Part I
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, high geosynchronous orbit, Earth
Late 2293
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The turbolift door opened slowly, revealing an attractive though somewhat mousey humanoid female, her maroon uniform so crisp the creases could cut solid neutronium. An ensign’s chevron graced the white bar at her right shoulder.
“Excuse, excuse me, Captain,” she said timidly. Sam snorted as he walked past her.
“I think you have me mistaken for someone else, Ensign. And I am very late for a meeting with Admiral Sterling.” Before the ensign could say anything else, Commander Sam Saberhagen disappeared into the admiral’s office.
“Damn.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You’re late,” barked Admiral Jackson Sterling. Sam shrugged.
“Sorry about that, sir. There was a delay at the transporter station, some sort of bug in the pattern buffer.”
“Sit, Commander.”
Sam did as instructed. He noticed the admiral’s uniform was nearly as crisp as the ensign’s who’d just accosted him, while his own was rumpled and very obviously – and recently, and frequently – slept in. Great, he thought sourly. Just great.
Adm. Sterling consulted a nearby notepad. “So, Commander Sa…”
“I go by Sam, sir, if you don’t mind.”
Adm. Sterling glowered at Sam. “I go by admiral, Commander, and I prefer not to be interrupted, if you don’t mind.” Adm. Sterling hefted a timeworn manila envelope stuffed with paper, let it thump forcefully on the desk. “Do you know what’s in this?”
Sam sighed. “I’m painfully aware of what’s in my service jacket, Admiral.” Sam recalled that Adm. Sterling liked using actual paper when he could, especially to make dramatic points when grilling subordinates.
The admiral growled. “Graduated Starfleet Academy 2260, steady rise through the ranks, a little faster than your contemporaries but not meteoric. Above average ratings in all assignments. After promotion to commander, served with distinction as first officer on USS Citadel, USS Roosevelt, USS T’Challa. 2267, in line for promotion to captain and starship command.” He fixed a burning stare at Sam. “Instead, you’ve been commanding various desks at remote, dead-end Starfleet facilities for the last 26 years. Why is that?”
“The Otorem Incident.” The stare intensified. “I know what torpedoed my career, sir. All due respect, is there a point?”
Adm. Sterling’s voice grew void-cold. “Oh, there’s a point, Commander. Three, actually.” He picked up some paper from the corner of the desk. “This point,” he said, “was your promotion to captain.” An evil smile curled the corner of his lips as he ripped a sheet of paper cleanly in half, top to bottom, and tossed the pieces aside. “And this point was a starship command.” Rip, toss.
“This last point,” and the evil smile grew to show teeth, “is your discharge from Starfleet. Other Than Honorable discharge, in case you were wondering. Why you weren’t cashiered out after the Otorem Incident, I have no idea, but by God it’s a mistake I’m thoroughly pleased to be able to correct.” Adm. Sterling shoved the paper at Sam. “You are a civilian, effective immediately. With an OTH discharge in your pocket, you’ll need divine intervention to get any job other than slinging burgers at McDonald’s.
“This could have gone differently, Mr. Saberhagen, if you’d been less lippy.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding to share how differently, then choosing not to. “I’m glad I’ll never see you again, and believe me when I wish sincerely that you rot in Hell.
“Get out.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Orbital Office Annex Ajax Delta Niner, high geosynchronous orbit, Earth
Late 2293
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The turbolift door opened slowly, revealing an attractive though somewhat mousey humanoid female, her maroon uniform so crisp the creases could cut solid neutronium. An ensign’s chevron graced the white bar at her right shoulder.
“Excuse, excuse me, Captain,” she said timidly. Sam snorted as he walked past her.
“I think you have me mistaken for someone else, Ensign. And I am very late for a meeting with Admiral Sterling.” Before the ensign could say anything else, Commander Sam Saberhagen disappeared into the admiral’s office.
“Damn.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You’re late,” barked Admiral Jackson Sterling. Sam shrugged.
“Sorry about that, sir. There was a delay at the transporter station, some sort of bug in the pattern buffer.”
“Sit, Commander.”
Sam did as instructed. He noticed the admiral’s uniform was nearly as crisp as the ensign’s who’d just accosted him, while his own was rumpled and very obviously – and recently, and frequently – slept in. Great, he thought sourly. Just great.
Adm. Sterling consulted a nearby notepad. “So, Commander Sa…”
“I go by Sam, sir, if you don’t mind.”
Adm. Sterling glowered at Sam. “I go by admiral, Commander, and I prefer not to be interrupted, if you don’t mind.” Adm. Sterling hefted a timeworn manila envelope stuffed with paper, let it thump forcefully on the desk. “Do you know what’s in this?”
Sam sighed. “I’m painfully aware of what’s in my service jacket, Admiral.” Sam recalled that Adm. Sterling liked using actual paper when he could, especially to make dramatic points when grilling subordinates.
The admiral growled. “Graduated Starfleet Academy 2260, steady rise through the ranks, a little faster than your contemporaries but not meteoric. Above average ratings in all assignments. After promotion to commander, served with distinction as first officer on USS Citadel, USS Roosevelt, USS T’Challa. 2267, in line for promotion to captain and starship command.” He fixed a burning stare at Sam. “Instead, you’ve been commanding various desks at remote, dead-end Starfleet facilities for the last 26 years. Why is that?”
“The Otorem Incident.” The stare intensified. “I know what torpedoed my career, sir. All due respect, is there a point?”
Adm. Sterling’s voice grew void-cold. “Oh, there’s a point, Commander. Three, actually.” He picked up some paper from the corner of the desk. “This point,” he said, “was your promotion to captain.” An evil smile curled the corner of his lips as he ripped a sheet of paper cleanly in half, top to bottom, and tossed the pieces aside. “And this point was a starship command.” Rip, toss.
“This last point,” and the evil smile grew to show teeth, “is your discharge from Starfleet. Other Than Honorable discharge, in case you were wondering. Why you weren’t cashiered out after the Otorem Incident, I have no idea, but by God it’s a mistake I’m thoroughly pleased to be able to correct.” Adm. Sterling shoved the paper at Sam. “You are a civilian, effective immediately. With an OTH discharge in your pocket, you’ll need divine intervention to get any job other than slinging burgers at McDonald’s.
“This could have gone differently, Mr. Saberhagen, if you’d been less lippy.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, as if deciding to share how differently, then choosing not to. “I’m glad I’ll never see you again, and believe me when I wish sincerely that you rot in Hell.
“Get out.”
