Fun with Languages

Posted on Mon Apr 1, 2019 @ 2:45am by Lieutenant JG Camille Lévesque PhD

1,602 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Plaga Navis
Location: Mess Hall
Timeline: After "Back to the Lab Again, Yo" and "Changes of Scenery"

It has been a long day for Camille Lévesque, spent mostly reviewing genetic data and watching different types of artificial prions try and fail at destroying viral samples. She did all this while trying to lend moral support to her girlfriend and keep her from getting too angry with their visiting genetics expert.

The morning had been sufficiently draining that she took a break to go have lunch on her own.

In the mess hall, Camille replicated a bowl of tomato soup, a ham and cheese sandwich, and a glass of cranberry juice. She found a table and sat by herself. She smiled as the steam from the soup fogged her glasses. She took them off to clean them off before eating.

"Um...ah, pardon me?" A figure stopped at the other side of the table, head visibly looking around, hands clinging onto a tray with a steaming mug and a plate of food. "Ah -- is this seat taken? I'm sorry, there aren't any empty tables, and I saw another blue shirt, and I mean, I find that's always a safe, um --"

Camille put her glasses back on and saw the man before her. Not tall, but taller than her. A smattering of spots near his temples and face. Trill? No, not quite. Kriosian! He wore science blue, probably why he thought she’d welcome him. He thought right. She gave him a big smile. “Bonjour!” she said. She gestured to the chair across from her. “Join me, please! I’m Camille Lévesque. Chief Science Officer.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Thank you!” The blue-shirted officer placed the tray on the table and slid onto the seat across from her, expression clearly relieved. “It’s, uh, it’s only my second day here, and I’m really still finding my way around, and you...just said you were the Chief Science Officer.” He blinked, brain rather abruptly — and visibly — playing catch-up, and he sheepishly extended a hand. “Um. I should, uh — Hi. I’m Olvan, formerly USS Edwin Hubble.” An embarrassed smile crept onto his face as a light pink started to color his cheeks. “I’m your new Linguistics Specialist.”

Camille's eyes lit up when she heard he was on her team. "Bienvenue à l'équipe!" she exclaimed. "I look forward to working with you. We have a few specialists aboard, but the department isn't very big. I'm glad to have a linguistics expert. How many languages do you speak? Or understand?"

Olvan reached down, fumbling at his combadge for a second with a slightly perplexed expression. "Um, bits and pieces of a lot," he responded. "Kriosian, Standard, and Tellarite, for speaking, but I'm working on other ones and can understand some basic phrases in -- " A light seemed to go on, and he looked up from the combadge. "French!" he exclaimed, eyebrows high with pleasant surprise. "You speak French! That's amazing! I thought something was wrong with my translator for a second. I, uh, I haven't learned almost any French yet, but I did a half a week of leave in Marseille after Basic Training, and I'd really -- I'll learn it eventually, I think."

Camille chuckled at his enthusiasm. "I grew up in and around Montréal, and I unconsciously slip into French on occasion. And I maaaayyyy have modified by own commbadge so that it doesn't translate when I do." She smiled sheepishly. As she ate more of her sandwich, she noticed the two solid pips on Olvan's collar. "I see that you're a full Lieutenant. I want to make sure that you won't have a problem reporting to someone who is technically lower in rank. Some people might, but I hope you don't."

A slight wince of an expression crossed Olvan's face for a split-second, but was quickly replaced by his bringing his tea to his lips and taking a slow sip. "No, no, not at all." He set the mug back down, gingerly, on the tray. "I'm really -- I'm the newcomer, after all, and I swear to you on the pride of Krios Prime that I don't have any designs on being a department head of any kind right now." A soft laugh, tinged with just a sprinkling of nervousness. "I've...still got plenty to learn. My science background isn't terribly diverse -- yet, I guess -- but I'm good with detail and systems, so I was expecting to...volunteer for a lot of data entry, simulation-running, record-logging kind of stuff until something requiring xenolinguistics rears its head, to be honest."

