Introduction
Border Dogs is a TOS-era series set in Earth year 2260 and following. The series focuses on Commander Silas "Sonny" Parker, CO of the Border Cutter USS Merlin. The story will be presented in noir style - first person from Parker's perspective. (Thing "The Maltese Falcon" or the "Mike Hammer Mysteries.)
The cutter is a Kestral - class refit. Here's a link to the Starfleet Museum page to see and learn more about the Merlin: Starfleet Museum - Kestral Class
I hope you enjoy this foray into the 23rd century. As always, your comments and constructive criticism are welcome!
Chapter One
Most folks consider the Borderlands to be the armpit of the Alpha quadrant. Me, I tend to think of a different part of the anatomy. It’s an interesting sector, to be sure. Klingons, Orions, the Federation, all vying for the same stretch of the cosmos. My job is to help keep the peace, rescue the wayward spacer, and stem the flow of illicit materials. I’m Silas Parker, commanding officer of the Starfleet Border Cutter Merlin. My friends and family call me “Sonny.” Don’t ask why. I’m a fifth generation Centauran, which basically, that means I’m shorter than average for a human but a hell of a lot stronger. Growing up on a planet with 1.8 g’s will do that for you. Anyway, this is my story of life as a Border Dog on a cramped and smelly cutter.
It began on a Tuesday in June of 2260 as I recall. I was still a lieutenant commander, serving as head of the refueling depot at Starbase 17. Not a particularly exciting assignment, but considering how I had squeaked through a court-martial six months earlier, I couldn’t complain. The court martial? Well, there was this small matter of shooting my former captain with a phaser. More about that later.
As I said, I was in my office on Starbase 17, having my second cup of coffee (black) and reviewing data slates with delivery schedules of deuterium, dilithium and anti-matter bottles to various and sundry starships. Nasty materials, but necessary if you want to break the speed of light. My job was to make sure they were distributed to ships in a safe and timely manner. A fairly important task, but as I said, not terribly exciting.
I was frowning over a report stating that the USS Exeter needed to purge its deuterium tanks, when the comm screen beeped and the face of a bored-looking Andorian Commander appeared.
“Commander Parker?” asked the Andorian.
“That’s right. What can I do for you commander?” I expected a complaint about a late fuel delivery. Andorians were sticklers for punctuality.
“I am V’taavash, aide to Admiral Prudhomme. The admiral would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”
I may not have graduated at the top of the class at Star Fleet Academy, but I was smart enough to know that when an admiral said, “earliest convenience” that meant right now! I got directions to the admiral’s office, signed off, straightened my tunic and headed for flag country.
Starbase 17 is one of the larger bases, almost like a city in space. My little office is located in the “bottom” while most of the important offices were near the top of the mushroom shaped starbase. I say most, because Admiral Prudhomme’s was only three levels above mine. I wondered about this as I also wondered why I was being summoned. I didn’t know the admiral, in fact I had never heard of him. Being summoned before an admiral was usually either very good news or very bad. Considering my luck over the past two years, I was not particularly optimistic.
The turbo lift deposited me on level 26, a non-descript corridor no different than dozens of others. I made my way until I found the designated office. A small sign read, “Vice Admiral Vincent D. Prudhomme – Sector Commander, Starfleet Border Service.”
Inside, I found the Andorian commander sitting behind a desk. He rose, face impassive, and simply gestured to another door behind him. “The admiral will see you now, Commander Parker.”
“Thanks,” I said, and went in the designated door.
Only twice before in my career had I been in an admiral’s office. Both times I was impressed by spaciousness, nice views from large viewports, plush carpet, etc. This time I was surprised to enter a somewhat dark and cramped office with no viewport. The carpet was the same as in the corridor and looked liked it needed to be replaced. Furnishings were minimal and there were few pictures, scant decorations, and no framed citations. A dusty model of an old Paris – class light cruiser, the USS Port Lowell sat forlornly on a small shelf. For furniture, there was only a desk and two chairs. One was occupied by a barrel-chested man with close-cropped grey hair, dark bushy eyebrows and steel gray eyes. The gold braid on his grey uniform tunic indicated the rank of rear admiral. The admiral stood abruptly and thrust out his hand. I took it reflexively and he spoke.
“Prudhomme!” he barked. “Have a seat Commander Parker.”
I took the other chair and the admiral settled into his own chair which creaked dangerously under his weight. He leaned back and looked at me appraisingly. Producing a data slate from somewhere, he began to scroll through it, grunting to himself from time to time. I said nothing and tried not to sweat. He finally spoke.
