In early 2374, as Starfleet faces the bloodiest war in decades they reactivate and repurpose hundreds of ships to fill their ranks, whilst inexperienced and ill-prepared officers and crew must dig deep to find out what they are truly made of against a relentless enemy from the other side of the galaxy.
* * * * *
“You’re kidding right?” Reihyn scoffed as he looked through the viewport on the ship berthed before him. He turned and looked at the stone-faced Andorian next to him, still not quite able to get a read on him—though quickly coming to believe he wasn’t the jovial sort. “You’re not kidding?”
Lieutenant Commander th’Daashi handed him the PADD. “These are your new assignment orders, signed by Vice Admiral P’Rau. Effective immediately, you are to assume command of the U.S.S. Orion NCC-3013. You are to oversee the rest of her system diagnostics, before launch on stardate 51280.8—that gives you ninety hours to get everything seen to, so you’d best hurry up, Captain.”
Reihyn shot a sharp look at him, though the Andorian was unfazed, after all he did have six years on the Rigellian-Enex (not to mention fifteen centimetres and at least ten kilos of muscle). He grabbed the PADD off the Admiral’s adjunct and looked at the text himself, reading it just as clearly as th’Daashi had. When he looked back up at the older man, he couldn’t help but note a smug look behind his flint-like eyes.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. Dismissed.”
Without gesture or word, the Andorian turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Reihyn alone at the viewport, contemplating how he’d gotten to where he was now. Eighteen months ago he’d been a Lieutenant Commander, two years in the rank, and pumped at being given his first real taste of command, Second Officer of the Sabre-Class U.S.S. Kukri. Due to their small crew complements, Sabre’s were highly sought-after postings, as they gave greater opportunity to gain experience and shine—officers assigned to them typically advanced quicker, whether in rank or onto larger or more prestigious ships. After seven months onboard, in the heat of battle against the Klingons, Commander T’Prenn had been killed in action, and he’d been promoted to fill the vacant position. Eight months later, when the Kukri was involved in the attack on the Torros shipyards, Captain Tagh had been critically wounded and died in Reihyn’s arms—though not before bestowing a field commission onto him. With Starfleet facing all-out war and needing to mobilise every ship and officer it could, the brass decided to leave him with his battlefield promotion intact—even though he had just turned thirty-one. His first Captaincy had lasted six weeks, five days and three hours, before an ambush by three Jem’Hadar ships had seen it come to a swift end.
Fortunately, most of his crew had survived the battle and managed to evacuate, though five onboard had lost their lives. After they’d been rescued and transported to Starbase 360, the survivors had all been checked over at the stations hospital, wounds treated, deaths quickly mourned, before being reassigned across the various fleets. He alone was left without an assignment. He’d been told he faced demotion to Commander, the admiral’s at Headquarters believing he’d been promoted too quickly for the burdens of the fourth pip on his collar. However, Vice Admiral P’Rau had told him there was a way for him to retain his rank and receive a new command. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, so had swiftly taken it.
Now, he had to live with and make the most of that decision. He looked up from the PADD and out at the ship once again; a thick saucer, bridge dome mounted high on top, the primary hull sweeping back to two vertical pylons, each with two nacelles at the end of them—the unmistakable silhouette of the Constellation-Class.
The Orion was part of what had quickly become known as the “zombie fleet”; old ships, long since mothballed, dragged out of whatever junkyards they’d been left at to rot, to help bolster the fleet in various support roles. They would haul cargo to where it was needed, escort troops to the front, carry the injured to facilities for treatment, jobs Starfleet couldn’t waste newer ships on. This would be his life for the foreseeable future.
Letting out one final sigh, he squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest, then headed for the gangway that would take him onboard.