Camille nodded. "That all sounds perfect." She put her sandwich down and went back to the soup, which had cooled and no longer steamed her face. "I expect xenolinguistics will come up fairly often, as we come across new races out in the DQ. We're not an exploration vessel but out here is everything is unknown. One of the reasons I chose the assignment. I don't plan to micromanage you, and I can get you working on different things if you want. The department appreciates any help you can offer. I'm pretty busy these days working with the CMO and our visiting geneticist on the virus problem."

Olvan's fork stabbed into one of the small, fritter-looking pieces of food on his plate, and he nodded, gesturing towards Camille. "I can understand. It's still amazing that I'm really here -- in the Delta Quadrant, that is. It's a long, well, a long way from...home, I guess. I appreciate the sentiment, though. I can fill you in on service record things and other academic activity when you're not coincidentally at a table in the mess hall," he grinned, gesturing with the fritter towards Camille's lunch tray before putting it in his mouth. Mid-chew, something clicked in his head that had been a throwaway explanation moments before, and mouth half-full, he tilted his head and asked, "Uh -- did you say virus problem?"

Camille nodded. “We ran into a Federation transport a few days ago. All eighty-seven crew dead of a virus that someone engineered to jump between species and evade our immune systems. I’ve been part of the team looking at finding an effective treatment. So for the next little while you might not see much of me.” She put another spoonful of the flavourful soup in her mouth. “Let’s make plans to have a proper conversation soon though. In the meantime, introduce yourself to the science department. There’s ten of us, myself included. You’re number eleven.”

"Eleven." Olvan turned the fork over again, then picked out another piece of the fritter, a somber expression settling in on his features. "...Eighty...eighty-seven. I, ah -- yeah. We'll...we'll meet soon." The fritter paused in front of his mouth for a moment. "...sir."

“Are you alright?” Camille asked Olvan. “Is it the number of dead from the virus? I know it’s a lot, but we”re working on identifying those responsible. I’m sure we’ll bring the engineers responsible for this bioweapon, who pervert life sciences to their own evil ends, to justice. And we have some good ideas for a treatment.”

Olvan nodded softly. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ll do anything I — well, a linguistics specialist will have limited ability to effect results with a virus, but anything I can do. Keep the day-to-day running in the meantime, or...you know.” His face betrayed that he’d lost his appetite. “I, uh — good luck. I’ve apparently got a physical to report in for next, though,” he said, making to pick up his half-finished tray.

Camille turned over in her head what he’d just said. Keeping the day to day running while she worked with Nicole on the virus. She didn’t have an Assistant Chief assigned. It might be a good idea to name him to that role, even provisionally. She’d talk to the Captain when they had a moment, and after she’d reviewed his file.

“Thank you for the offer,” Camille said. “I’ll let you know what the department needs, but your idea is a good one. Enjoy your physical. Do me a favour and tell Dr. Anderson I said hello?” He already knew the doctor and Camille were working together. He didn’t need to know right now that she was also trying to brighten her girlfriend’s day with the simple greeting.

"I --" Olvan picked up the tray, slowly getting to his feet. "Um, I'll try to remember, promise. Sir." He offered up a small smile, the kind that tried to reassert a semblance of normalcy on top of the crisis she'd just described. "I'm glad we ran into each other, sir. Takes a little of the pressure off."

“Monsieur Olvan,” Camille said, standing as well, smiling politely at the man. “I appreciate your intent, but you can stop with the ‘sir’. It has its place in the lab, or when I issue an order, but in the lounge, Camille is fine. I’ll make arrangements for us to speak later. Maybe tomorrow morning. Until then, bonne journée!” She sat back down and resumed eating her lunch.

Olvan blanched, just a hint. "Uh -- yes, s-- uh -- thanks. Camille." He turned, red quickly flushing onto his cheeks, and walked his tray back to the replicator to reclaim, letting out a long breath and silently mouthing the words bonne journée to himself as if trying to pick the phonemes apart.

 

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