September/October Challenge: “Swan Song"
April 3, 2190 (Stardate 2190.43)
USS Zephyr NCC-188 (Daedalus-class refit)
En route to Starbase 4
Commander Russell McComb, Executive Officer of the USS Zephyr, reclined on the bed in his dimly lit cabin, absently picking at his guitar. He gazed at some unseen place as calloused fingertips effortlessly shifted through various chords on the vintage Martin D-35 David Gilmour model, once owned by his great-grandfather.
He neither sang nor hummed. In fact, he was barely aware of the soft, mellow tones that flowed from the old, acoustic six-string. His mind was replaying the conversation just minutes earlier with Captain Michael Okimbe, his commanding officer and friend of many years. Okimbe was about to receive a well-deserved promotion to flag rank. That was the good news. The rest . . . not so much.
“Russ, I want you to know I recommended you for command of the Zephyr . . . pushed for it, in fact. You’ve been an exemplary first officer and you would make a fine captain. But your promotion didn’t come through. They’re giving command to Laura Mueller . . . she’s C.O. of the Niagra, and I know you will be a tremendous help to her as she takes the reins . . .”
The rest of the conversation faded to a background buzz as McComb processed the news. He provided automatic responses to Captain Okimbe . . . Of course, he understood. Yes, he would give his full support to the new captain. He was grateful for Captain Okimbe’s recommendation, and it had been a pleasure to serve with him, etc. etc.
Realization had hit McComb as he made his way back to his cabin. There would be no command in his future. This was Zephyr’s final voyage. Most of the Daedalus-class ships were already retired, the remainder missing and presumed lost. It was Zephyr’s swan song and his as well, it would seem.
He absently began a riff that transitioned to a blues tune from the 20th century. Eyes closed, he sought solace in the syncopated rhythm as the reverberation of the strings told a story of broken hearts and lost dreams.
McComb’s eyes flew open at the buzz of the door enunciator. Sitting up straighter in the bed, he said, “Come in.”
Lt. Commander Valentina Melankov, Zephyr’s Chief Engineer and Second Officer, entered. The raven-haired Russian favored McComb with a sad smile.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she began. “I could hear through the door. What kind of music is that?”
“Delta blues,” he replied, adjusting the tuning peg for the lower E string. He picked the string a few times until satisfied. “What’s up, Val?”
She sat in the only available chair in McComb’s compact cabin. “Captain Okimbe told me we’re getting a new C.O.” she paused, her attractive features darkening in a scowl. McComb knew a storm was brewing behind those gorgeous dark eyes.
“It’s not right, Russ! You’ve worked your ass off on this ship; you’ve earned the crew’s confidence and respect . . . this sucks!” Her Russian accent became more pronounced as her emotions rose.
McComb fixed her with a stern gaze. “Don’t say that outside of this cabin, Val. I’m serious. You and I both must give the new Captain our full support, or we need to pack it in. Keep your opinions to yourself, understood?”
Melankov folded her arms and sighed. “Yes, yes, understood. But, bozhe moi, it still pisses me off. Hell, you should have made captain years ago!”
McComb began to finger pick another old tune, effortlessly shifting from blues to classic rock. “I’m pretty sure that ship sailed years ago. I’m 54 years old, Val. Hell, I’m one of the few active-duty relics left who served in the Romulan War. Starfleet probably doesn’t know whether to retire me or put me in a museum.”
She propped her elbow on the desk, resting her head on her fist. “You never talk about that much,” she mused.
McComb made a sudden discordant strum and set the guitar aside. He sat up and turned, facing away from her as the harsh notes faded.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Melankov said, regret in her voice.
He nodded, still not facing her. “I know.”
She studied him with concern. His posture indicated he was bottling up strong emotions. She could see the tension, the repressed anger, and something else she couldn’t identify.
“Russ, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t . . .”
He interrupted. “The best way I can describe the war is . . . there were brief moments of sheer terror, followed by longer periods of indescribable horror.”
Melankov winced. “I can’t imagine.”
“No . . . you can’t.” He retrieved the Martin, picking up where he left off. The sudden emotional storm abated just as quickly as it appeared.
“That’s beautiful,” she said. “What’s it called?”
“Stairway to Heaven. Twentieth century classic rock, from a group called Led Zeppelin.”
“Are there words to it?”
He smiled as the haunting melody filled the cabin. “Yes . . . And no, I’m not going to sing it for you.”
“Why not? You have a great voice.”
He glanced up, puzzled and a bit embarrassed. “No I don’t. Besides, you’ve never heard me sing.”
