Construction crews were everywhere, a mixed bag of Starfleet engineers and civilian contractors scurrying about the vast complex. Not that it bothered Ambler Furry as he carried on his way. He had majored in Engineering at Recruit Training Command Great Lakes, learning the ins and outs of warp-theory and engines, before being let lose as a Crewman.
Opened panels, lose wiring and tools were like old friends.
If he was honest with himself, Furry wished he had stayed in the engineering track and as a non-commissioned officer. Circumstances had other ideas, thrusting him in a command a decade earlier.
Upon entering an intersection, he stopped before looking both ways.
The intersection was just your standard, run of the mill corridors that connected. If his memory was correct, he was somewhere on the outskirts on the fifth level of the ground installation. Not that it meant anything. He needed to be on the first level, where Central Operations was situated. It was also where his appointment was to be.
Furry checked the old-fashioned watch and sighed. He was going to be late.
“Can’t have that,” he muttered. Spotting a Starfleet engineer, Furry walked over. “Got a sec, PO? I seem to have taken a wrong turn.”
The engineer glanced up from what she was doing. “Where you need to be, sir?”
“Admiral Mayweather’s office, Central Ops.”
The engineer raised an eyebrow and looked about, thinking. “There’s a turbo-lift to the left. It’ll take you to Level One.”
Waving his thanks, Furry started to jog down the corridor.
Sure enough, the turbo-lift was there. Relieved, he stepped inside and requested his level. As the elevator shot up, Furry considered his summons. A two-star admiral, Mayweather commanded the entire length of the Klingon Neutral Zone.
What a Rear Admiral wanted with a mere Commander was anyone’s guess. Hope like hell it doesn’t have to do with the Lerveno, he thought as the turbo-lift doors whispered open.
He started forward, only to hesitate.
There was activity across the threshold, the type associated with a Central Operations. Furry stepped out. Officers and enlisted were in their stations, keeping tabs on the construction going on throughout the surface starbase, shipping and whatever was going on both sides of the border.
An officer walked over to him.
“Commander?” asked the officer.
“I’m here to see Admiral Mayweather,” said Furry.
“Is he expecting you?”
Furry glanced at his watch. “About eight minutes ago,” he said, turning back.
The young officer took pity on him and checked in with the admiral’s yeoman. Before he knew it, Furry was ushered into the admiral inner sanctum.
He came to attention. “Commander Ambler Furry, reporting as ordered.”
For his part, Admiral Mayweather continued reading whatever it was on the desktop. That’s fine, thought Furry, I can be invisible. He waited patiently, drawing in what little he knew of the admiral.
Rumor had it that the admiral may be a direct descendent of Travis Mayweather, the helmsman of the very first Enterprise. Another rumor was that Mayweather was the devil incarnate, a tough taskmaster and not someone to cross.
“Furry, as in, with two rs?” Admiral Mayweather finally looked over the desktop.
“Yes, sir.”
“Peculiar, isn’t it?” the admiral went on, studying Furry carefully while leaning back. “I initially was doubtful if you were real, Commander. I mean, who in their right mind would have ‘Furry’ as a surname. Fortunately for you, I did some digging. Furry is a standardization of Farachain, which was Gaelic in origin. Irish, in other words,” announced Mayweather. “Fascinating, isn’t it? Almost as much as your service jacket, Commander. Started down the engineering track, graduated from Great Lakes near the middle of your class.
“You served under Captain Crowley predominantly early on in your career, where you switched to Ops. When Crowley was given Independence, you transferred over after being mustanged. Your commissioned career is like a goddamn snakes and ladders game. God only knows how you managed to get this far.”
Furry wanted to say, “with luck and determination,” but kept quiet.
Mayweather picked up a padd. “I spoke with Crowley. He thinks you’re the kind of officer this command needs.” The admiral cocked his head. “What do you know about this command, by the way?”
“It’s the neutral zone, mostly empty space with some star systems not suitable for long-term colonization. At least on our side of the border, unless you ignore the likes of here, Starbase 123, K7 and a couple other places. Plus, you’ve got the Romulans to contend with.”
“That and other things, yes,” agreed Admiral Mayweather. “But yes, we’re the piggy in the middle, as it were.”
It also explained why the Federation Security Council appointed a two-star, rather than the usual commodore. Rear Admiral Derik Mayweather had the dual job of keeping the border safe, along with playing diplomat with neighboring governments.
Mayweather waved him over.
“This is where you come in, Commander,” the admiral carried on while Furry crossed the distance. “Now, I’d normally leave this kind of thing to Commodore Lemed, but he’s across the border. So, here we are.
“Your assignment.” Mayweather handed the padd over. “Oberth class, the Theseus. She’s what they call a ‘medium endurance cutter’. She’s part of the Border Service squadron attached to H'atoria sector.”
“I’m familiar with the class, sir.”
“Of course, you are,” countered Mayweather. “She’s yours.”
Grabbing the padd, Furry activated the small screen on the device. “Mine, sir?” he asked.
“Theseus needs a captain, Commander. You’re it,” said Mayweather. “As Crowley said, you’re the right person for the job.”
Furry hesitated for a brief second, not sure how to respond. Captain Crowley—now a Rear Admiral back in San Francisco—had been considered as a tactical genius, diplomat and explorer. While not in the same league as Archer, Pike or Kirk, Crowley was respected.