* * * * *
Stepping onto the Orion, the first thing Reihyn noticed was the smell; the tang of rust mixed with the thickness of dust, as well as a bitter hint mould. Next was the temperature, at least five degrees colder than it should’ve been, sending a shiver down his canary-yellow spine and goosebumps to bristle up his tattooed arms and neck. Fortunately (or should that be unfortunately) the lights worked perfectly, showing the poor state the ship was in; bare metal grates on the deck through which he could see all manner of pipes and conduits, bulkheads missing panels exposing circuitry, cargo containers haphazardly dotted around the place, and no signs of life.
He tapped his combadge but got back a muted buzz, telling him no channel had been opened. Before he could let out another sigh, he heard heavy footsteps approach. The way they clanged and echoed, he couldn’t tell from which direction they came. It wasn’t until their owner rounded the curve of the corridor that he saw the Rigellian-Chelon approach from aft. Had the reptilian crewman been physically able to scowl, it would’ve done. In Reihyn’s nine years of active service, he had served with hundreds of other those from his home system, all of whom proudly called themselves Rigellian, despite there being eight sentient and intelligent species, but in all that time he hadn’t served with any Chelon before.
“Yes?” the crewman enquired, approaching with a datapad in three-fingered hand.
“Why isn’t there anyone at the docking port?” he asked, seeing as how it was standard procedure for all new arrivals on a ship to be logged in by Security.
“There is,” replied the Chelon.
“Who?” he questioned, looking around.
“Me. Who’re you?”
“Captain Reihyn, newly appointed Commanding Officer of the Orion. Crewman?”
He noticed the widening of the Chelon’s eyes as they suddenly took note of the rank pips on his collar. The Chelon croaked a curse that the universal translator didn’t register, before standing a little straighter—a difficult thing to do with a heavy shell on ones back. “Crewman First Class Hitersik.”
Reihyn made a mental note of the name—which would be easy to remember, as he doubted there were any other Chelon aboard. “I’ll be raising this with your superior, Crewman.”
“Don’t have one, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“We don’t have a Security Chief onboard yet.”
“I see. Well, until there is, you will remain at this airlock until the end of your shift and report directly to me. Understood.”
“Aye sir.”
He waited for Hitersik to assume his place beside the entrance, before proceeding further into the ship, wondering if the rest of the crew—or rather those who were actually onboard—were all like the crewman. He doubted Starfleet would waste the best and the brightest on a ship such as the Orion, which meant that he would have a tough time ahead of him keeping on top of their conduct and discipline.
* * * * *
From the information he’d been given on the PADD, Reihyn knew that the ship already had most of her engineering crew onboard, whose job it was to get the ship operational in less than two weeks—after two months had been spent stripping her of key components and essential systems when she’d been decommissioned. Everything onboard would be brought up to minimal operating standards and safety requirements, before she’d be booted out of dry-dock to make room for a battle-damaged starship in need of repairs. He could only hope for a no-nonsense veteran of engine rooms, with warp plasma in their veins.
What he got just wasn’t that.
Enan Lanali was another Rigellian, this time a Tomal (commonly referred to as Vulcanoid-Rigellians), but she looked more like a first year cadet than a lieutenant j.g.—though he was the last person who should really be commenting on another’s age. She had big, bright blue eyes, honey-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, showing off the tapered point of her ears, whilst the top of her head just reached his collar bones, and her frame was so slim her coveralls were hanging off of her. The smear of grease on her left cheek and wide, beaming smile made her look even more like a child playing pretend.
The rest of her engineering team wasn’t much better, with half of them being crewmen straight out of basic training, whose average age had to be eighteen or nineteen. There were a few older non-coms in the mix, as well as a Berellian ensign (a species widely regarded as the worst engineer’s in the quadrant).
