed that casualties were an exception, not the norm. It was a puzzling defiance of statistical probability. She disliked attributing success to intangible factors such as 'luck', which could neither be assimilated nor reproduced. Seven compensated for her lack of blind faith with confidence in the abilities of the senior staff. Still, she was not convinced that their pattern of defying the odds would hold. She had no desire to become complacent in her duties.
They would need to alter their heading significantly to avoid the storm. Otherwise, they would find themselves braving a level 8 wavefront. The potential for damage in that event was grave. Fortunately, the course correction would not become urgent for several hours: well into the following morning's shift. Her 'potential threat' of the evening would be easily dealt with.
She did not have the authority to impliment the course correction herself. Her run of Astrometrics not withstanding, she held no official rank. Not for the first time, Seven acknowledged the inefficiency of the Starfleet command structure. The idle reflection ate a whole minute of her duty shift before she knew where the time went. It occurred to her that sparing moments for reflection was very Human, even if the grievance was Borg.
When she was not adequately occupied, the night shift seemed to inspire inconclusive and irrelevant thoughts. Such lapses became more frequent as time went by. If her regeneration cycle was as inefficient as the average person's sleeping patterns, perhaps she wouldn't have this time to think. Considering the fruitless nature of the contemplation involved, that might have been an acceptable loss.
Oh god, I'm like a green cadet trying to make a good impression.
Mae, if she's rightly yours I'll gladly accept that fact and get out of the way. No harm intended! I don't want to take anybody from you by any means. I'm so nervous. -hyperventilating.- I'm happy to try someone else if this totally bombs. -faints.-))
BIC:
In the muted light of the Astrometrics department, a holographic representation of an ionic storm tumbled over and over in place. Quicksilver electricity seemed to dart through the cloud at random intervals; a streak of blue through lilac, lavender, purple and an altogether different cool color spectrum. Behaving according to the simple algorithm of its program, it rolled upon itself like a wave trapped in a glass bottle. The comparison (and indeed, the aesthetic appeal) was lost on the phenomenon's solitary observer.
Seven of Nine, former Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix 01, appraised the fast-moving ionically charged particles dispassionately.
Her polarized, black-and-white thought processes required her to see it as a threat to the vessel. She was capable of reaching more creative conclusions, but usually only when another individual had instigated the unorthodox contemplation. This time, it was purely the necessity of acquiring precise readings that had prompted her to recreate the storm. However, now that the electromagnetic phenomenon had formed in miniature directly in front of her, she gave herself leeway to indulge in a certain scientific curiosity.
She recorded the information in order of its pertinence in a subsequent report: detailing its speed, diameter and intensity. Her right hand would occasionally still over the console, or rest against it, while the left -- braced by a metal mesh exoskeleton -- was tireless. Her remaining implants, external and otherwise, were not the only indications of her erstwhile existence as Borg. The assumed arrogance of her immaculate posture was somehow telling in that respect. Her trademark clipped tones erased all doubt.
The astrometrics lab retained the sense of a communal workspace, even during the night shift; as now. That was a comfort to Seven, who worked best when she was not cognizant of being alone.
The ionic storm hologram vanished at a touch of the console the instant she concluded her analysis. Almost simultaneously, the larger view screen ahead began to display the Intrepid-class vessel's trajectory. Voyager seemed small and irrelevant represented as a blip on a course. Seven had discovered that the opposite was true. The crew refused to accept their own vulnerability, maintaining the ideals and morals of Starfleet without the support of the Federation's might. Most everyone aboard seemed assured of their continued survival, remaining optimistic about each new encounter. Seven had yet to completely understand why.
She had also observed that casualties were an exception, not the norm. It was a puzzling defiance of statistical probability. She disliked attributing success to intangible factors such as 'luck', which could neither be assimilated nor reproduced. Seven compensated for her lack of blind faith with confidence in the abilities of the senior staff. Still, she was not convinced that their pattern of defying the odds would hold. She had no desire to become complacent in her duties.
They would need to alter their heading significantly to avoid the storm. Otherwise, they would find themselves braving a level 8 wavefront. The potential for damage in that event was grave. Fortunately, the course correction would not become urgent for several hours: well into the following morning's shift. Her 'potential threat' of the evening would be easily dealt with.
She did not have the authority to impliment the course correction herself. Her run of Astrometrics not withstanding, she held no official rank. Not for the first time, Seven acknowledged the inefficiency of the Starfleet command structure. The idle reflection ate a whole minute of her duty shift before she knew where the time went. It occurred to her that sparing moments for reflection was very Human, even if the grievance was Borg.
When she was not adequately occupied, the night shift seemed to inspire inconclusive and irrelevant thoughts. Such lapses became more frequent as time went by. If her regeneration cycle was as inefficient as the average person's sleeping patterns, perhaps she wouldn't have this time to think. Considering the fruitless nature of the contemplation involved, that might have been an acceptable loss.