He's Got Me Wearing Shades in the Middle of the Night

Quinn was waiting outside the pub, a PADD in hand when Houghton... Stace arrived. He had all the notes, along with his notes on Stace's notes—questions, and some defending rebuttals. It was really a great honor, but he would still defend his own research. It had forced him to do quite a bit more research, but really that was a good thing. It was good for him to get back into the routine of research. It felt like he hadn't needed to in some time, so this was nice. Further, he could throw ideas at Stace, see what he thought of proto-romulan linguistic development as material for a doctoral thesis. He just hoped that Stace would agree that it was a viable topic.

The man who appeared looked like the picture in his Starfleet service record, kind of. Black plastic sunglasses covered his eyes, a faded black t-shirt that looked like it was replicated directly from a history book—and featured psychedelic artwork of Jimi Hendrix playing his guitar—covered his torso, the denim trousers he wore certainly looked like they'd seen better days, and the boots that poked out from under the shredded cuffs looked like they might be old uniform boots from before the most recent uniform redesign and wanted for a good polish. The rumpled hair and the grin certainly would have been familiar to Quinn from the recordings of the talks he'd taken in.

"Tlaric?" Stace held out his hand though he hardly slowed down as he headed inside, but he turned as he walked to keep his focus on Quinn as he went. "Ya fancy sittin' upstairs or down?"

Quinn managed to swiftly meet the handshake as Stace strode past, but he followed after. "Upstairs, I suppose? I've never been here, so... whichever one is quieter would work for me. We probably want to be able to hear each other."

"Either'll be quiet enough now, but if'n we stay long enough, downstairs will fill with the after work crowd in a coupla hours." Stace started up the stairs just inside the door. "A pint of the house favorite sound good to ya?"

"Ah, all due respect sir," Quinn managed uneasily as he went up the stairs on Stace's heels. "I'll just take water. I wouldn't want to take up a glass if I'm not actually going to have any."

Stace scrunched his face and paused about two steps from the top of the stairway. After half a moment he pulled his sunglasses off and hooked them on the collar of his shirt as he turned around to look at Quinn. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times as he tried to cue up a question– Pond had told him be kind, so he was trying to figure out the polite way to phrase his question.

"Do ya mind if I still have a pint?" he finally settled on, ever so slightly nodding his head as if to reassure himself he'd managed to hit the mark. "We can order ya a cuppa tea or coffee if'n you prefer?"

Quinn raised his hands a bit, the PADD still in one. "Oh, absolutely order a pint if you'd like... My preferences are... just for me," he said, trying not to seem an ass. "I've never held my alcohol well, and I find I work better with a clear head."

"We coulda met somewhere else," Stace said as he turned again and finished the climb to the next floor. He looked left and right real quick, then stepped to the left toward the bar. "Grab us a table, and I'll get our drinks. Just water for ya, not tea or coffee?"

Quinn's cheeks flushed red a bit. "Doc says I should probably cut back on the coffee, and you know how fleet doctors get about that sort of thing... Tea might be nice, though..." With that, he went for a table off to the side—someplace they could see all the other tables but still see the stairs.

It wasn't long before Stace arrived at the table, setting down a teacup and saucer in front of Quinn before settling into the chair across the table from the replicated leather bench Quinn had selected in the corner of the room. Stace glanced over his shoulder back toward the stairs down to the street level, made a small noise and shrugged before he took a sip of his pint.

"I shoulda asked if'n ya want milk and sugar, but just give a wave at Rylie and they'll bring it over." Stace glanced over his shoulder again at the stairs. "Good thing Diz didn't come long with today, she woulda wanted your spot. She'd asked if I wanted company when I left the shipyards, think she were disappointed I told her no."

Quinn's brow furrowed a little bit, trying to parse what Stace was saying. Most of it was getting through but a few things were falling off. He just did better with Klingon, he supposed. Maybe he always would. That was one of the weird things about being fluent in four languages and knowing several more... things started blending together, and there was only so much one brain could reasonably be expected to hold.

"Ah, well... I would guess she probably doesn't want to hear us go on about things... if Captain Waterhouse is to be believed, there's a great deal to discuss, for both of us."

"Diz woulda been bored so fast, and when she gets bored, she starts doing things to get attention. Seeing as she's your Captain’s mum, you probably don't want to..." Stace chuckled and shook his head. "Speaking of Pond, I'm still not used to her outranking me. I remember when she were born."

Quinn started putting the metaphorical blocks together about the whole situation... maybe he was just going to have to access the front facing file on the Waterhouse family in general. Might be a bit easier than trying to parse Stace's standard through the thick Cockney.

"A... SIrgh¹ of Bolian wisdom holds that it is the highest honor for parents when their children exceed them in skill and success... I suppose the same or similar should hold for other family, and mentor figures, yes?"

Stace made a face as he considered — a Klingon word dropped in the middle of the sentence, referring to Bolian wisdom. It was a unique choice. "I'm proud, but don't make it any less weird that in a proper formal situation, I hav'ta salute her and call her sir."