Opened panels, lose wiring and tools were like old friends.
If he was honest with himself, Furry wished he had stayed in the engineering track and as a non-commissioned officer. Circumstances had other ideas, thrusting him in a command a decade earlier.
Upon entering an intersection, he stopped before looking both ways.
The intersection was just your standard, run of the mill corridors that connected. If his memory was correct, he was somewhere on the outskirts on the fifth level of the ground installation. Not that it meant anything. He needed to be on the first level, where Central Operations was situated. It was also where his appointment was to be.
Furry checked the old-fashioned watch and sighed. He was going to be late.
“Can’t have that,” he muttered. Spotting a Starfleet engineer, Furry walked over. “Got a sec, PO? I seem to have taken a wrong turn.”
The engineer glanced up from what she was doing. “Where you need to be, sir?”
“Admiral Mayweather’s office, Central Ops.”
The engineer raised an eyebrow and looked about, thinking. “There’s a turbo-lift to the left. It’ll take you to Level One.”
Waving his thanks, Furry started to jog down the corridor.
Sure enough, the turbo-lift was there. Relieved, he stepped inside and requested his level. As the elevator shot up, Furry considered his summons. A two-star admiral, Mayweather commanded the entire length of the Klingon Neutral Zone.
What a Rear Admiral wanted with a mere Commander was anyone’s guess. Hope like hell it doesn’t have to do with the Lerveno, he thought as the turbo-lift doors whispered open.
He started forward, only to hesitate.
There was activity across the threshold, the type associated with a Central Operations. Furry stepped out. Officers and enlisted were in their stations, keeping tabs on the construction going on throughout the surface starbase, shipping and whatever was going on both sides of the border.
An officer walked over to him.
“Commander?” asked the officer.
“I’m here to see Admiral Mayweather,” said Furry.
“Is he expecting you?”
Furry glanced at his watch. “About eight minutes ago,” he said, turning back.
The young officer took pity on him and checked in with the admiral’s yeoman. Before he knew it, Furry was ushered into the admiral inner sanctum.
He came to attention. “Commander Ambler Furry, reporting as ordered.”
For his part, Admiral Mayweather continued reading whatever it was on the desktop. That’s fine, thought Furry, I can be invisible. He waited patiently, drawing in what little he knew of the admiral.
Rumor had it that the admiral may be a direct descendent of Travis Mayweather, the helmsman of the very first Enterprise. Another rumor was that Mayweather was the devil incarnate, a tough taskmaster and not someone to cross.
“Furry, as in, with two rs?” Admiral Mayweather finally looked over the desktop.
“Yes, sir.”
“Peculiar, isn’t it?” the admiral went on, studying Furry carefully while leaning back. “I initially was doubtful if you were real, Commander. I mean, who in their right mind would have ‘Furry’ as a surname. Fortunately for you, I did some digging. Furry is a standardization of Farachain, which was Gaelic in origin. Irish, in other words,” announced Mayweather. “Fascinating, isn’t it? Almost as much as your service jacket, Commander. Started down the engineering track, graduated from Great Lakes near the middle of your class.
“You served under Captain Crowley predominantly early on in your career, where you switched to Ops. When Crowley was given Independence, you transferred over after being mustanged. Your commissioned career is like a goddamn snakes and ladders game. God only knows how you managed to get this far.”
Furry wanted to say, “with luck and determination,” but kept quiet.
Mayweather picked up a padd. “I spoke with Crowley. He thinks you’re the kind of officer this command needs.” The admiral cocked his head. “What do you know about this command, by the way?”
“It’s the neutral zone, mostly empty space with some star systems not suitable for long-term colonization. At least on our side of the border, unless you ignore the likes of here, Starbase 123, K7 and a couple other places. Plus, you’ve got the Romulans to contend with.”
“That and other things, yes,” agreed Admiral Mayweather. “But yes, we’re the piggy in the middle, as it were.”
It also explained why the Federation Security Council appointed a two-star, rather than the usual commodore. Rear Admiral Derik Mayweather had the dual job of keeping the border safe, along with playing diplomat with neighboring governments.
Mayweather waved him over.
“This is where you come in, Commander,” the admiral carried on while Furry crossed the distance. “Now, I’d normally leave this kind of thing to Commodore Lemed, but he’s across the border. So, here we are.
“Your assignment.” Mayweather handed the padd over. “Oberth class, the Theseus. She’s what they call a ‘medium endurance cutter’. She’s part of the Border Service squadron attached to H'atoria sector.”
“I’m familiar with the class, sir.”
“Of course, you are,” countered Mayweather. “She’s yours.”
Grabbing the padd, Furry activated the small screen on the device. “Mine, sir?” he asked.
“Theseus needs a captain, Commander. You’re it,” said Mayweather. “As Crowley said, you’re the right person for the job.”
Furry hesitated for a brief second, not sure how to respond. Captain Crowley—now a Rear Admiral back in San Francisco—had been considered as a tactical genius, diplomat and explorer. While not in the same league as Archer, Pike or Kirk, Crowley was respected.
Only a handful of crew, nobody watching the front door, and it sounds like the CMO might have gone AWOL. 