She chuckled. “Oh yes I have! Remember shore leave on Rigel IV? You drank more than usual, as I recall. That, and you put on quite a vocal performance. I was highly impressed, as was a fetching green Orion girl who barely wore enough to cover the naughty bits.”
He frowned as he continued to play. “I honestly don’t remember much about it, except the booze was green. That, and I had the worst hangover of my life.”
Melankov rose. “Well, Commander McComb sir, I can testify that you have a marvelous voice to match your giftedness with that guitar. I, for one, would hope you would share that gift more often.”
He didn’t reply, but continued his skillful finger work, absorbed by the music.
“Music is his refuge,” she thought, regarding her friend and shipmate with fondness and concern.
She stepped over and kissed the top of his head. “Lt. Tanaka is making a cake for the Captain’s going-away party. Be in the ward room at 1600 hours. And please, at least try the cake. Tanaka is doing the best she can with the protein re-sequencers.”
“Aye-aye, Lt. Commander, ma’am.”
She smirked, but then her expression softened. “Russ, if you do ever want to talk . . .”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “Thanks . . . Maybe.”
Lt. Commander Melankov slipped out of the cabin with her typical easy grace.
McComb closed his eyes, caught up in the music as he remembered . . . reliving once more through the eyes and ears of a 22 year old ensign, the blood, the alert klaxon and the screams of pain, orders shouted and countermanded, the smell of fire suppressant and charred flesh . . .
And a lapse in judgement that still haunted him.
A board of inquiry had cleared him . . . basically, he had done the right thing, but in the wrong way. Promotions still came over time . . . perhaps not as quickly as for his contemporaries . . . and he worked hard for them, God, how he had worked , , , but it was clear now that command was beyond his grasp.
He placed the guitar back in its hard case, wiping the strings with a soft cloth to remove the oils from his skin. He closed the lid and latched the brass-plated clasps.
Standing, he checked his appearance in the mirror over the small sink. His blue jumpsuit still appeared crisp, his short cropped hair neat, and his face still smooth following an application of beard suppressor that morning. Externally, he projected the image of a squared-away and confident executive officer.
As to what went on inside, well, the music helped . . . a balm for the soul.
He exited his cabin, ready to face crew members and partake of faux cake.
END
April 3, 2190 (Stardate 2190.43)
USS Zephyr NCC-188 (Daedalus-class refit)
En route to Starbase 4
Commander Russell McComb, Executive Officer of the USS Zephyr, reclined on the bed in his dimly lit cabin, absently picking at his guitar. He gazed at some unseen place as calloused fingertips effortlessly shifted through various chords on the vintage Martin D-35 David Gilmour model, once owned by his great-grandfather.
He neither sang nor hummed. In fact, he was barely aware of the soft, mellow tones that flowed from the old, acoustic six-string. His mind was replaying the conversation just minutes earlier with Captain Michael Okimbe, his commanding officer and friend of many years. Okimbe was about to receive a well-deserved promotion to flag rank. That was the good news. The rest . . . not so much.
“Russ, I want you to know I recommended you for command of the Zephyr . . . pushed for it, in fact. You’ve been an exemplary first officer and you would make a fine captain. But your promotion didn’t come through. They’re giving command to Laura Mueller . . . she’s C.O. of the Niagra, and I know you will be a tremendous help to her as she takes the reins . . .”
The rest of the conversation faded to a background buzz as McComb processed the news. He provided automatic responses to Captain Okimbe . . . Of course, he understood. Yes, he would give his full support to the new captain. He was grateful for Captain Okimbe’s recommendation, and it had been a pleasure to serve with him, etc. etc.
Realization had hit McComb as he made his way back to his cabin. There would be no command in his future. This was Zephyr’s final voyage. Most of the Daedalus-class ships were already retired, the remainder missing and presumed lost. It was Zephyr’s swan song and his as well, it would seem.
He absently began a riff that transitioned to a blues tune from the 20th century. Eyes closed, he sought solace in the syncopated rhythm as the reverberation of the strings told a story of broken hearts and lost dreams.
McComb’s eyes flew open at the buzz of the door enunciator. Sitting up straighter in the bed, he said, “Come in.”
Lt. Commander Valentina Melankov, Zephyr’s Chief Engineer and Second Officer, entered. The raven-haired Russian favored McComb with a sad smile.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she began. “I could hear through the door. What kind of music is that?”
“Delta blues,” he replied, adjusting the tuning peg for the lower E string. He picked the string a few times until satisfied. “What’s up, Val?”