Quinn nodded a bit. "It makes one feel old, I suppose..." He coughed and then made to clarify, to not try to embarrass Stace. "I taught my baby brother to speak, and he's off to University in the fall."

"See? Ya get it." Stace shifted in his chair, and tapped a rhythm on his pint glass. "I hope the–" he paused, clearly trying to remember a word– "infodump in me notes on ya paper weren't overwhelmin' for ya."

"Of course not," Quinn said with a warm nod. "In fact, they made some aspects of the research a great deal more clear... I could only work with the information I could find about the UT language packs in unsealed record when I wrote the paper, so the notes on the... parallel super-processors, did help a great deal. It makes more sense how the cognitive load is managed although... Even with the... non-serialized cores, it seems like the sheer volume of information needed just to comb a language pack would be stressful on the architecture, never mind the subtleties of interactions between..." He seemed to search for a word in his mind, and appeared to settle on a Founder slur. "Solids. I would think that nonverbal communication systems... which are hard enough for some of us solids to understand and use, would cause too much of a resource drain."

Stace chuckled softly, repeating the word solids nearly silently when Quinn said it the first time. "Torchwood team usually uses fleshbag to refer to us organic folk, though if you're not on friendly terms with the lightbulb saying it, it is intended much as the Founders would use Solids. On the other hand, likewise you need to be on friendly terms with the photons you're speaking with or of, if'n you call them lightbulb, as that originated as an insult from some of the shipyards staff and the Torchwood team adopted it because our sense of humor ain't quite right." He grinned.

Quinn blinked, and then rubbed his eyes a bit, and his next words were very much not in Standard. "I'm really sorry. I don't mean to be an ass, but can we use something else, please? Standard is... not my strong suit. Never has been, really."

Stace chuckled and shook his head, as he switched to Klingon to match Quinn. "No need to apologize. River² had mentioned you grew up in Orion space, so it's understandable if Federation standard never quite caught on as well as other languages you learned at a younger age. I'm sorry that you didn't feel comfortable enough to ask me to switch languages to something you're more comfortable with before this."

"Most people aren't fluent enough in other languages for it to be comfortable to ask. And not a lot of people know Klingon, on Earth. Standard is called Standard for a reason... but thank you. It is most appreciated."

"Think nothing of it." Stace tapped at his pint glass a moment as he attempted to mentally back track the conversation, though his lips moved as if he were talking to himself to do it. "You were talking about density of the information needed in the language packs. Part of the trick is figuring out what's redundant and removing that. Something that you or I can understand needs a lot of context, lot of extra stuff to allow us to understand. It's almost like the difference between thinking in a language that one speaks as a native tongue compared to knowing enough of a language to be able to translate from a mother tongue well enough for someone else to understand. And while how the universal translator works for us by parsing the information between languages for us, it is part of the core program for the photons — they effectively have the universal translator as a mother tongue."

"Interesting, so then there would effectively be no intermediate step... That's still a great deal of iterations though, do you ever worry about them... well, for lack of a better word, running out of room, to process efficiently?... I suppose I'm just saying, do you think that my conclusions in the paper, regarding general language family consolidation, could be an effective means of chunking the information more efficiently?"

"They've already started doing that on their own!" Stace was practically bouncing in his seat as he replied, his hands drumming on this thighs in a complicated percussion. "The language packs I hand them are just the start, and they augment them, trade them around, load and unload them like clothes or jewelry would be to us. Have you read any of the papers Cor and Diz have penned about proving their sentience? It's awful it needs proving—Starfleet considers them property not unlike they once did with Data—but the research we've been doing to support their legal recognition is utterly fascinating. The way their thoughts function as a feature of their program's framework, the way they've been improving it on their own, the quirks that they've introduced as a result of self teaching themselves how their own programming works? I can recommend papers to start with if you're interested?"

Quinn's eyes lit with anticipation; finally, he could actually get hands-on with at least some research. Still, he had his heart set on Romulan-Vulcan interaction, but maybe he could save that for later. "Absolutely... and maybe now that I have a higher security clearance than a cadet, I can actually read them in full instead of the highly redacted versions," he said, half amused.

"Torchwood clearances are unusual, but since you're on River's crew it should just be a matter of putting in the paperwork to give you access to the ones that haven't been given more generalized clearance." Stace settled back in his chair and glanced over at the bar. "I'll top the list with the ones that just require you to be active fleet, and hopefully by the time you reach the ones that require higher clearance, it'll have come through."

"Success!—Thank you. That will help a great deal in theory management. It's a relief to know that I was, in fact, headed in the right direction when I began this journey...” He thought a moment. "I'm considering using the Torchwood language pack chunk data for the Romulan-Vulcan language family to... see if Proto-Romulan and early Vulcan can be naturally reverse-engineered, hopefully as far back as it can be extrapolated?" He sipped a bit of tea, and then made to clarify his prior statement. It was a rather odd thing to say, just out of the black.

