Guess who's coming to dinner. Chapter 1 of 4

Chapter One: About me.

If it weren’t for bad timing, I'd have no luck at all.

Its 0215 and I'm preparing for a meeting with an Alien race. Whose family members, earlier this morning, had been scrapped off the floor and into oblivion by one of my men.

A buffer played a major role.

I'm also one month on the job, several light years from terra firma, and floating about in a 5 mile long tin can, named Friendship One.

By way of explanation, Friendship One was run under the tender ministrations of the Ministry of Alien Relations, who aided by the Military's Deep Space Starships, had been busy as of late.

Friendship One was filled with all manner of life forms. And I do mean all manner.

The idea was essentially sound. Establish contact with new life forms, then invite them over to our house to meet all our new friends and have a cup of tea.

But I digress. Why am I up at this hour?

Well it goes like this: Living quarters for our guests are arranged and maintained according to the particular species needs.

An hour ago one of my maintenance men, Baker, John T. 3rd class, and still in training, was sent to level 7.

Level seven is occupied by an Alien species named Sarenth, and requires special handling.

Sending an unescorted, untrained Maintenance Technician to Level seven? Simply not done.

Baker, to his credit, upon arrival, immediately set about his work.

I'll give him points for that.

His first task, removing slime off of the corridor floor.

Unfortunately for all, that slime was a family of Sarenth.

Afraid I'll have to take back the points.

To make things worse, the now deceased family was connected.

I'm reasonably certain the Sarenth are going to be pissed.

Oh, don't get me wrong. As a rule the Sarenth are a benevolent species.

When fully grown, which take about a hundreds years our time they look a bit like giant Earth worms, straight out of a 1950's B movie.

Multiple arms and legs not withstanding.

Regrettably, before their final growth spurt to,

"Ew, look at that giant worm." they are indistinguishable from a grease spot on the floor.

Hence our present situation.

Did I mention the young ones slither?

Yes, slither around the corridors.

They leave a slimy trail, much like Earth Snails.

I'm not sure if the smaller variety even have legs.

In my considered opinion, they really should put up signs outside the Sarenth's quarters like “Slime crossing." Maybe traffic lights. But what do I know?

What I do know is that my immediate problem is handling this situation.

I'm the one who has to meet with the Sarenth, to try and clean up Baker's public relations nightmare.

What was I going to say?

"Hey worms, look at the bright side. You won't have to bother with a funeral, we've already taken care of that."

"And speaking of bright sides, look, the floors nice and shiny."

But it is what it is. My men. My responsibility.

I can't complain though. Having recently been promoted to Lieutenant Commander came with certain perks.

First, I was now a Command Officer. This entitled me to larger living quarters with a real shower and elevated access privileges.

Elevated access privileges, included Command and Control, and the Officers Club.

Sometimes the last two were one and the same.

On the flip side, it also meant attending useless non-productive meetings. Which ideally were held to discuss ways of keeping this floating bathtub operating smoothly, but usually degenerated into, "Should we add more vending machines to the day rooms?" Or "Did you see that new Yeoman in Medical? Boy is she hot."

I think reaching Command Officer grade means sacrificing IQ points. But no ones asked me for any, and I'm not volunteering.

But again I digress. I didn't assign Baker, but I could take an educated guess.

I pulled up my pants and the duty assignment roster at the same time.

I already knew what I was going to find. And there it was.

Baker had been assigned by my unofficial second, Thomas Watson.

Watson was regular Earth military, 22 years+ of service. But he had the brains of a titmouse.

He was surly, loved to argue, drink, and fight at the slightest provocation.

In general, a real pain in the ass.

His only saving grace; he was a damn good troubleshooter.

Watson had a special affinity for machines. He could tell you what was wrong, before running diagnostics.

He also knew the best people to assign where, to get a particular problem solved.

When our last Chief was transferred, Watson, due in part to his longevity, had un-officially been running the Department.

Due in whole, because of his personality, or rather lack thereof, he had, once again been passed over for promotion.

Not my call.

I knew Watson didn't like me, but after my promotion, I opted to let him keep some of a Chief’s duties. Scheduling for one.

Not that I wasn't capable. But like dad used to say, "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

An oldie but a goodie as sayings go.

Watson also knew my deceased Pater, killed in a traffic accident, had been a high ranking instructor at the Training Academy.

He loved telling whoever would listen that's why I got the promotion.

Dad's field of expertise was training Special Forces Operatives.

Armed and unarmed combat. Survival training. Name it. If it hurt, or had the potential to hurt, it was on his training roster.

A couple, two, three weeks back, pissed about my promotion, and drunk as a skunk, Watson did something he really shouldn't have.

He decided he was going to kick my ass.

I had an interesting childhood. Watson should have thought it through, before attempting to take on the son of a man, who could take on a half dozen Special Forces operatives with a cup of coffee in one hand and the other tethered to his waist.

But thinking was another one of Watson's short-comings.

I tried to take it easy, but he was having none of it.

He wasn't appreciative or cooperative.

The two weeks the big man spent in medical did little to ease the tension between us.

The ships, Captain was understanding, but that little fracas still earned me a slap on the wrist by way of an unofficial reprimand. I considered us even - but Watson did not.

It didn't take a Rocket Scientist, although we have some floating around the place. to figure out that Watson deliberately dispatched Baker to the Sarenth's quarters.

Why am I being so harsh? Well for one thing, Watson was of the opinion that the Sarenth should be dangling from the hooks of a fishing poles and Not negotiating trade agreements.

Smart money says he was hoping something like this would happen, and yes, we would be discussing it.

I'd prefer up close and personal, but that was no longer an option.

However, a month...no, permanent reassignment to Sewer Reclamation would be Watson's new venue.

There are good men assigned to me who had, for far to long, been living in Watson's shadow. Time for a change.

I finished dressing and ordered a decaffeinated coffee from the replicator.

Meals, drinks, and snacks whenever I wanted, was another perk to being a Command Officer.

It never ceased to amaze me how several packs of gelatinous goop, running through a network of tubes controlled by a computerized ordering system, could provide such a wide variety of almost edible selections.

I managed a sip before the door chime sounded.