Chapter Text
Amsterdam Orbital Shipyard, Earth – December 18, 2351
“Sagan to Shuttle-pod One, you are cleared to approach port-side for docking. Welcome aboard, Captain.”
“We copy, Sagan, thank you. We’ll see you shortly.”
The shuttle-pod that approached along the port beam of the Constellation-class starship, registry NCC-9417, contained four old comrades, the captain and three senior officers formerly of the starship Prokofiev. They were all somewhat the worse for wear, having stayed up far too long the previous night and having imbibed far too much alcohol as they raucously reminisced about their times together, good and bad.
Captain Abidemi Tinubu set her hand on the shoulder of Commander th’Skaar as she squinted against the hangover-aggravating glare of the drydock’s enormous lighting arrays. “I’m glad you agreed to this, Scar. Trusting middies at the helm always gives me indigestion, no matter how reliable the safety overrides.”
She was a smaller woman, a human of West African descent, with a smoothly shaved head, small mouth, and expressive eyes. She wore Starfleet’s new and distinctly uncomfortable one-piece jumpsuit uniform in command red, the four pips of her captaincy prominently displayed on the neckline.
Th’Skaar, the tall Andorian, grinned as his antenna waved in amusement. He had closely cropped white hair, a prominent nose and widely set eyes which seemed to track anyone and everything in his presence. His uniform was red also, indicative of both his helm and command responsibilities. “I only signed on to this hitch because you agreed to buy the good stuff, Captain. ‘Will work for Aldeberran whiskey,’ that’s my motto.”
This elicited a groan from Captain Evgeni Morozov, Tinubu’s former first officer and now a semi-retired academy instructor in interstellar diplomacy. The diminutive Russian held a hand to his mouth and shook his head theatrically. “Don’t mention the whiskey. I should have stuck to tequila.” Morozov was of slight stature, with mid-length sandy blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and a mouth which seemed to bear a perpetual good-natured grin.
“I still can’t believe you don’t drink vodka,” Doctor Carol Cavanaugh offered, fiddling with a hypo-spray she’d pulled from her medical satchel. “That seems so wrong somehow.”
Cavanaugh was a willowy brunette, a strikingly handsome woman with dark hair worn to below her shoulders, high-cheekbones and hazel eyes that could turn an icy green when she was provoked. She was clad in a blue medical variation of the jumpsuit, but elected not to wear the accompanying physician’s coat.
“Kak ty smeyesh?” Morozov snapped in feigned insult, having successfully fought back a wave of nausea. “That’s a stereotype, Doc,” he continued. “Fermented potato juice made by Russian peasants will never come close to the blissful nectar of the blue agave.”
Cavanaugh laughed lightly and moved to press the hypo to Morozov’s neck with a quiet hiss. “Scar seems fine, but you and Adi are definitely going to need this if you want to look presentable for the kids.”
Morozov grunted sourly as his hangover began to abate. “Cadets and all that raw enthusiasm. Deities preserve us.”
“Careful now, Evgeni Vladimirovich, once upon a time that was us,” Tinubu chided, taking her turn at the receiving end of Cavanaugh’s hypo-spray. “Besides, we survived five years in the Tyresian Expanse, I think we can handle a little training cruise.”
“But of course, Captain. Though, shouldn’t Clarden have thrashed them all into shape by now?” th’Skaar inquired, tongue firmly in-cheek.
This produced a genuine smile from Tinubu. “I’m sure the senior chief has them spit-polishing the plasma relays as we speak.”
“Here we go,” the Andorian observed suddenly, slewing the shuttle-pod into an abrupt approach to Sagan’s airlock. He initiated the retro-thrusters at the last possible second so that the pod’s aft end gently kissed the magnetic clamps, turning what had looked like impending disaster into a textbook docking approach.
The other three officers, caught unawares, had sprawled awkwardly throughout the pod’s interior.
“Ass!” huffed Morozov as he moved to disentangle himself from Cavanaugh. “Sorry, doc.”
Cavanaugh resisted being moved off of him for a long moment, holding eye contact. “You weren’t complaining last night.” With that she ducked in for a brief kiss that while being unexpected was most certainly welcome.
Tinubu and th’Skaar shared a disbelieving look as they clambered to their feet.
“What the hell?” Tinubu blurted. “When did this happen?”
The green light next to the hatch lit up, and the four of them came scrambling awkwardly to a semblance of order as the hatch doors hissed open to reveal a welcoming party comprised of two rows of cadets flanking the airlock.
A bosun’s whistle trilled and Tinubu, her head now spinning with revelations rather than dehydration, stepped forward.
“Company, atten-shun!” barked Senior Chief Desmond Clarden.
Fifty cadets, twenty-five to each side, snapped smartly to attention as Tinubu crossed the threshold. "Permission to come aboard?" she asked by rote.
"Permission granted, sir," Clarden offered the traditional reply.
She approached Clarden and extended a hand, smiling warmly at Prokofiev’s former senior enlisted man. “Senior Chief, how good to see you again.”
“And you, Captain Tinubu,” Clarden replied, shaking her offered hand.
“Of course you remember Captain Morozov, Dr. Cavanaugh, and Commander th’Skaar.”