"My planned doctoral thesis is regarding the two languages' development, I'm... intending to propose and defend a... well, a deeply unpopular idea you might have already heard about in the xenolinguistics community? I believe Romulan, especially its literary form, is actually closer to Middle Vulcan than Modern Vulcan is to Middle Vulcan."

"I haven't studied the two deeply enough to have much of an opinion myself, but I would like if you'd keep me updated on your progress? While I'm not sure how much would have low enough clearances for use in a thesis, I would be happy to ask if any of the lightbulbs who regularly keep Romulan and Vulcan packs loaded would be willing to poke at your hypothesis to give you more data? Even if you can't use the data directly, it could give you guidance on where to look for leads or watch for holes?"

"That would be very much appreciated, yes. If true, it would break the subject wide open for further research. I do hope that the only reason why nothing has been published on the topic is the same reason I've been strongly discouraged from pursuing it—a lack of support from the Vulcan Science Academy."

"They certainly do have a lot of sway on what is and isn't acceptable topics of study within Vulcan culture, and the delicate state of reunification talks would make the subject one likely to be politicized — whatever the data says. Especially since Spock was a heavy weight behind the efforts until he was lost during attempts to save Romulus from the nova, and now things have stalled out without his leadership." Stace sighed and rubbed his face before leaning forward over the table. He lowered his voice when he spoke again. "Not to mention the current political situation on Yridian, and Romulan leadership half swinging away from Federation sympathies. That will absolutely hinder any on going efforts to try to further reunification. Even before the coup, with both the Empress and Praetor being sympathetic to the Federation, they weren't ready to further rebuilding that bond with Vulcan yet. You might want to make sure you're mindful of the political ramifications when you poke that sehlat."

Quinn's Klingon became much more robust, less a man attempting to be scholarly, and more an IDF crewman. "I frankly find myself concerned very little about Vulco-Romulan politics regarding their little pissing contest to see which regime can be more conservative than the other," he balked. "It's a thoroughly pointless venture."

"The problem isn't if it's pointless or not, the problem is if someone in a position to disrupt your life thinks it's important. The Science Academy and Federation leadership both have opinions on the matter, so being mindful of them before they disrupt your thesis isn't a bad idea. You may not aim to step on someone's toes, but if you do, don't be surprised if they hit you in return."

Quinn's voice slowly returned back to something close to scholarly. "Censoring uncomfortable truths, and such, I suppose. Not as if the same thing doesn't happen in every other nation, I suppose... Nevertheless, I don't intend to change my topic. I'll obtain the historical records, with or without the Academy's blessing. If it slips through the cracks made for it... so be it. At least it will exist."

"I'm not telling you not to pursue it, I am just saying be prepared for backlash depending on how your findings might be taken from a political context. Especially right now given the recent coup and other revelation that arose during it." Stace coughed. He technically didn't have clearance for that particular detail, so he chose not to say it out loud, but rumor about the Tal Shiar's reappearance still traveled well outside intelligence circles, and Quinn would have reason to know about it officially both as someone assigned to Amelia's ship when it was her crew that uncovered it, and given his position on her ship was as an analyst. "Some of my biggest setbacks early in my career were from stepping into the crosshairs of someone bigger than me without realizing it. Just be mindful and prepare for it is all I'm saying.”

Quinn seemed to think about that for a moment, and then shrugged a little. "As the Bajorans say, The worst one can be is a martyr... It's translated best, 'Both ways, a hero,' I believe?..."

Stace rolled his eyes and sighed. "Worse case is likely to have your thesis wrapped up tighter than a Vulcan arsehole with high level classification and you not having your degree in the end. I would hate for someone smart as you to have that happen because you trusted the academics to stand on their own." He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm hungry, and their shepherd's pie is good here. You want anything?"

Quinn didn't make reply to the former comment, but he gave a slight shrug at the idea of the shepherd's pie. "I'll have a tin likewise, if that's a possibility." He moved his hands to rest on his arms... not quite crossing them, but close enough.

He watched Stace leave for the orders... he wasn't quite feeling perturbed, but it felt strange to him, to be in this sort of interaction. He knew consciously that Stace... probably wasn't going to require favors of him back, and yet he still felt a bit suspicious of their interaction—he wasn't used to information being free, if it came from word of mouth, and he certainly wasn't accustomed to favors like the ones Stace was offering, being free either. Where he came from, everything was about economics, everything was about trade and making sure you got the best deal for the amount you spent. He was no Ferengi, of course—it wasn't latinum at any cost, but it was... well, when violence is a deeply-ingrained part of one's way of life, one tends to not want to cheat anyone out of anything, unless it's 100% guaranteed to not have consequences.

Stace didn't seem to be the sort to aggressively call out favors, but it was always good to offer something back onto the table... maybe not of objectively equal value, but at least something to somewhat even the balance... Quinn just had to wait to see what Stace even wanted. He had an idea, to be sure, since the Captain had already given him something of a clue to work with, but there certainly were no guarantees, ever.