“Graduated 47th in your class from the academy. . . Received high marks on the Kobayashi Maru scenario . . . Served on the Osprey, the Farragut, then the Gettysburg where you received several commendations as second officer. . . Served on the destroyer, Saladin, as executive officer until you shot the captain with a phaser . . .” Prudhomme looked up with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes sir. He wanted us to fire on a civilian Caitian ship he claimed harbored Kzinti soldiers. . . The phaser was set on stun,” I added as an afterthought.
Prudhomme grunted and looked back at the slate. “Too bad,” he rumbled. “You should have vaporized the S.O.B.”
I managed to refrain from comment, although, truthfully, I agreed with the admiral. Captain Dennison had gone around the bend during our recent unpleasantness with the Kzin and nearly murdered a shipful of innocent Caitian felinoids. I managed to stop him and spent a year trying to save my career (and avoid incarceration) while he went quietly into “retirement,” raising flowers or whatever lunatics do. Even though I was eventually acquitted, I pretty much knew my shot at commanding a ship was gone. The powers that be considered me “damaged goods.” I briefly considered resigning but quitting is not in my nature. Besides, with the losses from the four-year’s war with the Klingons and the skirmishes with the Kzin, Starfleet had issued a stop-loss order, so for the short-term, no one was allowed to retire or resign. Unless, of course, you went nuts like Dennison.
Prudhomme interrupted my thoughts. “Okay Parker, here’s the deal. I’m giving you two choices. You can stay here and spend the rest of your career pumping deuterium, or you can take command of a border cutter.”
I thought I had misunderstood the admiral, because I uttered a pithy, “Beg pardon?”
“Parker, you are being promoted to full commander. You will assume command of the cutter USS Merlin as soon as you can shag your way out to Star Station Echo. The Merlin is based there as part of the Seventh Border Service Squadron.”
The admiral tossed a data square to me. “Read this on your way out there. It will explain your orders, tell you a little about the Merlin, and lists the ship’s crew - such as it is. It’s kind of a mixed lot, commander, but these days we in the Border Service take who we can get.” He paused, realizing how that sounded. “No offense.”
I wasn’t offended. Just the thought that I was actually being offered a command seemed surreal. But, always one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I asked, “Admiral, why me?”
Prudhomme leaned forward and clasped two meaty hands together on the desk. “Fair enough question, Parker. One, the Klingons are building up ship strength along the border. Two, the Orions are getting bolder with their smuggling and piracy operations. Three, you’ve served on a Kestral - class ship and are familiar with its operation. Four, you had the guts to make a very difficult call in a dangerous situation and you were willing to face the consequences. We admirals like to call that ‘command material’ and you’ve got it.”
“Thank you sir,” I said.
“Don’t thank me yet, Parker. You haven’t met your crew. Now, there’s a runabaout, the Hudson, leaving for Star Station Echo in about three hours. Be on it.”
I managed to get my gear together, turn the fueling job over to a flustered Lt. Commander Fran deQueen, and make it on board the Hudson with a little time to spare. The Hudson was an elderly Progress - class runabout that had seen hard use as a courier and transport during the war with the Klingons. She had a definite vibration as we left the starbase on impulse and by the strained noises, I wondered if she’d explode before reaching warp. After much creaking and shaking, we finally reached warp 3 and the flight smoothed out considerably. Our pilot, a very young looking lieutenant, said it would be a three day journey. Fortunately, the Hudson was fitted with private, if cramped, compartments that smelled faintly of peanut butter. Settled in with my boots off, I inserted the data square into the computer terminal and began to read.
I learned that the USS Merlin (Naval Construction Contract 1439) was built in Earth year 2224 at the Andor Ship Yards. Originally built as a light cruiser, she had seen considerable action along with her sister ships over the past 36 years. The Kestral - class lost favor with the admiralty after newer, faster ships, such as the Saladin – class destroyers entered the service. Most of the Kestrals were relegated to second tier duty as escorts, couriers, or worse – transferred to the Border Service where they were refitted as cutters.
The orders sure seemed simple, if mundane. Border patrol duty! Oh well, it beat shuttling anti-matter around. I scrolled further to learn of the ship’s crew. The first officer was a Lieutenant Sharlon Brooks Erdon, of Chicago, Earth. Lt. Erdon had, herself, survived a general court martial after being charged with conduct unbecoming an officer. Nice to know I shared something in common with my new exec. I studied her picture. She was quite a beauty – dusky skin with emerald green eyes and wavy dark hair. I decided to move down the list. Having lustful thoughts about one’s first officer is generally frowned upon.