“Indeed I do, sir. A pleasure to see all of you again.”
Tinubu stepped past the chief, seeming to notice the assembled cadets for the first time. She walked down the line, noting the faces and bearings of the midshipmen selected for the five-week training cruise that would cap their plebe year at Starfleet Academy. More senior cadets on the command track would serve as supervising officers and department heads as the experienced academy instructors kept careful watch over the lot of them.
“I know that you’re all eager to begin this assignment, but it’s important to remember that for most of you this will be your first real taste of shipboard life. The classroom is one thing, but as important as it is, nothing can match the experience of being only meters away from naked vacuum. This is where you’ll learn that you will have to rely on the people standing across from and on either side of you to keep you alive, just as they’re depending on you for the same. I and your other instructors will be here to guide, observe, and mold you as you take these first steps into this new paradigm.”
Tinubu paused to inspect one particular cadet, a young man standing ramrod straight, eyes focused like lasers, expression taut with anticipation. There was always at least one. The young person wound so tightly that you could shove a stellar-mass up their backside and within an hour they’d produce neutronium.
“And you are?” she inquired coolly.
“Midshipman Fourth Class Donald Sandhurst, engineer’s mate, sir.” He almost kept his voice from cracking when he replied. Almost.
“First training cruise, Mister Sandhurst?”
“Yes, sir!”
Tinubu nodded soberly, only her decades of experience enabling her to keep a straight face. “I see.” She leaned in and whispered, “You might want to ease up just a bit before you strain something.”
It seemed to take a determined effort on Sandhurst’s part to relax ever so slightly while remaining at attention.
Tinubu turned back to Clarden. “Have our personal effects been beamed over, Senior Chief?”
“They have, sir.”
“Then let us begin the pre-flight inspection.”
“Company, at ease and dis-missed!” Clarden barked, freeing the cadets to resume their previous duty posts. The senior chief joined the officers as they made their way towards main engineering.
The cadets scattered in all directions and as Sandhurst moved towards the nearest corridor, a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Sandy,” called Midshipman Second Class Bartolo, using his hated nickname. The larger man towered over Sandhurst, all muscle and swagger, his hair shaved high-and-tight in the tradition of those cadets pursuing the security/tactical track.
Sandhurst swallowed the acid reply on the end of his tongue and resumed his at-attention stance. “Sir?”
“That was just downright adorable, Sandy. I think you’ve made an excellent first impression with the captain, don’t you?” Bartolo sneered.
“I wouldn’t presume to know, sir,” Sandhurst replied stolidly.
“Riiiight,” Bartolo drawled. “Just a housekeeping note, Mister Sandhurst. I’ve made some adjustments to the cabin assignments on deck six. I’ll be bunking with Votor, and I’m assigning the non-trad to bunk with you.”
Sandhurst had winced before he realized he was doing it, giving Bartolo exactly the response he’d been hunting for. “May I inquire why the change, sir?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, you may. To be blunt, he gives me the creeps and I’d rather not have to cohabitate with him for five weeks.”
It was uncharacteristic of Bartolo to be so forthcoming, but he was apparently feeling generous as he’d just found out that on this cruise he would be the de-facto chief security officer aboard.
“Understood, sir,” Sandhurst replied dutifully. In truth, he was furious. Non-traditional cadets were those who joined Starfleet later in life, bringing a variety of life-experiences with them that the typical eighteen-to-twenty-two-year-old cadets often lacked. However, this usually meant the non-trads felt the need to share their accumulated wisdom with their younger comrades, whether it had been asked for or not. They were generally seen by more mainstream midshipmen as being smarmy know-it-all's who brown-nosed the instructors and tried to dominate their younger fellows with varying degrees of success.
In this case, the non-trad wasn’t an over-sharing kiss ass. On the contrary, he was quiet and kept mostly to himself. It was simply the way the man looked at you, as though he could see right through you. Like he was studying an insect in a microscope.
Bartolo snapped his fingers and waved over the other cadet. “You… what’s your name? Lagos?”
The other cadet was smaller than Sandhurst, and his uniform bore the blue highlights of the science division. He had closely cropped wavy black hair and appeared to be in his early thirties.
“No, sir,” he corrected as he stepped forward and came to attention in front of Bartolo. “Lagos is a city on Earth. My name is Lar’ragos.”
“You being smart with me, Lar’ragos?” Bartolo snapped.
“I would hope so, sir,” Lar’ragos replied without hesitation. “Being a Starfleet cadet, I doubt I’d be here if I were deficient in that regard.”
The man’s expression was carefully neutral, and Bartolo continued to stare at him, trying to divine whether he was being subjected to insubordination.
Sandhurst struggled to maintain a straight face, gratified to see someone giving back to Bartolo what he was legendary for dishing out.
“Fine, whatever,” Bartolo said. “This is Sandy, your new bunk-mate. I’m sure you two will get on famously.” With that, Bartolo strode out of the compartment, undoubtedly set on spreading hate and discontent elsewhere.
Lar’ragos gave Sandhurst that bug-under-the-microscope stare as he extended a hand. “Call me Pava, roomie.”
* * *