It wasn't long before Stace returned with two plates, and set one down in front of Quinn as he sat in his chair again. A fork was rolled in a cloth napkin sitting on the edge of the plate.

"Ain't sure if'n I know subconsciously by smell, or is just luck, but I have lost count of how often I ordered just as they pulled it fresh from the oven," Stace said in Standard again as he pulled his fork from the napkin, and shook the napkin out to spread in his lap. Then he shook his head and switched back to Klingon when he spoke again. "Sorry, right. I grew up near here, so force of habit — especially with something that brings up memories like this."

Quinn just shrugged a little. "Understandable, I think. And anyways, I can make out most of it, it's just a lot slower..." He shrugged. "Native tongue is always faster, it's how you start thinking and I don't think you ever really stop."

"True, true. Even if you can learn a language well enough to think in it, your mother tongue, or tongues, is still going to be the one your brain is hard wired for. River mentioned that's how you know Orion, yeah?" Stace closed his eyes and leaned over his plate as he inhaled, then grinned. "I know they mostly use replicated components, but they grow fresh herbs and it makes all the difference."

"It is, and I agree. Fresh ingredients are best. Hard to get that in space, I suppose... Although the Klingons still somehow manage to get fresh gagh all the way to the far reaches of Klingon influence, so maybe it's difficult, but certainly not impossible," Quinn said, before cutting into his helping with a fork.

"When success depends on happy and well cared for personnel, it's amazing what governments will figure out logistics for. Cor said something about Emperor's mess having live plants, I think they're supposed to be edible? And I know River usually has a stash of anchovies for pizza." Stace scoffed, clearly not a fan of the pizza topping in question. "I'm surprised she hasn't started growing tea, truth be told, knowing how carefully she coordinates with her grandad to keep her personal stash well stocked."

"I'll have to check in on that..." Quinn shrugged a little. "Most of the things I know how to cook with, can be grown in my quarters as long as the roommate doesn't object, so I'd likely just do it there... Different worlds use different spices to confer flavor, you know... Pazafer is an incredible stand-in for nutmeg, and Makara is quite good on pizza, if you know how to balance it with basil and oregano in the sauce... Before you try it, it's a nearly 1:30 ratio, so make the herb mix first, and then use it to flavor your sauce."

"I don't know the first thing about cooking myself. I'd probably starve if not for replicators and the skill of others, so I'm thankful for that despite some of the luck I've had. I certainly can't complain too much, I'm in a good place now." Stace fell mostly quiet as he turned his attention to his food, though his leg bounced under the table.

Quinn didn't add any statement to that. He himself had to know how to cook, mostly because he didn't really want to not know how to cook. If there was an emergency, if there was a situation wherein he didn't have access to a replicator, having basic cooking and foraging skills was a matter of having or not having food, and that sort of thing was important. Of course, rations were always a thing, and he carried them with him regularly, but there was never any guarantee of anything, and it was better to have something and not need it, than need it desperately and not have it.

The two of them ate quietly for a while before Stace coughed a little and took a drink from his pint. He wanted to ask Quinn about Orion space, to gain some insight into the culture behind the language, but Pond had said asking about his history was something for him to avoid. His attempt to bring up Orion in a less direct way seemed to have slipped under the radar, and he wasn't sure how to best reattempt. So he stayed focused on his food.

Quinn likewise continued eating, but the awkwardness grew enough that he wasn't sure that it was smart to disrupt it. Still, it would be best to put the offer on the table, make sure it didn't feel like he was a cheat.

"Penny for your thoughts, sir," he finally asked, this time in Standard. Sure, he’d been told to call the man Stace... but he was still a Commander, so opening the conversation back up... well, might be best to err on the side of caution, anyways...

Stace's eyes moved over Quinn once quickly and he shook his head. "Ain't neither of us in uniform, no reason to call me sir. Fuck, ain't like I look much deservin' of the title even in me uniform — Cor constantly threatens to do a study and find out how I wrinkle my uniform, made of supposedly wrinkle free material. I reckon is like sayin' the Titanic were unsunkable, innit? Temptin' whatever higher power there is to make a liar of ya."

"Something like that," Quinn said thoughtfully and took another casual bite of shepherd's pie. "There's always... exceptions."

"Look, a bloke like me don't get to be this old in the fleet without being promoted to brass without a reason. They put up with me because I'm useful, and I don't go nowhere 'cause Diz and Cor ain't goin' nowhere neither. I coulda retired, taken me pick of tenured whatever somewhere, and settled into civilian life if I wanted. Every time I made even so much as a hint of considering it, the arseholes at the shipyards would bend over backwards and pop their heads up their bums to keep me happy. So you don't need to blow sunshine up me arse and call me sir, there ain't much of anywhere I go no more that I don't want to — I'm here because you're smart and me goddaughter asked me nicely to talk to ya. We could even do this again, if'n ya like and haven't decided I ain't worth the trouble." Stace collected the last bite from his plate, and stuck it in his mouth as if to punctuate his statement.