However, despite how she looked, as soon as she got into the details about the work they’d carried out and what was still left to be done, he found himself surprised at how quickly and easily she rattled off everything from memory. The ship’s computer and warp cores had been their first objective, once they had the capabilities to power and control the ship they could better understand what needed to be done, environmentals were proving to be tricky (hence the chill throughout) but they’d managed to secure a handful of experts from the station to get that sorted tomorrow, impulse, navigation, sensors were all back online (though not up to one hundred percent), they were having to rewire the communications system, which was causing interference with the combadge signals. Forcefields, transporters, turbolifts, lighting, waste management, and emergency batteries were all “purring like Centaurian kittens”; shields were proving to be an issue, so far they could get as high as eight percent, whilst weapons were non-existent. Though highly unlikely they would ever face combat, there were no guarantees in wartime, so they had to be able to defend themselves to some degree.
“What about replicators?” he asked, noting they hadn’t been on her repair list.
“I’m afraid they’re toast, Captain. I don’t know what the decom team did to them, but there is no hope of getting them functioning by the time we leave port. Besides, three-sixty has allocated all their stores of replicator matter to everyone else except us. We’ll have to get by on ration packs—unless you wanted me to send a team to get the galley operational.”
He had to chuckle. “Not yet, Lieutenant. Keep focused on the main systems.”
“You got it, sir.”
“Um, Lieutenant…”
“Yes sir?”
“How many of the senior staff are onboard? I understand there’s no Security Chief at the moment.”
“Not yet, we’re also missing our Ops Manager and CMO. Commander DuMont and Ensign Mecell are both on the bridge, or that's where they said they’d be.”
“Thank you. Carry on, Lieutenant Lanali.”
“Aye-aye sir,” she replied, her grin widening. She turned back to her team, who were all busy at various consoles and conduits throughout the engine room. “Zh’Sheyn, Hobbes, Prr’ke, with me. We have to get the structural integrity field above two percent or the crew will turn to puddles once we go above warp one-point-one.”
Watching her lead the trio out of engineering he couldn’t help but admire her calm under the mammoth job she faced getting the Orion into some resemblance of functionality.
* * * * *
The bridge was something from the 2290s—which was more advanced than he’d expected. Two alcoves opposite one another near the rear, port for the turbolift and starboard lead to the bridge-level airlock and other small compartments located on the deck. Between them were two large banks of display screens, all sporting the blue-and-green LCARS displays and controls that were the norm eight years ago. On either side, three banks of stations surrounded the outer bulkheads leading to the viewscreen at the front. In the middle, right where it was meant to be was the Captain’s Chair, with the old helm and navigation console a couple of steps below it, all three posts encircled by metal railings.
The deck was lightly populated, only four members of the crew, two in standard uniforms with red collars and two in technician coveralls. They were all too busy to notice him enter, so he took a moment to look around.
It was short-lived as one of the uniformed officers, a dark-skinned Bajoran who didn’t look old enough to shave, glanced back at him. His eyes widened when he saw the pips on Reihyn’s collar, and immediately he sprang to his feet.
“Captain on the bridge,” he called out, a little too loudly.
The others (two of who were seated and the third lying on his back under a console) all stood at attention. He winced at the formality, knowing time was against them.
“As you were,” he instructed. Looking at the Bajoran, he told the younger man, “Ensign, I know when I get to the bridge; I don’t need to be told.”
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”
As the two techs got back to work, the other officer stepped forward. She was human, with a good twenty-five years on him; despite that however, she displayed the rank of a lieutenant commander. She was a handsome woman, with warm, caramel eyes and whose umber hair had no traces of grey, despite the lines on her face.
“Captain Reihyn,” he said by way of introduction, extending his hand.
“Lieutenant Commander Clarissa DuMont, first officer,” she replied, accepting his hand and shaking it briefly. “We were informed that our new CO was being appointed today, we just weren’t informed who it would be or when they’d be arriving.”
“I only just got my new orders through not even an hour ago. I’ve already checked in with Lieutenant Lanali on the state of repairs.”
“Oh,” was DuMont’s reply. “Well if there’s any other information you need, I’ll see what I can do.”
There was something about her tone that made her sound a little indifferent, which only solidified his decision to read up on his new crew as quickly as he could. He decided that would be a good first order for his new ‘Number One’.