The ship’s engineer was a CPO named Dursk, a Rigellian. At least he hadn’t been court-martialed, although he was definitely a regular in the star station’s brig for brawling and public drunkenness. I hoped he was sober on duty. He was definitely not a beauty. He had a shaved head, deep-set eyes, and a nose that looked to have been broken often. Dursk didn’t so much have a neck as his shoulder muscles seemed to crowd up to the base of his skull. Not the sort you’d want to run into in a dark alley without a charged pulse rifle.
The Merlin was too small to rate a doctor or even a nurse-practitioner. Instead, there was a Pharmacist’s Mate, 1st class, a skinny looking kid with big ears and a prominent adam’s apple named Brody Delegal, although according to the record, everyone called him “Mutt.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why.
At least the helmsman had a clean record. He should, considering that he was fresh out of the academy. Ensign Morgan Bateson – I wonder who he pissed off to get stuck on this ship. He was a handsome fellow with wavy brown hair, blue eyes and a roguish grin. Maybe he graduated last in his class.
It was beginning to hit me that this was no dream assignment. I’d been told that the Border Service was usually the last refuge of scoundrels, misfits and ne’er-do-wells. Now I was going to command a ship full of “Border Dogs” as we called them in the regular fleet. It was going to be my job to turn them into a functioning crew policing the Borderlands between Federation, Klingon and Orion space. Oh, boy.
On the third day of the trip out to Star Station Echo, we actually had a little excitement. I had gone over the rest of the crew listing (at least, what was there), had done some sleeping, sent messages to family and friends about my new assignment and promotion, and was about ready to pull rank on Lt. Baby face for some left-seat time at the controls when the red alert klaxon began to sound. I was more excited than nervous as I bounded out of my cabin and headed for the flight deck. The deck swayed as the Hudson began a series of evasive maneuvers that stressed the inertial dampeners. I soon reached the flight deck in time to see a burst of focused energy flare to our port side.
“Status report!” I barked. Sure, I knew I wasn’t technically in command of the small vessel, but I planned to get some mileage out of the new commander’s stripes on my sleeve.
Lt. Baby-face and Ensign Smiley did not glance back at me. The ensign replied, “We’ve got an Orion spinner checking us out. It’s pretty common on this run. They scout around for the bigger Orion corvettes and sniff out easy targets.”
“Are we an easy target?” I asked dryly.
Ensign Smiley’s grin got bigger. “Not hardly, sir. Torpedoes locked. Firing one and two!”
The runabout shook slightly as two fusion torpedoes shot out of the weapons pod strapped on the dorsal hull. I thanked whoever came up with that neat little add-on. The torpedoes tracked true and shortly the darkness of space was lit up by two explosions.
“Direct hit!” said Smiley. He checked his board. “They’re dead in space – their warp drive is heavily damaged. Looks like they’re leaking atmo too.”
“Survivors?” I asked. Smiley looked at me uncertainly. “Ummm. Yes sir, six life signs. You . . . don’t want us to pick them up, do you sir?”
“We don’t have a brig or a security detail. Any starships in the vicinity?”
Lt. Baby-face finally spoke, “Probably not sir, but we can check. The thing is, their main ship will probably get here before anyone else can and . . .”
I got the picture. “Never mind, then. What’s our ETA to the star station?”
Smiley answered, “Two hours, forty-five minutes.”
“Great! I’ll get my stuff squared away. By the way, nice job of handling that run-in.”
Ensign Smiley grinned broadly. “All in a day’s work, commander.”
True to his word, we were on final approach to the station in two and one half hours. My first glimpse of the station revealed that Star Station Echo was still a work in progress. Construction pods zipped around the station and there were noticeable gaps in the hull plates. I watched in fascination as a huge panel was moved into position by several work bees and floating workers in EVA suits. Dangerous work, if you asked me.
We came to a surprisingly smooth landing in a good size hangar bay. Various craft were parked here and there, both Starfleet and civilian in make and design. I grabbed my gear, thanked Lt. Baby-face and Ensign Smiley and headed into the station to meet my new boss, Commodore Bridgette Paski, commander of Border Service Squadron 7.