Quinn continued eating as Stace spoke... the man was speaking quickly enough and with a thick enough accent that Quinn really couldn't keep up with it very well, and he blinked before shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't... catch most of that..." He blinked. "Why—why did she ask you to talk to me?" he asked flatly. At this point, he figured it would be smarter to just be direct about asking.

Stace sucked his teeth as he sat back in his chair, taking a moment to choose his words. "She said ya lit up like a nova at the prospect of bein' able to talk to me."

"And it's true," Quinn conceded, a bit thrown by Stace's choice of words, but less so by his silence. "But that wasn't your first answer, I know. And I also know, that even in the Federation, people like getting returns on investments, so... I suppose if you're not ready to admit it, then I have to guess." He finished off his own helping of shepherd's pie, and wiped his mouth, wrinkling his mustache a bit. His next words were in crisp, flawless Orion, as though the act of hopping between tongues was effortless. "But I think it would be deeply dishonest to claim that I didn't have something of a clue."

Stace grinned, but shook his head. "She did mention ya spoke Orion, and as it's uncommon to meet someone who's a native speaker outside of Orion space she knew I'd be keen to talk to ya, but that weren't the reason. She–" Stace paused again. Pond had asked he be careful and kind, but if Quinn was going to start making assumptions, wouldn't it be more of a kindness to be straight with him? "She felt she'd misstepped with ya, though she didn't tell me how, so she was asking me to talk to you in an effort to apologize for whatever it was. She knows that my social graces are sometimes lacking, so she'd asked me to mind my Ps and Qs bit extra with ya."

"She didn't... misstep, strictly," Quinn said, back in Standard once again, blinking slowly before his eyes drifted to the stairs. "Sometimes personalities just react in unexpected ways, no harm in that, and no apologies are needed..." His eyes drifted back to settle on Stace... or rather, the bridge of the man's nose. "—and you can pass that along, if you happen to be so inclined to be a messenger."

"If you stepped on someone's toes, you'd still apologize even if you didn't mean harm, yeah? It's like that, but I'll let her know what you said." Stace offered a warm smile, and he was making a point of speaking just a little slower — not much mind you, but just enough to help take the edge off his accent. "And to be clear, you don't owe me anything here. We're just two blokes, talking about language because we both enjoy it. Okay? Pond may have made the introduction as a favor—to you, to me, to both of us, doesn't matter—but I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be, and I certainly wouldn't bring you to a pub I've been drinking in since I were underage if this was just some business exchange."

Quinn's brow furrowed, and it was clear that he didn't quite believe Stace, but he figured that he might as well take the man at his word, at least until he was proven otherwise.

He eyed the door again, but his gaze returned to Stace soon after. "I suppose," he said, refusing to elaborate exactly which part of Stace's statement that he was referring to.

"Is somethin' wrong?" Stace glanced in the direction Quinn's eyes had moved twice now recently.

"Nothing, sorry. I just like to be aware of egress points... see who's coming in. Call it... a consequence of being intel side."

"Sure, sure. Don't quite get it myself, but I've been a few places in my time that provokes that instinct, so I can imagine what it'd be like to be in those sorts of places often for your job. I seen it in Pond the few times we been somewhere she weren't already familiar with, and Diz is like that too, even though she ain't intel — is why I mentioned she woulda wanted your seat when we first sat down. Back to a wall and watching a door, even somewhere she's familiar, is her preference. I could probably stand to be more aware of my surroundings, but my brain's always going on a wander without me permission, so..." Stace shrugged.

"Vigilance might not be the best for fun and games, but it does help keep people safe, that's probably what Diz is thinking," he said simply. "I suppose it's an easy habit to fall into."

"Diz is very protective, especially those she thinks needs it most. I've been benefactor of it more than a few times, though she also accuses me of being able to talk me way out of more things than is natural." Stace grinned. "I'd argue I talk meself into trouble near as much as I talk meself outta it."

"Well, I suppose that being able to get out of trouble by oneself is good... just as long as you have net trouble of zero, I think you'll be fine."

"Haven't gone deep enough in debt yet to not eventually walk away." Stace grinned ear to ear.

"And hopefully you never will," Quinn said, offering a little toast to the statement.

Stace chuckled and raised his pint glass to the toast. "Likewise I hope your vigilance pays off and keeps you safe as well."

The two of them drank, and once Quinn set his own cup down, his gaze settled on Stace. He knew that this wasn't meant to be a purely business arrangement, but still some strange paranoia within him still told him to wait until the other metaphorical shoe dropped...

"Why don't ya tell me more about your idea for your thesis on the Romulan and Vulcan languages?" Stace finally said, after taking a moment to try to decide what the look on Quinn's face said and failing.