“Actually, I’d like an account of our crew status, including personnel files.”
“Now sir?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Commander. I’ll need to get my gear from the station, so it’ll be a good thing to familiarise myself with as I pack.”
“Very well,” she said, turning back to the console she’d been sitting at when he arrived and setting to work.
He left the technicians to their upgrades and stepped down to consoles in the middle of the deck. The ensign had resumed his duties, back painfully stiff as Reihyn looked at the readouts. Straight away, he noticed that the stencilled HELM and NAV markings had been removed, replaced with TAC and CONN respectively. The Bajoran sat at the latter.
“And you are?”
“Mecell Koen, sir. Conn officer, sir.”
“Just graduated.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes sir. My class was rushed through the last few months of training when the war started, sir.”
He nodded. It made sense, Starfleet would need as many officers as it could get, so cadets would either have more work foisted upon them in a shorter space of time, or aspects would be cut from the curriculum to get them out of the classroom quicker. It would mean that there would be a lot of inexperienced, unpolished young officers filling the ranks, though that greenness wouldn’t last long in a war, one way or the other.
“Where did you come in your class standings?” he asked.
“Um…three hundred forty-seventh out of three hundred fifty, sir,” Mecell admitted, his voice trailing off by the end of his sentence.
“I see,” was all Reihyn could think of to say. A rookie helmsman he could cope with, if they’d at least been in the top half of their class, but one three places from the bottom? This would be another hurdle to overcome.
DuMont stepped down to the Conn/Tactical station, holding out an isolinear chip. “Crew reports, sir.”
“Thank you, Commander. I’ll be heading back to the station for a couple of hours, but when I get back I’ll need all current system status reports on my desk.”
“You don’t have a desk, Captain.”
That stumped him. “What?”
“The Orion wasn’t built with a ready room,” she told him. “An engineering team has welded the bridge airlock shut, so that the prep bay can be used as an office space, but there’s nothing in there yet.”
“Where they are isn’t that important, Commander, but I want them to review once I’m back onboard. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
* * * * *
* * * * *
“You’re kidding right?” Reihyn scoffed as he looked through the viewport on the ship berthed before him. He turned and looked at the stone-faced Andorian next to him, still not quite able to get a read on him—though quickly coming to believe he wasn’t the jovial sort. “You’re not kidding?”
Lieutenant Commander th’Daashi handed him the PADD. “These are your new assignment orders, signed by Vice Admiral P’Rau. Effective immediately, you are to assume command of the U.S.S. Orion NCC-3013. You are to oversee the rest of her system diagnostics, before launch on stardate 51280.8—that gives you ninety hours to get everything seen to, so you’d best hurry up, Captain.”
Reihyn shot a sharp look at him, though the Andorian was unfazed, after all he did have six years on the Rigellian-Enex (not to mention fifteen centimetres and at least ten kilos of muscle). He grabbed the PADD off the Admiral’s adjunct and looked at the text himself, reading it just as clearly as th’Daashi had. When he looked back up at the older man, he couldn’t help but note a smug look behind his flint-like eyes.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. Dismissed.”
Without gesture or word, the Andorian turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Reihyn alone at the viewport, contemplating how he’d gotten to where he was now. Eighteen months ago he’d been a Lieutenant Commander, two years in the rank, and pumped at being given his first real taste of command, Second Officer of the Sabre-Class U.S.S. Kukri. Due to their small crew complements, Sabre’s were highly sought-after postings, as they gave greater opportunity to gain experience and shine—officers assigned to them typically advanced quicker, whether in rank or onto larger or more prestigious ships. After seven months onboard, in the heat of battle against the Klingons, Commander T’Prenn had been killed in action, and he’d been promoted to fill the vacant position. Eight months later, when the Kukri was involved in the attack on the Torros shipyards, Captain Tagh had been critically wounded and died in Reihyn’s arms—though not before bestowing a field commission onto him. With Starfleet facing all-out war and needing to mobilise every ship and officer it could, the brass decided to leave him with his battlefield promotion intact—even though he had just turned thirty-one. His first Captaincy had lasted six weeks, five days and three hours, before an ambush by three Jem’Hadar ships had seen it come to a swift end.
