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In the year 2375, Martin Slovan, a young man from the 21st century, finds himself commanding the USS West Covina, a Starfleet vessel packed with the Federation's most unconventional officers. After being discovered in cryostasis and fast-tracked through Starfleet Academy, Slovan leads a crew that includes an anti-social former Borg helmsman, a rebellious Klingon science officer, a clone of a despised ensign, and an irritable chief engineer. Between surviving hostile alien encounters, unruly holodeck simulations, and navigating the complexities of 24th-century technology, Slovan struggles to adapt to a future where even star dates are baffling. But amid the chaos, Starfleet's rules, and his own evolving leadership, the line between duty and absurdity is never entirely clear.
Crossposted on STAR TREK: To Boldly Go Where Everyone Else Had Gone | Royal Road
Season 1 Episode 1: Planet of the Badgers! Captain Slovan I
Pronouns
He
So, this is it.

The USS West Covina—a California-class ship, my first command, and hopefully, not my last. Floating just beyond the viewport of Starbase 53, she's like the old Toyota Corolla I drove back on Earth. A little beat up around the edges, not exactly built for speed, but reliable. The kind of ship you'd take to the stars, but maybe not into a space battle—unless you're feeling lucky or have shields at full power. But hey, it's a ship. My ship.

I press my forehead against the transparent aluminum window of the station and sigh. Space: the final frontier. Boldly going where countless others have gone before. The Federation's been doing this for centuries. Warp drives, phasers, Klingons complaining—nothing new. Yet here I am, still excited about exploring all the vast nothingness and dodging space anomalies. A part of me wants to run out there and touch the stars. Another part wants to lock myself in my quarters, fire up the holodeck, and finally get through the stack of 21st-century video games I've missed. Priorities, right?

But there's this nervous, gnawing feeling at the back of my head. And it's not just the looming captaincy. No, it's the fact that the last captain of this ship resigned a week into the job. A week. That's barely enough time to memorize which deck the bathrooms are on. And the first officer? He quit on the first day. One transporter mishap later, and poof—he was out of Starfleet. I still don't know the details, but I have a lot of questions.

They didn't even bother cleaning out the ready room.

"Slovan, Captain Martin Slovan," I mutter to myself. It sounds good on paper. It sounds okay in front of a mirror. But in front of a crew? It feels... off. Maybe it's the whole "war hero" thing from the Dominion War. People keep throwing that around like it's a badge of honor. I still don't know why I got promoted; it wasn't exactly a picnic out there. Being called a hero for basically staying alive—well, that's a heavy label to carry.

There's something about being frozen in a stasis pod and waking up hundreds of years later that really messes with your sense of purpose. One minute you're binge-watching Modern Family, and the next, you're fighting space battles in a future you barely understand. And sure, I saved some people. But all I really wanted was to not die.

Thirty-three years old and the galaxy is still a mess. The Klingons are still cranky, the Romulans are still mysterious, and I'm… still single. Now, with the West Covina, I'm responsible for a crew. A crew that, by some twisted cosmic joke, I decided not to replace. It's not that I trust them. It's more that the thought of doing Starfleet HR paperwork for a new team sounded like torture.

So, I've got the same crew, the same ship, and—let's face it—the same Starfleet-issued uniform that always itches in the same spot, no matter how many "new fabrics" they claim to have used.

I take one last look at the ship. It's just sitting there, hanging like it's waiting for something. Waiting for me to step onboard and... do what, exactly? Explore strange new worlds? Seek out new life and new civilizations? Or just make sure the replicator doesn't serve us sentient yogurt again?

I start walking toward the docking bay, bracing myself for the inevitable "Welcome aboard, Captain" speech from the crew. I'm not ready for it. At all.

USS. West Covina

"Captain on the ship!" shouts some eager ensign as I step aboard the West Covina as I exited the shuttle. Great. I nod like I'm supposed to, trying to keep my face from betraying how much I'd rather be anywhere but here. Maybe I could have been a bartender, or a IT Department head. But no, I had to join Starfleet, because apparently, frozen cavemen with vague war hero credentials get fast-tracked to leadership roles these days.

Walking through the corridors, I realize the ship is about as functional as a rusty bicycle on Mars. It's not that the systems don't work—they work fine. It's just that everything feels...tired. Maybe it's me projecting, but even the replicators seem to whirr slower, like they know they're not pumping out fresh raktajino for Captain Picard.