Quinn finally nodded a bit, and switched into Klingon. "So, it's obvious that Romulans and Vulcans originally came from the same genetic, cultural, and linguistic pool. They then diverged during the time of Surak. Everyone knows basic history for the..." his brow furrowed slightly.

"Holy Four. But I believe that the schism in the species was a cultural one, but also a linguistic one as well. Surak was introducing, functionally a new language based on a syllabic script instead of the contextual hieroglyphic script that Vulcan used to have, along with all of his other reforms and such... Those who fell in line with the culture at the time would become Vulcans, while those who pushed back against the changes to the languages, would likely have split off, both because their warlike lifestyle was culturally frowned upon, but also because everyone was crowding their ancestral tongue and writing system, in favor of Early Modern Vulcan."

Quinn gave a tiny shrug. "Very little of this information was available until the nova refugees started talking to us about it, about their historical development, how pxmt factors into the way they learn language... None of that was really possible pre-Nova, because no one was allowed to talk about it. But now that we in theory have semi-reliable information on Romulan linguistic development, the Vulcan Science Academy has gotten... well, rather prickly about records and who's allowed to know what. I'm missing Early Vulcan texts that could confirm what I'm thinking, and I'm not about to go wading through the dense iconographic art in Vulcan temple ruins, I just don't have the time."

"Do you think they're refusing your request for access because they know what your goal is, or simply because they've locked down significantly in light of this new free flow of information from the Romulan refugees?" Stace replied in Klingon, following Quinn's lead. His leg stopped bouncing, but his fingers tapped on his pint glass as he chewed his lip pondering the implications of either answer.

"Well, I can access ancient Tellarite records just fine. It's specifically Romulan and Vulcan information in our stores locked down tight; I've been able to approach some Romulan xenolinguists who have resettled in the Federation since the nova, and they've given me access to what they have, but it’s not... really complete without all parts of the puzzle. And anyways in the case of a veracity lock down, it would make sense that only Romulan and Reman information was walled off, until it could be fully verified... but not Vulcan records. That seems excessive."

"I'll ask around without mentioning you or your project, just to see what I can find out, and let you know. Sometimes with Vulcans it's a matter of working out the riddle to gain access — Speak friend and enter, as it were." Stace spoke the Tolkien reference in English in the middle of the otherwise Klingon reply.

"Ah," Quinn said, partway bemused. "Not high enough into the social scheme to matter, then... I do hope they don't block your e-messaging address over it. They certainly did to mine."

"I'll ask Cor to do a little nosing around before I approach directly. Learned that lesson the hard way when I was younger — I think I still am blocked by half the University of Betazed's linguistics department to this day." He chuckled.

"Can’t imagine why," Quinn said wryly, taking another sip of tea before he set the cup down. "This is something that I hope to spark interest in, anyways. Vulcan always seemed so stuffy to me, but it's not, not in the original texts anyways."

"Their society went through a radical shift as a result of Surak's teachings, and as language serves the need of the society, it's also understandable that Vulcan language would need to undergo a similar radical shift to keep up with it. As the Romulans split from Vulcan society as a result of rejecting this radical shift, it would be unsurprising if their language shifted less as a result. However, I can see how from a political perspective, it might be seen to a challenge the logic of Vulcan belief in Surak's teachings instead of acknowledgement of how transformative his teachings were for their society. If you can reach the right supporters, I could see this area of research becoming critical to the further efforts of reunification as both societies need to come to peace with their differences in order to heal the schism."

"I can only really hope... but first I have to get it written, and that might take awhile," Quinn said thoughtfully.

"The first one's the hardest, but it is just one word after the other in the end, and sometimes you get lucky and hit a hyperfocus when no one is going to disrupt it." Stace then snorted and shook his head. "Or to take a quote from the Klingons, since we are speaking their tongue, 'Four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man'."

Quinn nodded. "Agreed. I'm not sure if I'll attempt to pursue a less taxing station more conducive to a continuing education designation while I try to write the main bulk of my dissertation... The Emperor is not a bad ship, but it is quite a... lively ship. Lots of distractions from work."

Stace laughed. "That's what you get for being on River's ship. She's a lot like her mother that way, and let me tell you my time posted with Diz–" He shook his head and smiled. "Diz was good for me. We're posted together now too, but shipyards aren't the same as a starship. She put me on her away teams a lot, despite protests from our crew mates who couldn't stand me, and it was nice to break up all that sitting behind a desk working on the universal translator. Give it a chance for a while, and if you still want something quieter after some time, at least you'll have gotten a bit of wind through your hair first."

"All due respect, but... I think I've had enough excitement for one lifetime already," Quinn said, his voice laced with a dry humor as his eyes seemed to dim just a bit.

Stace was quiet a long moment as he considered what Quinn said. "You'd know your own life better than me."

Quinn blinked, visibly coming back to the present, and just gave a little nod. "Perhaps someday things will be different, but not yet. I'm willing to wait."

"I can say that River spoke highly of you, so I believe she would be disappointed if you asked for a transfer from her ship. If you need less excitement, maybe try talking to her about it?"