* * *
Border Dogs is a TOS-era series set in Earth year 2260 and following. The series focuses on Commander Silas "Sonny" Parker, CO of the Border Cutter USS Merlin. The story will be presented in noir style - first person from Parker's perspective. (Thing "The Maltese Falcon" or the "Mike Hammer Mysteries.)
The cutter is a Kestral - class refit. Here's a link to the Starfleet Museum page to see and learn more about the Merlin: Starfleet Museum - Kestral Class
I hope you enjoy this foray into the 23rd century. As always, your comments and constructive criticism are welcome!
Chapter One
Most folks consider the Borderlands to be the armpit of the Alpha quadrant. Me, I tend to think of a different part of the anatomy. It’s an interesting sector, to be sure. Klingons, Orions, the Federation, all vying for the same stretch of the cosmos. My job is to help keep the peace, rescue the wayward spacer, and stem the flow of illicit materials. I’m Silas Parker, commanding officer of the Starfleet Border Cutter Merlin. My friends and family call me “Sonny.” Don’t ask why. I’m a fifth generation Centauran, which basically, that means I’m shorter than average for a human but a hell of a lot stronger. Growing up on a planet with 1.8 g’s will do that for you. Anyway, this is my story of life as a Border Dog on a cramped and smelly cutter.
It began on a Tuesday in June of 2260 as I recall. I was still a lieutenant commander, serving as head of the refueling depot at Starbase 17. Not a particularly exciting assignment, but considering how I had squeaked through a court-martial six months earlier, I couldn’t complain. The court martial? Well, there was this small matter of shooting my former captain with a phaser. More about that later.
As I said, I was in my office on Starbase 17, having my second cup of coffee (black) and reviewing data slates with delivery schedules of deuterium, dilithium and anti-matter bottles to various and sundry starships. Nasty materials, but necessary if you want to break the speed of light. My job was to make sure they were distributed to ships in a safe and timely manner. A fairly important task, but as I said, not terribly exciting.
I was frowning over a report stating that the USS Exeter needed to purge its deuterium tanks, when the comm screen beeped and the face of a bored-looking Andorian Commander appeared.
“Commander Parker?” asked the Andorian.
“That’s right. What can I do for you commander?” I expected a complaint about a late fuel delivery. Andorians were sticklers for punctuality.
“I am V’taavash, aide to Admiral Prudhomme. The admiral would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”
I may not have graduated at the top of the class at Star Fleet Academy, but I was smart enough to know that when an admiral said, “earliest convenience” that meant right now! I got directions to the admiral’s office, signed off, straightened my tunic and headed for flag country.
Starbase 17 is one of the larger bases, almost like a city in space. My little office is located in the “bottom” while most of the important offices were near the top of the mushroom shaped starbase. I say most, because Admiral Prudhomme’s was only three levels above mine. I wondered about this as I also wondered why I was being summoned. I didn’t know the admiral, in fact I had never heard of him. Being summoned before an admiral was usually either very good news or very bad. Considering my luck over the past two years, I was not particularly optimistic.
The turbo lift deposited me on level 26, a non-descript corridor no different than dozens of others. I made my way until I found the designated office. A small sign read, “Vice Admiral Vincent D. Prudhomme – Sector Commander, Starfleet Border Service.”
Inside, I found the Andorian commander sitting behind a desk. He rose, face impassive, and simply gestured to another door behind him. “The admiral will see you now, Commander Parker.”
“Thanks,” I said, and went in the designated door.
Only twice before in my career had I been in an admiral’s office. Both times I was impressed by spaciousness, nice views from large viewports, plush carpet, etc. This time I was surprised to enter a somewhat dark and cramped office with no viewport. The carpet was the same as in the corridor and looked liked it needed to be replaced. Furnishings were minimal and there were few pictures, scant decorations, and no framed citations. A dusty model of an old Paris – class light cruiser, the USS Port Lowell sat forlornly on a small shelf. For furniture, there was only a desk and two chairs. One was occupied by a barrel-chested man with close-cropped grey hair, dark bushy eyebrows and steel gray eyes. The gold braid on his grey uniform tunic indicated the rank of rear admiral. The admiral stood abruptly and thrust out his hand. I took it reflexively and he spoke.
“Prudhomme!” he barked. “Have a seat Commander Parker.”
I took the other chair and the admiral settled into his own chair which creaked dangerously under his weight. He leaned back and looked at me appraisingly. Producing a data slate from somewhere, he began to scroll through it, grunting to himself from time to time. I said nothing and tried not to sweat. He finally spoke.