And then there's my First Officer, Dave. Now, Dave is something special. Not in the "I'm glad you're on my team" kind of way, but more like the "I can't believe they let you run anything" kind of way. Dave is a transporter clone. Not an evil transporter clone, mind you—he's the "nice" one, if you can call any copy of a person "nice" without it getting awkward. We've been through a lot together, so I trust him. Mostly.

I find him standing in the transporter room, fiddling with the console. His back is to me, but he knows I'm here.

"Welcome aboard, Captain," Dave says without turning around, his voice as flat as a piece of replicated toast.

"Yeah, thanks. Ready for this?" I ask.

He finally turns to face me, that same familiar smirk on his face. "Absolutely not. But let's do it anyway."

"That's the spirit."

We stand there for a moment, just taking in the silence of the empty transporter room. He knows what I'm thinking, and I know what he's thinking: This is going to be a disaster. But hey, at least we'll go down with a smile.

And thus begins my tenure as captain of the USS West Covina. What could possibly go wrong?

The Conference Room

I can't lie. I've met all kinds of strange, interesting, and downright terrifying individuals since joining Starfleet. You get used to a certain level of...eccentricity. But nothing quite prepares you for the moment when you step into the conference room and face the collection of personalities that will, in theory, keep your ship from falling apart.
First things first, Dave is standing right next to me, his usual deadpan expression fixed firmly in place. He looks as excited as a Vulcan at a comedy club. "Ready for this?" I whisper.

He gives me a slow nod. "Absolutely not."

We step inside the room, and I'm greeted by a collection of faces that range from "mildly confused" to "actively dangerous." I can already feel the headache forming. They're sitting around the long table, waiting for their new captain—me—to dazzle them with charisma and leadership. Unfortunately, what they're about to get is me trying to remember everyone's name and not make a fool of myself.

"Good morning, everyone," I start. "I'm Captain Martin Slovan, and I'm... well, I'm your new captain. Let's go around the table and get introductions out of the way." I gesture vaguely, hoping that someone will jump in and save me from myself.

Of course, it's the Klingon who speaks up first.

"I am Lieutenant Krag, Son of K'Rokh," he rumbles, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. "Chief Science Officer."

Klingon. Science officer. You don't see that every day. It's like discovering a peaceful Romulan, or a Ferengi that offers refunds.

"Nice to meet you, Krag," I say. "Looking forward to seeing what you bring to the table. Science-wise."

He grunts, clearly uninterested in pleasantries. "I have already prepared several hypotheses regarding the spatial anomalies in the sector." A Klingon with a PowerPoint presentation in the works. What a time to be alive.

The Helmsperson sits next to Krag, staring blankly into space. They're an ex-Borg, which means they're probably already smarter than everyone else in the room combined. But also, they look like they're about to ask me what day it is.

"I am Seventeen, I pilot the ship." they say, their voice soft, neutral. No gender identifiers there, but that's normal for someone who doesn't even remember their life before the Borg. Poor kid.

"Nice to meet you Seventeen." I say with a smile. They don't smile back but nod.

Then there was Tu'Pari, the Vulcan security officer. Tall, stiff, expressionless—as you'd expect from a Vulcan. We actually met before albeit briefly before the war but never talked except for that one time we were on Holodeck Cleaning Duty. Ugh. Anyway, she probably doesn't remember me. "Captain. My Name is Tu'Pari. I am your Security Officer." Yep she either doesn't remember or just doesn't think it's worth mentioning. Well, whatever.

Then there's the half-Andorian Chief Engineer. He's got the blue skin and antennae, but it's the human half of him that concerns me. The man looks like he's one bad plasma conduit away from a full-on breakdown. He's sitting with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in what I can only describe as permanent irritation.

"Grok, Chief Engineer," he mutters through clenched teeth. "Don't ask me about the engines unless you want to hear a lot of screaming."

"Noted," I reply, making a mental note to avoid the engine room unless absolutely necessary.

Then we get to the doctor. Oh, I've heard the stories about this guy. His bedside manner makes the Doctor on the Cerritos look like a model of compassion. He's good at his job, sure, but from what I've heard, patients leave his sickbay more scarred mentally than they arrived physically.

"Captain," he says flatly, barely looking up from his PADD. "Doctor Cyrphrus, reporting for duty. If you die on my watch, don't worry—I'll figure out how you managed to screw up a perfectly functional heart."