"I will... consider it. I wasn't expecting to be transferred away from my old posting, and I do not know if it will happen again, but until it does, likely best to make do."

"The fleet works in mysterious ways," Stace said and scoffed. "The whole time I was posted on the Shingen—the first time I served with Diz—I was technically on loan from the shipyards with no specific end date planned. They finally pulled me back not long after Diz and Cor were transferred to another ship — we guessed it was because my bosses felt I was more productive with Diz and Cor around, and they weren't wrong. Thankfully I'd learned to better advocate for myself by then, so things were better when they recalled me."

"That's encouraging, at least... I'm glad you had that sort of support system for yourself until you could get your metaphorical sea legs."

"It came a lot later than I needed. My time in the fleet before that was rough, and I spent most of my time rejecting the help medical offered me because it wasn't the right help and I didn't know how to explain what I needed instead. Fuck, even before the fleet... Mum had enough she was dealing with, she missed what was going on with me. School tried to tell her, but..." Stace shrugged. "I wish I'd figured out how to communicate with medical sooner, instead of just rejecting them out of hand."

Quinn nodded. "Better late than never, is an old human adage, I believe?... If you're in a better place now, that surely counts for something."

"It does. I can be thankful for where I am now while still acknowledging what went wrong, especially if doing so can help others avoid the same problems. I tend to be very open talking about what I went through, in hopes that hearing might help someone else navigate things better and get their help sooner if they need it." Stace shifted in his seat as he thought a moment. "River mentioned that you'd grown up in Orion space, and I note that you specifically called that saying out as Human... do you feel like you're an outsider here?"

Quinn tilted his head. "Maybe a bit," he said thoughtfully. "I was... maybe eight or nine before I saw another member of my species? I guess that's a good thing, all considered, but it makes life... strange. Now that I'm here, people look like me, but that's where the similarity ends. Their rationality, language—it's all foreign. I almost felt more at home visiting Jalanda City than going to Starfleet Academy."

Stace scrunched his face and sipped his pint—he noted it was nearly empty and needed to decide if he was going to order another—as he tried to remember if he knew where Jalanda city was. Right, Bajor. "I haven't been to Jalanda city, but a friend of mine's wife's ex-husband is from Bajor, so I've got second hand knowledge through her. Beautiful planet, especially once they found their footing in their recovery from the Occupation."

"Bajor has a beautiful culture, a robust sense of community from a shared faith... I never was a strong believer in the Prophets, but the Bajorans have my unceasing respect. Their faith, dedication, tenacity, and sense of community brought them through the Occupation, and that's certainly nothing to dismiss."

"Even as someone who considers himself atheist, it's hard to look at the relationship between the people of Bajor and the Prophets, and not see something special. To quote an old Earth writer, sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, and by extension, a sufficiently advanced species could be indistinguishable from gods. The only thing I really believe in is community and family, and whatever the reality of the relationship there on Bajor between the two species, it has built a strong community. As you said, it carried them through the Occupation." Stace emptied his pint glass, and looked over to the bar as he held up the empty. The bar tender nodded and set to filling its replacement.

"My mother believed in the Prophets, but... it's difficult to cling to traditions when, in addition to it being illegal, you can only rely on the pieced-together second-hand memories of a handful of people. She was one of the strongest women I've ever met, kept her faith—to her traditions, her culture—even when she had no way to ever confirm if she was even doing it right. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn't... It didn't matter, she passed it on to us as best she could."

"Looking in from the perspective of an atheist, the important part of any faith seems to be the community and support it brings. It sounds like she succeeded at forming that bond, regardless of how well she got the specifics right. Besides, what I remember of the reports I read of the Prophets from Starfleet's interactions with them, they seemed to be pretty benevolent towards the Bajoran people, so I'd hope that means they'd take your mother's intention as more important than getting the details right." Stace offered a smile as Rylie approached with a fresh pint.

"Anything else I can get you gents while I'm here?" they asked as they set the pint down, and collected the two empty plates and Stace's empty pint.

Quinn switched back into Standard briefly. "If I could trouble you for a glass of water, please, it would be very much appreciated," he said with a nod at them.

"Sparkling or still?" Rylie asked.

"Ah, still is perfect," he said with a little nod. "Sparkling has always been a bit... intense for my taste."

Rylie returned the nod and after Stace gave them a quick shake of his head, they headed off to get the requested water.

Quinn's gaze followed them back to the bar, before he sighed lightly. His next words, were back to Klingon. "If I could have another life, I think I would... This seems like a nice place to spend a childhood."

"For most people it is. Mum didn't pay as much attention to me as I needed, so my childhood was a bit rough — I grew up a bit feral. At least with replicators I could largely take care of myself once I was old enough to reach and understand the controls." As Stace spoke, Rylie returned, quietly setting Quinn's glass of water in front of him and ducking out of the way so as to not disturb the conversation that they couldn't understand. "It sounds like you had at least one parent that cared about you though, so that was a silver lining on whatever else you went through, right?"