“Graduated 47th in your class from the academy. . . Received high marks on the Kobayashi Maru scenario . . . Served on the Osprey, the Farragut, then the Gettysburg where you received several commendations as second officer. . . Served on the destroyer, Saladin, as executive officer until you shot the captain with a phaser . . .” Prudhomme looked up with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes sir. He wanted us to fire on a civilian Caitian ship he claimed harbored Kzinti soldiers. . . The phaser was set on stun,” I added as an afterthought.
Prudhomme grunted and looked back at the slate. “Too bad,” he rumbled. “You should have vaporized the S.O.B.”
I managed to refrain from comment, although, truthfully, I agreed with the admiral. Captain Dennison had gone around the bend during our recent unpleasantness with the Kzin and nearly murdered a shipful of innocent Caitian felinoids. I managed to stop him and spent a year trying to save my career (and avoid incarceration) while he went quietly into “retirement,” raising flowers or whatever lunatics do. Even though I was eventually acquitted, I pretty much knew my shot at commanding a ship was gone. The powers that be considered me “damaged goods.” I briefly considered resigning but quitting is not in my nature. Besides, with the losses from the four-year’s war with the Klingons and the skirmishes with the Kzin, Starfleet had issued a stop-loss order, so for the short-term, no one was allowed to retire or resign. Unless, of course, you went nuts like Dennison.
Prudhomme interrupted my thoughts. “Okay Parker, here’s the deal. I’m giving you two choices. You can stay here and spend the rest of your career pumping deuterium, or you can take command of a border cutter.”
I thought I had misunderstood the admiral, because I uttered a pithy, “Beg pardon?”
“Parker, you are being promoted to full commander. You will assume command of the cutter USS Merlin as soon as you can shag your way out to Star Station Echo. The Merlin is based there as part of the Seventh Border Service Squadron.”
The admiral tossed a data square to me. “Read this on your way out there. It will explain your orders, tell you a little about the Merlin, and lists the ship’s crew - such as it is. It’s kind of a mixed lot, commander, but these days we in the Border Service take who we can get.” He paused, realizing how that sounded. “No offense.”
I wasn’t offended. Just the thought that I was actually being offered a command seemed surreal. But, always one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I asked, “Admiral, why me?”
Prudhomme leaned forward and clasped two meaty hands together on the desk. “Fair enough question, Parker. One, the Klingons are building up ship strength along the border. Two, the Orions are getting bolder with their smuggling and piracy operations. Three, you’ve served on a Kestral - class ship and are familiar with its operation. Four, you had the guts to make a very difficult call in a dangerous situation and you were willing to face the consequences. We admirals like to call that ‘command material’ and you’ve got it.”
“Thank you sir,” I said.
“Don’t thank me yet, Parker. You haven’t met your crew. Now, there’s a runabaout, the Hudson, leaving for Star Station Echo in about three hours. Be on it.”
I managed to get my gear together, turn the fueling job over to a flustered Lt. Commander Fran deQueen, and make it on board the Hudson with a little time to spare. The Hudson was an elderly Progress - class runabout that had seen hard use as a courier and transport during the war with the Klingons. She had a definite vibration as we left the starbase on impulse and by the strained noises, I wondered if she’d explode before reaching warp. After much creaking and shaking, we finally reached warp 3 and the flight smoothed out considerably. Our pilot, a very young looking lieutenant, said it would be a three day journey. Fortunately, the Hudson was fitted with private, if cramped, compartments that smelled faintly of peanut butter. Settled in with my boots off, I inserted the data square into the computer terminal and began to read.
I learned that the USS Merlin (Naval Construction Contract 1439) was built in Earth year 2224 at the Andor Ship Yards. Originally built as a light cruiser, she had seen considerable action along with her sister ships over the past 36 years. The Kestral - class lost favor with the admiralty after newer, faster ships, such as the Saladin – class destroyers entered the service. Most of the Kestrals were relegated to second tier duty as escorts, couriers, or worse – transferred to the Border Service where they were refitted as cutters.
The orders sure seemed simple, if mundane. Border patrol duty! Oh well, it beat shuttling anti-matter around. I scrolled further to learn of the ship’s crew. The first officer was a Lieutenant Sharlon Brooks Erdon, of Chicago, Earth. Lt. Erdon had, herself, survived a general court martial after being charged with conduct unbecoming an officer. Nice to know I shared something in common with my new exec. I studied her picture. She was quite a beauty – dusky skin with emerald green eyes and wavy dark hair. I decided to move down the list. Having lustful thoughts about one’s first officer is generally frowned upon.