Fortunately, most of his crew had survived the battle and managed to evacuate, though five onboard had lost their lives. After they’d been rescued and transported to Starbase 360, the survivors had all been checked over at the stations hospital, wounds treated, deaths quickly mourned, before being reassigned across the various fleets. He alone was left without an assignment. He’d been told he faced demotion to Commander, the admiral’s at Headquarters believing he’d been promoted too quickly for the burdens of the fourth pip on his collar. However, Vice Admiral P’Rau had told him there was a way for him to retain his rank and receive a new command. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse, so had swiftly taken it.
Now, he had to live with and make the most of that decision. He looked up from the PADD and out at the ship once again; a thick saucer, bridge dome mounted high on top, the primary hull sweeping back to two vertical pylons, each with two nacelles at the end of them—the unmistakable silhouette of the Constellation-Class.
The Orion was part of what had quickly become known as the “zombie fleet”; old ships, long since mothballed, dragged out of whatever junkyards they’d been left at to rot, to help bolster the fleet in various support roles. They would haul cargo to where it was needed, escort troops to the front, carry the injured to facilities for treatment, jobs Starfleet couldn’t waste newer ships on. This would be his life for the foreseeable future.
Letting out one final sigh, he squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest, then headed for the gangway that would take him onboard.
* * * * *
Stepping onto the Orion, the first thing Reihyn noticed was the smell; the tang of rust mixed with the thickness of dust, as well as a bitter hint mould. Next was the temperature, at least five degrees colder than it should’ve been, sending a shiver down his canary-yellow spine and goosebumps to bristle up his tattooed arms and neck. Fortunately (or should that be unfortunately) the lights worked perfectly, showing the poor state the ship was in; bare metal grates on the deck through which he could see all manner of pipes and conduits, bulkheads missing panels exposing circuitry, cargo containers haphazardly dotted around the place, and no signs of life.
He tapped his combadge but got back a muted buzz, telling him no channel had been opened. Before he could let out another sigh, he heard heavy footsteps approach. The way they clanged and echoed, he couldn’t tell from which direction they came. It wasn’t until their owner rounded the curve of the corridor that he saw the Rigellian-Chelon approach from aft. Had the reptilian crewman been physically able to scowl, it would’ve done. In Reihyn’s nine years of active service, he had served with hundreds of other those from his home system, all of whom proudly called themselves Rigellian, despite there being eight sentient and intelligent species, but in all that time he hadn’t served with any Chelon before.
“Yes?” the crewman enquired, approaching with a datapad in three-fingered hand.
“Why isn’t there anyone at the docking port?” he asked, seeing as how it was standard procedure for all new arrivals on a ship to be logged in by Security.
“There is,” replied the Chelon.
“Who?” he questioned, looking around.
“Me. Who’re you?”
“Captain Reihyn, newly appointed Commanding Officer of the Orion. Crewman?”
He noticed the widening of the Chelon’s eyes as they suddenly took note of the rank pips on his collar. The Chelon croaked a curse that the universal translator didn’t register, before standing a little straighter—a difficult thing to do with a heavy shell on ones back. “Crewman First Class Hitersik.”
Reihyn made a mental note of the name—which would be easy to remember, as he doubted there were any other Chelon aboard. “I’ll be raising this with your superior, Crewman.”
“Don’t have one, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“We don’t have a Security Chief onboard yet.”
“I see. Well, until there is, you will remain at this airlock until the end of your shift and report directly to me. Understood.”
“Aye sir.”