"Something like that," Quinn said simply, taking a sip of the water Rylie brought. "Kids grow up fast in Orion-held territory—they kind of have to." He set his glass down. "I was designated a taxpaying citizen by ten years old. Well, that's kind of an exaggeration, but... not by much."

"I certainly don't know much about Orion culture, but that that's absolutely too young for anyone to be treated like an adult." Stace shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"You might say that, but the earlier you start paying your dues to society, the less interest you accrue on your life-debt... It's a tradeoff, but... well, that's how it was explained to me when I... started working."

"Life-debt." Stace repeated the word in something akin to confusion and disgust. "As in you owe a debt just for the simple fact that you live?"

"Not to live, necessarily. To live in a society? ...perhaps. Immigrants to Orion territories are charged the same price for citizenship. An entry fee, perhaps, but one that accrues interest, depending on who you offer your soul to, to get the down payment," he said, taking another drink. "Some people are able to pay the fee out of pocket. Some of us... aren't quite that lucky."

"That's fucked up, mate," Stace blurt this out in Standard, and a few heads turned his direction for it. He cleared his throat as he noticed and switched back to Klingon. "You don't ask to be born there, even if one could possibly accept it for those who choose to travel there. Which given that this sounds like a substantial amount of money, I still would have a hard time accepting."

"About a hundred eighty bricks of latinum, or the equivalent, before all considerations. Once you've paid in full, though, there's no taxes, no fees—you've paid your debts to society, you get to join... Anh'taran in the golden cities." He made no attempt to veil his contempt as he spat out the word, as though it were vile merely being in his mind.

"So when Jack..." Stace started to say this to himself, and shook his head. "And if you can't afford to pay, there are people who will happily pay for you and they then treat you as their property?" It was an easy enough hypothesis for one to form, knowing how infamous Orions were for their slave trade.

"Something like that. If you were a lender, you would pay the debt, and receive a deed. You receive back your payment—the borrower's labor is yours, by default. Some people will purchase labor deeds in bulk, at discounted prices, and resolve it through some... legal loopholes. Other lenders are... far less charitable."

"And if someone in Starfleet were to just liberate a bunch of these people, Orion government might call this theft and call for this person's head through diplomatic channels, right?"

"I mean, just think about what the Ferengi would do in reaction to the forcible confiscation of, say, several hundred thousand bricks of latinum... That's brazen foreign interference into the economy, a declaration of war outright... And the Federation would never do something outwardly aggressive like that—they're the good guys, after all, and good guys never fire the first shot."

"Or Starfleet slaps the Captain on the wrist when he swoops in and defies the delicate balance negotiated by the diplomats." Stace picked up his pint glass and took a drink.

"That only happened because—" Quinn's mouth practically snapped shut. "Because the Syndicate had already disavowed him."

"Jack doesn't go near Orion space since making Brass, so he's fine. And if anything happened to him? Well, pretty sure Diz and Cor would raise the whole family and there would be blood." Stace's statement was even, there wasn't a doubt in his mind of Diz and Cor's reactions were anything to happen to Jack.

Quinn looked at Stace for a few long moments, didn't bother to respond, though. He tilted his head as he searched for words to say... ones that weren't brazenly impolite, or just downright offensive. He couldn't think of any, and he had been working on the whole 'not saying what he really wanted to say, all the time' situation...

So he didn't. He took another sip of water, and briefly scanned the room again, just for safekeeping.

Stace chewed his lip. He felt like there was a bit more going on in this conversation that he didn't follow, but as Pond had asked him not to dig into Quinn's background it was probably best to stage a strategic retreat. He finally cleared his throat.

"Sorry, I stepped in it a bit there, yeah?" The apology came in standard, in part because Klingons weren't big on apologies, and it was easier to say even being mindful of his accent.

Quinn sighed, switched into Standard. "I mean... what do you want me to tell you? Congratulate you on your privilege? That you have people who both care about you, and are also alive? Good for you, there you go."

Stace shook his head. "You don't owe me shite. I were apologizing because I–" He shook his head and stood up. "I were clearly speaking to something I don't know enough 'bout. If'n ya still want to talk to me after this, I'm happy to try again. Hopefully I won't put me foot in me mouth next time, yeah?"

"I mean… I'm willing to try." Quinn sighed again. "And... you can't be faulted for not knowing something you don't know, something you couldn't have known."

He shook his head. "Fed database on Orions, their language, their culture, their government... abysmal. I understand why. Most people would want to distance themselves from that after leaving... but it does make it difficult to educate people—especially to educate people how to help, and maybe not... what was it, the expression you said, put their feet in their mouths?"

"Perhaps next time, I can tell you all about what's wrong with the Fed database on the Orions."

"I'd appreciate the chance to try. You can pick our meeting spot next time, yeah?" And with that Stace offered him a polite nod of the head and he whistled a tune as he made his way down the stairs to leave the pub again.

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