I stare at him, unsure if he's joking. "Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

He shrugs. "Hope's not really in my skill set, but I'll see what I can do."

I scan the room and notice one crucial absence. "Where's the ship's counselor?" I ask, because this crew seems like it might need some serious emotional support.

"Probably nursing a hangover," Doctor Cyrphrus mutters. The room goes silent. I wait for someone to laugh, but no one does.

"Oh god, you're not joking," I sigh, feeling the weight of a migraine already forming. "Alright, we'll deal with that later."

I take my seat, trying to compose myself as the crew watches, each of them silently sizing me up. No pressure. I activate the console, and a hologram of a planet pops up above the table.

"Alright, let's get down to business. Our mission is to conduct second contact with the planet Selornia, which the Enterprise discovered last month." I tap the console again, zooming in on the planet's atmosphere. "We don't have much information on the inhabitants—some humanoid species. Apparently, they don't believe in pants."

Seventeen, still staring off into space, raises a hand. "Pants, Captain?"

"Yeah," I reply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "They don't wear them. Full-on 'shirt, no pants' planet. So, just... be prepared for that."

The room is silent for a moment before Cyrphrus leans forward, smirking. "I like these guys already."

Tu'Pari raises an eyebrow, classic Vulcan style. "Fascinating."

"That's one way to put it," I mutter. "Our objective is to establish diplomatic relations, share some basic Federation tech, and do a cultural survey. Nothing too complicated. Except—there's a catch. During the data transfer from the Enterprise, a certain 'someone'"—I don't even need to say who—"decided to crash the system, corrupting most of the information. So we're flying in a bit blind."

Grok grunts. "So, just a typical day in Starfleet, then."

"Exactly," I say with a sigh.

"What could possibly go wrong?" Dave joked.

"You just HAD to say that." I mutter before facepalming.
 
Season 1 Episode 1: Planet of the Badgers! Dave I
The West Covina glides into orbit around Selornia, a green-and-blue planet that looks pretty serene from up here. I'm standing at the viewport in the bridge, watching the clouds swirl and the rivers wind across the planet's surface, feeling that quiet thrill of a new world beneath us. Captain Slovan stands at my side, hands on his hips, doing his best to look inspiring—or at least look like he knows what he's doing.

"Looks like everything's actually going according to plan," I say, because when does that ever happen?

He smirks. "So far, so good. Don't jinx it, Dave."

"Me?" I let out a laugh. "Never."

We stand there for a few more moments, just looking down at the planet, and I can't help but feel a certain… sentimentality for this moment. Slovan has been around for most of my life in one way or another, ever since I was accidentally created in that transporter accident back when he was a lieutenant. I remember waking up confused, feeling like an intruder in my own skin, and there he was, arms crossed, offering me a snarky but comforting, "Hey, welcome to existence, kid." I don't know if it was his experience as a war vet or just his way with people, but he's made a place for me, and I don't forget that. But I'll be damned if I'm going to tell him that. I'd never hear the end of it.

He claps a hand on my shoulder, breaking the reverie. "Ready to head down?"

"Shuttle's prepped, ensign team's waiting." I pause, giving him a side glance. "I'll make sure they don't get too comfortable."

He snorts. "Make sure you don't get too comfortable."

"Noted." I give him a mock salute, and he rolls his eyes.

The shuttle ride down is smooth, the familiar hum of the engines settling into the background noise as I brief the two ensigns beside me. They're both fresh out of the academy, and they have that wide-eyed look that says they haven't seen much outside a Starfleet classroom.

"Selornia's a Class M planet, breathable atmosphere, not much in the way of hostile fauna," I tell them, keeping it simple. "You'll be handling scans, taking samples. And remember—this is second contact. Our job is diplomacy, but you should be alert. Keep your scanners ready and your communicators closer."

They nod seriously, and I try not to smile. Slovan told me I look like a stiff Vulcan when I'm being serious, but I can't help it; this is their first away mission, and it's my job to make sure they survive it. Shuttle lands softly on a wide grassy area near the main settlement. As the hatch opens, I'm hit with the smell of grass and something else I can't quite place—kind of like cinnamon, but earthier. The locals, a humanoid species called the Kashun, are waiting for us at the edge of the field.

The Kashun leader—a tall, elegant-looking figure in a deep red robe—steps forward. "Greetings, Starfleet," he says in that formal, almost regal tone some species have when they meet new people.