He waited for Hitersik to assume his place beside the entrance, before proceeding further into the ship, wondering if the rest of the crew—or rather those who were actually onboard—were all like the crewman. He doubted Starfleet would waste the best and the brightest on a ship such as the Orion, which meant that he would have a tough time ahead of him keeping on top of their conduct and discipline.
* * * * *
From the information he’d been given on the PADD, Reihyn knew that the ship already had most of her engineering crew onboard, whose job it was to get the ship operational in less than two weeks—after two months had been spent stripping her of key components and essential systems when she’d been decommissioned. Everything onboard would be brought up to minimal operating standards and safety requirements, before she’d be booted out of dry-dock to make room for a battle-damaged starship in need of repairs. He could only hope for a no-nonsense veteran of engine rooms, with warp plasma in their veins.
What he got just wasn’t that.
Enan Lanali was another Rigellian, this time a Tomal (commonly referred to as Vulcanoid-Rigellians), but she looked more like a first year cadet than a lieutenant j.g.—though he was the last person who should really be commenting on another’s age. She had big, bright blue eyes, honey-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, showing off the tapered point of her ears, whilst the top of her head just reached his collar bones, and her frame was so slim her coveralls were hanging off of her. The smear of grease on her left cheek and wide, beaming smile made her look even more like a child playing pretend.
The rest of her engineering team wasn’t much better, with half of them being crewmen straight out of basic training, whose average age had to be eighteen or nineteen. There were a few older non-coms in the mix, as well as a Berellian ensign (a species widely regarded as the worst engineer’s in the quadrant).
However, despite how she looked, as soon as she got into the details about the work they’d carried out and what was still left to be done, he found himself surprised at how quickly and easily she rattled off everything from memory. The ship’s computer and warp cores had been their first objective, once they had the capabilities to power and control the ship they could better understand what needed to be done, environmentals were proving to be tricky (hence the chill throughout) but they’d managed to secure a handful of experts from the station to get that sorted tomorrow, impulse, navigation, sensors were all back online (though not up to one hundred percent), they were having to rewire the communications system, which was causing interference with the combadge signals. Forcefields, transporters, turbolifts, lighting, waste management, and emergency batteries were all “purring like Centaurian kittens”; shields were proving to be an issue, so far they could get as high as eight percent, whilst weapons were non-existent. Though highly unlikely they would ever face combat, there were no guarantees in wartime, so they had to be able to defend themselves to some degree.
“What about replicators?” he asked, noting they hadn’t been on her repair list.
“I’m afraid they’re toast, Captain. I don’t know what the decom team did to them, but there is no hope of getting them functioning by the time we leave port. Besides, three-sixty has allocated all their stores of replicator matter to everyone else except us. We’ll have to get by on ration packs—unless you wanted me to send a team to get the galley operational.”
He had to chuckle. “Not yet, Lieutenant. Keep focused on the main systems.”
“You got it, sir.”
“Um, Lieutenant…”
“Yes sir?”
“How many of the senior staff are onboard? I understand there’s no Security Chief at the moment.”
“Not yet, we’re also missing our Ops Manager and CMO. Commander DuMont and Ensign Mecell are both on the bridge, or that's where they said they’d be.”
“Thank you. Carry on, Lieutenant Lanali.”
“Aye-aye sir,” she replied, her grin widening. She turned back to her team, who were all busy at various consoles and conduits throughout the engine room. “Zh’Sheyn, Hobbes, Prr’ke, with me. We have to get the structural integrity field above two percent or the crew will turn to puddles once we go above warp one-point-one.”
Watching her lead the trio out of engineering he couldn’t help but admire her calm under the mammoth job she faced getting the Orion into some resemblance of functionality.
* * * * *
The bridge was something from the 2290s—which was more advanced than he’d expected. Two alcoves opposite one another near the rear, port for the turbolift and starboard lead to the bridge-level airlock and other small compartments located on the deck. Between them were two large banks of display screens, all sporting the blue-and-green LCARS displays and controls that were the norm eight years ago. On either side, three banks of stations surrounded the outer bulkheads leading to the viewscreen at the front. In the middle, right where it was meant to be was the Captain’s Chair, with the old helm and navigation console a couple of steps below it, all three posts encircled by metal railings.
