#the defiant is a cool ship concept but not very interesting to look at

[tanadrin]

I have great affection for the Enterprise-D, but the Galaxy-class design is just bad. It’s obviously a prestige design meant to flex the Federation’s shipbuilding power, but the result is a ship that’s not well-suited for any of the missions given to it.

Is it meant to be a GSV-like general-purpose support platform? If so, its size makes sense, and the civilian presence; you imagine it staying generally within core regions of the Federation, moving from planet to planet to support terraforming projects, do disaster relief, help colonies get off the ground, and help with big space-based construction projects. But then its weaponry and frontier science capabilities are largely wasted.

Is it an exploration vessel? Okay, then you’re crazy to put vulnerable civilians on it. It will regularly have to go into dangerous conditions and deal with novel threats. Its weaponry makes a bit more sense, but it’s still weirdly heavily armed. It is also insanely large, unless you’re going to devote most of its space to making it self-sufficient, like a kind of mobile starbase that can go out into unexplored space for years at a time, which it clearly isn’t. And it’s clearly not a small planetary science platform like the Oberth or Nova-class, a role in which 95% of the Galaxy’s capabilities would be wasted.

Is it a combat vessel, as it’s used in the Dominion war? The armament makes sense then, but most of its bulk is wasted. You should at least give over some of that space to carrying smaller combat craft, like fighters. You definitely don’t need all the civilian spaces, and in fact you’d be utterly insane to carry civilians into combat like that. It could form the core of a larger battlegroup, like an aircraft carrier, but again, it doesn’t really fulfill a carrier function, it’s just a big weapons platform. Smaller ships, like the Defiant-class, that are more maneuverable and punch well above their weight, are a much better investment. Presumably Galaxies only see combat because the Federation needs all hands on deck.

In short, it tries to be everything and does nothing, except show off Utopia Planitia’s shipbuilding capabilities. It’s a bit like the Space Shuttle. Later generalist ships like the Sovereign class pull away from the absurdity of the Galaxy, and for good reason. Its real function is clearly diplomatic, a way for the Federation to show off when encountering new species and getting into scrapes with old ones, which I guess makes sense as a lot of the Enterprise-D’s missions were diplomatic in nature like that. But it’s an awful mixup between a big starship and a small starbase. I’d much be on something smaller, with a more specific mission profile like frontier exploration.

[edierone]

Sirens, Coelacanths, and Other Sensitive Topics

It’s a very, very long, cold, wind-whipped five minutes, trying to keep up with her as she stalks down the block, furiously puffing on her Lucky Strike. He’s accepted that they’re not going to do it tonight, and is only wondering whether she’ll let him walk her to her dorm or just peel off at the campus gates, leaving him standing there like the idiot he is, when she finally speaks.

“Spooky—”

Oh thank god — she may be mad, but not mad enough to give up the nickname she’s reclaimed and redeemed from his most hated teenage memories.

“Yeah?” he says pathetically, hopefully.

“Did you have to go on and on about submarines ‘Still on Patrol,’ at dinner with a Navy wife?”

He’d been unable to help himself — he was so fascinated with the Navy concept of how ships lost at sea were said to be “still on patrol,” never lost or gone or whatever, and how creepy yet cool that was. He’d noticed her mom was kind of quiet while he plied her dad with questions about that, and also mermaids and sirens and coelacanths, but didn’t think about why … oops.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking! My mouth kind of runs away with me sometimes —”

“No kidding,” she says wryly, slowing her pace at last, looking up at him with an amused “you dork” expression.

“Was that what that fight was about, with your dad?”

He and Mrs. Scully had shared an extremely awkward few minutes of the smallest of talk while Dana and her dad had argued ten feet away once they’d left the restaurant, both of them trying to hear what the argument was about and both trying not to show it.

She laughs mirthlessly, stopping to douse her cigarette in a wilted snowbank and toss it in a garbage can. “No, that was just a tip, to you, from me, about making a good impression on my mom. My DAD decided he had some kind of right to tell me who I should date, thus: argument.”

He winces. “Not me, I take it?”

“Not just not you, but specifically this absolute twerp son of some guy he served with fifteen years ago, and why didn’t I even call him back, which was because: Fuck no, even if I weren’t with you, I’m not interested, and besides it’s none of my dad’s business.”

Her smile is a flash of defiant anger that changes to salty-sweet when she meets his eyes. “A year ago, I would’ve gone out with the guy — once — to keep the peace with Dad. But now — I don’t feel like doing that anymore. It isn’t honest.”

“So, what — I’m your rebellion?” he jokes, hoping with all his might that he’s more than that.

“No, you’re my …” she trails off, tilting her head contemplatively, slipping her hands into his coat pockets and pulling him closer.

“What?” he asks, softer than he intended; his heartbeat went kind of erratic there for a second.

“My Mulder,” she says simply, with a one-shouldered shrug, as if that were a complete answer, and he guesses it is. He slides his arms around her waist under her unbuttoned coat. She shivers at the cold of his hands through her thin black sweater, but they both warm up as they’re pressed together. He tucks her head under his chin, buries his nose in her coppery hair and breathes in — her shampoo, the remnants of the Lucky Strike, the chocolatey cinnamon scent of the dessert they’d shared. He doesn’t care if her parents think he’s a weirdo. Oh, god, his bookish little strike-anywhere match of a girlfriend — he wants to live with her, wants to marry her, wants to stand like this forever, on a campus side-street, wrapped up in each other, the two of them against the world — none of which he can imagine saying to her out loud, as long as he lives.  

“Take me back to your apartment?” she asks, muffled against his turtleneck. “I don’t have lab till ten tomorrow.”

He hasn’t ruined it? She likes him, actually still really likes him, even after this semi-disaster of a meeting with the two people she’s closest to and admires most in the world? She is — she’s a goddamn miracle, is what she is. She’s —

“I love you,” he says suddenly, the tight ache in his chest apparently forcing the words out, past all his rational and irrational impediments.

She stills, and he wonders with sharp horror whether he’s ruined it, after all.

She removes her hands from his pockets — oh no, please, don’t do that, he begs her silently — and then to his immense relief, leans back from him just enough to be able to look him in the eye. This is not the look of a girl with whom he has ruined things, no. She cups his face, so gently he wants to cry, and strokes his cheekbones softly with her thumbs.

She nods, that adorable thoughtful furrow appearing between her eyebrows, and solemnly tells him, “I love you too. I have since the beginning.”

And suddenly, he’s not cold at all anymore. He’s filled with a bubbling, effervescent joy — a feeling he’s never known before but instantly can’t imagine being without. He struggles to find words; “I’m a giant Zotz candy inside!” probably won’t have the effect he’s going for.

But then she bounces onto her toes and kisses him, just getting the corner of his mouth, and he catches and holds her there, almost laughing as he slants his head to get a better angle. The wind blows her long hair against his neck like a scarf as he kisses her like it’s the best idea he’s ever had.

A yammering group of students edges past them on the sidewalk, jostling them a little, and they both remember where they are — and where they were headed.

He takes both of her hands in his and backs away, pulling her with him. She catches up, burrows under his coat and tucks herself against him with one arm slung low around his hips as they cross the street, heading north. It’s the longest and shortest, coldest and warmest three-block walk of his life.  

---------------- link to the original post, now fucked up by tumblr so the “read more” doesn’t work; it was from one of the Things You Said prompts: #40, things you said when you met my parents, sent to me by @contrivedcoincidences6