"Greetings," I reply with a slight bow of my head. "I'm First Officer Dave—uh, just Dave. Thank you for receiving us so quickly."

The Kashun leader gives a curt nod. "We welcome the Federation's continued friendship."

They lead us into their village, which is a mix of stone buildings with domed roofs and a strange kind of energy field that separates each home. It's quaint, peaceful. The Kashun go about their day as if we're just a regular occurrence, and I wonder how often the Federation actually does second-contact missions. I pull out my tricorder and start scanning, watching the ensigns fumble with their scanners beside me.

Then I see them.

Badgers. Everywhere.

They're taller than I imagined, standing upright like some kind of woodland humanoid with the distinct black-and-white markings, beady little eyes, and claws that look… sharp. They're not exactly dressed like the Kashun; each one wears just a simple shirt, nothing else. It's almost cute, and almost unsettling. I look down, then look away, then look down again, mentally cursing whoever didn't think to issue them some pants.

The badger creatures move between the Kashun like pets or maybe servants. I'm not sure. One of them is carrying a basket filled with something red and juicy, and as I pass, it gives me a look—sharp and knowing, like it's sizing me up.

I feel my cheeks heat up and glance back at my scanner. Focus. "Uh, this place is… lively," I mutter.

Ensign Hale, one of the rookies, stares openly. "Those are some big badgers, sir."

"Yeah, yeah, don't stare," I tell him, pulling his gaze away. "They're part of the ecosystem here, clearly domesticated, but stay professional. Let's not be rude."

The Kashun leader is explaining something about their farming methods when I see one of the badgers sidle up to another Kashun, who swats it away like it's nothing more than an annoyance. The badger lets out a soft growl, and the Kashun mutters under his breath, "Get your dirty paws off me, you damn dirty Oshop."

I do a double-take. Did that Kashun just call it…?

Before I can finish the thought, the badger suddenly straightens, its eyes blazing. "NO!" it roars, loud enough that all conversation stops. It sounds—well, sentient. There's no mistaking the anger in its voice.

For a split second, everything is frozen. Then chaos erupts.

Badgers everywhere are suddenly snarling, baring their teeth and claws, their eyes flashing with an intelligence that can't possibly be mistaken. A group of Kashun try to retreat, but one of the badgers lunges, knocking a Kashun to the ground with surprising force. The Kashun is screaming, and the others are scattering in a panic.

"Uh, Captain?" I tap my communicator frantically. "Captain, we have a problem!"

I don't hear Slovan's response before one of the badgers lunges at me, claws extended. I dodge sideways, barely, and feel its claws swipe the air just inches from my face. The ensigns behind me are scrambling to get their own communicators out, eyes wide with terror.

"Everyone back to the shuttle!" I yell, trying to keep my voice steady. "Move!"

We bolt back toward the clearing, weaving through the chaos, but the badgers are everywhere. It's like they've been waiting for this moment, like something inside them has snapped. One of them is dragging a Kashun across the ground, and I watch in horror as another Kashun kicks the creature away, only to be tackled by two more badgers a second later.

"Ensigns, stay together!" I shout over the noise.

I glance over my shoulder and see one of the ensigns, Lattimore, pale and wide-eyed, sprinting ahead. He stumbles, and I grab his arm, dragging him back up. "Stay focused, ensign!" I bark.

"Yes, sir!" he gasps, eyes darting around in panic. We're nearly to the shuttle when a group of badgers blocks our path, teeth bared, eyes gleaming with that same furious intelligence.

"Kashun scum," one of them growls, and I freeze.

"Uh…" I glance at my phaser, but it's still set to stun. And I'm not sure a stun setting will do much here. I look around, trying to find another way out, but they've surrounded us.

"Captain, we're under attack!" I shout into my communicator, feeling a little ridiculous as I duck another swing from a badger's claws. "The, uh, badgers are sentient, repeat, the badgers are sentient!"

There's static on the line, and then Slovan's voice cuts through. "Hold tight, Dave! We're scrambling a backup team—"

Once again, the badger lunges at me, its claws catching my shoulder and knocking me back. Pain flares through me, but I push it off and stumble back, disoriented. I look around, heart pounding, trying to find an opening, but the badgers are closing in. I've lost sight of the ensigns, and I feel a twist of panic in my gut.

The last thing I see is a flash of black-and-white fur, a blur of claws, and the sky tilting sideways as I hit the ground. The world fades to black.
 
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