She sat in the only available chair in McComb’s compact cabin. “Captain Okimbe told me we’re getting a new C.O.” she paused, her attractive features darkening in a scowl. McComb knew a storm was brewing behind those gorgeous dark eyes.
“It’s not right, Russ! You’ve worked your ass off on this ship; you’ve earned the crew’s confidence and respect . . . this sucks!” Her Russian accent became more pronounced as her emotions rose.
McComb fixed her with a stern gaze. “Don’t say that outside of this cabin, Val. I’m serious. You and I both must give the new Captain our full support, or we need to pack it in. Keep your opinions to yourself, understood?”
Melankov folded her arms and sighed. “Yes, yes, understood. But, bozhe moi, it still pisses me off. Hell, you should have made captain years ago!”
McComb began to finger pick another old tune, effortlessly shifting from blues to classic rock. “I’m pretty sure that ship sailed years ago. I’m 54 years old, Val. Hell, I’m one of the few active-duty relics left who served in the Romulan War. Starfleet probably doesn’t know whether to retire me or put me in a museum.”
She propped her elbow on the desk, resting her head on her fist. “You never talk about that much,” she mused.
McComb made a sudden discordant strum and set the guitar aside. He sat up and turned, facing away from her as the harsh notes faded.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Melankov said, regret in her voice.
He nodded, still not facing her. “I know.”
She studied him with concern. His posture indicated he was bottling up strong emotions. She could see the tension, the repressed anger, and something else she couldn’t identify.
“Russ, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t . . .”
He interrupted. “The best way I can describe the war is . . . there were brief moments of sheer terror, followed by longer periods of indescribable horror.”
Melankov winced. “I can’t imagine.”
“No . . . you can’t.” He retrieved the Martin, picking up where he left off. The sudden emotional storm abated just as quickly as it appeared.
“That’s beautiful,” she said. “What’s it called?”
“Stairway to Heaven. Twentieth century classic rock, from a group called Led Zeppelin.”
“Are there words to it?”
He smiled as the haunting melody filled the cabin. “Yes . . . And no, I’m not going to sing it for you.”
“Why not? You have a great voice.”
He glanced up, puzzled and a bit embarrassed. “No I don’t. Besides, you’ve never heard me sing.”
She chuckled. “Oh yes I have! Remember shore leave on Rigel IV? You drank more than usual, as I recall. That, and you put on quite a vocal performance. I was highly impressed, as was a fetching green Orion girl who barely wore enough to cover the naughty bits.”
He frowned as he continued to play. “I honestly don’t remember much about it, except the booze was green. That, and I had the worst hangover of my life.”
Melankov rose. “Well, Commander McComb sir, I can testify that you have a marvelous voice to match your giftedness with that guitar. I, for one, would hope you would share that gift more often.”
He didn’t reply, but continued his skillful finger work, absorbed by the music.
“Music is his refuge,” she thought, regarding her friend and shipmate with fondness and concern.
She stepped over and kissed the top of his head. “Lt. Tanaka is making a cake for the Captain’s going-away party. Be in the ward room at 1600 hours. And please, at least try the cake. Tanaka is doing the best she can with the protein re-sequencers.”
“Aye-aye, Lt. Commander, ma’am.”
She smirked, but then her expression softened. “Russ, if you do ever want to talk . . .”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “Thanks . . . Maybe.”
Lt. Commander Melankov slipped out of the cabin with her typical easy grace.
McComb closed his eyes, caught up in the music as he remembered . . . reliving once more through the eyes and ears of a 22 year old ensign, the blood, the alert klaxon and the screams of pain, orders shouted and countermanded, the smell of fire suppressant and charred flesh . . .
And a lapse in judgement that still haunted him.
A board of inquiry had cleared him . . . basically, he had done the right thing, but in the wrong way. Promotions still came over time . . . perhaps not as quickly as for his contemporaries . . . and he worked hard for them, God, how he had worked , , , but it was clear now that command was beyond his grasp.
He placed the guitar back in its hard case, wiping the strings with a soft cloth to remove the oils from his skin. He closed the lid and latched the brass-plated clasps.
Standing, he checked his appearance in the mirror over the small sink. His blue jumpsuit still appeared crisp, his short cropped hair neat, and his face still smooth following an application of beard suppressor that morning. Externally, he projected the image of a squared-away and confident executive officer.
As to what went on inside, well, the music helped . . . a balm for the soul.
He exited his cabin, ready to face crew members and partake of faux cake.
END
Thanks for sharing the video - you are quite talented!