The ship’s engineer was a CPO named Dursk, a Rigellian. At least he hadn’t been court-martialed, although he was definitely a regular in the star station’s brig for brawling and public drunkenness. I hoped he was sober on duty. He was definitely not a beauty. He had a shaved head, deep-set eyes, and a nose that looked to have been broken often. Dursk didn’t so much have a neck as his shoulder muscles seemed to crowd up to the base of his skull. Not the sort you’d want to run into in a dark alley without a charged pulse rifle.
The Merlin was too small to rate a doctor or even a nurse-practitioner. Instead, there was a Pharmacist’s Mate, 1st class, a skinny looking kid with big ears and a prominent adam’s apple named Brody Delegal, although according to the record, everyone called him “Mutt.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why.
At least the helmsman had a clean record. He should, considering that he was fresh out of the academy. Ensign Morgan Bateson – I wonder who he pissed off to get stuck on this ship. He was a handsome fellow with wavy brown hair, blue eyes and a roguish grin. Maybe he graduated last in his class.
It was beginning to hit me that this was no dream assignment. I’d been told that the Border Service was usually the last refuge of scoundrels, misfits and ne’er-do-wells. Now I was going to command a ship full of “Border Dogs” as we called them in the regular fleet. It was going to be my job to turn them into a functioning crew policing the Borderlands between Federation, Klingon and Orion space. Oh, boy.
On the third day of the trip out to Star Station Echo, we actually had a little excitement. I had gone over the rest of the crew listing (at least, what was there), had done some sleeping, sent messages to family and friends about my new assignment and promotion, and was about ready to pull rank on Lt. Baby face for some left-seat time at the controls when the red alert klaxon began to sound. I was more excited than nervous as I bounded out of my cabin and headed for the flight deck. The deck swayed as the Hudson began a series of evasive maneuvers that stressed the inertial dampeners. I soon reached the flight deck in time to see a burst of focused energy flare to our port side.
“Status report!” I barked. Sure, I knew I wasn’t technically in command of the small vessel, but I planned to get some mileage out of the new commander’s stripes on my sleeve.
Lt. Baby-face and Ensign Smiley did not glance back at me. The ensign replied, “We’ve got an Orion spinner checking us out. It’s pretty common on this run. They scout around for the bigger Orion corvettes and sniff out easy targets.”
“Are we an easy target?” I asked dryly.
Ensign Smiley’s grin got bigger. “Not hardly, sir. Torpedoes locked. Firing one and two!”
The runabout shook slightly as two fusion torpedoes shot out of the weapons pod strapped on the dorsal hull. I thanked whoever came up with that neat little add-on. The torpedoes tracked true and shortly the darkness of space was lit up by two explosions.
“Direct hit!” said Smiley. He checked his board. “They’re dead in space – their warp drive is heavily damaged. Looks like they’re leaking atmo too.”
“Survivors?” I asked. Smiley looked at me uncertainly. “Ummm. Yes sir, six life signs. You . . . don’t want us to pick them up, do you sir?”
“We don’t have a brig or a security detail. Any starships in the vicinity?”
Lt. Baby-face finally spoke, “Probably not sir, but we can check. The thing is, their main ship will probably get here before anyone else can and . . .”
I got the picture. “Never mind, then. What’s our ETA to the star station?”
Smiley answered, “Two hours, forty-five minutes.”
“Great! I’ll get my stuff squared away. By the way, nice job of handling that run-in.”
Ensign Smiley grinned broadly. “All in a day’s work, commander.”
True to his word, we were on final approach to the station in two and one half hours. My first glimpse of the station revealed that Star Station Echo was still a work in progress. Construction pods zipped around the station and there were noticeable gaps in the hull plates. I watched in fascination as a huge panel was moved into position by several work bees and floating workers in EVA suits. Dangerous work, if you asked me.
We came to a surprisingly smooth landing in a good size hangar bay. Various craft were parked here and there, both Starfleet and civilian in make and design. I grabbed my gear, thanked Lt. Baby-face and Ensign Smiley and headed into the station to meet my new boss, Commodore Bridgette Paski, commander of Border Service Squadron 7.
* * *
Parker's got his work cut out for him here. The first person is still working--nice bit with the yeoman--there's nothing quite like that fresh new yeoman smell... 
It remains to be seen if I can do justice to a noir series for the long-haul. And I can't abandon my beloved Bluefin! 