The deck was lightly populated, only four members of the crew, two in standard uniforms with red collars and two in technician coveralls. They were all too busy to notice him enter, so he took a moment to look around.
It was short-lived as one of the uniformed officers, a dark-skinned Bajoran who didn’t look old enough to shave, glanced back at him. His eyes widened when he saw the pips on Reihyn’s collar, and immediately he sprang to his feet.
“Captain on the bridge,” he called out, a little too loudly.
The others (two of who were seated and the third lying on his back under a console) all stood at attention. He winced at the formality, knowing time was against them.
“As you were,” he instructed. Looking at the Bajoran, he told the younger man, “Ensign, I know when I get to the bridge; I don’t need to be told.”
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”
As the two techs got back to work, the other officer stepped forward. She was human, with a good twenty-five years on him; despite that however, she displayed the rank of a lieutenant commander. She was a handsome woman, with warm, caramel eyes and whose umber hair had no traces of grey, despite the lines on her face.
“Captain Reihyn,” he said by way of introduction, extending his hand.
“Lieutenant Commander Clarissa DuMont, first officer,” she replied, accepting his hand and shaking it briefly. “We were informed that our new CO was being appointed today, we just weren’t informed who it would be or when they’d be arriving.”
“I only just got my new orders through not even an hour ago. I’ve already checked in with Lieutenant Lanali on the state of repairs.”
“Oh,” was DuMont’s reply. “Well if there’s any other information you need, I’ll see what I can do.”
There was something about her tone that made her sound a little indifferent, which only solidified his decision to read up on his new crew as quickly as he could. He decided that would be a good first order for his new ‘Number One’.
“Actually, I’d like an account of our crew status, including personnel files.”
“Now sir?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Commander. I’ll need to get my gear from the station, so it’ll be a good thing to familiarise myself with as I pack.”
“Very well,” she said, turning back to the console she’d been sitting at when he arrived and setting to work.
He left the technicians to their upgrades and stepped down to consoles in the middle of the deck. The ensign had resumed his duties, back painfully stiff as Reihyn looked at the readouts. Straight away, he noticed that the stencilled HELM and NAV markings had been removed, replaced with TAC and CONN respectively. The Bajoran sat at the latter.
“And you are?”
“Mecell Koen, sir. Conn officer, sir.”
“Just graduated.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes sir. My class was rushed through the last few months of training when the war started, sir.”
He nodded. It made sense, Starfleet would need as many officers as it could get, so cadets would either have more work foisted upon them in a shorter space of time, or aspects would be cut from the curriculum to get them out of the classroom quicker. It would mean that there would be a lot of inexperienced, unpolished young officers filling the ranks, though that greenness wouldn’t last long in a war, one way or the other.
“Where did you come in your class standings?” he asked.
“Um…three hundred forty-seventh out of three hundred fifty, sir,” Mecell admitted, his voice trailing off by the end of his sentence.
“I see,” was all Reihyn could think of to say. A rookie helmsman he could cope with, if they’d at least been in the top half of their class, but one three places from the bottom? This would be another hurdle to overcome.
DuMont stepped down to the Conn/Tactical station, holding out an isolinear chip. “Crew reports, sir.”
“Thank you, Commander. I’ll be heading back to the station for a couple of hours, but when I get back I’ll need all current system status reports on my desk.”
“You don’t have a desk, Captain.”
That stumped him. “What?”
“The Orion wasn’t built with a ready room,” she told him. “An engineering team has welded the bridge airlock shut, so that the prep bay can be used as an office space, but there’s nothing in there yet.”
“Where they are isn’t that important, Commander, but I want them to review once I’m back onboard. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
* * * * *
Last edited:
